Flashback | The Old Soldier

[Malok]

Long Ago...

If one had suggested this day would come, Isley Verd would have laughed in their face. And yet, as his vessel rumbled forth from the depths of hyperspace, he pondered the reality of the moment. Just years prior, to travel into Protectorate space was a delusion. His Confederacy had established a quiet neutrality with the neighboring power, but there was always an edge to the peace. As if a storm was brewing on the horizon, waiting for the right moment to drench the land. In the present, Isley had survived the Tempest. His name was crucified throughout the nation he helped grow - a scapegoat to avert the fires of war. Those he trusted villified him. The Dread Guard abandoned him. And in the end, the Confederacy managed to cling to life.

For a moment.

But as these things often went, the nation fell inward. Time and strife saw the Southern Systems rent apart. The Confederacy and even the Protectorate faded into the annals of history, leaving the old borders free to beach. In this Galaxy, the Mandalorian flew as he saw fit, and as such directed his vessel into the orbit of an icy world. From what he recalled, this planet had been set aside for the training of the Protectorate's finest. And, frankly, that was with whom he wanted to speak. The truth of the matter was, when Isley had been exiled from his own nation, they had unleashed a beast upon the starts. Under his guidance, the Confederacy was flawed, but honest. They were imperfect, but truly embodied democracy. Truly symbolized freedom.

But in the wake of his departure, the poison of imperialism wreaked havoc on the nation's innards. And what was left fell subject to the avarice of megacorporations. Isley now had the ammunition of logic at his command - for what was the greater evil? His flawed regime, or an Empire? His imperfect democracy, or corporate oppression? Seconds rolled into minutes, and as each passed his vessel sliced through the bitter cold. In times past, he would have had to provide some semblance of clearance to land, but the channel remained silent. That was just how this corner of the stars was nowadays - quiet. At long last, a pronounced shudder announced the conclusion to his journey and the Mandalorian braved the bitter cold.

Isley knew that He would be watching. The old soldier that the young vode back home whispered about. A veteran who was as deadly as any Sole Ruler. [member="Sarge Potteiger"]. The Mandalorian was careful in his approach. Though he was armed, he was certain to keep his hands where any number of cameras could see them. His strides were brief and came to an end before the mammoth doors of frosted steel. And from behind the iconic T-visor, his voice hissed into the howling air.

"I've come to parlay - in peace."

Whether the doors opened or he was gunned down by automatic weapons fire was up to the Soldier.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

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 [member="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?"

 

[Malok]

You don’t greet your enemy in peace unless you’re desperate. What manner of desperate are you?​

The words emanated from the lead warrior who emerged from the towering doors. Flanked on both sides by his subordinates, the man whom Isley sought wasted no time in personally greeting him on the landing pad. In tandem with his arrival came the emergence of the artificial atmosphere - as denoted by a green icon on the Mandalorian’s HUD. The air, for the time being, was safe to breath, and therefore he did not need to rely on his reserves. Wordlessly, Isley tested the air with his own lungs before responding.

Did he consider himself desperate? No. His hubris would have prevented him from every looking himself in the mirror and uttering those words. But the reality was, one did not simply reach out to a former adversary unless the circumstances were absolutely dire. The fact that Isley was standing here, and not challenging what remained of his regime himself, spoke volumes to how out of his control things had become. The Mandalorian hated the word - but it fit like a glove. Desperate.

”The manner of desperate where you realize both you and your enemy share common ground.”

For the moment, the Mandalorian hadn’t found himself subject to the assault of the infamous Protectorate Bolters - and he would do anything in his power to make certain that he wasn’t the next body added to their kill count. To this end, he carefully selected each word, and made absolutely certain not to make any sudden movements. ”I don’t believe you are unaware of how this corner of the Galaxy looks at present. All that you, and I, worked to build have effectively come to an end. Now, everything we bled for is being picked at by vultures.”

”I may be your enemy. I may be a Sith. But my efforts brought peace and freedom, not the oppression we’re seeing today. I’m desperate enough to ask - is what we built worth enough to you that we can work together to reclaim it?”

He paused, at this point indicating with his dominant hand that he was reaching for his utility belt. His motion was intentionally slow until he procured the sole holodisc which hung there.

”If it is, I have a plan that might interest you.”

And if it wasn’t, he had Bolters and the Home Field Advantage.

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

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.

 

[Malok]

With disc in hand and clearance from the old soldier, the Mandalorian activated the device with but a singular press of his thumb. An azure projection hummed to life, depicting something that the Protectorate forces would have been familiar with by now: Clone Troopers.

”The plan is simple: the Dread Guard but better.”

”You might recall - a clone detachment defected from the Confederacy to your borders. They were highly trained warriors born specifically to combat bearers of the Force.” Living Bolters, if one was being perfectly honest. ”My plan is to sink every asset I have into a new clone detachment. One that is trained to combat more than just the Force - but every vermin that is knawing on the bones of former Protectorate and Confederate space.”

His offhand rose, pointing to the armored man.

”And I have come to ask you to be their sire. Let this new generation be born from you, learn from you, become warriors with your mindset. Together, we can bring back peace to our corner of the Galaxy. And, should you feel that who I am corrupts the plan - you would have an army of sons to gun me down with.”

”That is the abridged version anyway…”

They could get into the nitty-gritty details far later.

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

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?"

 

[Malok]

”I only require that you take your time with this undertaking. If we rush into this, we will fail. It matters not how long it takes to bring this plan to fruition - only reveal the Legion when you feel that they are ready.”​

And with the finality of his words, the accord was set into stone.

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]