Private Generations Apart

[Minerva Fhirdiad]

Arbra, Arbran System, Outer Rim
​

Hidden on the surface of Arbra's moon was a certain gunship. Entering the cockpit with a mug filled with hot caf in her right was Minerva without her helmet on. She sipped the drink, its warm liquid steaming down her throat. The sensation caused the warrior to sigh. She couldn't help but think.

That sure hits the spot.

It had been three or four rotations since she started hiding out here away from the ancient satellite around the planet's orbit. There her targets waited but she was supposed to stay until their contact finally showed up. Nothing to do but stay put and keep listening into the terrorists' transmission while her ship stayed concealed with low power. Minerva smirked while sitting and drinking some more. Deceiving the scum from discovering her presence hadn't been easy but sure worth it.

Herk is going to give me quite the bill when this is over. Unloading my vessel from his large freighter while pretending to avoid a crash landing on the moon was a clever ruse. Then again old scaly always enjoyed playing tricks even in his old age.

Prompting up both feet up as she waited Minerva clicked on the console, reviewing the contract she took,

Terrorist group called Free Galaxy Prime.
Wanted in five systems, with multiple crimes, including two known political assassinations, several bombings and three kidnappings.
Assignment; eliminate all cell members and download evidence to contractor.
Reward; Twenty Thousand Credits

Pressing a different button she watched the console showing a holo-photo of a bombing they carried out on Malastare. It showed a ruined and burning bank with its front entrance turned into a sizable crater.

They must've stolen enough explosive material to carry that attack out. Or hired someone else to get the stuff for them. Probably the smuggler they're supposed to meet this week.

Keeping those thoughts unspoken, Minerva clicked again. This time to check her sensors for anything out of the ordinary. A few minutes passed as the cockpit's console chirped quietly with no sign. Disappointed, the merc drank up the last of the caf when the console beeps repeatedly. Raising her right eyebrow Minerva watched as a vessel came out of lightspeed.

Putting down the cup and sat up she donned the helm, wondering if this is the terrorists' contact. Her sensors proved her suspicions true as the ship headed for the old satellite…

Tag: Itzhal Volkihar

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

Bursting into real space with a flare of cronau radiation that could be detected across the region, the Felrake Hustler was something of a sight to see; built like a brick and with the durability expected of such a design, it tumbled through space with all the grace of a flailing walrus. All that was to say it was hardly discreet, though that wasn't a surprise for anyone who knew the pilot, Mavos Tyrek, had never once been accused of something as mundane as subtle.

Fast, reckless and with a ridiculous amount of luck, the smuggler had run wild across the Outer Rim for years.

His days, unfortunately for him, were numbered.

---

Crouched in the enclosed space of a smuggling compartment that left remnants of ice to creep along the edge of his visor, Itzhal Volkihar opened his steel blue eyes, awoken by the sharp shudder of the freighter entering real space. His limbs took a moment to adjust, stilled by the cold and his uncomfortable position as fingers twitched back to life; his arms reached up to press against the moveable ceiling.

Holding still as he listened for signs of movement, the hiss and rattle of nearby pipes were a hindrance that he did his best to ignore, even if it was impossible with the way frosted gas leaked from improper seals. It was just another issue in a ship that seemed to be made of them. With far more technical problems than his target seemed willing to deal with, at least such was the understanding he'd garnered as the vessel continued a downward spiral into the scrap heap.

Distant mutterings from the cockpit told him where his target was as Itzhal reached up to the lock, one hand in place to steady himself, as the other reached down into his belt of tools. Unveiling a small security kit, hardly up to date, although more than capable of dealing with this particular lock as, he inserted a file against the edge of the support and then brought another up to the opening as the prod spun around twice, then back the same way it came until there was a soft click. He pushed, slowly pulling the door open as one hand wrapped around the edge of the hidden compartment, carefully lowering it so there was barely the whisper of a thump as it was slotted back into place.

