Faction (UPSS) The Protectorate's Answer

[Protectorate Stories]

North of the Mid Rim lies the lonesome world of Petrusia, a planet far enough from the great centers of galactic power that its suffering has gone largely unnoticed. For generations, the Petrusians have been accustomed to outsiders arriving upon their world with promises in one hand and demands in the other. Exploitation is nothing new to them. They have endured it before, survived it, and learned to carry on long after those responsible departed in search of easier profits elsewhere.

This time, however, Petrusia cannot simply endure. The planet is facing a crisis on two fronts, and either one would be dangerous enough on its own. Together, they have brought Petrusia to the brink of catastrophe.

The first is famine.

Petrusia's food reserves have dwindled to dangerously low levels, leaving the planet unable to support its population. The remaining stores are being stretched further with every passing day, while ordinary families are forced to choose who eats and who goes hungry. Without immediate assistance, shortages will become starvation, and starvation will inevitably bring with it disease, unrest, and death.

Yet the famine has been made far worse by Petrusia's second crisis: piracy and extortion.

A band of pirates has effectively taken control of the world without ever formally conquering it. They have forced Petrusia to provide them with safe harbor, allowing their ships, crews, and operations to use the planet as a sanctuary beyond the reach of those who might otherwise hunt them. In return for the privilege of being occupied, the Petrusians are forced to pay a hefty "tax" to their supposed protectors. The protection, of course, never comes.

When Petrusia could afford the pirates' demands, they paid. When famine tightened its grip, and those payments became impossible, the pirates did not relent. They simply demanded more.

The Petrusians are not bound in chains, but neither are they free. Resistance carries the threat of retaliation against settlements already struggling to survive, and the pirates possess the weapons, ships, and manpower to carry out those threats. The people know that rising against their oppressors alone could cost countless innocent lives.

With their food disappearing, their resources being stripped away, and no means of removing the pirates themselves, Petrusia has finally sent a desperate call for outside aid. That call has reached the United Protectorate of Sovereign Systems, more commonly known simply as the Protectorate.

Word of the Protectorate's previous actions on nearby Tholatin has traveled farther than perhaps anyone expected. To the people of Petrusia, those stories offered something increasingly rare: the possibility that someone might actually answer when ordinary people asked for help. They have placed that hope in the Protectorate, and now its members must decide what that hope is worth.

OBJECTIVE I: LIBERATION

The pirates must be driven from Petrusia.

As long as they are permitted to operate freely, no amount of food or humanitarian aid delivered to the planet will solve the underlying problem. Supplies can be stolen, relief convoys intercepted, and settlements threatened into surrendering whatever is left behind. Before Petrusia can truly recover, the occupation must end.

This objective requires the Protectorate's frontline warriors, soldiers, pilots, and combat specialists to strike at the pirate presence across Petrusia. Their safe harbors must be broken, their ability to threaten civilian settlements removed, and their forces driven from the world.

Care must be taken in doing so. The Petrusians have already suffered enough, and the pirates have deliberately entrenched themselves among a population too frightened of retaliation to openly resist them. This is not a war against Petrusia. Every blaster fired and every position taken should serve one purpose: giving the planet back to the people who live there.

These are innocent people trapped beneath the power of those stronger than themselves. If the Protectorate intends to honor the principles it claims to represent, then there can be little question about what must be done. Petrusia must once again know what it means to be free.

There is another benefit that should not be ignored. Successfully liberating Petrusia will demonstrate to neighboring worlds that the Protectorate does more than make promises. A people freed from oppression are unlikely to forget who answered when they called, and good relations with Petrusia may prove valuable in the future. Good PR can never be understated.

OBJECTIVE II: RELIEF

Removing the pirates will mean little if the Petrusians are left free only to starve.

The famine requires an immediate humanitarian response alongside the liberation effort. Food, medicine, agricultural supplies, and other necessities must reach the population as quickly as possible. Distribution centers will need to be established, communities assessed, and aid delivered wherever shortages are most severe.

This objective requires those with hearts of service, whether healers, diplomats, logistics specialists, relief workers, pilots, agricultural experts, or simply those willing to put themselves to work helping people who desperately need it.

Yet immediate relief is only the beginning. The goal cannot be to replace dependence upon the pirates with dependence upon the Protectorate.

Petrusia must eventually be able to feed and sustain itself again. Relief efforts should therefore look beyond simply filling empty stomachs today. Damaged agricultural systems must be restored where possible, local supply chains strengthened, and communities given the resources and assistance necessary to rebuild their own capacity rather than waiting indefinitely for Protectorate shipments.

If Petrusia becomes entirely dependent on outside supplies, the Protectorate will only create the conditions for another group of pirates, warlords, or opportunists to exploit it in the future. The purpose is not to make Petrusia dependent upon the Protectorate, but to help Petrusia stand on its own.

Those participating in the relief effort will also become the face of the Protectorate to a population that has spent generations learning not to trust outsiders. Every ration distributed, every field restored, every frightened family reassured, and every promise kept will shape what the Petrusians believe the Protectorate represents.

Success will mean more than saving lives. It will earn something that cannot simply be demanded or purchased: trust. Perhaps, when Petrusia has recovered, and its people once again possess the freedom to determine their own future, that trust will become lasting friendship and loyalty between Petrusia and the Protectorate.

OBJECTIVE III: BRING YOUR OWN

Not every problem on Petrusia can be solved on the battlefield or at a relief station, and not every member of the Protectorate will find their place within the first two objectives. Petrusia is an entire world caught in the middle of a crisis, which leaves plenty of room for those whose skills, interests, or circumstances take them elsewhere.

Perhaps you are hunting down a pirate captain attempting to flee the system with their ill-gotten gains, investigating who has been purchasing the pirates' stolen goods, negotiating with frightened local leaders, escorting civilians out of dangerous territory, repairing damaged infrastructure, gathering intelligence, searching abandoned settlements, or simply finding yourself somewhere you were never supposed to be.

You may even have come to Petrusia for reasons entirely your own, only to discover that the crisis has a way of pulling everyone into it eventually.

Whatever brings you here, tell your own story. Explore Petrusia, pursue personal objectives, meet other characters, follow leads created by the liberation and relief efforts, or create something entirely unexpected. So long as it fits somewhere within the wider events unfolding across the planet, bring your own objective and make Petrusia part of your story.

The United Protectorate of Sovereign Systems has come because Petrusia asked for help. Some will answer that call with weapons, others with food, medicine, diplomacy, or simple compassion, while still others may find their own reasons to become involved. Whatever path they choose, one thing remains the same: by the time this crisis is over, Petrusia should belong to its people again.

