Stronger Together

[Talia]

The message was in dadita, mandalorian code, not openly used since the war with the sith, not that Talia could recall anyway. It took several minutes to decode it, and she occupied herself cleaning the gore from her latest kill from her buy’ce, feet resting up on the console of her cockpit, the latest holonet newscast echoing around her.


“...suffered heavy losses after an unprovoked attack on Utapau. Our sources have confirmed that the attack was launched by the Mandalorian Empire, and rumours speculate that the Emperor of the Sith, Darth Carnifex himself, was present. What it was they wanted, or why Ra Vizsla would push his forces so far west is something that is open to much debate, but knowing that The Sith Empire is in cohorts with such a violent group is something of great concern. They’ve hit the Collective, the First World Coalition and turned against the Galactic Alliance during the defense of Dagobah and that was only in the first few months following the end of their own Civil War. Is it Ra’s desire to make an enemy of the entire galaxy?”

“Well, with their recent skirmish with the First Order on Lanteeb and then this violent attack against the Outer Rim Coalition it’s beginning to seem like it. A foolish stance to take alone but with the might of The Sith Empire at their back? We should all be very-”

“Off!” Talia snapped. The hologram flickered and died, leaving her in silence, save for the gentle hum of her engines. Her knuckles had gone white, fist closed a little too tightly around the brush she was holding. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, exhaling slowly and rolled her shoulders, easing the tension from them. She wouldn’t allow herself to waste energy on rage over something she could neither control, nor fix.

A chime rang out and she sey the buy’ce down and sat upright to read the decoded message.

Ra Vizsla is not our Mand’alor​

​

The Empire is not our Clan.​

​

Taungsday, 1300hrs​

​

Tattooine.​

Talia frowned. “..the feth…” She’d have thought they’d give more of a location than a planet, especially one in Galactic Empire territory, if too many mandalorians began wandering round looking for each other, they might think they were under attack like everyone else seemed to be. There was an holoimage attached to the message, she flicked on.

A swoop bike, with a rider bent low over its body. ‘Box 43’ painted on its side. Talia grinned. It’d been a while since she’d seen a swoop race, or another mandalorian she didn’t want to shoot. She reached for the navicomp, entering Tattoine’s coordinates, the news report completely forgotten. She’d be there just in time.

 

[Mereel Vaun]

Location: Aboard the Flagship of the Remnant 91st Expeditionary Fleet, the RNV Iviiny'c

"Vaun, what the kriff is this?"

Mereel looked at the communication console now displaying quaint strands of a coded message. It seemed oddly familiar for some reason. He slowed his breathing, closed his eyes, and cleared his thoughts for a moment. He hoped that refreshing his mind would let him approach this riddle from a new perspective.

When he opened his eyes again, the first thing he saw was the flask clipped to his belt. War.

Dadita, it has to be.

"It's dadita, an ancient Mandalorian code. If someone bothered making a message using this, it must be important."

He had seen dadita before, but it had only been twice, and both times it had been used by extremely paranoid officers during the war with the One Sith. He looked over the lines of code again, "I don't know this well enough to translate it on my own. See if you can find anything on the HoloNet that could help make a rough translation."

While the comm officer flipped through programs at dizzying speed, Mereel let out a sigh, popped off his helmet, and unclipped his flask. He turned the metal canister around in his hands a few times before clipping it back to his belt. He put his buy'ce back on.

After a minute, the comm officer spoke up, "One more line.. Think I've got it sir."

Mereel looked at the console.

Ra Vizsla is not our Mand’alor​

The umpire is not our Clan.​

Tanugsday, 1300hrs​

Tatooine.​

Despite the grammatical errors, it was an impressive translation. "Good work, Ramerez."

Mereel looked over to [member="Joshua Tucker"] , "Best stay with the fleet ner vod. The Iviin'yc is going on a little voyage in Empire space."