"Yeah, yeah. I'm a little late, there was a problem at the spaceport," said a voice echoing through the corridor as Itzhal's helm turned to follow. "No, nothing I couldn't handle."

Quietly, Itzhal moved closer; his footsteps muffled by the tread of his boots.

"Sheeze, it was minor," a gap in the doorway allowed a shadow to slip through as the figure sitting down gestured lazily with a flourish of the room. "One of the newer officials was trying to be a hero, but our little pal convinced him about how we do business. No, geez, I don't want you to deal with her; she was like fifteen, seventeen tops. She'll grow out of it anyway, they all do eventually."

There was nowhere in the corridor to go but forward as Itzhal neared closer, aware there was no cover or concealment. He reached the doorway, a step placing his side against the sheet metal as he stuck low, one hand undoing the clasp of his blaster holster as each movement was kept contained, barely noticeable against the racket in the cockpit.

"Anyway, I still got here roughly the same time, so let me in. Good, good. Same bay, right? I swear if you send me the coordinates again to a place, I know I'll... and you ended the call, real mature pal. Just keep rubbing it in, and one day, Mavos won't be running for you."

The minutes passed as the freighter rolled its way closer to one of the orbital stations, hulking figures deserted to time and irrelevance until finally, after centuries of disuse, they'd found purpose once again. Personally, Itzhal didn't know who they were or the reason they were all here, though he intended to find out. Mavos Tyrek had been a small bounty, a couple thousand. Information on his contacts, however, had been considered worth so much more.

With a rumbling lurch, the landing gear deployed, and the ship crashed into the surface of Hangar Bay Isk-Twelve with the same grace that it had done so many times before. The pilot barely noticed the thump of Itzhal's back against the door as he gripped his pistol tight. Then opened the door as a green-skinned Duros turned in confusion, straight into the first stun bolt, then into the second as they stumbled back into the inactive controls of the ship. Past his crumpled body, the view plane revealed a darkened hangar, two figures approaching with glowrods attached to their hips.

Minerva Fhirdiad​

 

[Minerva Fhirdiad]

"It is time." Minerva whispered watching the freighter enter the station. Quite a wonder how such a decaying orbital facility still existed after all this time. Well she wasn't here to uncover that mystery but to do a job. A harsh but necessary job.

"Time to wake up Tyatr." The hired warrior said to the ship, flipping a switch. Instantly the vessel came alive and a metallic voice answered.

"Acknowledged Minerva. All systems to go. Onward to battle!"

She couldn't help but smirk in response. Even though he was an AI, Tyatr was good company to have. Much better than drowning in her own thoughts. Minerva pulled the ship up with its landing gear folding within. At the roar of the engines the Tyatr ascended off the moon and sped toward the station.

Now the terrorists would be alerted once that happened. A full alert would be issued. The station's guns became active, locking on their new target. Salvos of turbolasers began to be fired. Minerva banks hard right then left, dive and ascends before banking right again while Tyatr answers by shooting with his own turret.

The exchange continued as Minerva pressed on maneuvering back and forth with the shields holding against hostile fire. The enemy turrets were blasted with scrap and the sheer force would shake the entire station. However a trio of makeshift fighters flew out of a seperate hangar bay to intercept. Without hesitation Minerva took evasive action, now caught in a dogfight with the unexpected opposition.

This chaos would play into the hands of a certain intruder already on board the station.

Tag: Itzhal Volkihar

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

With his target successfully neutralised, Itzhal took a moment to look over the approaching figures. Their forms were silhouetted by the light at their hips, bright in the otherwise pitch darkness. Their movements were slow and lackadaisical, unaware of the threat that lurked ahead. The blasters in their hands were held low and comfortable—easy prey for one such as himself.

Though he still had work to do before they reached the ship, his eyes settled upon the unconscious form of Mavos Tyrek, his chest lifting softly in gentle exhales despite the uncomfortable slouch against the control panel. With both hands to steady him, Itzhal slipped fingers under the other man's arms, hauling the deadweight away from the shaded window and into the nearby pilot seat. Their head lolled to the side before Itzhal used his hand to steady them back into place.