 

[Ra'a'mah]

Objective: 3
Tags: open

Ra'a'mah had never believed pirates appeared from nowhere.

Ships required fuel. Weapons required ammunition. Crews needed food, medicine, replacement parts, and somewhere to spend whatever credits they managed to steal. Even the most self-sufficient criminal organization eventually depended upon someone else, and the pirates strangling Petrusia had been here far too long for their operation to exist entirely within the borders of one starving world.

While others within the Protectorate moved against their ships and strongholds, Ra'a'mah had gone looking for the people who had spent years paying them.

The room provided to her was hardly impressive, though considering the condition of Petrusia, she hadn't expected it to be. A long table had been covered with everything the local government could assemble on short notice. Payment records. Cargo manifests. Port registrations. Agricultural inventories. Fuel allotments. Transponder logs. Even handwritten accounts from settlements where official records had become unreliable. Several Petrusian officials occupied the other side of the table, people who looked as though they had spent far too many nights deciding which impossible problem deserved attention first.

Ra stood over the collection with a datapad in one hand, occasionally transferring something from the records into a growing file of her own. She hadn't asked them for military intelligence. The Protectorate had people considerably better suited to analyzing defenses, patrol routes, and pirate numbers. What interested her were the mundane details most people overlooked.

"How did you pay them?" The answer brought another entry onto her datapad. "And when credits weren't enough?"

Food. Fuel. Equipment. Raw materials when they could provide them. Ra listened, asking for quantities, dates, and locations whenever anyone remembered them. Then came the question she considered considerably more important.

"What did they bring in?"

Her gaze moved between the officials. "Not what they took from you. I want to know what arrived with them. Replacement components. Weapons. Medical supplies. Fuel they didn't acquire here. Anything you remember seeing unloaded from one of their ships?"

One of the manifests was pushed toward her, and Ra drew it closer. Her expression changed subtly as she began reading. There were entries that didn't belong to Petrusia. Manufacturers that certainly weren't operating here. Serial numbers, partial shipping identifiers, perhaps even a few companies whose names had been buried beneath intermediaries. Nothing conclusive yet, but she hadn't expected the pirates to leave an invoice identifying whoever kept them supplied.

"Good."

She transferred another line into her datapad before looking toward the Petrusians again.

"The people fighting outside are going to remove the pirates you can see. I'm interested in everyone who made it possible for them to remain here."

Ra set the datapad upon the table and turned one of the manifests around so those gathered could see the entries she had marked.

"Someone sold them parts. Someone supplied their ships. Someone bought whatever they stole from you, and somewhere along the way, credits changed hands." Her finger settled beside one of the unfamiliar shipping identifiers. "Pirates can change their name, repaint a hull, or abandon a base. Business leaves records."

A faint smile touched her lips as she picked the datapad up again.

"So let's find out who they've been doing business with."

 

[Saroyan Dovryn]

Objective: Deliver Aid to Petrusia
Location: Petrusia
Attire: Dorectorate Uniform
Accompanied by: Serene Valis
Tag: OPEN

The first relief convoy from Mokk IX had been on the ground for less than six hours before Saroyan Dovryn decided she disliked what she was seeing. Not the Petrusians. Certainly not them. The distribution center had been assembled in what had once been a municipal freight terminal, its broad loading floor converted into a temporary warehouse beneath harsh overhead lights. Pallets of emergency rations stood in disciplined rows beside medical supplies, water purification equipment, replacement power cells, and other necessities purchased or redirected through Mokkan commercial networks. Cargo haulers moved steadily between landing pads and loading bays while security droids stood at carefully selected points around the perimeter, visible enough to discourage theft without creating the impression that Mokk IX had arrived to occupy anything. Outside, the line stretched farther than Saroyan would have preferred. Families waited beneath the Petrusian sky with identification cards, battered containers, handcarts, or simply whatever they could carry. The food was here. That was the important part. People who might otherwise have gone hungry tonight would eat. Everything between the cargo hold and their hands, however, irritated her.

"The manifest from Bay Three still doesn't match physical inventory," Saroyan observed, gaze moving across the information displayed on the datapad in her hand. Her voice remained level despite the growing list of inefficiencies. "We're showing forty-eight additional ration units received that no one can locate, while medical inventory is apparently missing seventeen cases of antibiotics that I can see from where I'm standing."

Her eyes lifted toward the conspicuously marked cases less than twenty meters away. "Impressive." There was just enough dryness behind the word to make her opinion unmistakable. She started walking again, expecting Serene Valis to remain beside her without needing to ask. The Director of External Relations and Diplomatic Protocol had accompanied Saroyan as Mokk IX's principal diplomatic representative, which was both entirely sensible and—if Saroyan allowed herself to acknowledge considerations having absolutely nothing to do with operational requirements—rather pleasant. Not that anyone watching them would have reason to suspect anything.

They had become exceptionally good at that. On Mokk IX there were always eyes, records, schedules, professional acquaintances, and overlapping institutional circles. Their relationship existed in stolen pieces carefully fitted between everything else: private doors, altered schedules, meetings that ran suspiciously long only when no one else was present. Here, several systems away from home, Saroyan had discovered the peculiar sensation of being able to walk beside Serene without immediately considering who might recognize them together.

She had also discovered that old habits were difficult to abandon. Her hand almost settled against the small of Serene's back as they stepped around a cargo loader. Almost. Saroyan caught herself, turning the aborted gesture into an indication toward the distribution floor instead. "That queue shouldn't be there," she said. It was an easy recovery. Nearly flawless. Nearly.

Her attention settled upon the waiting Petrusians. The Mokkan system being assembled around them was already collecting information concerning household size, nutritional requirements, medical priorities, settlement of origin, and previous distributions. Given another day, Saroyan expected she could substantially reduce both waiting times and waste. Give her three and the entire operation could be coordinated through encrypted regional nodes with inventories updated in real time. She could make it efficient.

Yet something bothered her that wasn't represented on the datapad. People accepted their supplies and left. Few lingered. Fewer spoke with Mokkan personnel beyond what was required. Parents kept children close whenever one of the security droids moved nearby. Saroyan watched an elderly Petrusian answer a relief worker's questions with little more than clipped responses, collect a ration package, and hurry away.

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "The throughput isn't the problem." That admission cost her more than it probably should have. Saroyan glanced toward Serene. "They're afraid of us." Not specifically Mokk IX, perhaps. Outsiders had been arriving on Petrusia for generations with promises of prosperity and demands for compensation. The pirates were merely the latest and most brutal example. Now another collection of offworld ships had descended upon them carrying armed personnel, droids, food, sophisticated equipment, and assurances that everything would improve.

