Public Tales of the Core (GE)

[Thorn]

​

Location: Coruscant, Restricted Medical Sector

Tags: Open

Dreams stirred like disturbed waters, the slightest ripple upon the surface like an echo of something familiar, something just out of reach for the mind. Did corpses truly ever rot and wither away? Or did they experience a long, long slumber that allows them to wonder at silhouettes from things that once were? Voices faded in and out, faces morphed and shifted within a void and then disappeared.

Low electrical humming, blinding white light piercing through the eyes of Thorn's helmet and into dull orbs that hadn't seen something shine in quite some time. This wasn't sunlight, but an artificial daybreak from the perpetual midnight that he'd lingered in for far too long. Nothing about this held the slightest familiarity, not the smell of the place he was in, nor the words barely audible just beyond where he lay.

His body was restricted, denied movement as he slowly regained consciousness. There was no fear, for the trembling of mortal affairs had no sway over his immediate line of thinking. Eyes within the darkness of his helmet shifted to and fro, attempting to make some sense of his surroundings; however, a presence soon stood over him, and from this presence he could detect the not so subtle curiosity as the physical touch of a hand lightly tapped against his cuirass.

Then something all too familiar set in... a hunger. The smell of flesh and blood filled Thorn's nostrils, a shudder rattled his bones as intensity boiled from within. The need to feed was intoxicating, maddening.

For now he allowed himself to be as he was, to allow his own curiosity to shield otherwise visceral instincts from overriding an otherwise tranquil moment. His mind shifted back into the abyss, his eyes rolling back into his head.

He would soon come to understand his place once more.

 

[Fyntal Lawkex]

OOC: Meet my newest character and her boss - traveling military scholars and philosophers!

Coruscant, Inner Core
At a Terminal in Coruscant's Largest Library
2159 Local Time

"Professor, I know why this is necessary, but you've gotta admit... This is STUPID!! I didn't even do anything this dumb back in my military days, either on land or in the air."

"Fortunately, Fyn my Dear, I too have military skill sets that are as varied as your own!"

Fyn had to agree with that, being as she was the one holding spools of the wire in one hand and an E-11 blaster rifle held aloft in the other - perhaps less conspicuously than it should have been - even as she watched her boss at work. The aged, "healthily" rotund (as he put it) swamp-green Bith was whistling cheerfully as, with one wire held out of his mouth as he worked, his arms moved fluidly and gracefully, he plugged in wires in a strange, criss-crossed manner, altering the connections of the terminal and its computer core alike with swift hand motions that nearly blurred together in the dim overhead lights where the two were hidden in a dark, forgotten corner. The Nelvaanian woman was confused, and her free hand raised a finger to scratch idly at her forehead, before it adjusted her reading glasses at the orange text that was flowing along the library's terminal, before shrugging her slim shoulders. A technician she was not! It was just because of those technical and programming conundrums that her E-11 felt so comfortable in her white-furred hand - she knew how to scout, to apply tactics in the moment, and the basics of terrain traversal and scavenging, but computer programming and droid work was something else entirely. A reader and theorist she could be, but not an engineer or a programmer... Maths had never been her strong suit, unlike her Bith boss.

A hand shifted to move over the seat of her loose-fitting Imperial style technician's breeches, which threatened to slip down uncomfortably, even as her hand took a moment to scratch comfortingly along one side. She hoped to the Force that they weren't going to attract attention!

It was after a few moments more of flurrying those criss-crossed wires and, after THUNKING! one pudgy hand against the base of the machine's hardware components, that Koutr Lyek, famed Bith Philosopher and Military Historian of Clak'dor VII, slipped the duranium panel into place over the terminal's hardware components, though without bothering to reapply the bolts for now. His short-fingered green hands worked feverishly over the terminal's keypad, every gentle blip and click of the keys making the Nelvaanian's triangular ears fold as she impatiently ground her teeth, half-expecting the library's security division to come clambering towards them from every direction any second now...

"Of all the times to have to poop..." she lamented softly, even as her boss cheerfully chuckled from where he stood just behind the short canid alien.

"You're a big girl," he teased softly, as though she was a youngling, "just hold it in."

She hefted the E-11 before her, holding it with both hands in front of a small and boyish, if faintly curved chest, her feminine proportions concealed easily beneath the too-large Imperial Technician's "procured" uniform she wore; her ghost-white, upward-curled tail swaying to and fro as she did her best to look serious. Just before the two companions, a maroon Cybot Galactica protocol droid whirred and walked steadily along, fixing strange black photoreceptors on the two aliens as it stopped, as though studying them.

"Technician," it spoke in a dull, monotone masculine tone, even as those FREAKISH photoreceptors adjusted to better focus on the two of them. The fat, silver-eyed Bith waved merrily at the droid, before he continued typing, "what is your designation?" the droid finished.

Sighing, Fyntal Lawkex rubbed the inner corners of her eyes with a thumb and forefinger. This WASN'T going to end well...

"RZQ-6149."

The droid took a few steps forward, tilting its head with a whir as it eyed the two for a moment.

Then, it began to speak. "Process-"

WHA-TAANG!

The droid's head twisted sharply to one side, blue-white sparks erupting from its neck where the head had partially detached from, exposing the internal wiring on one side. The droid wasn't even able to scream. A furred hand swiftly caught the droid's exposed wiring, guiding the body out of a fall and into the shadows, to set it down behind where the cheery and eccentric Bith Professor sat, typing and musically-entertaining himself.

Fyn took a moment to brush the maroon paint off of the barrel of her blaster, even as her tail twitched with agitation.

"C'mon, Professor, speed it up, or else I'll crap these pants if this takes too long..." The Nelvaanian spoke in desperation through gritted teeth...

TO BE CONTINUED...