The final steps of securing his target required a reel of fibercord, the woven strands gliding through his fingers as he loosed the slack of his gauntlet-embedded weapon until he had enough to wrap it around Mavos's unaware form; as strand by strand, he was cocooned from shoulders to hip, pinned against the worn seat of his own ship.

Muffled by the closed landing door, soft footfalls on the edge of Itzhal's hearing formed a timer on the last twisted knot, sealing his target in place as they approached. His steps ghosted through the corridors on his way to respond, blaster pistol held comfortably in his grip as they reached the cargo bay, filled with an assortment of crates and containers, each marked with valuable food supplies and inconspicuous items that had passed customs many times before.

Outside, the sound of voices grew louder, confused and impatient but not yet alarmed as Itzhal strolled nearer to the door. His stride stopped only a few meters away, closer to the nearby cargo, as one hand slammed against the repulsorlift controls, activating with a light thrum of energy that chirped in the air. The crate skimmed along the metal surface towards the exit, reaching the door just as he opened the landing ramp, and the figures outside flinched in surprise, their blasters raised far too slow as two crimson bolts brought silence to the hangar bay.

It didn't last long as Itzhal stepped down the entrance ramp. A sudden roar echoed through the hull as ancient weapon batteries were brought back to life, focused upon something outside. Itzhal's helm turned back towards the Felrake Hustler and his way off the station if things went wrong. With the bounty inside already packaged away, only the offer of something more kept his feet from heading back the way he came.

He had information to acquire.

With a nod, tilted towards the blue glow of the rayshields that kept everyone in the bay from tumbling out into space, Itzhal pressed forward into the open doorway of a nearby corridor, ruined and ill-maintained as lighting fixtures dangled from the ceiling and centuries of rusted scrap metal coated the walls and flooring. All viewed through the slight haze of night vision acquired from sensors in his helmet.

Tag: Minerva Fhirdiad​

 

[Minerva Fhirdiad]

Thrusters burning Minerva maneuvered into a barrel roll while Tyatr fired away supported by his advanced targeting systems. The leading enemy fighter was blasted in scrap and dust and the remainder scattered to avoid a similar fate. They attempted to outflank but Minerva sharply turned the vessel around from the left flank and the alerts sounded in chorus inside the cockpit. This gunship wasn't meant for maneuverability but firepower.

The surviving hostiles attacked from separate angles, one from below and the other above. Tyatr focused on the top fighter fired, clipping its right wing and the craft spun out of control before exploding. Minerva celebrated a missile alert beeped and scanning on the console she saw it coming from underneath toward the engines. Her faithful AI, Tyatr locked on target while his pilot made a mad dive, destroying the missile in the process. Yet the last fighter had used the diversion to get in close, letting a barrage that caused the gunship's shields and rocked the ship with massive vibration.

Yet the craft made for another past, Minerva lifted the heavier ship upwards and squeezed down the trigger, firing in two short bursts with the latter hitting its mark at the cockpit and igniting the fighter into an explosive conclusion.

"Good job as always Tyatr."

"You're welcome Minerva but time is of the essence." The AI answered in his monotone voice.

The warrior silently agreed and made for a dash for the former rebel satellite. Just as they were about to reach the orbital facility Minerva got up from the pilot's seat and exited from the cockpit. She ran through the interior and got into the cargo bay before giving the ship's AI the next instructions.

"Once I'm onboard, stay outside and make sure none of the rats escape. I'll let you know when done."

"Roger that."

The ramp opened up as they entered the second hangar bay. As it happened Tyatr opened fire with his turret at terrorists inside trying to mount a defense. Instead most were disintegrated by the furious volleys that caused explosions and another quake inside the whole station for all inside to feel. Minerva jumped off the ramp and slowed her descent via jetpack as Tyatr spun and exited from the bay, leaving carnage and burning wreckage in his wake. Landing on both feet Minerva drew her dual pistols from their holsters and ran for the entrance.

