Star Wars Roleplay: Chaos

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Private Your Empire Needs You




E Y E S__O F__T H E__E M P I R E
Wedge Draav Wedge Draav






Level 1313, Coruscant
"The Plasteel Sun" Cantina



Speeders screamed through narrow sky lanes, their repulsorlifts humming with the strain of the undercity's weight. Neon signs buzzed and flickered in a thousand alien dialects, bathing the durasteel canyon walls in a synthetic rainbow of pinks, reds, and blues. Above, endless layers of forgotten towers stretched upward into shadow toward ceilings of metal and below, the light barely reached the street. Trash fires crackled in rusted drums. Drifters, slicers, and syndicate scum slinked through alleyways like shadows with debts. A Hutt-owned casino advertised gladiatorial combat in the old Foundry. Down the strip, a cantina pulsed with life, the sign above it flickering in Basic, but locals knew it simply as "The Plasteel Sun".

Music rumbled through its walls, some hybrid of droidstep and tribal drumming that spurred the masses. The place was crowded, gamblers shouted over sabacc tables, mercs traded kill-stories aloud, dancers ran to the dance floor, the air was thick with smoke and secrets. This was the life of the undercity, for commoner and criminal alike, a place where someone could get away.

Then the door groaned open.

A shadow stepped inside.

Hooded. Cloaked. Goggled. His silhouette was jagged and foreign, his face hidden behind a plague-mask that reeked of death and silence. A faint click-hiss of a voice modulator cut through the ambient noise as Zuv Ralen entered the cantina, and the atmosphere shifted ever so slightly. Like something had just gone wrong.

He paused in the doorway.

"Subject identified. Wedge Draav. Former Revenant Squadron. Discharged. Disillusioned."

The statement was meant for his own records, but it carried like a whisper laced with venom. The Imperial spy didn't bother to sit, he approached the former GA pilot, almost gliding in silence to the man hunched at the bar, jacket worn with sun-scorched patches and campaign medals long since forgotten. The kind of man whose ideals ran hot. Zuv placed a single Imperial credit chit on the table, its surface engraved with a crimson seal of the Empire. Then he spoke, not loudly, but clearly.

"You were thrown away. Not for failure. Not for cowardice. For principle."

The modulator carried a ghostly echo, mechanical yet intimately precise.

"The Alliance broke you. But we… repair what others discard."

He paused, tilting his mask ever so slightly. His presence was unsettling, but not threatening. Not yet. A recruiter in predator's skin.

"You've flown in wars they don't even write about. You've led men through hell and made it back. And now you sit here while the galaxy tears itself apart again."

Zuv leaned closer, his tone softer but no less deliberate.

"Just five minutes of your time, your drinks are on me."



 


He looked like the devil and sounded like him too.

Smooth, calculating, precise, words rehearsed and unfortunately- true.

The Alliance had thrown him away. For what? And for who? After all he did- all the missions, all the training, all the killing. His immortal soul, scarred, wasted. His youth, gone. His innocence, gone. His sleep, hardly without nightmares- his body wrecked with scars, memories tainted by the sheer violence he committed on behalf of the Alliance. Only one good thing in his life remained, and she was far away on her own affairs.

He picked up the coin, immediately clocking who and what the man was. He was silent for a moment, putting his drink down.
"They didn't break me. They threw me away."

He turned his head to the man, eyeing him up and down.

"What do your people want with me, anyway?"

 



E Y E S__O F__T H E__E M P I R E
Wedge Draav Wedge Draav








Zuv stood still for a breath, letting the weight of Wedge's words settle like smoke between them. The voice that followed was not his, not truly. It was filtered, broken, translated. Galactic Basic rendered through a low, warbling modulator that hollowed the vowels and drew out the consonants with almost surgical precision. Despite this broken dialogue, what words came forth were spun with a silver tongue.

"They discarded a weapon they no longer understood. We understand."

He sat down across from the pilot, leaning in slightly, the eerie reflection of Wedge's face caught in the twin lenses of his goggled mask.

"You were a soldier, a pilot. Sharpened. Tempered. But the Alliance feared the man they made, they sent you away. Sent you to die slowly, bottle by bottle, nightmare by nightmare. No longer their concern."

Zuv's head tilted ever so slightly.

"You ask what we want. We want what you already are, loyal, lethal… wasted. We offer something your former CO's never could."

He paused.

"Purpose."

Another beat passed, silent except for the hum of the cantina and the scream of speeders beyond the grimy walls of Level 1313.

"Fly for something that won't forget your name."







 



"I spoke out against my old enemy. And they punished me for it. 15 years of my life- gone. I'm 33 now, and I started when I was 18. Tython, Coruscant- you name it, I was there."

He took a deep breath, looking around the place.

"I had purpose. I'm the best pilot in Alliance history- nobody comes close. My people stopped the Eclipse, my people shot down the Crimson Liners. I've killed thousands of Imperials and Sith now. From bombing runs to air-to-air kills."

He turned to face the faceless, his fingertips resting on the rim of his drink.

"Spare me the pedantics and theatrics. Ain't got time for neither. Whatya want?"

 

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