 

[St. Thomas Barran]

TALES OF THE CORE
III

​

SUB-DISTRICT 6, UNDERCITY,
CORUSCANT (903 ABY)

'Alright, lads. Now we're getting closer, an' now we've established exactly what I am-'
'You want us to say why we're so creeped out down here, I can tell.'
'You been pokin' around, prodding us like a tazer-stick. Relax, Tam. We'll get to it.'​

'Thats far enough for you, intruders!', a voice called out from above, standing as a marker of defence against unwelcome invasion, and apparently, this had become a norm. Even for the new player on the scene, this increased security would imply there was a collective menace more vicious than all, and even more-so than the group that were making Barran's new acquaintances so skittish, drawing the one-eyed Woad to believe there were Darkside elements at play here. It was not until the individual jumped down to look this surface-dweller in the eye when he realised who was standing before him, and not an instant later did his barrel drop to point at the rubble below, muttering,'Gets weirder by the day down here.', to himself before finally giving in.

'My leader - he sees you as a god, by the way.... Don't think I don't see whats going on here, Khan. Death walks up from below, then you seemingly fall from above? We know you're here, we know why you're here, we know what you'd do to seem like you belong here-'

Holding up a hushing, calming hand, the one-eyed Woad understood the watchman's misgivings, even empathizing similar leanings from the man's perspective before he finally responded,'I get it, lad. You're protecting your home, your people. Meanwhile, on my end, I'm jus' following a lead. Looking for a lost Nomad, thats all.', speaking in low, hushed tones for everyone else's sake. Not, by any means, an easy task with a dull, throbbing headache, and two cracked ribs to contend with, but still somehow making a successful job of it, the Khan would nod to the others to calm their nerves all the more, almost-immediately finding his better means of drawing information from this steadily-growing crowd of lower-levellers.

'Whatever it is that worries you about me, jus' put it to rest.... I can offer - normal help, how's about that?'
'He ain't so bad, dude. We know Tam, here, coulda jumped us at any moment since he woke up, but-'
'You call him,"Tam"? You keepin' a lil deathwish to yourself there, bud?'

The gang-sentry almost recoiled to hear it, but it seemed like he was happy to let it be his fellow lower-leveller's funeral, not too zealous that he felt it necessary to take matters into his own hands, but also not coded well enough to escape the Khan's detection of it's true, underlying definition. It was then that the Heathen Saint decided to step in and take control of the situation, deciding on the spot that the lower-levels had been worth his while from the start, as it was this interaction that reminded the Khan of the Cirihut Guard; briefly reminiscing of the warriors he lost in a previous, unsuccessful attempt to take Coruscant, a matter that glared as a reminder of failures that still awaited rectification, and all before he had the chance to meet the sentry's leader.

'Relax, man. That was by my command, an' you too will obey it down here.... I'd rather the lower-levels never knew I was here, to begin with! But rest assured, I'll find a way to keep things at an acceptable calm, an' a way to fight back against the things that walk up from below.... But you had better start talking, I want t'know what your collective calls itself, I want your name, an' I want t'know what's gotten you all so spooked down here - an' in that exact order, understand?!'
'Yes, Kha-oh.... Yes, Tam.'

 

[Yorunarr Ahan-Yan'Sharlim]

TALES OF THE CORE
III

​

Batwing Forest,
Anobis, Mid Rim Territories (903 ABY)

SEVEN DAYS STRANDED...

'Rise and shine, Coruscantine.'
'If you think I'll tell you anything, you're-'
'-Not mistaken.... I already checked your mouth for a zap-capsule. You're at my mercy now.'
​

The Shaman's burns were finally beginning to resemble scar-tissue by the time he found the strength to travel farther afield, marching to a known Imperial patrol-zone on makeshift snow-shoe fittings, already thriving beyond his own expectations by then, making all the difference when he snagged himself a straggler in the blizzard of his own making. Persistent in snowy downfall, and with every passing day, the storm would widen beyond it's already-huge perimeter, though the Priest-King himself would not know until he finally commandeered his captive's comm-link device. Even the capture itself would be a revelation of a sort, as there was much and more that Yorunarr had overheard in the stalking process of his little,"Trooper Hunt", with more yet still to be learned from the makings on this Snow Trooper's armour, made all the more satisfying by the fact his superiors sent search parties who expected to find his frozen remains.

'Tell me, trooper, what is it about Cademimu V that gets you all buzzing with excitement?'
'I won't-no, no! Don't burn the feet, NOT THE FEE-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!!!!'

The old Novanian's shelter had been dug deep enough that all his warmth would be easier to maintain among the tree-roots, and for as long as the snow continued to fall, the layers of packed, shaped insulation outside, he knew that extra heat and soundproofing alike could afford even the loudest of interrogation methods in the wild. Especially after having dragged the unconscious trooper for dozens of miles away from his last-known position, and for as long as the surrounding woodlands further-obscured the potential approach of search-scouts, the falling snow would continue to make tracking efforts impossible, made all the worse for the trooper's comrades by the fact the longest-possible route had been taken back to the dugout.

'You bastard! You filthy rebel bas-'
'Wrong! Thats not how this interaction goes - I ask a question', you give an answer. If you don't, well-'
'AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA-'

​

Sadly for the trooper, the burning sensation would be the last heat he would ever feel on his skin, not for the fact that much of his flesh would carry burns by the time Yorunarr was done with him, but more likely for the intention to kill him with the snowy, frozen weather instead. The trooper could sense something of the sort too, though not so much that he foresaw a cold, snow-blinded demise, but enough to guess correctly that his death would be soon, seeing for himself that it would not be merciful. By then, the young Mirialan had no choice but to cooperate, and when he eventually answered,'Fine, if you really want to know, if you absolutely must know - we believe that the Emperor awaits us there. You happy now, rebel scum?!', he soon realised this was the wisest course of action.

Made all the more apparent when his white-eyed tormentor stayed his own hand, holding back the burning torch-flames as if he were a god, seemingly presiding over the trooper's fate with otherworldly judgement, and with all the indicative capriciousness implied. It even seemed that his ordeal would be made impossible, and throughout the first phase of his,"Questioning", as Yorunarr so flippantly described it, and all as according to the Shaman's design. If there was such a thing as martyrdom in Galactic-Imperial circles, the trooper was beginning to understand that his captor was trying to help him achieve it, regardless of whether his people would remember or not, and caring even less for whether or not his people would even honour him for his sacrifice.

'Now, as for the young Saint-'
'Who?!'
'Tancred L'lerim, ring any bells?'
'Reeks of ISB spookery, sir.... If ya want info like that, you're gonna need to do a little better than me.'