[member="Talia Fett"]

 

[Daral Tal'Verda]

The signal had been brief, hard to decipher but not impossible. The Tal'Verda's had been divided during the Civil War, brother fought against brother in the most literal and heart wrenching of ways, and when one shared a face and name with those who had opposed Ra Vizsla, it was no wonder some confusion occurred, and that was what lead Daral to his current situation.

He sat aboard a common transport, a shawl covering his face, clad in basic armor acquirable from most any supplier, cobbled together from old GAR suits, and armed with a DC-18. The Tal'Verda could easily pass as any other mercenary aboard the ship, heading to the desert world in hopes of finding work. In actuality he was there for a much less exciting reason, to observe and report, nothing more.

The clone had no desire to be cut apart and be left for dead in the sand.

In his rush to get there, he'd failed to do more than leave a record of where he was going with his superiors, meaning as far as he knew, he was the only Mandalorian in the Empire who knew that something might have been going on. That only increased his need to stay out of conflict, and out of sight.

An odd change of pace for the Ghost of Druckenwell, but not necessarily outside his skillset.

[member="Mereel Vaun"] | [member="Talia Fett"]​

 

[Lord Combattere]

Apon a personal starfighter he's sitting in his seat working on a circuit board for some project before being alerted a ship was moving by he was at first cautious but he felt like he knew that ship so he opted to follow it strapping in and pushing the leaver forward to increase his ships speed attempting to catch up to the other familiar.


[member="Mereel Vaun"] | [member="Daral Tal'Verda"] | [member="Talia Fett"] |

 

[Cato Fett]

Arkanis Sector
Tatooine
Mos Espa
Akim’s Munch

Ra Vizsla is not our Mand’alor​

​

The Empire is not our Clan.​

​

Taungsday, 1300hrs​

​

Tatooine.​

​

The swoop-rider hologram turned on its emitter axis until Cato swept his palm over the fissure and closed it down. Vast heat cooked the awning leather, enough to simmer exposed sweat to a salt lick. Akim’s Munch swarmed with the afternoon lunch rush, the premium seats being inside under the heavy dried-brick roof, patrons braving the kitchen warmth rather than taking a poorer table past the porch. Cato slurped poultry-flavoured noodles between cheap balsa chopsticks, sipping them from a cheap protein broth. His helmet rested on the table and caught passing shadows in its visor. The sword Oilseller rested its scabbard end-cap in the dirt between brick tiles, leaning close over his hip.

A trap, maybe? He turned the informal invite over in his thoughts. Tatooine was Imperial territory and beyond the jurisdiction of the Watch. The Empire cared nothing at all about Mandalorian troubles and the only other presence vaguely connected to the ‘United Clans’ was the Confederacy’s Metus, another ‘Emperor’, and Dar’manda whether voluntarily or otherwise. Cato knew his character as mercurial and ephemeral. Metus south, Moff Graf in the north, Wild Space in between and remnants of the Mando’ade caught somewhere just left of centre. He rose, left his emptied bowl and sticks for the eatery to retrieve, fixed his helmet into place and marched on under the Twin Suns. Oilseller was slid into place under his belt.

Ahead was a street junction. South lead to the public hangers and docking piers. North, the road turned into a coil and snaked through Mos Espa to the edge of city limits. The Grand Arena was just beyond. Cato paused long enough to gather his bearings before striding northward. He had to know, grasping the View Masker hidden in a pant pocket, feeling his teeth grit. How many others had seen through Ra’s bluster for his shallow messianism, the treachery he’d sown through their people? Or the soaring bombast and spectacle attempting to act as harbinger for the return of dead gods, just to build an empire to warm the feet of listless warriors fat with ego and willing to betray their aliit?

Cato brooded as he strolled. Hard sunlight shrugged off his helm.

[member="Talia Fett"] | [member="Mereel Vaun"] | [member="Daral Tal'Verda"] | [member="Lord Combattere"]

 

[Talia]

The thought that this could be a trap passed through Talia's mind more than once. In fact it had been such a focal point during her clearance and landing she'd spent ten minutes carefully selecting her weapons. A beskad sheathed on her back, its worn hilt raised over her left shoulder, she'd contemplated the scattergun too, but overruled it on the grounds that it said a little too loudly that she was expecting a fight. She strapped a bolter to one thigh and a revolver to the other, short combat knives sheathed in her boots.