She navigated through the metallic desolation and at the same time scanning for any living hostile. Suddenly a Gran popped her head out with a scattergun but Minerva was faster on the draw, shooting first with the left gun. The blaster bolt seared into head and the terrorist dropped lifeless. Using her jetpack hopped out of the destroyed junk she saw survivors fleeing into the interior.

It will get harder from here. She reminded herself before sprinting forward and not knowing what else awaited.


Tag: Itzhal Volkihar

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

Itzhal kept to the shadows as he traversed the ancient space station, his presence unnoticed by the few unfortunate souls who passed him by. In the dim darkness, his dull armour blended in amongst the centuries-old durasteel plates and the collapsed ceilings that went off into areas unexplored by the current residents, perfect for one who wished to avoid attention. As for the rare few that noticed him, their eyes caught on the edge of dark red in amongst the black or simply the silhouette of his form; well, they didn't last for long—silenced before they could even scream to their fellows in a flare of bright light, gone as quickly as it appeared.

Their corpses were left where they fell. If he'd been alone, then Itzhal would have had to risk moving their bodies or picking up the pace to avoid attention before he was done with the task at hand. With the interruption of another aggressor, he was free to move on, aware the smuggler's contacts were otherwise preoccupied.

His quiet steps carried him from one corridor to another, eventually reaching more habitable areas where the debris had been swept away, and a few of the lighting fixtures above glowed an obnoxious bright white. The sheer strength of the glow forced Itzhal to deactivate his night vision as he paused in time with another rattle of the hull, the sheets of durasteel rattling under his feet as the lights flickered, and he heard the sound of turbolaser batteries from nearby.

Close enough to notice the green light of another blast as the flow of energy in the fixtures above his head was disrupted, shrouding the corridor in a dull green tint. Each shot a terrible roar rattling through to the bones as the ground beneath Itzhal's feet shook. He paused momentarily as the option lingered, both hands on a pistol as his eyes instinctively roamed the corridor.

He held no debt to the individual outside, their interruption a choice of their own making and likely utterly unaware of his involvement. If the station's layout was as generic as it appeared, he might even be able to accomplish his goal and then slip out before anyone was the wiser. All without the hassle of running into another figure with no clear allegiance, whether they be friend or foe. Their decision to fight with the inhabitants of the station was not the same as a declaration of teamwork, nor was it an outright call to battle when they might not even know of his presence.

Still, Itzhal found himself in front of the gunnery bay door as another sequence of shots flew off into the void of space. The armoured flat of his gauntlet pressed against the door controls, the clack of the button, followed by a hiss of a release catch on the door before it shot open.

Itzhal Volkihar stepped into the room, his blasters raised.

The first to notice him was a Gamorrean; their bulk turned away from the active gun battery as others checked over the lumbering machine while they facilitated the less technical duties of security and heavy lifting. Itzhal put a bolt in their chest, the layers of body fat burning in an instant, though it didn't stop them as they stumbled back a step and lifted a vibro-axe high. His second round of plasma breached through the tip of their snout and up towards the brain. As their body took a step forward, almost in disbelief, they were dead.

Tearing their hands away from the targeting controls, a Nosaurian opened their mouth as a flare of light erupted in the blink of an eye. The darkness scoured away in a bright white that lasted only a moment, leaving the room darker in the sudden contrast. The Mandalorian didn't even stall, their next pull of the trigger boring through the back of his target's mouth as their many horns scraped against the side of the ancient gun. Their unseeing eyes turned away from the deadly display as a Klatoonian took two shots in the chest, buying another time to get close as they swung a vibrosword that Itzhal ducked under, his next shot tearing through their knee before he brought the barrel up and into the side of their neck.