​

 

[Jordi Massad]

TALES OF THE CORE
I

​

The Merchant Quarter, Aldera City,
Alderaan, Galactic Core Territories (903 ABY)

'Yes, kings will do.... And perhaps a pulse-lighter, if you have any.'
'They make 'em here, its your easiest ask so far.... That'll be 12 Imperial Credits, please.'
'Tolerable... Ah, I'm swiping today.'
​

On another walk with purpose, the Emir's Mask had been lazing around on Alderaan for a few weeks by then, and not only that, but he had also been leaving little traces of his data-signature along the way. Mostly detectable from his forearm data-swipes, the old Spy was consciously working to widen his rivals' search-areas by purchasing in many different surface-dwelling establishments, and covering as many blocks as he could between locations. Every last micro-district would count, as it was more about buying time than it was about leaving traces, thus bringing about quite the variety of services along the way; ranging from coffee-shops to holonet kiosks, restaurants, saunas and hotels, even going on to pay a parking fine before he finally received word about new, suspicious arrivals at the Spaceport.

In some clandestine circles, these would be viewed as errors of grave extreme, but for those who knew better than to play into the hands of hubris, this would be seen as nothing less than an invitation to play an old game of shadows.

As far as the consummate professionals were concerned, this was already shaping up to be another cloak-and-dagger maelstrom for the ages, an education for all who dared to play, just as Massad liked it. However, as quick as the other players would be in arriving, many would have groaned (and perhaps, even turned back-) had they known that someone else was already playing, and had been miles ahead of his competition for decades before that day. Searching through lead after lead, on intel-pathways old and new alike, hounding the Kandaran's shadow every step of the way, hounding his trail since Jordi first covered his tracks in 881 ABY, it was clear that his age-old tail would always be the first to pin-point his credit-transfers on Alderaan.

Hunter, I hope its you.
By the Force, I hope its you.
​

'Wonderful day, a beautiful day after all.'

​

In the beginning of this extended run of cat-and-mouse encounters, Jordi was the one at the disadvantage, as his pursuer, ever keeping his cards close to his chest, would know everything about Massad without giving anything away of his own identity. Remembered well enough that the old Spy scoffed through irritated reaction to the reminder, and well enough that he even recalled a time when his pursuer was still unaware of his existence, a recollection so embittering that it was enough to instigate the sneering of teeth, and furrowing brows in it's wake. Fortunately for the Kandaran's sanity, (and his reputation) there was a chance he could make his pursuer pay for delving beyond the surname, as he had already, and would again, perhaps for the last time.

If Jordi's clandestine tail had not involved his underlings along the way, there was a high likelihood they never would have ended up on a first-name basis before the turn of the century, and chances almost as certain that he never would have reached out on a dead operator's comm-link device, a fact upon which the solitary master of shadows had capitalised in perpetuity. This would go on to become an intricate dance of asymmetric circumvention, an ongoing effort to lull his adversary into going against his own grain, however, this particular waltz had become quite tiresome of late; or at least, it was, right up until the moment Massad finally realised his rival was finally working alone once more.

For the first time since the early years of the pursuit.

 

[DEAD Denniston Thrast]

TALES OF THE CORE
I

​

The Merchant Quarter, Aldera City,
Alderaan, Core World Territories (903 ABY)

Now or never, old man.
You either catch your target, or ye die tryin'.
​

Just as his quarry was in no rush to end an era, the Goidel was also in no mood to rush in and spoil the moment, choosing, from the moment he made planetfall, to commit to this dance without skipping a single step. It made no sense to sprint towards the game-ending move, not when the steady stroll appeared every part as meritous, and for as long as Denny kept up with the timing of his target's transitory rhythm, leisurely would surely be the way to the finish-line after all. This suited Thrast quite fine, as it just so happened that he was feeling the years catching up, and he knew his rival was enduring the same rigors by then.

The last time the Hunter heard Scimitar's voice over the comm-link array, he could hear, and with ease, that the years had been scraping away at his counterpart's larynx in particular; two years had passed since that rainy summer night on Naboo, and just like he could sense the aging process over the airways then, the old Goidel could also sense the approaching-end in the way the Kandaran flitted to-and-fro on Alderaan. But as much as the clandestine master was loathe to admit it, much of the same could have been implied about his own actions, especially in recent months, as all his orders would have been viewed as hopelessly-fatalistic by those who still admired him.

First it was the nomination of a new Druid-Grandmaster, a move that confused, even enraged the Highland Brotherhood's highest-ranked officials, then it was the recording and automation of a holocron he previously had no intention of recording, and a slew of other odd behaviours that never boded well for others in Denniston's shoes. Circumstances had even become irrevocable enough that the old Highlander had prompted a farewell-ceremony, of all things the Brotherhood did not need at such a critical juncture in the timeline, cementing the fact he was willingly stepping beyond the point of no-return, and escaping any tethers of authority along with it.

"To what end?", Denniston's Archons could not say, but when the smoke eventually cleared on Alderaan, his former subordinates would not take long to understand the Hunter's rationale for proceeding alone.

I'm sorry, Michael.
I can't wait any longer.

 

[Agent Vigilant]

Hunting for spies in Alderaan places...
Jordi Massad
DEAD Denniston Thrast

-------

Aldera City breathed through the anxiety of the Alliance's collapse. They had narrowly escaped the sweeping iron fist of the Imperial March. The Alderaanians watched from a distance at other worlds that called themselves beacons of Democracy, and how swiftly they had been crushed by the Empire. Chandrila, Commenor, Brentaal... the noblest and fairest of the Core Worlds were brutalized by the new fascist regime, and Alderaan, guardian of the colonies... waited its turn, biding its time desperately, parlaying with the Republic and the Mandalorians to buy time, futile as it was.

Little did they knew the ISB was already stalking their streets. What was lucky for the people of Alderaan was that the ISB wasn't here for them, yet. Aldera City was merely playing host to an Imperial affair... a game of cat and mouse. Vigilant, the rising star agent of the ISB, observed the situation carefully, at a distance, playing the fisherman, waiting for the big catch to take the bait. Better yet, the bait was acting like he wanted to be caught.