Saroyan could hardly blame them for wondering when the invoice would arrive. She lowered the datapad. "Seventeen distribution centers were selected from population density, transportation access, existing infrastructure, and projected demand. Nine is underperforming by almost forty percent despite servicing one of the highest-need districts." She turned the display so Serene could see the figures. "The numbers say it should be one of our busiest facilities. It isn't."

That was why Serene was here. Well. One of the reasons. Saroyan's expression softened almost imperceptibly as she looked at her, a change most observers would probably have mistaken for professional consideration. Serene would know better. "I'd like you to find out what my numbers aren't telling me." There was considerably more warmth in you than there had been in anything else Saroyan had said. She noticed it immediately.

A fractional pause followed. Then the Director of the Data Vault and Communications Authority turned her attention back toward the relief operation with impeccable professionalism. "I also want meetings arranged with representatives from the settlements receiving these shipments. Not merely the planetary government. Municipal authorities, merchants, transport operators, medical administrators, community representatives—anyone who understands how Petrusia actually functions." Saroyan resumed walking. "Emergency supplies are necessary, but I'm not interested in creating another dependency. Mokk IX already maintains procurement relationships capable of sustaining a population considerably larger than Petrusia's. We can provide access to those markets, guarantees for legitimate contracts, secure escrow, communications infrastructure, and financing mechanisms while their economy recovers."

Her gaze moved toward the enormous Mokkan cargo vessel visible through the open freight doors. "But they need to control it." That was important. Perhaps more important than efficiency. "If six months from now Petrusia still requires me to decide where its next shipment of food comes from, we've accomplished very little."

They reached the edge of the terminal where the crowd outside was more easily visible. Saroyan stopped there, watching a mother divide something from a newly opened ration packet between two children before taking anything for herself. For several seconds, there were no statistics. No projections. No systems. Just people.

"We can fix the infrastructure," Saroyan said more quietly. "We can secure their communications, finance purchases, guarantee shipments, track every crate from its point of origin to the family receiving it. None of that matters if they think we're simply waiting for our opportunity to become the next people collecting tribute."

Her eyes shifted toward Serene again. This time the look lingered a second longer than professional necessity required. Being away from Mokk IX was proving dangerous in entirely unexpected ways. "That's the part you're better at." Another pause. "Considerably better."

Saroyan finally seemed to realize precisely how fond that had sounded. Her lips pressed together as she looked back toward the distribution floor. "We should inspect Center Nine personally." A perfectly reasonable decision. Entirely professional. The faintest hint of a smile betrayed her. "And perhaps you can explain what I've missed on the way."

​

 

[Garrion Der Rædwulf]

General Garrion
Objective I

Current Mission: Break the Pirate Warfleet

---

It hadn't been long since Garrion had joined up with the Protectorate, and now a proper opportunity to prove himself to his allies had presented itself. Petrusia, a quaint little world... if it weren't for its occupiers. They were the kind of pirate scum he had fought against long ago during the time of the crusades, he knew them well. Criminals were a cowardly lot, credits and a desire for power usually the driving force behind their actions rather than reason. All the Protectorate needed to do was cut the head off the snake, and undoubtedly the rest would scramble.

So, there was little surprise that he was one of those designated to assist in this regard, within his primary element of course: The theater of warfare.

Taking full advantage of the resources allotted to him, Garrion drew up a rather simple plan: If they weren't dealing with a conventional enemy, they'd need to employ more... strategic warfare.
Scouts, who'd already slipped past the Pirate blockade whilst disguised as smugglers, had relayed back to command that the pirates were more than comfortable with positioning themselves within populated areas. Orbital bombardments would be rendered useless, unless you wished to brand yourself a murderer for claiming 6 civilians for every 1 pirate.

As the fleet exited hyperspace, immediately Garrion had ordered for a direct engagement with the Pirate warfleet. If the humanitarian resources were to make their way down to Petrusia unharassed, someone needed to keep the enemy distracted.
Fortunately, the enemy fleet was a refreshingly simple obstacle. It seemingly consisted of several old, repurposed starfighters, and flimsy custom-built ones from scrapmetal. Of course, the fleet had its capital ship, what appeared to be some kind of barge freighter of sorts? Yet, nothing they couldn't handle.
Once they succeeded in destroying or driving off the fleet, Garrion could deploy to assist those who'd already made planetfall. Though in the meantime, he could help coordinate.

Bringing us to where we are now:

"It seems they're not entirely without strategy... they appear to be balling up. Interceptors, pick off as many stragglers as you can. Pave the way for our bombing run when the time comes."
Annoyingly, this situation persisted for some time, as the enemy seemed determined to continue turtling. This meant the conditions for an optimal bombing run remained... elusive. Apparently they lacked the confidence to retaliate, or, simply understood that doing so would be suicide, instead probing the Protectorate's defenses occasionally before returning to their side.
Then again... there was also the possibility they were holding out for reinforcements, something Garrion had no intention of allowing.

Garrion continued staring out from the glass window of the bridge, before turning back and walking over to the planetary map.
"We've taken the capital, Ra'a'mah's seen to that. And it appears... ah, yes, the first convoy's made it through."

"That was... six hours ago, Sir."

"It was? These Pirates are certainly good at stalling..." He muttered to himself. "We'll require assistance to draw out the enemy. I have a feeling they don't intend to stay idle forever, and I won't waste lives trying to force the bombing run."
He thought for a moment, still examining the battlemap of the surface.
"Let's divert our attention planetside, yes? The first and second companies are clear to move, why haven't they- Ahh. Stuck on the fort's walls, and on a river crossing no less? I certainly don't envy them. Very well... Lieutenant, relay to the third company that they are to make a probing spearhead towards the three villages east of the fort. With any luck, we'll either force the pirates to commit to their defense, or make them withdraw and allow us to encircle their fortified encampment.

And of course, once we make our landing, I'm sure the siege will be broken... If it isn't by the time we do so."

Zarrah Vex

 

[Judah Dashiell]

OBJECTIVE II : RELIEF

Distribution of aid was slowly underway thanks to the Dashiell Relief Fund, brought in under heavy private guards. An extra expense Judah was paying himself so the credits in DRF could remain focused on providing food and medical supplies. A shipping container 'city' had been set up on the outskirts of a small city, a landing pad marked out with temporary glowsticks.

It was clear the planetary government itself could not be trusted. Not in this moment.