As she crossed the dusty ground between Mos Espa spaceport and the Grand Arena she wondered if perhaps she should have left the thermal detonator clipped at her back behind. Sunlight glinted off the black and grey armour, eyes peered from beneath leather awning to follow her progress and hot winds kicked up sand that pinged harmlessly off her. What a wasteland, she mused. Tattooine was little more than a sandpit for the Hutts to play in...or at least it had been until the Galactic Empire claimed it as theirs. Now? Now it was still a giant sandpit for an autocratic leader with no sense.

The buzz from the Arena was infectious, the closer she drew, the louder it got and the more she felt herself smile. If it did turn out to be a trap, she'd take a little pleasure in the derailment of a swoop race. A quick chat with a vendor who pointed her in the right direction and Talia ascended the sandstone steps with the bulk of the crowd to Box 43. One hand moved to unclip the holster for her bolter as she slid inside.

[member="Mereel Vaun"] [member="Daral Tal'Verda"] [member="Lord Combattere"] [member="Cato Fett"]

 

[Ordo]

The big firgure sat and watched. He could clearly remember the last time he had been on Tatooine. It was years ago but it may as well have been centuries. He peered silently from behind the T of his visor that was the face he had chosen to show the galaxy. Lightsabers of differing shapes and sizes hung lazily at his belt as the old CM-Fragstorm shotgun rested calmly butt down between his feet and leaned on one big broad shoulder.

He had fought a Sith here, a lord or at least that's what he had called himself. He was dead too and the self styled dark master's saber hung with the rest.

He watched as the first obvious warrior walked through the crowd. Young, strong, and determined, everything he had been once...she'd do. His senses showed him more, people places things he hadn't been able to sense before, but now, so much was open in his mind.

So...he waited, watched, and hoped against hope that his people still had a future.


[member="Talia Fett"] [member="Mereel Vaun"] [member="Daral Tal'Verda"] [member="Lord Combattere"] [member="Cato Fett"]

 

[Mereel Vaun]

Displaying the readouts of a fictitious cargo hauler called the "Fool's Gambit", the Iviin'yc had briefly touched down in one of Mos Espa's docking piers before departing for the next major population center.

The dadita message had been far too vague, and in order to compensate for the lack of important information in the message, he had ordered his ship to deploy her small garrison around the planet's various cities and villages. Since the Iviin'yc only had a garrison consisting of twenty marines, each population center would only be scouted by two to four men each.

Mereel checked his HUD's chronometer, he and the three Republic soldiers deployed to Mos Espa would only have roughly an hour to look around before the Iviin'yc returned to the docking pier.

He activated his helmet commlink and turned it to the squad frequency, 173-B, "Alright, we've got about an hour. Jennings you're searching the docking piers and the hangar bays. Hallen, search the east side of the city. Carter, you've got the west. I'm heading north to check out the Arena. If any of you see Mandalorian armor that isn't dark blue, I want to hear about it. Oya."

He stopped transmitting his voice over the squad comm frequency and started his march north to Mos Espa's Grand Arena.

[member="Ordo"] [member="Talia Fett"] [member="Cato Fett"] [member="Lord Combattere"] [member="Daral Tal'Verda"]

 

[Solar Energy Corporation]

Boots crunched on the hot sand as a figure made his way through the Mos Espa market. He wore a tan coat with a fur-lined hood despite the heat. If he sweated from the layering none would know. A scarred Mandalorian helmet, green with a yellow stripe down the center, hid his expression. The hilt of a lightsaber bounced at his hip, the only outright indication of a weapon on his person.

Smells from the stalls and the cries of the vendors filled the dry air, each desperate to hawk their wares. Their puffed declarations fell on deaf ears.

Kade Kol-Rekali didn't waver in his course and slipped or shoved his way through the crowd until he reached the circuits. It took him only a moment to find Box 43. He entered, body tense, and paused in the doorway, head swiveling slowly as he scanned the room.

