"There is no happiness under the crimson sun...."
Nova Avalonia felt odd. The city since its inception had always been this grotesque artificial construct. Originally imagined by
Madelyn Lowe
as this grand city to celebrate Dosuun’s culture after the First Order’s humiliating route at the hands of the Ssi-Ruuvi. A healing salve to a people robbed of their dignity and home. However the arrival of the New Imperial Order and Prefsbelt Command upended the city, as Lowe’s benefactors the Sith Empire withdrew to safer holdings. Rather than dedications to ornate and winding avenues and luxury promenades Carlyle Rausgeber‘s vision transformed the settlement into a brutalist way station. Offering little than passing pleasures for the itinerant workers and New Imperial officials posted as observers to the secretive administration. While officially the headquarters of Prefsbelt Command and the New Imperial Navy, it was tacitly acknowledged by all but the deluded that the administration really was housed in one of the hundreds of underground bunkers which now burrowed into Prefsbelt IV’s mantle. The whole settlement felt like a facade. Almost as if it’s owners were merely going through the motions of needing civilians.
Now, in the aftermath of the Prefsbelt Calamity a calm stillness was on the city once the blaster fire waned. Those who could have left the planet had with the collapse of the New Imperial Order, and those who stayed were either poor, stupid or desperate. The Diarchy had managed to reopen supply lines alleviating the daily scavenging for food. However defensive turbolasers and fanatics from their bunkers still made daily traversal a pain. The vast blocks of housing in the Gastarbeiter district were packed with the desperate and destitute. Many of them former slaves, packed into the underground gulags, and having escaped fates worse than death. Stormtroopers no longer patrolled with terrifying regularity. They’d been replaced by a mix of Diarchy troops and former Prefsbelt Command militiamen dedicated more to order than any political dogma. The jackboot felt like it had been at least partially lifted. Replaced though by a void of productivity.
Scavengers and enterprising treasure hunters slowly flocked to Nova Avalonia, using the city as a base camp while scouring the industrial ruins. Most ventured into the mountains and never returned while some eaked a living selling parts and rifles to the broader populace. The smarter ones used the former rail hub and Trade Federation bazaar to hawk or store their wares. But it was merely a drop in the water compared to maybe Prefsbelt IV manufactured 15% of an empires ordinance. But without the same trade ties, most Prefsbelt cuisine was crudely procured military rations or secured from the rare shipment of near spoiled crops hawked by perfidious traders.
For 312 and Jacen Breska attempting to land on the desolate waste was the easy part. Their ship so small, it hadn’t attracted the ire of the still active and hostile anti-capital ship batteries which still fired rogue salvos at anything larger than a frigate. They had stumbled across grenades with the red sigil. It looked like a dagger over a red orb. The duo had been reliably informed it was from Prefsbelt IV. But upon arriving on the surface the symbols importance became apparent. It wasn’t a dagger. It was a super star destroyer. And even now, some close to a decade later it was still flying in bannisters and torn flags. The streets and plazas were still tiled with it. And every official building held that emblem on the floor. It was almost like a rash, infecting every building and square.
While traders and weapons merchants could identify the symbol, the grenade itself was a mystery. Definitely of Prefsbelt make. The cheap alloys which made up the grenade according to metallurgical analysis came from the Bondavay Ranges, an iron rich sector close to Prefsbelt’s northern pole. But there was secondary evidence. The actual freezing and heating element had been issued to Prefsbelt Stossjaeger’s for field rations. Just miniaturised. It wasn’t until the third day of searching through the bazaar and it’s racketeers that the duo found something resembling an answer. One Ghavak Luthe, a former logistics captain in the New Imperial Navy, turned small time hustler. For the price of six hundred credits, he informed them he recognised the device as a special forces weapon. The imperial shyster pointed them in the direction of one man who seemed to still have Prefsbelt connections that way. Rexus The Hound. That was all he was known as. Another three hundred was paid to give a detailed look. Blonde. Tall. Robot arm.
The Hound was pretty easy to track down all things considered. The denizens spoke of him some gargantuan giant with an even taller bodyguard. When the duo eventually managed to find Rexus’ locale, it was in the Lowe District. At the Yvarro Opera House. The Lowe District, initially designed to be a place of culture and majesty had been gutted during Prefsbelt Command’s tenure, largely used as quarters or storage of weapons. But now, in the gutted remains of the settlement it was slums. Fancy looking slums. And much like it’s surrounded, the Opera House itself had transformed from a place of high society into a burlesque theatre. A den of that among other sins named ‘The Regent’.