Crates were being unloaded from a massive cargo vessel, orders shouted out between the relief workers. Debate was raging if it was safe enough to distribute aid door-to-door on their own and if enough private security was available.

Judah was looking elsewhere though. Ideas on sustainable agriculture for the citizens. Trouble was the planet was snowy and cold. A datapad was pulled up as he and an engineer spoke, debating on location and method. DRF would fully fund a greenhouse and train the locals for long term sustainability.

"Geothermal power to heat I think is the way to go. Used to do that early in Salacia days."

"We would have to survey the area. Mountains suggest geothermal may be wise as there might be energy to pull naturally from the crust be the rocks could be a b.itch to drill through. Survey will be required."

"Without a doubt. Soil looks rocky and poor, another problem. Going to have to bring in soil or go hydroponics."

TAGS : OPEN ​

 

[Dalvos Thrakan]

OBJECTIVE II: RELIEF

Dalvos was in the not-unusual position of smuggling goods onto a planet occupied by someone who didn't want him there. Usually it was exotic stuff - narcotics, weapons, explosives and the like. Instead, he was trying to smuggle past pirates, the kind of people he'd normally be smuggling for, and instead of delivering high-value-low-volume goods at a heavy markup... he was making this delivery more or less for free, and carrying something very much high-volume-low-value, but infinitely more important. Two cargo bays stuffed full of carbonite-stored shaggy-looking Hothan Snowcows - an extremely unlikely genetic mix of nerfs and tauntauns - and a handful of external blister racks full of delicious, nutritious (or at least nutritious) nutrient paste. Conveniently stored in detachable giant vats of the bluish viscous substance, sealed and armored to survive a cautious re-entry, six of them were nested radially against the Copper Rose's middle section, strapped on as tightly as could be managed in the short window they had to load and launch.

No one was going to be particularly happy eating it, but no one eating it was going to starve, anyway.

The descent down from orbit was the tricky bit. Squawking the unlikely registry of a High Republic mail carrier, the Scarlet Letters, the pirates took almost four extra minutes to actually rally to oppose his descent toward the planet, though they were quick to shut the 'door' behind him in a high orbit. The nutrient paste vats necessitated a - relatively - slow and gentle descent to ensure that re-entry didn't heat up the contents of the pods enough to make them boil and crack open like giant eggs. Not only would that make an absolutely horrid mess and feed no one at all, but it would also likely result in the ship's destruction; the sudden change in aerodynamic profile during re-entry could cause a fatal spin, and the enormous volumes of faintly sweet-tasting (in theory, it was 'natural flavors' meant to simulate such things as chocolate or vanilla, but in practice it was rather bitter and chalky) would also serve quite well for plugging up every intake along their path.

But that, relatively speaking, was the easy part: his descent profile was clear-cut and he had a long, sloping shot down toward the massive container farm springing up around the designated landing site. What complicated things was the fact that one of the pirate fighters had decided to accompany him down with the intention of speeding up his landing, preferably somewhere around terminal velocity and scattered over a very wide area.

Thankfully the immense heat of re-entry still served to fox most targeting systems, and missiles were too small and light to keep on course, so the pirate fighter was stuck using regular human(-adjacent) eyesight and the bright ruby trails of its' twin laser cannons as markers. If the blazing trail they left in the atmosphere wasn't offsetting most of the laser cannon's cooling, the pilot would've been able to simply walk his shots onto the clunky fast freighter; instead he had to fire volleys of three or four pairs of shots at a time and try to rake them across the stern.

"This is Scarlet Letters on approach, repeat Scarlet Letters on approach. Anyone down there happen to have any kind of defensive weapons pointed my way? I've got a friend tagging along but I don't have the heart to send him off. Any chance one of you friendly folks could send him on his way?" He spoke rapidly, but with a smile in his voice as if cracking a joke; only the strain and the brief, interrupting grunt as he was forced to skate the ship on its belly to avoid a cluster of shots betrayed the deadly seriousness.

"Once I clear the burn he's going to get a much cleaner shot on me and I don't have a way to fire back. If anyone can hear me, this is-"

A lucky shot. The pirate's wing jolted from a roiling surge of turbulence, and when he dropped into the calm eddy behind, his right-side laser cannon spat its last rubiline lance, tearing directly through two of the engines clustered at the rear of the ship, and badly damaging a third with high-velocity shrapnel. The Letters skewed hard to the left, and then started to slide on its belly on a cushion of air, violently rattling side to side. It was everything he could do to keep the ship stable, much less to actually try and evade any more of the incoming shots. He gritted his teeth, preparing for the worst and...

... emerged from the burn into clear, high-ceilinged skies, the occasional fat patches of fluffy cloud scattered about carelessly like dollops of wool.

When he checked his scanners, he could see two interception tracks - afterburner velocities carving a pair of blade-like markings through the clouds, dragging it behind them as if they'd split the sky in two with blades of white. Judging by the frenzied motion on the sensors, the pirate wasn't downed yet, but he was putting up a good show; two more of the pirates were descending from above to push the odds back in the other direction.

"Thanks for the assist Verdant Flight. I'm almost clear of the envelope. Almost... almost... Alright, I'm clear in. Take 'em down, boys!" He shouted encouragement before slumping back into his seat.

He gritted his teeth at the unwelcome interjection from the port behind his seat. "It is a good thing that this one is an actual assignment; each of those engines is worth more than our cargo, and we have lost three of them."



Landing wasn't as gentle as he would've liked, but then again it was a lot gentler than it could've been except for Verdant Flight. He made a mental note to track down their squadron leader and ensure a bottle of something good made it into his hands.

As he strolled out from the docking bay, hands still shaking a bit, his robes cinched tight at his waist, he peered around the landing field, trying to figure out just who the hell to report to. His white hair was dyed a burnished blonde, and his usually white eyes bore bright green contacts. He wore gloves over his hands, making them look like normal five-fingered hands; with all these minor additions, he looked like a perfectly normal human.

Dalvos could see others swarming around, but in the midst of the chaos, one man stood like a stone, with others coming to him for guidance. Aha. Close enough.

"Excuse me!" Dalvos called out as he strode closer, clearing his throat and waving slightly in Judah Dashiell 's direction. "I've got a load of nutrient paste and Snowcows, and I'm down two engines. I don't suppose you're the man to talk to about... any of that?" He put on a bright, friendly smile.