[member="Talia Fett"] | [member="Cato Fett"] | [member="Mereel Vaun"]

 

[Julius Sedaire]

It had come through, that message, on a console of the fighter his former mentor and rescuer had used to own. Alaric didn't view it as his really, probably never would. Even if he did rather like the sleek craft. As it landed, he jumped easily from the craft, landing in a solid clatter of slightly too loose plates. The t-visor rose to the sun solidly, blue and white armor with stripes of orange definitely a standout combination. And not at all the style, plate load, colors, or anything he thought he would prefer. A few of the mando'ade had seen in in the armor, and all but one had sneered at the ill-fitting plates. Only the one who hadn't seemed to be inclined to help, and had suggested he get them fixed soon, and fitted, and recommended a local armor maker. But Alaric didn't yet have the funds for that.

This message had taken precedence over any and all other issues. As he had begun to learn about the culture he had adopted by choice in his heart, in it's current state, worry had begun to gnaw at him. Far from an expert though he may be, this did not seem right, what this Empire was doing. And even as inexperienced as he was to war and empires, this message could easily be a trap even in his reasoning. But he was headed to where the swoop bikes raced, for box 43 specifically. He strode with a heavy blaster pistol on one hip, a vibroblade pair on his back and a growing confidence in his step. No matter what, he had been adopted by the savior in this armor before he died, and had even chosen these people of free will once he knew more. And in a few moments, as he made to enter the box, his breath caught, eyeing it from across the way before he set out to it. Because he must.

He must learn where he stood in this struggle, and so in he stepped to Box 43.

[member="Ordo"] | [member="Talia Fett"] | [member="Mereel Vaun"] | [member="Daral Tal'Verda"] | [member="Lord Combattere"] | [member="Cato Fett"]

Spoiler

 

[Cato Fett]

The Grand Arena provided titular entertainment at every quarter halve of the day. There was an hour’s lull before the next race venue and pit fighters were caged in by the starting line. Cato paused under a sun awning, hiking up the narrow procession steps dividing the plebeian seat-rows; he watched Trandoshan and Gamorrean pit gladiators kill each other in the dirt. A Gamorrean wrenched their battle-axe through a body, cheers sprouting with the blood, as they turned to hail the bleachers with throat-shaking oinks before their victory evaporated with a polearm thrust. Fresh cries erupted as a Trandoshan reared pack and speared the Gamorrean again, shunting them onto the packed shale scree. Cato retied the shemagh around his neck and resumed climbing up the amphitheatre.

Box 43 was amongst the private balconies. He climbed up and through an oversized entrance portal, through sequined curtains into a broad passage well grooved from the passing of many underlord repulsor chairs. There were no criminal dignitaries attending the races today. The hallway was empty, excepting the scuttling child-slaves busily washing the smoothstone to a mirror polish. Minders waited in the deeper shade of small alcoves with electro-prods and stun-whips. One leaned out, spat at Cato’s boots, said a line of derogatory about the cleanliness of Cato’s mother’s sex-life. The Mandalorian paused, sword gently cocked an inch from its scabbard mouth. The Minder spun from the alcove and leapt back, stun-prod and lashes held high. Cato snickered coldly and resumed strolling.

The Minder’s contempt overrode caution. The Barabel sprang forward and jammed his stun-prod for the Mandalorian’s kidneys. With synaptic speed, Cato turned on his hip and struck Oilseller free. The sword took the Barabel through their throat. Head, neck, and a section of collarbone arced free and dyed the sandstone with dark scarlet. A slave-child clawed their throat to silence any crying. He clenched the blade against the pit of his elbow and pulled his sword against rough cotton, until the sword-flat shone like still water. Blood still dampened his sleeves, his jacketing, and boots. Oilseller slid back into its housing and Cato walked on.

The balcony seat was already occupied. Cato edged to the draft curtain over the entrance and rapped his prosthetic against the stone jamb. A beat. He held tight to his scabbard, slipped the curtain aside, and ducked in.