The large auditorium had been gutted in favour of seating table seating. The rows of seats torn out and replaced with haphazard tables. Some salvaged from conference rooms and canteens. While others were crudely welded together. This was along with a stage crudely illuminated by salvaged lighting. Rather than projecting a regal visage, the room had been savagely been adorned with neon which made next to no use of the space. As the duo entered, the lights dimmed and another performance began.
The air was smoky, and thick as former stormtroopers smoked cigar. This mixed with the already vile odour of alcohol soaked carpet. One almost got drunk on the vapours alone. Rexus was already pretty easy to spot as they passed through the cavalcade of tables set up. All onlookers gawking as an scantily clad troupe of performers shed more and more layers.
As they drew closer, Rexus’ table came into view. He was tall. Very tall, wearing a tropical blue shirt. The rogue also held a cigar deftly in his robotic left arm and took regular drags. Next to him, was somehow an even larger man. In fact from a distance he looked like a Beasalik. And there he was, comically large and hunched over the table nursing at least three drinks. Beyond that there was a retinue of open carrying men, attired in tattered military uniforms. Patchwork repairs and bandoleers, all leering at the women on stage. “Bloody wish we’d gone to the topless show.” The largest man grumbled, “Wouldn’t mind havin’ a crack at the one on the le-“
Rexus smacked the gent upside the head. The giant yelped in pain and clutched the back of his head, “Shuddup!” He snapped, “If you wanted a simple night on the town, you coulda gone to the Starlet and spent the night high as a kite and on ya back.” The Hound snapped. His taller companion winced and almost whimpered by the sound of it. “It’s about the showiness. The-the sorta… y’know, knowing but not knowin’.” He took a long drag, “It’s like testin’ a fellas patience and the like.”
The proverbial wisdom settled over the group.“I’d rather just know.” The taller man bemoaned with a whine. Some of the armed men cackled at the response, and Rexus turned to smack his dinner partner again, only to spot the two oncoming interlopers. He furrowed a brow and clicked two fingers. Two of the armed guards snapped to attention, rifles slung on their shoulders. Their clear boss gestured to 312 and Jacen.
Unslinging the rifles and holding them close, the two guards approached. “Private sitting.” One of them drawled. They were armed with VW Maser Rifles. Well worn and damaged, but clearly operational. The other soldier stepped toward them.
“And you ain’t on the list.”
Madelyn Lowe
as this grand city to celebrate Dosuun’s culture after the First Order’s humiliating route at the hands of the Ssi-Ruuvi. A healing salve to a people robbed of their dignity and home. However the arrival of the New Imperial Order and Prefsbelt Command upended the city, as Lowe’s benefactors the Sith Empire withdrew to safer holdings. Rather than dedications to ornate and winding avenues and luxury promenades Carlyle Rausgeber‘s vision transformed the settlement into a brutalist way station. Offering little than passing pleasures for the itinerant workers and New Imperial officials posted as observers to the secretive administration. While officially the headquarters of Prefsbelt Command and the New Imperial Navy, it was tacitly acknowledged by all but the deluded that the administration really was housed in one of the hundreds of underground bunkers which now burrowed into Prefsbelt IV’s mantle. The whole settlement felt like a facade. Almost as if it’s owners were merely going through the motions of needing civilians. Now, in the aftermath of the Prefsbelt Calamity a calm stillness was on the city once the blaster fire waned. Those who could have left the planet had with the collapse of the New Imperial Order, and those who stayed were either poor, stupid or desperate. The Diarchy had managed to reopen supply lines alleviating the daily scavenging for food. However defensive turbolasers and fanatics from their bunkers still made daily traversal a pain. The vast blocks of housing in the Gastarbeiter district were packed with the desperate and destitute. Many of them former slaves, packed into the underground gulags, and having escaped fates worse than death. Stormtroopers no longer patrolled with terrifying regularity. They’d been replaced by a mix of Diarchy troops and former Prefsbelt Command militiamen dedicated more to order than any political dogma. The jackboot felt like it had been at least partially lifted. Replaced though by a void of productivity.
Scavengers and enterprising treasure hunters slowly flocked to Nova Avalonia, using the city as a base camp while scouring the industrial ruins. Most ventured into the mountains and never returned while some eaked a living selling parts and rifles to the broader populace. The smarter ones used the former rail hub and Trade Federation bazaar to hawk or store their wares. But it was merely a drop in the water compared to maybe Prefsbelt IV manufactured 15% of an empires ordinance. But without the same trade ties, most Prefsbelt cuisine was crudely procured military rations or secured from the rare shipment of near spoiled crops hawked by perfidious traders.