Judah Dashiell

 

[Iandre Athlea]

OBJECTIVE II: RELIEF

Coming to Petrusia with Judah had been an easy decision for Iandre. The Dashiell Relief Fund had already committed considerable resources to the planet, and while she possessed neither his experience with humanitarian logistics nor the agricultural expertise of the engineers surrounding him, there were plenty of other ways to make herself useful. The Jedi had once been expected to serve wherever they were needed, and despite how much her relationship with the Order had changed over the centuries, that particular lesson had never left her.

Since arriving, she had spent most of her time moving between the temporary distribution points surrounding the growing container settlement. Sometimes that meant helping unload supplies. At others it meant speaking with Petrusians uncertain whether the strangers descending upon their world could actually be trusted. She had even found herself entertaining a small collection of children while their parents waited for medical supplies, something she suspected hadn't appeared anywhere on the official relief manifest. It was simple work compared to commanding troops or standing on a battlefield, but Iandre found she preferred it that way. Nobody here needed a Jedi General. They needed food, medicine, reassurance, and enough people willing to help provide all three.

She had eventually found her way back toward Judah while he and one of the engineers debated geothermal power, poor soil conditions, and the possibility of hydroponics. Iandre remained nearby without inserting herself into a discussion well outside her own expertise, listening instead as they worked through the problem. She understood the purpose easily enough. Immediate relief mattered, but Judah was already looking beyond the crates being unloaded around them. Feeding Petrusia today was necessary. Giving its people the ability to feed themselves tomorrow was considerably more important, and there was something quietly reassuring about watching him approach the problem with that future already in mind.

The conversation never had an opportunity to develop further. Activity around the landing zone changed abruptly, voices rising as personnel began looking skyward. Iandre followed their attention and found a vessel descending in a manner that looked considerably less controlled than she would have preferred. The distant commotion of fighters overhead told enough of the story even before word began spreading through the relief workers that an incoming transport had been attacked. Her expression tightened as the damaged vessel finally made it down, and she was already moving before its engines had entirely fallen silent.

"I'll see if anyone aboard needs medical attention." she told Judah, giving his arm a brief touch as she passed before heading toward the newly landed ship.

Fortunately, the first person to emerge appeared capable of walking under his own power. Iandre slowed when the stranger began approaching them, taking in his appearance before his explanation supplied the important details. Nutrient paste, livestock, and two ruined engines. Her eyebrows lifted slightly at the mention of Snowcows, though under the circumstances she supposed questioning precisely why someone had brought Hothan livestock to Petrusia could wait.

The question itself had been directed toward Judah, so Iandre left him to answer it. Instead, her attention remained on the newcomer, noticing the lingering tremor in his hands that suggested his landing had been every bit as unpleasant from inside the ship as it had appeared from the ground. "Before we worry about the engines, are you injured?" she asked, already stepping nearer. Her tone was calm without being overly solicitous. "I'm Iandre Athlea. I have some experience with healing if you need it."

Her gaze shifted briefly toward the battered vessel behind him and then toward the cargo operation rapidly growing around the landing field. Despite the circumstances, a faint smile appeared. "As for several holds full of food and livestock, I think you've come to exactly the right people."

Dalvos Thrakan Judah Dashiell Saroyan Dovryn

 

[Zarrah Vex]

Objective: Add to the Defense of Petrusia
Location: Petrusia orbit fresh from hyperspace
Attire: Naval Uniform
Tag: OPEN | Garrion Der Rædwulf

Hyperspace collapsed into streaks, then stars. Zarrah Vex watched Petrusia resolve across the forward viewport with her hands clasped behind her back, the planet hanging beneath the scattered points of ships, fighters, and weapons fire that marked the battle already underway. One by one, the vessels under her command emerged around her flagship, a modest Protectorate force by any reasonable measure. Enough to matter. Not enough to make Zarrah particularly interested in advertising precisely what she had brought with her before she understood what she was walking into.

The Zorren's ears shifted slightly as the tactical display populated. "Well," she murmured, amber eyes narrowing. "That's ugly." It wasn't the size of the pirate force that concerned her. It was how they were using it.

For all the contempt regularly thrown toward pirates, raiders, insurgents, and other irregular forces, Zarrah had lived too much of her life among exactly those sorts of people to dismiss them as idiots. Cowards, perhaps. Opportunists, certainly. But there was a dangerous habit among professional soldiers of assuming that someone without a uniform couldn't understand warfare. Zarrah knew better.

The pirates had clustered themselves tightly enough that an aggressive attack would become messy, and every minute the Protectorate spent untangling that knot was another minute their people on the ground had to fight without the full weight of orbital support behind them.

"Passive sensors first," Zarrah ordered. "I want the entire battlespace mapped before anyone gets excited. Drives, weapons, fighter concentrations, damaged ships, anything that looks like it's trying to hide behind something bigger. And start looking beyond the immediate engagement."

A lieutenant glanced toward her. "Beyond, Captain?"

"Hyperlanes. Nearby moons. Lagrange points. Anywhere I'd park something if I wanted my enemy staring at the obvious threat while I waited for friends." The officer nodded and turned back toward the tactical stations.

Six hours. That was the part she didn't like. A pirate force that believed it could win usually behaved like it. A pirate force that knew it couldn't win usually ran. Sitting there for six hours while occasionally testing the Protectorate defenses suggested either an extraordinary amount of stupidity or that someone believed time was working in their favor. She wasn't prepared to assume the former. "Signal Der Rædwulf's command. Protectorate identification, encrypted channel."

A moment later the connection was ready. "Garrion, Zarrah Vex. I've brought a few more pieces for the board." Her gaze remained fixed upon the tactical projection. "I'm reading your situation now. Doesn't look like they've given you much worth shooting at without making you pay for it."

There was the faintest trace of amusement in her voice. Zarrah had spent enough years fighting stronger enemies to appreciate what the pirates were doing, even if she intended to ruin it for them. "We're going to stay outside your immediate formation for the moment. No sense giving them one larger target to stare at. I'll spread my ships and start tightening the available space instead."

Her fingers touched the edge of the tactical table. "Navigation, distribute us. Wide deployment. Nothing aggressive yet." Acknowledgments sounded across the bridge as vectors began appearing across the display. Zarrah didn't want a second battle line. Garrion already had one of those. What he needed was another problem for the pirates to solve.

color=#305CDE]"If they're waiting for reinforcements, I want whoever's coming to discover that getting to them is considerably harder than expected. If they're waiting for us to lose patience..."[/color] A small grin tugged at one corner of Zarrah's mouth. "...I've spent most of my life learning patience."

She muted the channel briefly. "Get me reconnaissance coverage along their likely withdrawal routes. Quietly. Fighter command is authorized to launch screens, but nobody crosses into engagement range without permission. Make us visible enough that the pirates know we're here."

