Populate The Remnant War - Sularen's Folly [ ME Populate of Selnesh ]

[Elian Abrantes]

Objective 3
Charros IV - Fort Hardhome
Tags: Open​

Elian was halfway through the repairs, several hours later, scraping away the charred durasteel, salvaging what components he. Those could be used for backups, new ones would be put into place. Elian didn't deal too much in replacement parts, at least not hand me downs. Not in this line of work, everything would be new, if they wanted it functioning correctly. And he would come by every week to make sure everything was running smoothly. That's what he was getting paid, it wasn't too bad. It was the quiet time that he liked, working with his hands, or well now his one hand. He mused at the thought.

He heard a roar from the wookiee which mean it was almost lunch time.

Elian retrieved his lunch and took a seat right next to the half complete sensor array. He smirked as he took a bite from his sandwich and leaned back against the device. He couldn't deny that this wasn't better than being out there in the field. He partially didn't know what he was doing half the time, he wasn't a soldier, he wasn't ever going to be one. That wasn't him, this is where he excelled. And he was happy to be back doing it. It was making him smile, and it brought a sense of amusment to him.

For it wasn't his family, or anything that he found solace in, but it was in his work.

He reached into his datapad and pulled out his datapad, he stared at the cover for a moment. The cover was a picture of him with his friends. This one was taken in the auditorium. He giggled as he took a deep breath, and even then he couldn't stop the single tear from rolling down his cheek. That was a good day, Elian mused with a smile. He missed them....

"Why are you crying? Are you sad?"

Elian glanced up to the Wookiee standing before him, repeating his question. It startled him just lightly. "No, I'm not crying! I'm just happy. This sandwich is so good, and so wonderfully made, it brought a tear to my eye." Elian spoke as he took another bit, placing the datapad down.

"Really, let me have some?" The wookiee joking reached for his sandwhich.

"Woah! Woah!! You can't have this one!" Elian said as he narrowed his eyes at him. "But I do have another you can have. Here." Elian reached for his second sandwich and handed it to the wookiee.

Elian wasn't expecting him to take a seat right next to him.

 

[Prisoner #36929]

Tags: Mia Monroe​

Beskar'gam, she had called it. Armor. Real armor. Something earned. Something his. For a split second, he pictured it. Himself in beskar, moving through a fight without fear chewing at his ribs. The thought stuck longer than it should have.

Yeah… I'd work for that.

He straightened a little, the faint grin still there before it faded into something more focused. Earning it felt right. Better than having it handed to him. Like it might actually mean something when it was his.

Then her question landed. Mentor. Right. Of course there's a catch. There's always a catch.

He blinked, the confidence slipping just enough to be noticeable. Had he found one? No. Had he even thought about it? Also no. He'd been too busy… drifting.

He rubbed the back of his neck again, a habit he was starting to hate.

"No," he admitted, glancing back at the display for half a second before looking at her again. "I haven't."

He fumbled over his words again before finally saying, "…Where do I find one of those?"

 

[Mia Monroe]

Mia didn't just see the shift in him, she felt it. He suddenly had purpose, something to strive towards and the change in him was dramatic, confidence filled the space that awkwardness had dominated only to falter when he question hit home. Mia almost felt sorry for him, but pity wouldn't help him.

"You're looking at one."

She let the words land as her gaze rolled over him, assessing him again before settling her eyes back on his face, her expression contemplative for a moment before she turned back to the display, reverting it back to its original state.

"Rally Master." she called, one of the mandalorians moving around the edge of the room stepped forward. "Alert me of any significant changes to the battlefield, the moment the line begins to show signs of breaking."

"Yes, Warmaster."

Mia beckoned the foundling to follow, leading them out of the makeshift war room and picking their way through the fort still under construction till they found a quieter open space. "Do you know that muscle has memory?" she asked as she gestured to him to move into the middle of the space as she set about removing her armour, it would be unfair, after all, to face him with it on.

"You don't remember who you are, but your body will remember things that you cannot recall. So lets see if there is something in those memories that can be of use to you here. If you can land a hit, I'll help you find your feet. If you can't, I'll still know enough about you to help you find someone who can."

Prisoner #36929

 

[Prisoner #36929]

Tags: Mia Monroe
Equipment: X​

Prisoner stared at her, of course she was a mentor. She was likely a legend to her people, while he was just a prisoner who had stumbled into the title of foundling. The gap between them felt like a canyon, yet she was already moving, beckoning him to follow. He fell into step behind her, trailing through the half-finished fort until they reached a quiet clearing.

He watched in silence as she began stripping away her armor. The realization hit him quickly: this was a trial. Her talk of muscle memory made sense in theory, but the practical application was daunting. She wanted him to fight her.