[member="Alaric"] | [member="Kade Kol-Rekali"] | [member="Mereel Vaun"] | [member="Ordo"] | [member="Talia Fett"]

 

[Mereel Vaun]

From row A12, he had a perfect view of the festivities, and - with the help of his HUD's magnifier - he could also see a respectable portion of seats in the Grand Arena.

So far, he had just seen a variety of humanoids that appeared to be scum, with a few folk who looked modest sprinkled around the crowd. Nothing kept his gaze for more than a second though.

Until he saw Box 43.

The VIP box was crawling with armored figures scattered around it. From his current position, he couldn't tell if they were in contact with eachother, but he could definitely see them.

He activated his helmet commlink, "I've found them. Get back to the Iviin'yc and call off the hunt. Vaun out."

Brushing past a few locals, he moved out of the row and ascended a staircase that would take him back to one of the Arena's section connecting hallways. He hoped that the Mandalorians in Box 43 stayed put.

[member="Cato Fett"] | [member="Alaric"] | [member="Kade Kol-Rekali"] | [member="Talia Fett"] | [member="Ordo"] | [member="Lord Combattere"] | [member="Daral Tal'Verda"]​

 

[Lord Combattere]

Disreguard

 

[Talia]

The box was a few degrees cooler than the rest of the arena, couches with deep red cushion lined the outer walls, tall tables with pitchers and glasses rested in the centre and a wide balcony gave them a clear view of the swoop track below. Holoscreens were raised on the walls close tot he balcony, cycling through each racers specs and betting odds. It was empty otherwise, which surprised Talia. Perhaps she had been expecting some grand figure...or simply more people.

Her hand moved from the bolter as she stepped towards the balcony, fingers undoing the straps of her helmet and tugging it free and hooking it onto her belt. Arms rested momentarily on the balcony edge and she let the buzz of the arena was over her. The soft rattle of the beaded curtains made her look round as three more stepped into the box. She moved back into the shadow of the box to better see them, her hand falling back to her weapon. "Su cuy'gar vode." She said softly.

[member="Cato Fett"] [member="Mereel Vaun"] [member="Kade Kol-Rekali"] [member="Alaric"] [member="Daral Tal'Verda"]

 

[Orn'om]

It had taken every ounce of courage he had developed in the last few weeks and months to get off world. He had been working around the clock signing paperwork, looking over new project plans, budgets, and more recently sending shipment coordinates to the Resistance. In terms of what he was owed by the company, he had more than enough "holiday" time to use and with Dorn slacking his surveillance on him he was able to climb into his armor and fly out to the backwater planet.

He was clad in his dull red and gold armor. He hadn't worn it in some time and so he hoped he wasn't recognized.

[member="Talia Fett"] [member="Mereel Vaun"] [member="Cato Fett"] @Alaric

 

[Jak Skirata]

Despite the vagueness of the message, he somehow expected Box 43 to be some sort of explosive trap waiting for him. Or at the least a pair of Dorn's henchmen. What he found instead was a VIP room overlooking the track with Mandalorians from several different clans. He recognized some as the Mandalorians he had rescued at the end of the Civil War, but many he didn't.

What surprised him the most was how many...Force Sensitive Mando'ade there were in attendance. Their numbers had always been low and so to be honest, this was probably the bulk of them, but still he had never seen, never felt this many in one place before outside of when he took them off world. And these Mando'ade weren't afraid and running from their own Mand'alor.

"Su cuy'gar vode." She said softly.

Despite her low tone of voice a resounding "Su cuy'gar" ran throughout the room. And suddenly the Mandalorians weren't so nervous anymore as they slowly realized they were all on the same side. The sound of metal on metal and beskar on beskar filled the room as arms were clasped and fists bumped.

 

[Julius Sedaire]

He saluted the greeting. Towering though he was at nearly six feet, which was odd for someone with Thrysian or Echani like features, he removed his helmet in a return gesture. In something he didn't really know the origins of, but his mentor had explained was important, he clapped closed fist to the center of his breastplate, fingers and clenched palm first, and inclined his head. The suit rattled more than others due to the fit, and his accent marred the words only slightly thankfully. But still enough he winced inwardly, and his pulse raced in nervousness and excitement that no battlefield had ever brought to him.