For 312 and Jacen Breska attempting to land on the desolate waste was the easy part. Their ship so small, it hadn’t attracted the ire of the still active and hostile anti-capital ship batteries which still fired rogue salvos at anything larger than a frigate. They had stumbled across grenades with the red sigil. It looked like a dagger over a red orb. The duo had been reliably informed it was from Prefsbelt IV. But upon arriving on the surface the symbols importance became apparent. It wasn’t a dagger. It was a super star destroyer. And even now, some close to a decade later it was still flying in bannisters and torn flags. The streets and plazas were still tiled with it. And every official building held that emblem on the floor. It was almost like a rash, infecting every building and square.
While traders and weapons merchants could identify the symbol, the grenade itself was a mystery. Definitely of Prefsbelt make. The cheap alloys which made up the grenade according to metallurgical analysis came from the Bondavay Ranges, an iron rich sector close to Prefsbelt’s northern pole. But there was secondary evidence. The actual freezing and heating element had been issued to Prefsbelt Stossjaeger’s for field rations. Just miniaturised. It wasn’t until the third day of searching through the bazaar and it’s racketeers that the duo found something resembling an answer. One Ghavak Luthe, a former logistics captain in the New Imperial Navy, turned small time hustler. For the price of six hundred credits, he informed them he recognised the device as a special forces weapon. The imperial shyster pointed them in the direction of one man who seemed to still have Prefsbelt connections that way. Rexus The Hound. That was all he was known as. Another three hundred was paid to give a detailed look. Blonde. Tall. Robot arm.
The Hound was pretty easy to track down all things considered. The denizens spoke of him some gargantuan giant with an even taller bodyguard. When the duo eventually managed to find Rexus’ locale, it was in the Lowe District. At the Yvarro Opera House. The Lowe District, initially designed to be a place of culture and majesty had been gutted during Prefsbelt Command’s tenure, largely used as quarters or storage of weapons. But now, in the gutted remains of the settlement it was slums. Fancy looking slums. And much like it’s surrounded, the Opera House itself had transformed from a place of high society into a burlesque theatre. A den of that among other sins named ‘The Regent’.
The large auditorium had been gutted in favour of seating table seating. The rows of seats torn out and replaced with haphazard tables. Some salvaged from conference rooms and canteens. While others were crudely welded together. This was along with a stage crudely illuminated by salvaged lighting. Rather than projecting a regal visage, the room had been savagely been adorned with neon which made next to no use of the space. As the duo entered, the lights dimmed and another performance began.
The air was smoky, and thick as former stormtroopers smoked cigar. This mixed with the already vile odour of alcohol soaked carpet. One almost got drunk on the vapours alone. Rexus was already pretty easy to spot as they passed through the cavalcade of tables set up. All onlookers gawking as an scantily clad troupe of performers shed more and more layers.
As they drew closer, Rexus’ table came into view. He was tall. Very tall, wearing a tropical blue shirt. The rogue also held a cigar deftly in his robotic left arm and took regular drags. Next to him, was somehow an even larger man. In fact from a distance he looked like a Beasalik. And there he was, comically large and hunched over the table nursing at least three drinks. Beyond that there was a retinue of open carrying men, attired in tattered military uniforms. Patchwork repairs and bandoleers, all leering at the women on stage. “Bloody wish we’d gone to the topless show.” The largest man grumbled, “Wouldn’t mind havin’ a crack at the one on the le-“
Rexus smacked the gent upside the head. The giant yelped in pain and clutched the back of his head, “Shuddup!” He snapped, “If you wanted a simple night on the town, you coulda gone to the Starlet and spent the night high as a kite and on ya back.” The Hound snapped. His taller companion winced and almost whimpered by the sound of it. “It’s about the showiness. The-the sorta… y’know, knowing but not knowin’.” He took a long drag, “It’s like testin’ a fellas patience and the like.”
The proverbial wisdom settled over the group.“I’d rather just know.” The taller man bemoaned with a whine. Some of the armed men cackled at the response, and Rexus turned to smack his dinner partner again, only to spot the two oncoming interlopers. He furrowed a brow and clicked two fingers. Two of the armed guards snapped to attention, rifles slung on their shoulders. Their clear boss gestured to 312 and Jacen.
Unslinging the rifles and holding them close, the two guards approached. “Private sitting.” One of them drawled. They were armed with VW Maser Rifles. Well worn and damaged, but clearly operational. The other soldier stepped toward them.
“And you ain’t on the list.”
