Faction The one where the Troopers accidentally end up in a riot

[Raylin Fall]

Then:
​

Raylin frowned, tapping his hands on his chest. The Troopers and a few others had peeled away from a charity event on Stobar, and were actively ignoring or unaware of the many criminals dangers that were present on the planet. The planet was near permanently dark or cloudy, and the neon-accented streets were alight with people going about their weekend business. The Troops were gathered around Raylin, and unknown to them, Raylin was celebrating a recent victory- capturing Mauve. Though, due to the nature of the operation, he was not awarded a medal, not awarded anything other than a nod and a promise that if he spoke about it publicly he'd be court martialed or worse. The risk of the information getting out was too much.

But, Raylin going out and celebrating, couldn't be that bad, could it?

Stobar had plenty of nightclubs, vices, pros-

Pros at what they did, things that soldiers loved to do. And sure, the Republic had a hand in stepping up Law Enforcement in the area and in their territory, but- Stobar would always be Stobar. What Raylin, however, did not know, was that tonight was also, not just a great night for drinking, but also a very large protest regarding the recent conviction and trial of a well-known and well-liked criminal figure. In the words of one of the locals that Raylin overheard upon arrival:

"So what if Sil Murrin is guilty as shit? He's done some good, and I'd rather a devil I know than a devil I don't!"

Well, the planetary government of Stobar recently decided that enough murder and racketeering had gone on under Sil, put on a trial with a six-foot pile of paper evidence, and convicted the ever loving fuck out of him. Well, as it turns out, Sil paid a lot of people on the planet, and a lot of people that he paid other people, bribed other people, or spent their money locally. So, Sil going down would actually hurt the local economy. Raylin thought not too much of it. Surely, the Troops going out on shore leave and being out for a few hours off-base wouldn't result, in, say, the Republic Troopers accidentally end up in a riot situation?

And surely, also, not while in their dress uniforms?

---

Present Day:
​

"So, Sergeant Fall, please explain to me and the other Provost Marshals here, how you ended up, on camera, in dress uniform, in a riot on Stobar?" Said the MP, humorless as always.

Raylin leaned forward, looking at the recording device on the table.

"First I got a call from your mother..."

A harsh stare. Raylin coughed awkwardly and rolled his eyes.

"We went to this bar- called the Neon Nightsister. Some kind of... Sith and Dark Side themed bar. We started out there, but then, you know. Things got out of hand there quickly, so we had to leave..."

OOC Note:

So the thread idea is unique, but pretty fun to work with, but simple. No dice rolls, stuff like that. The first part of the post is the actual story that we cook up together, and how the THR troops/whomever get involved with the brewing riot outside their drinking holes. Comedy-focused, nothing crazy. It's a story about a crazy night out on the town. But- then, your character is being interrogated by the MPs afterwards, at an undisclosed time and your character can either expand on something or be a smartass, whatever. But try and set up the next part of the story or offer a crazy anecdote for the other characters to build off of. Your character is being interrogated separately and has the opportunity to throw a wrench in for the other writers to build off of. Think of the Hangover, really.

 

[Dankaia Virkenn]

​

Location: Stabor
Objective: ??
Tag: Raylin Fall

PRESENT DAY

" … and as I was leaving," Dankaia Virkenn said, her voice a taut wire carrying equal parts exhaustion and defiance, "the whole street lit up like a ruptured capacitor. So, if you think I hesitated, Officer, you're wrong. I reacted because the data told me I had exactly three seconds before everything went sideways."

FLASHBACK

The riots did not begin with a scream but with a distortion, anomalous noise threading through itself. One moment the city's tactical grid pulsed with its usual rhythm of patrol tags and civilian traffic markers; the next, half the icons flickered red as though some invisible hand had slashed through the system's throat. Even before the first bottle shattered against the armored barricades three blocks away, she felt the pressure change, the electric tension of a population about to detonate.

When the initial surge hit, it hit everywhere at once. Street cams stuttered, local comms collapsed, and the crowd's movement transformed from chaotic to weaponized with frightening precision. Dankaia could taste the shift in the air, metallic and overcharged, like the moments before a major transformer failed. But through the overload she recognized the truth: this wasn't a spontaneous uprising. Something, or someone, had synchronized the unrest, turning raw anger into a coordinated storm. And deep in her spine, the chip thrummed with a single urgent directive, adapt or be overtaken.

PRESENT DAY

"In that moment, initially, I wasn't siding with anyone," Dankaia Virkenn told the MP, her tone clipped, clinical. "I lent my aid to the THR uniforms because survival was the only rational calculation left; the mob's anger was rising fast enough that neutrality would've gotten me trampled, burned, or worse." Another MP, a tall man with a foreboding posture, leaned forward, pointing a finger at the cylinder weapon on the table saying, "You're a Jedi! You're supposed to uphold peace, not be seen on camera participating in the riot."

"I'm no longer a Jedi, and I won't pretend otherwise," Dankaia Virkenn said, her voice steady with a practiced edge. "But some core values stay welded into your nerves whether you want them or not; and even out here, in this mess, I still act on them."

Dankaia Virkenn shifted in her seat with a kind of theatrical, comedic defiance, the interrogation lamp glinting off her orange and crimson eyes as if it, too, were rolling in mock irritation. "As I was trying to say," she continued, leaning forward just far enough to make the MP tense, "was that when I hooked up with the THR uniforms, it wasn't some grand allegiance, just the smartest move in a street turning toxic by the second." Her smirk lingered a beat too long, daring him to interrupt again, "but just as we were trying to foster a plan, that was when off to our left we saw the first of the animals....."

