Jump to content

  • Log In with Google Sign In
  • Create Account

Sarge Potteiger

Sarge Potteiger

Member Since 28 Feb 2013
Offline Last Active Today, 03:48 AM
*****

In Topic: Eye of the Storm

13 January 2019 - 02:08 PM

"I'm not." He replies, her anxiety foremost in his mind, especially when he was confirming he wasn't making a mistake. Ayden had always dealt in secrets, and he'd passed his love for them onto his assassin, who in turn became a head of state, prison warder, and then, information broker. Not that anyone was aware he worked as one. He was probably known by more titles than he'd ever be able to remember, and that was fine by him. It wasn't the prestige that concerned him, merely the power. Power that had seen him make friends like Ashin Varanin, though he'd argue it was his winning personality.

A winning personality, and the ability to out-draw anyone else in the galaxy. Semantics, really.

"Sarge." He replies simply, and the only person comfortable enough to say it like it was a name and not a title was the former Lord Protector. It was hit or miss on being recognized, but even if she didn't, he wasn't going to elaborate further. He didn't like to elaborate. "And if that's what you're going by now, I'll add it to your dossier."

Blissfully unaware that she was reaching out in the Force, she would find... nothing. It was as though his mind didn't exist. Nothing was there, save a void as black as his eyes. He'd been told, once, that it was a swirling, cloudy orb of 'wrongness' where his thoughts should be. It kept him from looking out, but it also kept them from looking in. He was a fortress with no gates.

"Don't worry, it's safe with me. Anyone that Ashin is willing to lend a hand to is a friend to me. I trust her more than anyone else in this galaxy." He smiled, but it wasn't kind. Ashin held fond memories for him, but that didn't mean he liked talking to former prisoners. Especially not former prisoners who'd been murdered... presumably.


In Topic: Eye of the Storm

30 December 2018 - 10:02 PM

He'd come in on a woman quite engrossed in her work. He didn't bother her - she was clearly engrossed in something. As something of a hermit himself, he knew better than to interrupt such a train of thought. Whatever she was thinking of, or working on, it was important. There was a certain hunch to the shoulders that matched the downward furrow of an attentive brow; you couldn't miss it. It was the tension in her frame, though, that sold him. He hadn't even needed to look at her face.

It was obvious, at least to him.

And so he'd gone to a nearby seat, pulling up training simulations. Each was run over the holo before him, the sound off, and he watched as squad after squad attempted to surmount - from low ground to high - a tiered defense in depth. The point wasn't to win; you wouldn't. The point was just in seeing how they tackled the obstacles before them while also teaching them that sometimes you weren't going to win. Some enemies, some battles, would just outlast you.

Sometimes, the only way to win, was to fight another day.

They would have been told that during debrief, but when he went to reach for a communicator in his pocket, the chair creaked, and just like that, he was noticed. Turning in his chair, enough to look at her sideways, he smiled tightly. He knew her - he'd freed her, actually. And she should be dead.

His hand rose, brushing over a carefully trimmed beard of grey-flecked brown. His hair was carefully parted and combed over, but likewise showed the stress of age. His chosen attire added to the air of a still-young professor, his turtleneck and slacks carefully maintained.

But there was no missing the shrapnel wounds that turned his right cheek into a moonscape, nor the void black eyes of his that glimmered like the spiral arms of their galaxy. His veins, thankfully, she couldn't see. His neck was a river delta in black, as seen from above. "My apologies," he replies calmly, "I thought you'd died."


In Topic: Flashback | The Old Soldier

24 December 2018 - 05:24 PM

He hadn't seen images of clones since before the Gulag settled in. "Well bargained and done." He says a moment later, his voice monotone. That was done on purpose - he gave a few moments silence, weighed the answer, and then spoke it with the dry surety of a man making a handshake deal over who was going to bring the beef to the cookout.

"And what would you require of me, besides my genetics and training?"


In Topic: Flashback | The Old Soldier

22 December 2018 - 10:09 PM

Of course, he had to mention that he was a Sith. Why wouldn't he? It would reinforce his point that he didn't want to be here. But all that did was mean the soldiers behind him inched their fingers closer to the triggers of their weapons. Sarge? He was fine where he was, arms hanging easily at his side, his frame relaxed. He had no problem defending himself - Soresu had been his mastered form. He took that approach to most of his enemies too. Survive, then counterattack when they exposed themselves.

In this case, perhaps Isley could be his counterattack.

He wasted little time with his answer, but he kept his helmet on. That had always been his habit.

"Tell me the plan." The exposition didn't interest him; the end-game did.


In Topic: Flashback | The Old Soldier

21 December 2018 - 02:18 PM

He didn't bother wasting his time figuring out the how. In a galaxy with hundreds of inhabited systems and uncountable numbers of sentients, the flow of information was as pervasive as black holes and solar winds. How? You'd go mad figuring out how. What mattered was that he was.

 

This base was supposed to be a secret, but no secret stayed hidden. Sooner or later, someone would find it. He was surprised that it was sooner, but it didn't alter his plans. Ahead of the landing pad that had been marked for Darth Metus to set down on, a massive hangar door slid apart on mobile tracks, an atmospheric shield snapping into place to keep the breathable air in and the deadly stuff out. From it strode three people - forefront was Sarge, in a surprisingly understated set of armor. His lightsaber was on his hip.

 

Behind him strode a pair of soldiers in the bulky, Crusader pattern powered armor, carrying the trademark OmegaPyre bolters. The fat barreled weapons were designed for killing Force Users, and so was the armor. Then again, it was also exorbitantly expensive, and it's why most of such technology was confined to this base.

With monsoon caliber winds snapping across the platform, he merely stood, hands clasped in the small of his back, and sized up his old enemy. "You don't greet your enemy in peace unless you're desperate. What manner of desperate are you?"