"Are... Are you sure about this?" Prisoner asked, his voice wavering.

He glanced around the open space, worried a passing Mandalorian might mistake this for an actual assassination attempt. He didn't want to be crucified because he looked like a traitor or, perhaps worse, a fool. He shifted his weight, trying to find a stance that didn't feel entirely alien. If his body held secrets, they were buried deep.

He raised his hands, though they felt heavy and uncertain. He didn't want to hurt her, but looking at the way she carried herself even without the beskar, he doubted that was a realistic concern. He was the one in danger here...

 

[Liorra]

Well. No one got spaced, and the E-Web was dealt with.

Lio figured that counted as a good day.

She pulled her holocomm up, thumbing through her messages as she slowed to a stop. The glow of the display reflected faintly across her visor as she shifted her lips to the side, grateful, as always, that the helmet hid more than it revealed.

Nothing.

Her chest tightened, just a little.

Had she been expecting something from Mia Monroe? …Yeah.

Liorra exhaled slowly, lowering the device before glancing over toward the others. "Which way, vod?" she asked, looking between Aselia Verd and Adelle Bastiel , the question casual, too casual.

She didn't notice it at first.

The faint glow.

Then brighter.

Her gloves had begun to burn with a soft orange light, heat radiating outward in quiet waves. The same telltale shimmer that had flared before when her control slipped. When something underneath the surface pushed through. She didn't feel angry. Not really.

Just… off. Hurt, maybe.

And that was worse. Her jaw tightened slightly beneath the helmet as she shifted her weight, as if grounding herself might be enough to smother it. It wasn't. A sound echoed from deeper within the ship, metal, movement, something worth chasing.

Lio's head snapped toward it instantly.

"Never mind, I got it!" she called out, already moving.

Better to move.

Better to fight.

Better to let the heat in her hands speak for her than deal with whatever this was.

Mia Monroe | Aselia Verd | Adelle Bastiel ​

 

[Mia Monroe]

Mia tilted her head at the question, a frown creasing her brow at the sudden waver in his tone. She supposed, someone with her reputation might seem intimidating in such a situation, and no doubt he had been one of hundreds watching the Verd’gotten trial.

“I am certain.” she said stepping in the space. She didn’t raise her hands, nor did she settle into any fighting stance, she simply stood, her sapphire gaze watching everything. The tense of his muscles as he lifted his fists and tried to find a stance.

“Unless you’d rather go back to unloading boxes and setting up electrical equipment?” the corner of her mouth lifted in a small smile before she lifted a hand, beckoning him. “Don’t think, just trust your body.”

 

[Prisoner #36929]

Tags: Mia Monroe
Equipment: X​

The idea of returning to hauling crates and wiring consoles felt worse than a beating. That was a slow, mind-numbing grind. If he was going to hurt tomorrow, he'd rather it be because he faced a legend. At least there was dignity in a bruise earned from a Warmaster.

The Prisoner took a deep breath, trying to settle the frantic rhythm of his heart. He grounded himself, focusing on the weight of his boots against the dirt. Mia stood perfectly still, her lack of a stance more intimidating than any aggressive posture.

"Boxes can wait," he muttered, more to himself than her.

He stopped thinking and let his arms lead. He lunged forward, closing the distance with surprising intent. His first strike was a straight punch aimed at her shoulder, followed quickly by a low sweep of his palm toward her ribs. The movements were unpolished and lacked the fluid grace of a master, but there was a ghost of something lethal in the way his weight shifted.

It was as if it was a rough, instinctual echo of Teräs Käsi. His strikes were heavy, pushing through the air with a blunt force that suggested his body knew how to break bone, even if his mind couldn't name the technique. He didn't pause to see if he landed a blow; he simply kept moving, desperate to find the rhythm buried in his bones.

 

[Mia Monroe]

Mia watched him settle, determination settling across his expression as he ground himself in the moment, the mutter drawing a small smile.

Then he moved, his movement sharp as he let his body lead, Mia's stance moved instantly to match his as the punch snapped towards her shoulder, she swept it aside with her forearm, forcing it wide as her other hand moved to do the same with the other strike, slapping his wrist before he could make contact.

She let him push her back, slowly giving ground, using palms and forearms to turn his strike aside. She could feel the weight behind them, the lethality that rested in their shadow. She let him find his rhythm before she began to push back, her hands becoming sharper as she stopped simply turning strikes aside and began to counter.

The first controlled strike came low, a sharp blow beneath his sternum aimed to wind, though it was clear she was holding back. the aim was not to overwhelm him or leave him broken, it was to give him an opportunity to remember something of himself, and for her to see what he could become.

Prisoner #36929