He kicked them away as the final member of the crew fired a shot, the blaster bolt connecting with the last Klatoonian's back and the composite armour vest they wore. They ducked just in time, Itzhal's shot flying overhead as they settled into cover behind the turbolaser battery. Their laboured breathing was terribly loud in the sudden quiet.

Disturbed by a clang from the right, they shifted left, straight into the warm barrel of a blaster pistol.

The last thing they saw was a red glow that consumed their vision.

Tag: Minerva Fhirdiad​

 

[Minerva Fhirdiad]

A blaster bolt zizzed past Minerva just missing her neck by a few inches from the left side. She took cover on the corridor as the terrorists kept blasting on the edge, in an attempt to pin her down. The warrior almost felt sorry for them, well almost. Pulling out a Kashute grenade she set to a specific mode while her foes kept shooting and cursing. Subsequently Minerva tossed the device where she saw the repeater emplacement just a minute before.

Metal liquid was released in a net like form that caught the human gunner and his green Nikto partner. They cried out in shock, more panicked than before. Minerva rolled out and gunned the duo down with her pistols.

"More used to helpless victims?" She asked in a mocking tone the dead men, knowing their record for massacring innocents and celebrating it via on holnet. Not wasting another moment on the dead men Minerva sped off through the next hallway. There were broken panels and flickering light overhead. Midway a third terrorist, a Gran came out from an adjacent room and fired his ion blaster.

The blast struck Minerva from behind, knocking her systems down as she fell front first, her own momentum being used against her. Seeing the Mando go down the three eyed militant called out to his fellows.

"She's down! Shoot her, shoot her now!"

Three more terrorists came out from the front but Minerva, still laying on the floor, immediately lifted her right arm and fired in short bursts, each bolt in the chest. Seeing his comrades slaughtered despite his effort he exclaimed.

"Murderer!"

He drew a thermal detonator but Minerva rolled to face and blasted the sphere in hand, igniting a blast that consumed him and the force of the blast knocked Mandalorian further back. Sighing and grunting Minerva forced herself up and her armor's system came back online.

Been kinda out of practice when it comes to solo fighting.

She intended to remedy in the event of surviving this skirmish. Before moving onward Minerva overhead some clatter on a discarded commlink by one of the dead hostiles. Picking it up, Minerva hacked into the device and linked with hers, in order to listen to her enemies.

"Commander, we just lost team three and team seven hasn't reported in." A panicked voice announced only another more frustrated rerouted.

"Of course they haven't. They're dead as well. We got two intruders attacking from different angles and they're both Mandos!"

That last word earned Minerva's undivided attention. Another attacker who is a vod. Or is it a true vod?

In this crazy galaxy it could be a fellow Mandalorian from one of the various sects or a rogue member or just another bounty hunter playing in the armor. Subsequently she listened to the commander order his remaining followers to fall back to the commander center and the last known location of the other 'Mando'.

Minerva could let this second warrior fight these hostiles alone and wear out but the contract she was to eliminate the band and wasn't going to leave that task to this unexpected competition. Following that the militants were saying, the adopted daughter of Jorel used her jetpack to speed up the pace. Within minutes she stopped and rushed forward hearing a firefight before it died out with screams. With pistols at the ready she stacked at the wall springing forth into what had been a medical bay but now before calling out in Mando'a to the figure on the other end amongst several freshly made corpses.

(Identify yourself!)

Tag: Itzhal Volkihar

 

[Itzhal Volkihar]

With the space station on high alert, it was inevitable from the moment that Itzhal pulled the trigger that someone would detect him, whether due to the dead bodies left in his wake or an unfortunate step into a patrolling enemy force. In truth, it had been an eventuality the Mandalorian had prepared for from the very moment he'd realised his destination, looking out into the desolate hangar bay as the smuggler had slumped over the ship controls unconscious from a stun bolt—the first strike of the ticking bomb that was his timeline.