Vigilant wasn't sure he would ever understand the Goidels, cousins as they were to his kin. But for whatever reason, they had chosen now to crawl out of the woodwork, unable to accept that the Empire had moved on from a time in which they ruled it. Like a timeless story, Galidraan III made its messes, and Galidraan Prime had to clean it up. The age old animosity still played out, even with the homeworlds under the diktat of the Mand'alor, as Vigilant begrudgingly tailed Denniston Thrast, hoping the mess wouldn't be too much. The ideal outcome was getting a hold of the old Kandaran, and turning him back to the true Empire if they could. If all else failed, he could simply hope the two men killed each other...

 

[St. Thomas Barran]

TALES OF THE CORE
IV

​

SUB-DISTRICT 6, UNDERCITY,
CORUSCANT (903 ABY)

'We're the Drudges of Gold, the name I've been given is Baru.'
'Interesting, on both counts.... Continue, one last answer t'give.'
'Well, about that.... Only way to describe it - Hell's spewin' it's guts up, but it's hurlin' out monstahs.'​

If these lower-levels gangsters were aware of the Drudges' connection to the Maw, along with that of Gold, and the association to Mawite lore, then it was also likely that they were informed of a particular retinue's grading system. Whoever was leading them at the time, (as unlikely as it was to have survived Sularen's Dark-Imperial assault on Coruscant) could only be from one particular tribal collective, and without so much as mouthing the confirmation of his suspicions, the Khan had quickly identified the group to whom their leader still belonged. With the revelation itself answering more than a few queries in the mind, the one-eyed Woad then allowed himself to ponder on the how's and why's of the events that drove this Cirihut elite so deep beneath the surface, but then the ground began to shift beneath his boots, a short tremor.

But something about it seemed to make everyone else's eyes widen with terror.

'You three, this way! You're coming to meet Karseres!'
'So thats who it is-'
'RUN, YOU FETHING MADMAN!!!!'

With no other option but to follow his skittish, sprinting acquaintances, Barran was resigned to the undignified retreat from a perceived threat, though he afforded himself a chuckle after overhearing Benny grumbling,'The gangster's running fastest, but he's the one with the blasta'! What gives?!', in the most-relatable showing of lower-leveller humanity since he first landed face-first in he rubble. It was audible enough that even Benny, in his near-advanced years, could hear it in the midst of the sprint, growling,'Hey! Cut the chit, Chuckles! The tremors ain't nothin' to laugh at!', before the old man duly shunted the Khan forward to instigate wider strides.

'HAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRGH!!!!!'​

'Case - meet point!'
'The feth was that?!'
'SHUT THE KARK UP AND RUN, TAM!!!!'

​

Whatever it was, the Heathen Saint could tell by the roar alone that their pursuer was collossal, and far too large to have been beneath the surface for long; and yet, for all it's perceived scale and ferocity, there was something akin to sentient pain in it's voice. Morose, melancholic, seemingly suffering the agonies of an endless darkness alone, but interlaced with that manic desperation was something altogether more frightening, as it felt like hunger, it felt like an avarice of insatiable extreme. Only then did the dark truth begin to grow into bloom in the mind, as then it was obvious, and when St. Thomas finally felt the chill of familiarity, the shivers running down his spine only seemed to hasten his disgust.

Between lifetimes, the Khan would spend his time fighting for survival, fighting to avert perpetual demises at the hands of giant, demonic tormentors, gargantuan monsters who hid in the shadows of the Netherworld. Just like they would here, in Realspace, and despite the fact it reminded him of the friends he made throughout his afterlife, the very reminder of those monsters could only sour his already-bad mood, as it would after any suchlike reminders of that nightmare. Torn to shreds, over and over again, forced to relive that torment in perpetuity, to feel overgrown teeth biting into flesh and bone alike, it seemed that no reminders of victory (nor of nullifying ressurection-) could lend a brief silver lining.

These monsters would pay for their gluttony, a vengeance long overdue, but if the Khan was to succeed in his endeavour, he knew that rest, nutrients, and power-replenishment would be needed. Alas, in order for all three requirements to make a difference, time would also be needed, and in abundant quantity, as Barran's recovery would pretty-much demand it for complete recouperation, dragging the Khan to play by the Undercity's rules of survival a little longer. Unfortunately for all the runners, however, Barran would soon lose consciousness on the way to the missing Cirihut's hideout, out on his feet, and before his head even had time to hit the ground for the fourth time that day.

'PICK 'IM UP, BENNY!!!!'
'Do it, we're almost home-free!'

 

[Yorunarr Ahan-Yan'Sharlim]

TALES OF THE CORE
IV

​

Batwing Forest,
Anobis, Mid Rim Territories (903 ABY)

TWENTY DAYS STRANDED...

'Good morning, Birdwatcher.'
'Ha! Shame you couldn't kill me, now I can do what you couldn't-'
'What's that, pal? Are you biting down on something there?'
​

The pain would ache in the captive's mouth before the realization dawned on his mind, making the moment taste all the sweeter for the Shaman, especially in these moments; even after shrieking with mirth when he threw away the shock-capsule, howling with delight that he had finally nullified the agent's self-elimination protocol, and all before the man had even woken up from his blunt-force stupor. But for all of that laughter in the midst of the snatching, it would pale in comparison to the wheeze that floored him when the captive finally came to that horrifying realisation, made all the worse in the dismay he expressed when Yorunarr finally relented enough to look up at the agent's face again.

'Why are you doing this to me?!'
'Pleeeease, stop! MY RIBS CAN'T TAKE IT!!!!'
'Wait a minute.... I know your face, I KNOW WHO YOU ARE!!!!'

​

Rising to a seated position on the snow-packed ground, it seemed that the agent was finally piquing the Shaman's interest, even going on to comment,'Slow to ignite, but revs like a dream? Interesting approach, I mean - its not like you'll ever find me acting like an obsolete model out here. Not even briefly.', as if this fortuitous encounter was little more than punditry between professionals. After all, the encounter would be so much worse than mere chatter to the captive, and though this was certainly not the agent's first rodeo, nothing about his predicament would even so much as count as normal, not even on a feeble technicality.

