First Reply Stray memories, lost in translation

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Unknown

Awareness trickled into consciousness, a hazy fog that faded with every passing second, though it lingered still like a horrid taste at the back of the mouth. Itzhal awoke, his eyes fluttering open with a squelch of matted eyelashes, and a cloying scent of antispetic that had leaked through the filters of his buy'ce, sealed in with the stench of his breath and what memory recognized as hours of dried sweat, unpleasant, yet still a clue.

With a huff of effort, he pulled himself up from the puddle he found himself in, the surface sheathed in a layer of dust and years-old debris that clattered and clomped under his unsteady shifting. A pulsing ache travelled through his limbs, muscles strained, before he stumbled forward, one arm reaching out to brace himself against a durasteel crate; the slight bang that travelled through the room was muffled by the beskar plates he wore.

Disoriented, his right hand reached up to the side of his helmet, fingers wrapped around the unusually warm metal frame, probing for damage and coming back with an unexpected layer of ash embedded in the metal. Under his breath, he hissed words that were distorted by his vocalizer, the sounds unrecognisable. His visor flickered, and a window on the top right corner of his HuD grew to take up much of the screen, yet, with another word, all that was revealed was a fuzzy picture, the image nothing more than a strained blur against the transparisteel of his buy'ce. Seconds passed, as more footage played, but failed to grow clearer, unfazed by the hurried rush of words that the Mandalorian spat.

Frustrated with what little footage was provided, the Morellian hissed one final word before the window retracted and the full sight of the room returned to focus, illuminated by the dim light of fluorescent lights above, their bulbs contained within harsh grey metal shades attached to chains that swayed in the wind from cracked windows above. Animals barked in the distance, their calls muffled by the drone of skycars and critters that skittered through the frame of the battered warehouse. One such beast, four legs standing up to his shin and a matted black coat, ran as he turned towards it, through a hole in the wall.

In the hushed quiet that followed, Itzhal stared up towards the fractures in the side of the warehouse, the damage stretched like a lightning bolt caught in mid-air and frozen in time. He wondered then, the most important question of all.

Where was he?

Tags: Open. (I figured I'd try a thread like this. Itzhal's lost, and so am I. If you're interested but would like to work out a bit more of what's happening, feel free to DM me.)​

 

[Tibera Jessen]

The city-planet of Daiyu was a crazy place, and Tibera knew it well. She made her way through the lower slums of the city, a blaster in one hand, and a flashlight held under it. These slums were mostly empty, the barons that owned them were in a turf war. They were hiring any muscle that was on the planet to keep their territory safe. Tonight, it was Tibera's turn to scour through the ad hoc homes and shops. Everything was steamy and wet, a sea of blackness with islands of neon and sheet metal.

As she walked her patrol, The Merc shined her light towards a sound. One of the larger creatures that made their home down here. Looked like something had chased the starving dog off. All the better for her, less chance of her getting bitten by something. The warehouse it had come from though, that might be worth checking out!

The warehouse resounded with the heavy thudding of metal on concrete. Looked like this place was recently converted for something. There was a lot of electronics and chit that Tibs didn't even have names for. Whatever it was, she had stumbled on something big! As she rounded a corner, the tall woman saw something no one ever wanted to see.

It was a mandalorian in full kit, just standing there like he'd just woken up. Had the enemy baron hired a fething Mando to do his dirty work?!

"Stop right there! You reach for anything and I ventilate that bucket you got on your head!" She sounded confident, but it was a shallow front. Her hands were unsteady, and her breaths uneasy. There were stories of Mandos thrashing whole platoons by themselves, no soldier worth their salt wanted to tangle with that kinda firepower.

At least she had the drop on him...

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

| Location | Daiyu, Expansion Region

Beyond the cracks in the wall, Daiyu seeped through in all its rotten glory; the stench of countless bodies crowded together, their mumbling voices caught on the edge of his sensor rig, slowly turning into languages the Mandalorian recognised, for all that their ubiquity left them almost utterly useless. The sound of Basic mixed with Bocce and Ryl, though the latter was even less comprehensible without the visual connection, at least, confirmed he was in the right Galaxy. He only hoped what he found outside would be recognisable when he was forced to face it. Past occasions had not been so kind.

Distracted with his own thoughts, Itzhal barely noticed the creek of footsteps against the tarmac, a creeping threat that registered in the back of his mind and left his hands to drift closer to his blasters. Bright and stark against the dim glow of the warehouse, a light pierced the darkness, held aloft by a figure that would have blended in with the shadows if not for the beacon in their hand. Quietly, Itzhal observed as the figure stepped into sight, coming from what should have been a blind spot, instead merely requiring him to use the HUD of his visor as it focused on their appearance.

Numerous plates of armour covered the mercenary's chest in interlocking segments that ensured a compromise of mobility and protection, not unlike the design Itzhal wore, though the aesthetics were clearly different, with the number 071 imprinted in white on their torso, an identification that he neither recognised nor had any context for. Focused now on the threat of the present, his attention flickered between the one he'd identified and the shadows of the room, listening for sounds concealed beneath the others' screams. Seventy One. Or just one.

He didn't want to find out, not when he had more questions than answers. Not when other answers were so much more important.

In the background, crawler programs trawled through the local holonet for information on bounties and contacts that could be linked with the individual holding him at gunpoint. It would take time, though, time he didn't have.

"Now, let's be calm about this. I'm not here to fight you." Itzhal said, his voice calm as a still lake frozen in the deep chill of winter, the threat lurking beneath. Slowly, he raised his hands into the air, farther from the exposed handles of his blaster pistols, holstered at his hips, their synthetic sheaths shaking with the twist that pivoted him to face the mercenary.

Close as they were, Tibera's armoured form gleamed in the reflection of Itzhal's visor, caught in the glare of their torchlight and the faint glimmer of fluorescent lights above. They were taller than he, Itzhal noted, though he'd faced the situation plenty of times before. It would make it easier to stamp on their toes, at least, if the situation got any worse. He would need to angle himself to deflect the first shot, unless he wanted a shootout, but under the circumstances, he didn't trust the cargo boxes within not to be filled with some form of nasty surprise just waiting to go off at the worst opportunity.

Tags: Tibera Jessen​