From there, it had only been a matter of time before someone went to investigate, whether it be the duo assigned to rendezvous with Mavos Tyrek or the patrol sent to check on their absence. In this case, it'd just been a poor roll of the dice as Itzhal strolled down a corridor, plunging deeper into the facility and closer to the central elevator shaft, only to run straight into a six-man squad prepared to fight with an entirely different Mandalorian, not that they got much of an opportunity as the blast doors shot open.

Both arms raised, Itzhal's trigger fingers tore through the pistol's ammunition as the dim hallway was blanketed in a bright red. Stuck at the front of his formation, an unfortunate Weequay in a fiberweave spacer jacket and bodysuit, red bandanna wrapped around his head, barely got to pull up his weapon before the first bolt tore through his neck, the gasping surprise painted on his face before he stumbled back, a source of cover for the orange-speckled female Rodian behind him, though not the bulky Gran that was left with a fourth eye along the front of his head, his body dropping aside a greener tinted Rodian. In seconds, half of them were dead, torn apart quicker than the rapidly draining energy cells attached to both of Itzhal's weapons.

Returning fire with a ferocity that spoke of sheer desperation, a male human with shaggy brown hair and a weeks-old beard screamed as his carbine screeched, the battered muzzle unable to contain the energy bolts that followed as they smashed straight off Itzhal's chest plate, his Beskar holding strong as the impact sent him back a step, he tilted his right pistol and fired back. Their corpse joined the other defenders, a crescent of devastation worn into the old metal where bodies and blaster fire were exchanged. But it bought time.

Precious moments for a Shistavanen to close the distance, their claws scratching uselessly against Mandalorian Iron that had no give but, more importantly, knocking aside the blaster that would have torn through the orange-speckled Rodian as the hand that followed her desperate scramble to the ground was tilted upwards. Straight into the ceiling as pieces of rusted durasteel and cables fell amongst the tussling titans, Itzhal back slammed into one of the walls, his other pistol coming up to the grapplers head before they narrowly shoved the blaster aside as burning plasma turned red fur to a cinder.

Their roar rattled through the corridor as claws that gleamed in the darkness swiped up, talons aimed to tear Itzhal's throat. Aware of the incoming danger, the Mandalorian leaned back, the edge of their foe's razor-sharp claws scratching against the bodysuit and skin underneath, grazing skin that wept blood, before he launched forward with the crack of beskar against bone—then brought his pistol to caress their chest, a sequence of three bolts tearing through their torso.

"Rhos..." screamed the last member of the party before Itzhal placed his blaster against the Shistavanen's shoulder and fired straight into the Rodian's chest.

Their feet collapsed beneath the weight of their helpless body, suddenly irresponsive as the holes in their chest burned; the last thing they saw was a smoking barrel as the mercenary confirmed his kill.

His armoured figure loomed like an ancient knight of memory and nightmares; the crimson stains on his gear glistened ominously in the faint light. Itzhal paused briefly, the hiss of overheated barrels loud in the dead quiet, before he ejected energy cells that clattered against the floor, the last obstacle to a simple reload as new cells clicked into place. Then, with another step into the unknown, the deadly figure continued onwards, the aftermath of a battlefield left behind him.

The next group died quickly for all that their screams lingered in the air.

He took confident steps as he checked over his remaining equipment. Itzhal tilted his helm to the side. The sensors in his buy'ce better aimed to notice the roar of thrusters and then hurried footsteps—the other intruder.

With a step to pivot towards the nearby cover of an old durasteel door, the hinges torn from a nearby wall and left to hang to the side, Itzhal dropped into a crouch.

"Tion'cuy?" asked a voice in an unexpected tongue. Memories of a shared culture rattled in Itzhal's head even as he felt a warmth in his chest to know it spread far across the galaxy even now, though he wearily prepared for an ambush or counter-attack, his hand dropped to his belt and the familiar presence of a thermal detonator.

"Ni cuy Itzhal be allit Volkihar, tion'ad tioni?"

Tag: Minerva Fhirdiad​