Not that spycraft ever attracted regular people to the vocation, but Yorunarr's brand of eccentricity seemed to transcend that of every other operator the agent met throughout his short career, making the old Novanian's unorthodox thinking appear all the more frightening to behold, especially with a notably-vicious mood guiding his mind at the time. It was then the agent remembered a book from his years in elementary school, a historical piece on one particular executioner, a rogueish fellow who often compared shoe-sizes with the men who were condemned to die on his gallows. The Shaman, in a way, reminded the agent of his historical figure from his homeworld, treating the whole affair in regards more vulturous than their winged namesakes, even proving the captive's point by comparing shoe-sizes in the same way the Hangman often would.

​

'You want to know about your little Saint, right? Well, you're on the wrong planet, for starters.'
'Don't go thinking you can buy your way out with intel.... I'll just tell you now - you're dying here today.'

As far as ultimate fates went, there were worse ways to perish, but deep down, the captive knew there were also better ways to die than tree-root strangulation; making the Shaman's conversational calm seem all the more menacing when he finally started testing the strength of the roots above their heads, illustrating the fact they had long-since passed the point of no-return. Any further effort to barter for his life would fall on deaf ears beyond that point, but against all these recalled parallels with the Hangman, against the futility implied by ignoring the lessons learned, the approaching fade to black was still too much to bear without fighting his fate.

Not accounting for the fact his murderer would know every step to this particular dance.

'It has to be slow, though.... I cannot afford to get blood on my new disguise-'
'HE'S ON CORUSCANT!!!! THEY'RE GOING TO EXECUTE HIM ON CORUSCANT, YOU HAPPY NOW?!?!'
'I already knew, Birdwatcher. I already knew.... Get on your feet!'

​

 

[Sarah Vulke]

What a strange, distorted homecoming this was.

To walk the high streets of Coruscant again—once as a hopeful Jedi initiate, now as an Imperial patrol trooper—felt like stepping into a dream whose edges didn't quite match memory. The banners had changed, the slogans rewritten, but the planet itself still breathed the same: endless air traffic streaking across a gold-lit sky, a sun that promised warmth yet never reached the depths below, and that one monolithic tower sabotaging every sunset. Some things remained constant. Some things insisted on it.

She had not truly lived here since before everything fell apart—before her heart was split open, before the day her life flashed in a rush of violence and revelation, before the Sith, before the collapse of the Alliance, before the long shadow of the Dark Times swallowed the galaxy whole. Strange, she thought, how history always moved with the momentum of inevitability until it didn't. The old regime had its flaws—its fragilities, its blind spots—but how quickly it had crumbled under the weight of an upstart war. So many sacrifices. So many titans burned away. And for what new dawn?

Even now, disconnected as she was from the Force—cut loose, diminished, surviving on instinct and will—the weight of those sacrifices pressed against her skin. Here, in the heart of the Core, a faint ember stirred. A sensation she had not felt in years. The presence of Caltin Vanagor . They had never met in life, never exchanged a word, yet she recognized the signature of his light, for Force presence in the Jedi temple was something that even the insular Serina Calis remembered, as surely as one recognizes a familiar melody half-remembered from childhood.

A spark. Just one. A reminder of everything she was, and everything she chose to become.

For a brief, dangerous moment, it made her question the path that had brought her here—question the crimes committed, the minds twisted, the lives consumed in her own ascent. The galaxy rarely offered reflection without cruelty attached. No doubt if she had her true connection the Force, his mere presence imparted into the Force by such a sacrifice would be giving her some great vision.

But patrols waited, and doubt was a luxury she could not afford, and again the Force vanished from her grasp.

She moved on.

She would return later. She promised.

Even at the gleaming heights of Coruscant, beggars and cutpurses found their ways through gates, ventilation shafts, and inattentive security to prey upon those who pretended they were safe simply because they were wealthy. The Imperial garrison—her garrison for now—was expected to hold the line. Order, stability, control. The traditions of the Empire's forebears lived on, polished and weaponized. Peace reigned in the Core, as peace always did: sharpened, armored, and enforced at blaster-point.

Sarah walked in step beside her assigned squad sergeant—a young, bright-eyed idealist who still spoke about "Imperial Order" the way academy instructors wished all troopers would. He was missing the index finger on his left hand, the price of a firefight with a spice dealer who'd had more enthusiasm than aim. On her other side marched the second soldier in their trio: a grizzled ex-GADF corporal who'd defected at the war's outset to ensure his family stayed out of a blackmail ledger. In this galaxy, blood always became leverage; he'd merely recognized the rules early enough to survive them.

Their briefing in the barracks had been simple. A light walk along the upper terraces. A few polite dispersals. A panoramic view or two. And—Force willing—no hidden Jedi deciding to introduce gravity to their skulls via a hundred-story drop. Most Jedi these days were corpses or refugees; the rest simply hid in plain sight. Coruscant had a way of swallowing ghosts and spitting out trouble.

Patrol duty was beneath her—far beneath the Tyrant Queen she truly was—but Sarah endured it. One day soon she'd be assigned to a tank company, earn a commendation or three, and begin the slow ascent of her fabricated military career. Pretending to be ambitious was almost fun, in its own small, pathetic way.

The irony of it nearly made her smile. Imagine… her, a war hero.
Dominic would choke on his drink if he ever heard such a thing.

But she needed something to occupy the time. A quiet mind became a dangerous one, and hers was always hungry, always calculating. The datapad in her hand was a welcome companion—its neat rows of applications and encrypted notepads allowing her to record hypotheses, sketch out chemical ratios, and outline the kinds of ideas that would give an Imperial compliance officer heart palpitations. She could test them later, once she had a proper lab again. Coruscant had plenty of places to acquire what she required; this world was an artery of commerce, and anything worth buying could be found if one knew where to look.

For now however, it's one foot over the other, staying alert and keeping those lips ready to say the iconic words:

"Move along, citizen."

 

[Jordi Massad]

TALES OF THE CORE
II

​

The Merchant Quarter, Aldera City,
Alderaan, Galactic Core Territories (903 ABY)

Hunter, always tailing, always a street or two behind.
I know his crosshairs have crossed my path, and too many times to count.