"Trying to draw them out?"

"Trying to make them decide." That was different. Zarrah leaned over the tactical display, studying the pirate formation. Garrion had already applied pressure directly. Zarrah intended to apply it everywhere else. Expand the Protectorate presence. Threaten avenues of retreat. Make every pirate captain wonder whether the ship beside them intended to remain in formation or bolt before the trap closed. Pirates could be remarkably brave when they believed everyone around them was equally committed. The trick was reminding them that they weren't.

"Communications, start recording their traffic patterns. Don't need to break encryption yet. I want to know who's talking to whom and how often. Find me the ships everyone else listens to."

"Aye, Captain."

Only then did Zarrah reopen the channel. "I'll keep pressure on their flanks and watch your approaches. If they break toward me, I'll catch them. If they break toward you, they're yours. If they split..." Her grin widened. "...then we've finally convinced them to make a mistake."

Zarrah straightened. There was another reason she had volunteered for this. For years, she had known war from the ground. Hidden camps. Sabotaged supply lines. Smuggled weapons. frightened civilians convinced to become informants, informants convinced to become fighters, and fighters somehow convinced to survive long enough to become soldiers. She understood how to build resistance beneath an enemy's boots.

Commanding ships was different. The distances were greater. The weapons were larger. Decisions that once affected a squad could now affect hundreds of people before she had time to reconsider them. Yet, looking across the tactical display, Zarrah found the underlying language remarkably familiar. Pressure. Mobility. Information. Never fight the enemy where they were strongest merely because they had invited you there. Perhaps she hadn't wandered quite as far from her element as she'd thought.

"Captain," one of the sensor officers called, "surface operations are updating. Protectorate forces are active around the fort and eastern villages."

Zarrah's attention flicked toward the planetary projection. For a moment, instinct pulled her downward. That was the war she knew. Boots in the dirt. People close enough that she could see their faces and know exactly who was depending on her. Not today. Today her battlefield was measured in thousands of kilometers.

"Keep feeding their commanders everything we can see from up here. Pirate movements, vehicles, anything our sensors can give them. Garrion wants them making choices on the surface too. Let's make sure every choice they have is a bad one."

Her eyes returned to the pirate fleet. "Hold formation." The order traveled throughout Zarrah's little fleet. She folded her arms. "And let's see who gets nervous first."

​

 

[Garrion Der Rædwulf]

GENERAL GARRION
OBJECTIVE I

CURRENT MISSION: Break the Pirate Warfleet.

---

He recognized the name, and with a hint of pleasant surprise he responded over the encrypted channel with: "Apologies for the lack in progress, Zarrah. These Pirates have been rather uncooperative. I'm suspecting they have reinforcements." He was slightly embarrassed that it'd taken him this long to break the fleet, yet, he simply didn't want to risk his pilot's lives unless he had to. Still, it was reassuring to have someone he knew had the experience working with him.

Listening to her breakdown, he adapted. "Maintain formation. We'll let Vex take it from here.", he instructed to his men over their channel. As she spoke over the channel once more, he smirked, speaking over the channel once more:
"I'd offer bets, but unfortunately I'm rather stingy with my credits. I suppose we'll just have to wait and see."

The addition of new pieces to the board changed things. The pirates were even more squeezed in then they were prior, with far fewer routes of escape now that the Protectorate's forces were blocking the lanes leading into the space.

"We've managed to take out some of their small craft, but they seem remarkably persistent. Wise of you to block their means of support." He commended her over the line. After a short pause he added:
"We stand to benefit by breaking their shell early. It may be best to test the cracks... see if they're willing to panic once they realize the pressure is mounting?" He proposed, leaving the answer to that question open to her, though continued with:

"My interceptors are ready to cover you, should they attempt anything hectic. The actions of a feral dog backed into a corner are often difficult to predict. Though something tells me these dogs can have their confidence shattered should we press them the right way, safer than waiting for them to make the next move."

Garrion continued observing the Pirate fleet, yet still nothing.

"What's our status on the ground?" He inquired to one of his subordinates.

"They're still making progress, Sir. It seems Zarrah must've relayed them more intelligence. They've managed to neutralize several enemy land craft, and it seems... the villages are close to being liberated, though the pirates aren't giving up without a fight. It seems they're mirroring the fleet's strategy and diverting the bulk of their forces to the fort."

Garrion thought for a moment.

"Well... We're secure, let's commence an orbital bombardment. Perhaps that'll be the thing we need to draw the turtle out of the shell."

"Unfortunately Sir, they're using human shields as a deterrent."

"Hmph... of course they are, indecent savages." He muttered, pondering what to do next before sighing. "See if you can't connect me to them."

"To the ground forces, Sir?"

"No, the Pirates." Garrion replied with certainty.

The crew in the bridge turned to their commander with... almost confusion, though mostly surprise. "The pirates, Lieutenant." Garrion repeated, to which he was met with an affirmative as attempted to connect to the enemy.

Surprisingly, they did just that.

"An' who's is' en? You wantin' some kinda parlay?" A gruff sounding pirate replied on the other end, though no visual was available.

Before speaking, Garrion had cleared his throat, putting on quite possibly the most arrogant voice a human could ever manifest, with the sole intent of sounding as detached and uncaring as he needed to in order to convince this Pirate he was sentencing himself to death. Once he'd readied himself, he spoke: "In a manner of speaking, yes. This is General Garrion Der Rædwulf, a name that it would do you well to remember."

The Pirate laughed, replying, "Oh-HO! Mr. High an' mighty thinks he can-"

"I wasn't quite finished, you impudent swab. You have yet to acknowledge the reality of your situation, so allow me to do it for you: You're surrounded, or at the very least soon to be, hiding behind civilians as if that will deter me from giving the order to wipe the hovel you call a fortification from the surface of this backwater planet. Unlike my colleagues, I am willing to discard a handful of Petrusians if it means you're wiped off the map. Now listen, and listen well, because I do not intend to repeat myself:"

He paused, before continuing: "You have half an hour to weigh your options. Either you attempt to hold out to the bitter end for all your worthless lives can manage, only to be reduced to a crater by our impending bombardment, or, you surrender yourselves over willingly to our exterior garrison, where you will be given the chance of peaceful processing and reformation. Though, if I had my way, you'd be utterly extinguished to save us the effort of wasting resources on scum like you. Understood?"

There was silence on the other end for a moment, before the Pirate responded with: "Nice talk, but you that's not your style. I thinks we'll keep where we is and maybe kill a few civvies just to prove a point."

Garrion furrowed his brows, though he was committed to the act.