Spoiler: Loadout

• Cybernetics / Bionics
  • Left Hand
  • Cybernetic Brain Chip
  • Cybernetic Heart

 

[Renn Vizsla]

Wrong account

 

[John Shepherd]

LET THE WHISKEY TALK

Tags: OPEN​

Last Night

Stobar evenings had a way of promising trouble even before anything actually happened. Maybe it was the neon glare off the dust, or the way every bar hummed like someone had kicked a nest of angry mynocks. Either way, Shepherd had a bad feeling the moment he stepped into the Taproom.

It was supposed to be a quiet night out. Low stakes. A few drinks. Maybe a little music. Something to let them unwind without accidentally starting an interplanetary incident.

Naturally, this meant things were already going sideways.

Shepherd sat with his hands wrapped around a mug of whatever passed for beer here, watching it all with the long-suffering calm of a man who had accepted his fate long ago. He’d seen hundreds of nights like this. They always started soft, harmless, good fun…

…and then, from somewhere outside, a crash echoed.

Not a little crash.

A crowd crash.

Raised voices burst in through the door, miners shouting about wages, off-world contractors shouting about contracts, and somebody screaming something about stolen stew recipes. Shepherd turned his head just in time to see a small crowd moving like a slow-building storm. Or a landslide. Or both.

He sighed.

“Oh, terrific. It’s starting.”

He didn’t move yet. Not until he saw someone in the crowd lift a crate.

And then someone else stole the crate.

And then a third person threw the crate, whether at someone or to someone was unclear.

Shepherd rubbed his eyes. “Yep. Starting.”

He pushed himself up, finishing his drink before stepping toward the door. “Alright, folks, hold position. I’m just going out there to make sure nobody’s dying, stabbing, or trying to unionize in my direction.”

Behind him, someone perked up. “Do you need medical support?!”

“Only if they aren’t stabbing,” Shepherd called back.

He stepped outside, preparing to deal with whatever this was turning into....

Present Day

The room was cold, metal, and smelled faintly of disinfectant and regret. Shepherd sat at a steel table under a single bright lamp, classic MP setup. Across from him, a military police officer hovered with a datapad and the war-weary expression of a man who had already interviewed too many idiots today.

“Shepherd,” the MP began, “we’re trying to piece together what happened last night. Start from the top.”

Shepherd cleared his throat.

“Alright. But, uh… you might want to know the top isn’t clear.”

The MP squinted. “What do you mean it isn’t clear?”

“Well,” Shepherd said, folding his hands, “it depends on who you ask. One person said the night started the moment they told someone their appetizer was a cardiovascular war crime. Another person claims it started when they sat down across from that miner. The last person insists it started when the bartender winked at them and they got ideas.”

“And you?” the MP pressed.

Shepherd leaned forward.

“For me? The night really started when the crowd outside picked up that crate. Because that’s when things started happening out of order.”

“Out of order?”

“Yeah,” Shepherd nodded. “See, a bunch of things happened, and I’m not entirely sure which came first. The shouting. The crate. Someone yelling about stew. The lights flickering. The speeder backfiring. And someone, I’m not saying their name, declaring that they were going to ‘handle this diplomatically.’ That was the moment I knew I’d end up in this room.”

The MP pinched the bridge of his nose. “Sergeant… did anything else happen that we need to know about?”

Shepherd considered this carefully.

“Well, that depends. Who have you talked to yet?”

“No one else yet.”

Shepherd whistled. “Oh, boy. Yeah, you might want to start with anyone else. I don’t know what anyone else agreed to, signed up for, or promised, but I know they promised something. And whatever they promised is going to hit us like a meteor when we least expect it.”

The MP stared.

Shepherd stared back.

“Anyway,” Shepherd said with a shrug, “that’s as far as my recollection goes cleanly. The rest? Depends on what the others say. And I’m very curious what they’ll say.”

He folded his arms and leaned back.

“Your move, officer.”​

 

[Raylin Fall]

​

Then:

It wasn't hard to get a grasp on how bad things were getting, quickly. But as it turns out, it wasn't a riot, it was much more so a series of arguments that had gotten waaaay out of hand. Firstly, there was a group of contractors attempting to unionize- much to John Shepherd 's accurate prediction. It was a particularly chaotic affair as it was, but there were several dozen of them, all gathered in agreement. However, there also, concurrently, within the same block, was a house party. A wedding party, at that. How nice!

Save for that the in-laws hated each other. To their guts. Why, you ask? Well, as it turns out- there was a recipe. A recipe that had made a fortune from several planet-side restaurants. People came from all over the planet to eat at their establishments. And the recipe was copied by someone on the husband's side.

(Allegedly. Really, it was just a similar soup. Soup wasn't particularly an entity that was groundbreaking. Spicy soup with sausage could've been anything or anyone's invention, given enough time.)

So they were there.

And then, at the same time, within largely the same grid square as everyone else- a convention. A convention of shipping label makers. They were drunk. They were rowdy. And they had the top of the line box production models made for show floors with them. Stolen from the convention they were at, they were determined to show the planet what a good time REALLY was. Of course, this meant that every alien that had been pulling 14-hour shifts to make product launches finally got to unwind, and that meant... well, it meant throwing things.

So, a box was thrown towards the party- a bachelor prank on a wedding. How funny.

And then, all hell broke loose.

Now:

"MPs, huh? Kinda weird you guys joined the military to not like the militar-" A swift punch to the stomach by one of the more overzealous Officers sent Raylin reeling over the table. He knew better than to fight back. He'd killed a lot of people, but he hadn't killed an MP.

Yet.

So he laughed.

"Answer the question, Sergeant. What did the others and you do when the fight started. We have eyewitnesses putting you at the scene." Raylin coughed, then laughed, leaning back in his chair. The Commando grinned.

"I pulled your mother's hair back..." He said, and waited for the next punch. This time, it came for his chest. He couldn't stop laughing.

​