Well, I'll be having no more of that.... It ends here.
​

Lighting a cigarra from his pack with his pulse-lighter, the old Kandaran would afford himself one last moment of calm, and all to enjoy the tobacco flavour, for the first time in far too long. Never affording himself time, and never allowing himself to enjoy the very thing to which he was addicted the most, Scimitar was never gifted the delight of losing vital steps ahead of his competition; having already learned (and witnessed) the difference between flicking an already-purposed cigarra to the street, and remaining in one spot long enough to lose his head to a sniper, the merit of quick dispensation had been a blight enough that Massad never really could enjoy his cigarras like he once had.

But this time, the old Spy was finally ready to let his Tail catch up, as this would not be wasted time - not with the payoff he had in mind.

​

Jordi, having sensed many a rival's ill-intentioned approach before, knew that Denniston was picking this as his moment, the all-or-nothing gamble for which the old Kandaran had waited for so long, but the lit cigarra had not even so much as reached it's halfway-point yet. Fortunately, though, and for timing and rare serenity alike, Hunter was still some distance away, and apparently in no rush as he closed the distance at a calm saunter, and for this, Scimitar would forever tell of the only rival he ever respected. A gratitude of the sort, as many spies and suits never shirked from admitting, was rare in the ancient game of shadows, though Thrast had earned it, solely, on the merit of his respect for the game itself.

I like the local brands here, such a shame I have to put them behind me again.
And here I was, bastardizing these wonders from the moment I landed here.​

'Barbarism.'
'Sir?'
'Hm?! Oh, the barista.... My apologies. Just a small House-Coffee, please. Sitting in.'

Perhaps enjoying himself too much, immersed into both tobacco-related and anticipatory rushes, and with a third mild stimulant on the way, it seemed that the old Kandaran would have an abundance of energy to burn through. This would doubtlessly come in handy soon, yet it was during this process of snapping out from his introspection that Jordi started seeing signs of surveillance within his periphery, watching from odd corners around him, setting off that screeching canary in the mind as if it's voice was amplified by his skull-matter. Others were finally playing the game, others were joining the hunt, but after seeing their backs turned to the greatest of approaching threats, Scimitar soon surmised their general cluelessness to Hunter's presence.

Some would have known of Thrast's whereabouts, but much fewer would have retained the foresight to follow the Goidel's movements through Aldera, but judging by the sudden whiff of Coruscantine operations, it was likely to be a three-beligerent standoff. But despite the best clandestine efforts to contain the situation then and there, Hunter's approach continued unchallenged, walking past the new players as if it were just a regular hike in the countryside, taking the art of hiding in plain sight to new standards of proficiency. Even after all this time, Thrast was displaying near-mystic extremes of infiltration prowess, that which far-outmatched the others who were closing in on Massad at the time; it would take every ounce of patience not to marvel at the sight of it, seemingly taking,"Slow and Steady wins the race.", to heart, all the while marking that chasm between generations.

One last time, once more for the road.

'Alright, here's your cup of the House Coffee, and the complementary b-'
'Here's 50 ACs, for the order, and a tip.... The rest is incentive to make yourself scarce - immediately.'

 

[Fyntal Lawkex]

Coruscant, Inner Core
At a Second Terminal in Coruscant's Largest Library
2227 Local Time

Fyn felt sorry for the poor woman who tried to use the refresher either before closing time or in the morning - the poor soul who walked into that particular cloud of the scented remnants of breaded dianoga tentacles and a healthy serving of Gruuvan Shaal would doubtlessly find herself knocked unconscious within the next twenty-four hours. Fyn would have pitied them if it weren't just a little funny.

The Nelvaanian's upward-curled ghostlike tail swayed to and fro as she made her way from the Ladies' Refresher, stepping out behind her boss. The swamp-green Bith was tapping a single foot impatiently, his pudgy arms crossed over his broad chest as he looked his assistant up and down with his pupilless silver eyes. An arm extended to offer the Nelvaanian her E-11 back, which she accepted with a sheepish grin. One of the canid alien's shy hands took a moment to scratch the seat of her "borrowed" Imperial Technician pants.

"As you were." The jovial Bith noted with a hearty chuckle, to which his assistant rolled her eyes, even as she calmly holstered the E-11 at her side.

"Are we done? Are we heading out of here now?" Fyn tilted her head and used a hand to smooth her frazzled scarlet hair as she took her place on one side of the standard Technician's Equipment Cart. She leaned forward to push one side of the cart as Koutr Lyek took up the other side, pulling as his companion began to push. The old-style, wheeled cart of durasteel and specialized software whirred of its own accord as the two began to swivel and guide the dated technology between the softly glowing shelves of mostly digital - and even a few physical - works from every conceivable corner of the Galaxy.

For some reason that she couldn't fathom, Koutr, Fyntal's boss, had decided that they should attempt this foolhardy plan of him into action rather than his merely requisitioning the removal of the Bith Professor's work - which, while it would have taken far longer, it would doubtlessly have been far less... "Unprofessional", would be the best way to describe their current situation. However, Fyn did see what he meant when her boss said that the Galactic Empire itself, as a rule, tended to be rather "unprofessional" towards both its citizens as a rule, and even moreso towards its non-citizens especially. In that case, the Nelvaanian reasoned, perhaps this was the best way to ensure that Koutr Lyek's locally-published, System-based papers were back in the hands of their proper owner.

This wasn't stealing, it was merely reclaiming from a censor!

Fyntal Lawkex nodded after rubbing her chin with a hand as the two of them steered the wheeled technician's cart from a far corner, beginning to huff their way towards the library's main entrance. On their way out, they had one last terminal to access, this time via a datapad connection, to erase the Professor's personal date from the local system - far be it from him to leave some of his finest publications in the hands of Coruscant's newfound conquerors! Fyn nodded to herself, even as her furred hand lowered to adjust the path of their procured tech cart: Koutr Lyek was a wise philosopher, a good public speaker and historian and an all-around good man to work for. She doubted things could go wrong, other than that one pesky (and now dismantled) protocol droid that she had secreted away near the library's night-shadowed, secluded window; she was sure that no one would find it until morning, and by then she and the Professor would be long gone.