"So be it. Lieutenant, ready the bombardment."

The Lieutenant hesitated, as if about to oppose the order, only for Garrion to give him a knowing look, leading the Lieutenant to comply. The cannons aimed down at the surface below, onto the fort.

The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. For a few moments there was silence, as the cannons grew closer and closer towards firing. Down on the surface, this was visible to those inside and near the fort, a terrifying visual for Pirate and civilian alike.

Eventually the silence grew too long, "Sir! We need to call it off! They aren't going to-"

"Just a moment longer." Garrion stated with certainty once more.

Eventually... there was a response. "...We'll hand ourselves over, can't promise you the others will do the same." And with that, the line disconnected.

Garrion turned back to the Lieutenant, giving an affirming nod. The cannons powered down for the moment.
"I've always wanted to try that." He murmured to himself, a slight smirk forming on his face.

"That's one obstacle down... I imagine the ground forces will be far easier to mop up now. But of course, we still have the matter of their fleet."
Garrion walked away from the holotable, only to have his attention brought back to it once more.

"Sir, we're detecting multiple ships entering light speed, we don't recognize them."

Garrion noted it immediately, "Notify Zarrah Vex and her forces, they're the closest to our points of entry. Send off our vanguard to support them as well, we don't know how large of a force we're dealing with."

TAGS: Zarrah Vex

 

[Zarrah Vex]

Objective: Add to the Defense of Petrusia
Location: Petrusia orbit fresh from hyperspace
Attire: Naval Uniform
Tag: OPEN | Garrion Der Rædwulf

Zarrah had been hoping she was wrong. Not because she disliked being proven right—she possessed enough ego to enjoy that on occasion—but because some suspicions were considerably more convenient when they remained suspicions. The pirate fleet had spent hours sitting stubbornly inside its defensive shell despite every reason to flee. They had endured losses, surrendered freedom of movement, and watched the Protectorate steadily tighten its control of the battlespace around them. None of it made sense unless they believed that time favored them. Apparently, it had.

"Multiple hyperspace emergences," one of the sensor officers reported. "Several contacts. Identification pending."

Zarrah was already moving toward the tactical display when Garrion's warning arrived. New contacts blossomed across the projection near the approaches her task group had been assigned to watch, their arrival vectors placing Zarrah's dispersed vessels between them and the pirate fleet. Her ears angled backward. "I was hoping I was wrong about that part."

The bridge became considerably busier. "All ships, tighten the screen. Defensive posture. Fighter elements forward and establish interception lanes, but nobody fires without authorization." Zarrah leaned over the display as information continued populating beside the new contacts. "I want targeting solutions prepared on everything that just arrived. Prepared does not mean locked. Let's not accidentally start shooting at someone whose only crime is terrible timing."

"Aye, Captain."

"And challenge them." Communications immediately went to work. Zarrah straightened, one hand settling against the edge of the holotable while she watched the formation change. What had begun as a deliberately loose containment screen contracted around the new arrivals. Not enough to provoke them immediately, but enough that reaching Petrusia—or the pirates already orbiting it—would require passing through Protectorate-controlled space.

Garrion's vanguard appeared on the tactical display shortly afterward, moving to reinforce her position. "Open a channel to Garrion."

The connection established. "I see them. Your vanguard's welcome, but keep the rest of your people where they are." Her amber eyes shifted toward the original pirate formation. "Especially those interceptors you offered me. Keep them watching our friends in the shell."

Zarrah’s gaze slowly swept across the possibilities as they arranged themselves in her mind. She had spent much of her life fighting enemies stronger than herself. That experience had taught her that the most valuable thing an opponent could give you wasn't territory, weapons, or even intelligence. It was a dilemma.

If these newcomers were pirate reinforcements, then the pirates presently hiding behind their defensive formation suddenly had a choice. They could remain protected and watch their relief force become isolated, or they could leave the safety of their formation to help. Either suited Zarrah perfectly well.

"If these ships belong to them, Garrion, don't rush over here trying to save me." There was unmistakable amusement beneath her words. "They've spent six hours refusing to come out and play with you. Watching their friends get stopped at the door might finally give them a reason."

She glanced toward communications. "Anything?"

"Challenge transmitted. No response yet."

"Again." The transmission went out across the local frequencies. "Unidentified vessels, this is Captain Zarrah Vex of the United Protectorate of Sovereign Systems. You are approaching an active military operation. Identify yourselves and state your intentions. Maintain your present position until cleared to proceed."

She deliberately gave them the opportunity. Pirates were not the only people who traveled these lanes, and Zarrah wasn't interested in vaporizing an unfortunate collection of freighters simply because Garrion's suspicions and her own had proven persuasive. Yet her restraint didn't extend to allowing those vessels through while they contemplated their answer.

"Navigation, continue shifting us across their route. Don't close aggressively. Just make certain there's no straight line from them to the planet."

"Aye."

"Fighter control, anything attempting to bypass the screen gets intercepted. Weapons cold until they make them hot." Another acknowledgment.

Only then did Zarrah allow herself to consider the other development Garrion's people had transmitted. The fort was surrendering. Apparently Garrion had convinced the pirates planetside that he was willing to turn their fortification—and the civilians trapped inside it—into a smoking hole.

Zarrah stared at the tactical display for several seconds. Then she keyed the private channel again. "And Garrion?" A small grin appeared. "Remind me never to play sabacc with you."

She left it there. Whether she approved of the bluff could wait until they weren't potentially staring down another pirate force. It had worked. The civilians were alive, the fort was surrendering, and Protectorate ground forces now had one fewer obstacle preventing them from securing Petrusia.

Her attention returned entirely to the new arrivals. "Captain, Garrion's vanguard is approaching support range."

"Good. Place them behind our forward screen. No reason to show every card yet." Zarrah studied the tactical picture. There was something strangely familiar about it. For years her wars had been fought from forests, caves, safehouses, forgotten settlements, and whatever other miserable places could conceal a handful of fighters from an occupying army. She had learned to stretch limited resources, force superior enemies to divide their attention, and make uncertainty more dangerous than blasterfire.

A starship bridge should have felt completely different. Instead, the scale had simply changed. Ships instead of squads. Orbital lanes instead of mountain passes. Fighter screens instead of ambush positions. The principle remained the same. Don't fight the enemy where they wanted to fight. Make them choose.

"Captain," the tactical officer began, "if they're hostile—"

"We separate them from the fleet already here," Zarrah answered immediately. "We don't let two pirate forces become one."

"And if the existing fleet moves to support them?"

