| Location | Socorro's Belt, Core Worlds
| Objective | I - System Purge
Itzhal prowled through the shadows, a spectre of darkened plates and silent steps. His faint breaths sealed behind the lock and key of his rebreather, the rumbling earth shrouded his subtle movements, just as it allowed his prey to roam undiscovered by the rest of the Mandalorian forces. It wouldn’t save them. They were already dead, their bodies and minds just hadn’t recognised the truth, so focused on their own objectives.
The hunt demanded nothing less.
Cold blue eyes trailed over the faint impression of treaded boots ingrained in the latest layer of grit, already faded beneath a new film of dust descending from the outlining stonework. In turn, the hunter’s mark upon the world was no more permanent than his prey. Unnoticed by the battle above.
Sublight Engines, blaster cannons and a seemingly endless array of explosives echoed through the caverns, a physical wall of force that scraped against the granite walls and left tremors in the aged supports—a perfect cover for the dozens of soldiers that marched ahead, their steps barely audible, a faint scuffing of their boots against the worn-away surface. Magnetic locks spread across their armour-laden frames hummed at a near-imperceptible frequency, sealing attached plastoid plates and alloyed sheets of armour to the rest of their gear in a seamless link. Armourweave concealed beneath plastoid plates, the colour of night, scraped against fibre rigging with the crude touch of inelegant but necessary contingencies, ensuring that, regardless of what happened, the plates remained securely in place as they advanced through treacherous tunnels and claustrophobic caverns.
Deeper into the tunnels, he pursued, his stride swallowing the distance between himself and the Imperial Operatives.
Ahead, the Mandalorian saw a fork in the path, an iron support column, coated with age and pressed between both routes like an ancient sentinel—impartial, silent, it offered no indication of which course led to the quarry that eluded him.
Without a word, Itzhal discarded its attention, his steps drawing to a halt, while his hand lifted to the control panel embedded in his gauntlet, an assortment of dials and switches that meant little to anyone but him; no one else needed to. It was his and his alone. And with a twist of the dial about halfway up his forearm, the sensor rig attached to his beskar’gam pulsed into action; in turn, a frenzy of soundbites and analysis programs pried the truth from the ether. Another step took him towards the left passage.
Minutes passed, and the world outside faded to a few crucial reports and the incessant attempts to create a new ceiling somewhere in the mines. Not unimportant, merely an avenue the Lawkeeper had no ability to affect. Somewhere above, starships clashed in bouts of savage precision and merciless blows, each strike more powerful than anything Itzhal had ever dealt upon an equal foe—some days, it was so easy to feel small.
Treaded boots clattered in the darkness, audible even without the enhancements of his Buy’ce. Itzhal didn't pause; he adapted, adjusting his stride with a quick step that brought him to the edge of the cavern, and a twisting ascension with a glimmer of light at the end.
The next step strode past the edge, straight into a squad of the Red Right Hand, moving swiftly to escape the natural choke-points that had endangered them so. Their sheer numbers, barely a dozen in total, choked the passage with bodies. It wasn’t single file, not even close, yet it would do all the same.
Twin Westars—Oath and Honour—lifted into the air, raised by steady hands. A moment later, he pulled the triggers, and crimson lances erupted from the barrels. The first struck their rearguard, already turning towards the threat; he stumbled, a hole in his neck burning through metal alloys and sinew alike. The second was closer to the centre, a bolt skimmed their helmet, before they ducked between the natural formation of stalagmites, only for a follow-up bolt to punch through the stone, straight into their visor as return fire started to fill the cavern.
With a twist to his side, a burning wave of plasma deflected off Itzhal’s pauldron, his side-step bringing him closer to the remaining squad rather than the promise of cover behind him. Another volley filled his next targets with more holes than solid space, held together by the restrictive press of their remaining armour plates.
A second later, Itzhal dropped to one knee, a bolt flying over his Buy’ce before another skimmed the Beskar plate—his arm twisted, a hiss of words and a wave of fivercorp unfurled from his gauntlet, wrapping around an arm and blaster, before he yanked them close with a retraction of the whirling spool. Caught off guard by the sudden shift, the imperial stumbled forward, half-bent over as they swung their blaster and entrapped arm to intercept the vibroknuckler that burst from the Mandalorian’s gauntlet. It worked, for a moment. Then, it failed in a spray of blood and bleeding light from the blaster in Itzhal’s right hand.
Rising to his feet, the Morellian’s boot slammed into the corpse’s chestplate with a solid push that knocked them back. At which point, he fired over their shoulder, a bolt punching through a stalactite, which shortly afterwards slammed into a trooper’s back before they could punch through the less-armoured points of Itzhal’s Beskar’gam. Another shot made sure they didn’t get up, while with his other blaster, he put another shot through a soldier’s kneecap, allowing him to finish them off.
Then he paused, every exhale slow and steady as his visor scanned over the dead. And with a final inhale, he stepped forward again.
The hunt continued.
Koda Fett
bleeding through.
Tekton Artez
regarded her - could see the shades of yellow emanating around him. Like she was a firaxan shark. That earned a demure smile below flashing violet eyes. The other Mandalorian though, Mauve saw the haloes of emotion orbiting him - and how he kept looking at her.
Siv Kryze