The aged, rotund Bith whistled softly as he slowed the cart, while Fyn huffed and removed her E-11, trying to look as casual as possible as she ducked back into the shadows behind the corner of a shelf of softly-glowing digital records, even as Lyek removed a screwdriver from the tech cart and settled down to begin fumbling softly in the darkness for the ends of the terminal's shadow-laden, hidden bolts. The Nelvaanian huffed again, fiddling with the E-11 she was holding, taking a moment to recalibrate the weapon's sight as she did so, her midnight blue tongue emerging out of one side of her muzzle as she hefted the mini rifle at eye level to be certain... Behind her, the brief, soft clatter of the computer terminal's exterior covering being set aside sounded, and the cheery, now-humming Bith set into recalibrating the terminal, the soft clicking and light shuffling of cords always an oddly comforting sound as her boss worked on his former military occupation: engineering. From droidworks to computers, the man was a technological and programming marvel all on his own! The rustling of the cords relaxed his Nelvaanian companion immensely, even as she occasionally kept fiddling with her E-11's specifications.

Just behind Fyntan, she could hear the gentle bleep of the Professor's datapad as he connected it to the refurbished terminal, followed by the gentle tapping of the Bith's pudgy fingers on the terminal's keys. Craning her head backwards and blowing a stray lock of her fiery hair away from one blue eye, the canid alien breathed a sigh of relief as she watched beginnings of a progress bar begin to shift slowly, yet steadily across the datapad's surface. It was only a short matter of time now...

Fyn started, her white fur ruffling outwards along her curled tail as a screeching red astromech droid with white trim and an oddly conical head - Fyn couldn't recall which series those ones were - screamed as it wheeled swiftly towards them, the steady hum of an extended saw whirring angrily as the droid shot forward, it's head spinning erratically... Behind her, she heard Professor Lyek yelp in shock!

The Nelvaanian's reaction was instinctive and honed by her few military years as a reconnaissance scout, a turret operator and a shipboard gunner: she leveled her rifle as adrenaline briefly heightened her reflexes, her heart pounding in her ears as she leveled her E-11 at the wild droid...

TCHEW!

The sound of the shot reverberated through the library harshly, the droid's scream being cut short as a harsh scarlet bolt struck and burned through its weird head, right through the photoreceptor; a haze of orange-tinged, acrid red smoke billowed from the sizzling hole where the machine's "eye" had been, followed by a few sputtering white sparks as the extended saw blade steadily whirred to a stop...

So much for getting out quietly.

"...Well, fudge..."

Around the terrified Professor and his assistant, alarm klaxons began to sound...

TO BE CONTINUED...

 

[DEAD Denniston Thrast]

FINAL POST

TALES OF THE CORE
CHARACTER FINALE

​

The Merchant Quarter, Aldera City,
Alderaan, Core World Territories (903 ABY)

Whoever my tail is, it would seem they're letting this action play out.
If I was younger, I'd probably do the same thing.

Strike when the smoke clears, leap into the fray when the deed is done.
​

Warning-signs aplenty, and in almost every corner his side-eye glances were covering at the time, but Denniston's feet kept pushing him forward, pressing against any sense of reason trying to assert control upstairs. But continue the Hunter would, and continue he did, passing more than his fair share of OPFOR elements in the attempt to reach Scimitar, even spotting some new rival presences he had not spotted upon first glance. It was not every day he would need to scan for more than three opposing spies, and despite the implications of a compromised operation, Thrast knew this only applied to those subordinate Brethren still tied to the creeds and oaths of their Order; and after signing his own exile, Denniston knew that no such ties of affiliation could bind him by then, all that remained was the grim, deathly leap into the unknown.

Win or lose, self-vanishment or death.... The Greatest Game ends here an' now.
​

Slipping past the last of Massad's other pursuers, Hunter continued on his personal warpath, even pushing on to the very table where Scimitar was seated with challenge, the old Highlander could only put it down to the incredulity of those who likely had noticed by then. Transfixed upon this sudden situational development, seemingly glued to the spot as Thrast finally pulled out his ion-shot SMG, there was nothing the others could do for as long as they remained in that dumbfounded, awestruck state, collectively assuming it to be a product of the Force. A sad sign of the skills lost in the wake of the NIO's downfall, but after remembering the wise purpose of COMPNOR's,"Tarkin Has Fallen", protocols, the old Highlander would not begrudge the new generation for methods they were better off not knowing.

Surveillance in the Galaxy would not permit such efforts to circumvent camera-feeds, not as they once had, and for as long as technological reliance worked in favour of intelligence organisations, men like Thrast would continue to approach the precipice of redundancy. The changing times, along with the foresight of yesteryear's greats, would prove effective enough in bringing another golden era of spycraft to a lasting, final end; and for the very first time, right on the cusp of the last all-or-nothing gamble, Denniston was uncannily acquiescent to this fact. It was becoming quite obvious, as not only was the greatest game becoming redundant by then, but also, this game would become increasingly dangerous for as long as the new Imperial powers prevailed.

'Hello again, Jordi.... The time has come - any last words?'

​

Spies, intelligence and black-ops agents of the sort, these elements were always meant to be a short-term exploit in the Galaxy's wars, especially with many power-balances in need of good tippings in these times of tumult, even more-so when change was needed to break apart old stalemates. But even the Hunter could tell when matters were needed to peter out with lasting finality, and though the Highland Brotherhood were a perfect antidote to the sickness that was Imperial surveillance, even their time was gradually drawing toward complete obsolescence at the turn of the century, feeling their decrease in duties and battlefront deployments so acutely by then that it seemed they were headed for disbandment.

Made all the worse when he saw how much his rival had aged since they last met, beaten down every part as harshly by the rigors of impermanence - but these things were no longer the old Highlander's concern.

[FIN]

 

[Jordi Massad]

TALES OF THE CORE
III

​

The Merchant Quarter, Aldera City,
Alderaan, Galactic Core Territories (903 ABY)

'Hello again, Jordi.... The time has come - any last words?'
'Ha! Plenty in the mind, but only a select few I should utter.'
​

Affording each other a brief moment to chuckle at the absurdity of the encounter, it was clear that there was no going back by then, but for all the finalistic-natured ways that brought them together for the last time, it seemed there was no real bad blood between them. Just two professionals, two dinosaurs facing extinction in their own respective manner, marking it as something of a shame to let one die so that the other can watch his life's work crumble over time, though the killers within both souls knew they deserved nothing less than this. Men who garotted, cut, stabbed and shot their bloody paths to this most-rare of encounters between greats.