Zarrah's grin returned. "Then Garrion finally gets his bombing run."

She folded her arms and watched the two groups represented on the tactical display—the stubborn pirate formation on one side and the unidentified arrivals on the other, with Protectorate ships standing between them. "Either way, somebody's about to make a decision." Her ears perked forward. "Let's make sure they regret it."

​

 

[Garrion Der Rædwulf]

GENERAL GARRION
OBJECTIVE I

CURRENT MISSION: Break the pirate warfleet.

---

Garrion received her transmission. "Call off the interceptors, we'll keep them here for the moment." He ordered his Lieutenant.

With that, he returned focus back to the turtling fleet. His vanguard could assist Zarrah if they needed him.

"We'll keep them contained for now. Pick off any of their fighters if you can, but for now... we wait. Except erratic movements, they'll no doubt be panicking soon. Move in... slowly. Don't get too close to let them target us, we'll see if a bit of psychological warfare can give us the results we need."

Garrion's forces continued applying slow pressure to the entrapped pirates, slowly inching towards them from all ends, combined with the forces left behind by Zarrah, the grim reality of their position seemed to be sinking in, as a small cluster of pirates attempted to break off and flee, only to be shot down by their own command vessel. Apparently their Captain wasn't keen on surrender.

"Shall we continue the advance, Sir?"

"No... not yet. Whoever's in charge seems to be suffering a crisis in confidence, we wait and exploit that. See if either they break into two, or a mutiny gives us someone more willing to negotiate. In neither case? They'll likely try everything they can to break out, and we shall punish them for it."

Meanwhile, the vanguard found itself among Zarrah's forces, preparing itself for what was likely to be an unsavory encounter, should the newly identified vessels indeed by the expected reinforcements.
"Incoming transmission Sir, from our vanguard."

"Put them through."

"We've been ordered not to fire until we have confirmation they're with the enemy, Sir. Do you still want us to respect that?"

Garrion heard the transmission, responding with a swift: "If Captain Zarrah gives you an order, you follow it. Any further questions?"

"...No Sir. We're just-"

"Eager to put this to rest? We all are, but we cannot use tiredness as an excuse to take brash action where it may not be necessary. If they're hostile, so be it. I'd rather be attacked without warning than suffer the shame of killing a non combatant."

"Yes sir." The transmission ended.

"He's combative..." The Lieutenant muttered.

"No, just eager. He has a heart for the fight, he simply requires firm discipline and better focus. No man here is perfect."

After the gentle correction, the silence resumed. Only time could tell what would come next. Though, Garrion was prepared for the worst, as he was sure Zarrah would be as well.

Zarrah Vex

 

[Judah Dashiell]

Judah stood rooted in place as he talked to the project manager of the operation. Both had stopped talking, stopped looking at their datapads, and instead craned their heads up to watch the vessel lurch in. Smoke spewed from one of the engines. The pilot in question had a bright smile, as if the landing he just pulled off was textbook quality.

Iandre Athlea touched his arm and trotted off to assist, already worried if there were injuries aboard. A benefit of having a healer in their midst was not having to track down medical care.

"I think the cows may be dead now son...On the bright side, saves the locals from having to slaughter them." Although Judah suspected livestock would be more for milk and longterm sustainability. "I guess you can talk to me, sure. Welcome, I'm Judah Dashiell, just another here trying to help this world."

Hand held out in greeting.

"How'd you get wind of this little project?"

Dalvos Thrakan
​

 

[Iandre Athlea]

OBJECTIVE II: RELIEF
Dalvos Thrakan Judah Dashiell Novac Lyrikal

Iandre left Judah to deal with the pilot and continued toward the battered vessel, her attention moving over the damage as she approached. She didn't need to know much about starship engineering to recognize that the landing had been considerably less controlled than its pilot's cheerful expression suggested. Smoke still curled from the damaged engines, and the scent of scorched metal hung heavily around the landing area. More concerning to her was what that kind of descent might have done to anyone who had been aboard.

She paused near the lowered ramp and reached outward through the Force, searching for the unmistakable impressions of pain, fear, or distress that might indicate someone remained injured inside. There were certainly living presences aboard. Quite a few, actually, although several felt distinctly unlike the pilot she'd just watched stroll away. Remembering the man's mention of snowcows, Iandre's expression shifted with understanding.

"Well, apparently Judah was premature in declaring all of you dead." she murmured, more to herself than the animals somewhere within the cargo bays.

Only after satisfying herself that there wasn't someone bleeding out aboard did Iandre turn back toward the conversation taking place nearby. She caught the tail end of Judah's introduction as she approached, brushing a loose strand of dark hair away from her face. "I don't sense anyone injured aboard," she told Judah, offering the information before looking toward the unfamiliar man. "Although after watching that landing, I thought it was worth checking."

Her attention shifted briefly toward the damaged engines before returning to the newcomer. Whatever had happened above them had clearly been more than an unfortunate mechanical failure. "You mentioned you're carrying nutrient paste and livestock?" The relief operation could certainly use both, especially if the animals could contribute to Petrusia's recovery beyond the immediate crisis. She offered him a small, welcoming smile. "I'm Iandre Athlea. If everyone aboard is unharmed, then I suppose the next problem is getting your cargo unloaded before those engines decide to give us another surprise."

 

[Novac Lyrikal]

Dalvos Thrakan Judah Dashiell Iandre Athlea

The wandering refuge landed slowly, aboard Novac had two datapads, one for the droids, the other for the supplies. He'd mostly brought farming equipment and parts, as well as basic supplies, food, and plenty of medical supplies. Looking over everything to make sure it was all lsited and accounted for the datapad in left hand was suddenly yanked out of it.

"Sir, you assigned me to order the loaders around, so let me do my job," it was Kairo, Novac's hk-87 droid and friend.

Novac gave him a small sigh, "I didn't assign you, you said you'd handle it."

Kairo began to walk off with the datapad before adding a quick, "And I now realize I feel I might regret that. Knowing you sir you'll be over my should making sure everything is ok."

Sadly Novac knew he couldn't argue. Not because he doubted Kairo's ability, if anything, Kairo would probably handle it better than he would. It was just difficult for Novac to stop himself from checking everything himself to make sure it went smoothly

Finally as the ramp lowered his loader droids started to get to work. But they soon stopped, they hadn't been told where to go yet.

Looking around for the nearest person who looked like they knew what they where doing Novac saw Judah Dashiell . Heading over to him with the older HK-87 model walking beside him, Novac gave a polite wave. "Excuse me, wheres the spot where suppose to be bringing everything? Gotta put a place down so the droids know where to go."