And now, he sat, breathing evenly as he could, eyes on Talia, waiting. He was a rank amateur, but here he was anyhow. And he felt it was the right place to be.

[member="Ordo"] | [member="Talia Fett"] | [member="Mereel Vaun"] | [member="Daral Tal'Verda"] | [member="Lord Combattere"] | [member="Cato Fett"] | [member="Davin Skirata"] | [member="Zeke Farthen"]

 

[Solar Energy Corporation]

"Su cuy'gar."

Literally? "Still alive."

Beneath the helmet, Kade smirked. Some people said the language was barbaric, but he found the mix of grim humor and pragmatism elegant in its own way. Sort of like the vod over there with the scabbarded sword. Simple, useful, and d- some guy thumped his chestplate with his fist, interrupting Kol-Rekali's thoughts.

Kade snorted.

Nevermind.

Other than his helmet and an upper durasteel chestplate, Kade didn't wear much compared to the rest. Just some shin guards. Felt funny wearing more armor than that. Maybe in the end he was more Dathomir than Mandalore.

He didn't know any of them.

"Hate to cut the reunion short, but who organized this cyar'tomade tsad?"

Literally? "Fan club."

The language did have its perks.

Gathering a bunch of enemies of the Mandalorian Empire together in one spot? If none of them knew who organized it, then the answer would probably come momentarily in the form of a long range guided missile homed in on their exact location.

[member="Alaric"] | [member="Zeke Farthen"] | [member="Talia Fett"] | [member="Cato Fett"] | [member="Davin Skirata"]

 

[Jorga the Hutt]

[member="Kade Kol-Rekali"]@Alaric@Davin Skirata[member="Zeke Farthen"][member="Kade Kol-Rekali"]@Alaric@Davin Skirata[member="Zeke Farthen"][member="Talia Fett"][member="Mereel Vaun"][member="Cato Fett"]@Ordo@Lord Combattere[member="Daral Tal'Verda"]

"Good question. No idea."

Connory stirred from the relative gloom in the booth's back corner.

"Ran a full sweep of the system. Not a Mandalorian Empire signal anywhere, none of the usual traffic markers or customs anomalies. There's no army waiting around the corner - well, apart from the usual stormtroopers.

"I go by Rel Connory. If you want my bona fides, I shredded Munin's dreadnought at Utapau."

 

[Daral Tal'Verda]

He'd followed after the others, armor concealed faces, distance kept him from hearing names, but all the same the clone bore witness to the same event. Numerous Mandalorians answering the call to oppose Ra Vizsla, destroyer of the Liberator, Savior of Mandalore. The karking cowards. They'd suffered through one Civil War, Daral had been forced to kill his own blood, men who he literally shared a face with, could't those with the touch of the force fething stay away.

They'd brought enough suffering to the planet. None of them would sense Daral, unlike others who had undergone the 'cure', he'd been force dead for his whole life, it was not a means to an end to him, it simply was him. It was how he lived, and frankly it wasn't awful.

Still, from across the arena, Daral sat and watched, he wanted to see if anyone particularly iconic showed up in a fashion he could actually recognize, though that was unlikely. When these dar'manda had been one of the vode he had retired to a nice farm in the Tal'Verda keep, had a wife too, a son, all he'd wanted after the nightmare of Druckenwell was peace.

The Monroe and Mereel took that, so here he was, in the service of the Mandalorian Empire.

In a few minutes he'd likely leave, figuring he'd gathered all the information he needed, and he'd leave right back to Mandalore. Assuming no one got in the way.

​

[member="Connory"] [member="Kade Kol-Rekali"] [member="Alaric"] [member="Davin Skirata"] [member="Zeke Farthen"] [member="Talia Fett"] [member="Mereel Vaun"] [member="Cato Fett"]​