Both with contracts completed that would make many a Sith blush to read through their archival entries, both with many a ghost to haunt their hunches by firelight, and only a portion of those were committed for a realm that no longer existed, it only made sense to end the great game then and there, as it only made sense to avert the process of grandfathering another bloody era of the sort. To have two men of the sort remaining from the previous century, only to set a new seesaw paradigm, (from the likes the Galaxy had only just recovered) it was becoming clear to Scimitar by then that his rival's choice was made with uncharacteristically-honourable intentions, rendering it impossible to judge Hunter too harshly for his need to end this blight.

This sickness, this cancer of the soul that robbed them both of their humanity.

​

'Such as,"I'm not alone this time", for example.

[CRACK]
[THWACK]​

'Your family will miss you, my old friend.'

​

As that one shot, that single propulsion of a Vanguard Slug rang out, Massad knew the deed was done, hearing it echoing across Aldera's merchant quarter as if not a single other sound was resonating at the time. Even before Thrast's lifeless body hit the dirty, dusty ground, even before the Goidel's CR-2 clattered listlessly at his feet, the Kandaran could feel the sudden shift in the air, a most-uncanny, spine-rushing sensation to feel in these moments. Being a religious man in his own right, Jordi could not help but think the Hand of Eternity was working mortal marionettes again, like this moment was always fated to transpire between the last great spies of the Ninth Century.

Yet despite the wonders he wished to behold, standing in the wake of making history once more, the old Kandaran was in no position to dither by then, made apparent when the new players began to spring forth from their routine cover-patterns. So many who would be keen to take Jordi's place at the foremost hitman in the Galaxy, so many from all corners, and all walks of life, keen to learn what Massad had already denied the next generation; a thought that soured his mood enough to pick up his rival's ion-shot SMG, spraying it's power-pack to the brink of death before he discarded it, as he was almost correct in assuming they all deserved that violent disdain.

'WHETHER YOU WANT ME DEAD OR CAPTURED, IT MATTERS NOT!!!! EITHER WAY, YOU'LL HAVE TO RUN ME DOWN TO ACHIEVE IT - LET THE GAMES BEGIN!!!!'

[EXIT THREAD]

 

[St. Thomas Barran]

TALES OF THE CORE
V

​

SUB-DISTRICT 6, UNDERCITY,
CORUSCANT (903 ABY)

'Great Khan.... Nokhoi, you in there?'

[Tap-tap-tap]

'Stop, man! Thats my fething skull, you idiot.'
'At least you're still alive, Great Khan.... Its been a while.'​

Squinting his one, remaining eye as his eyelids parted, the artificial glow of the tube-bulbs above were already giving the Khan a headache, only seeing the dark and dinghy contrast in the distance beyond the tarp awning, then seeing it as a full, underground camp when his vision eventually adjusted to the light. More would eventually reach Barran's distant perception, but for time being, he was happy to settle for the vision he retained in the midst of his skull-throbbing, concussed state. Not that the Bloodhound needed much focus to recognise the heavy braids of his former tribal subordinate, nor any at all to hear a voice he already identified, and almost as easily as he could with the voices of his Darkhans.

'Three years when next summer rolls in, to be exact.... Its good to see you again, Karseres. The Cirihut are still goin' strong in your absence.'

​

'Good. As all things should be, hm?', the undercity warlord shot back, trailing off with a little chuckle as he arose from his seat to check on the Khan's injuries, as it seemed that his personal stake in Barran's prolonged survival had remained in perpetuity. Even placing the Bloodhound's new sword into his grip for further reassurance, after that, Karseres eventually relented on procedure enough to continue,'I've - uh - I've been getting news about you, down here. Its - well, its become quite easy to gain strong Holoconnections down here, especially since the Dark Voice took control of the surface.... The Khanate are getting a little loud, especially these days - you're making me miss the adventures, and immensely.', offering unbridled honesty as he gave his former leader's injuries another once-over.

'I'm sorry that I couldn't be there to fight your brother, Great Khan.'
'Karseres.... I thought that tank got you, I'm sure you can excuse yourself of this burden.'
'But they - incarcerated you, and not for the first time either. The GA learned their lesson on that eventually, though. Rebirth still smiles on u-'

[THUD]
'AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGH-'
[THUD]
​

'The feth are those things?'

​

'Well, they're like you, but different, of course. The Rift spewed them out as it did with you.', the scar-faced Cirihut responded as he prodded at the Khan's ribcage, much to the latter's consternation, but this did little to blunt Barran's curiosity. Listening on, pushing through the aches without complaint as Karseres calmly stated,'They ragdolled this entire undercity sector, though that was in the beginning.... Before we learned they couldn't punch past those gates over yonder.', even joining the undercity warlord's chuckling on the matter, understanding that same rueful delight in the monster's rage as it continued it's screeching, violent attempts to break in.

'I don't know about you, but if we don't fix the problem, they spread to other sectors - they spread to the surface.... And the surface will learn to think of it's lower-levellers in a kinder, respectful light, mark my words!'

The one-eyed Woad could not help but feel a little galvanised, perhaps even reinvigorated by seeing a little of his long-deceased mentor in the presence of his former subordinate, seeing the true reach of the Mongrel's teachings. It was for that very same mindset that the Scar Hounds' chieftain reformed so many criminals and lower-caste urchins as their warlord, and in reassertion of his own adherence to this philosophy, the Khan could not help but feel like he was kindred in Karseres' struggle. After all, the Mawsworn Khanate had been seen as second-class citizens in the eyes of Galactic-Imperial betters, remembering how long they suffered this prejudice when he finally declared,'Its alright, my friend. Leave it all to me.', a statement of which he knew had affected the missing Cirihut greatly.

'Are you sure you can take on this task, in your current condition?'
'Under other circumstances, I might have ensnared those things for use as warbeasts.... But now, they'll just have to perish.'

I'll close that tear in the Rift too.
The ruby will prove it's worth, once more.