Dominion Hyperlane Harmonics | First Order Dominion of Terminus & Saijo

[Aurelian Dash]

"Well, we're not getting any younger." he mused, casually tossing the small plastic bottle towards the waste bin. A surprised frown spread across his lips as the bottle bounced once against the wall and fell into the bin. He shrugged. "I figure we best get situated here..." he paused, looking around the room for a moment. "Ah." A few steps to one side of the room, a few back to the other, he had an armful of objects. Box of tissue, notepad, stapler, holopad. Setting them up in a line on the nearby counter-top. "Front. Rear." he said, pointing to either end of the line of miscellaneous objects. "About one third of the way back from the lead car there's a secure railcar. At least four guards outside." He reached down, shifting a small mug to the side to indicate whereabouts that car was. "About halfway there's another railcar, but this one seems to just be the security car. Cameras, guards, that sort of thing. The real payload is back here." He reached almost near to the rear quarter of the impromptu magrail train. "Here's where the heavy stuff is. They've got two security droids and a roamer at the front of the car - passengers aren't allowed past that." He raised an eyebrow questioningly.

"So, Gainsboro." He let the name hang at the tip of his tongue for a moment. "If you're going to join me on board, you'll need some new clothes." He gave her the once over before reaching into his pocket. With a flick of his wrist he sent a small data chit flying directly towards her forehead, a dim flicker of light flashing in his eyes. "Catch!"

Another weak chuckle escaped his lips. "Boarding pass, and a small stipend for attire." looking at his wrist chrono, he noted the time. "Got a bit of a wait yet - might want to get on that. Toys are already on board, in my luggage. I'm sure we'll find something to your liking."

Auld | Val Pellian | Isobel Nakano​

 

[Grigory the Bear]

​

The sniper was hiding behind some kind of evergreen tree, roughly a foot in diameter. Grigory didn't care. He lowered his shoulder, cocked all of his brain arms back, and turned it into toothpicks. He didn't notice. Every erg of his attention was focused on the short, squat man with the high powered blaster rifle.

Protip: don't try to kill a bear with a blaster. Bears have thick fur and skin, a thick layer of subcutaneous fat, and a thiiiiiccc pile of muscle in between any prospective blaster bolts and vital organs. Blasters are good for many things, but they're not renown for their penetration power. Burning a relatively shallow bolt through a human torso is one thing. Doing the same thing to a ton and a half of angry commie space bear is quite another.

Bolt after bolt pounded into Grigory's flank and shoulders on the way to the tree. They burned fur and skin and scorched the fat, but none of them made it through to the muscle, much less his vitals. His nostrils were full of the smell of burning meat and fur, but his mind was immune to the pain. The bearserker only had one thought.

Eat.

The sniper flew through the air without any discernable sign of a ballistic arc, his body pierced by a dozen improvised wooden stakes. The man screamed in pain and terror, but there would be no respite. Much like the blaster bolts, none of the spikes had penetrated deeply into him, either. Grigory snatched him out of the air with his brain arms and slammed him into the ground hard enough to break bones. But not hard enough to kill.

The screams were replaced with an agonized whoosh as all the air was forced out of his lungs. Grigory was on top of him in an instant. He stabbed a claw, lightning quick, through the man's spinal column at the base of his neck. He was a procedure he'd performed a hundred times, and this time was no less precise for his rage. The claw neatly clipped the spinal cord, severing outbound signals, but allowing inbound ones to pass through to the brain. The sniper's body instantly went slack from the neck down. His face worked as he tried to wail through airless lungs, but it would be several long seconds before his stunned diaphragm started to move again. When it did, he'd have no conscious control over it.

Paralyzed, unable to move but feeling every instant, he was forced to watch as Grigory's jaws opened wide and clamped down on his midsection. It was time to feast.

Daal | The Major

 

[Daal]

Keep moving.

Daal's body continued to move as though it were possessed. Striking down one person after another without hesitation, it did not matter who stood before her. Targets were becoming scarcer and scarcer as the ill-prepared youths tried to flee. Her focus had shifted to picking off the stragglers when it happened. One of the older men mixed in with the crowd, determined to seize the bounty, took Daal by surprise by getting the drop on her as she passed a tree. She had been so busy looking to the ground for new prey, that her eyes didn't think to look above. With a thud, she crashed to the ground, and the man dragged her back to her feet by her collar. His words were a blur as the ringing in her ears drowned out anything, but it was clear that he intended to use her as leverage against the bear.

What's happening?

Inside her head, the ground began to rumble within the false reality her consciousness had been thrown into. Daal sat up, almost falling over as she did so because of the sudden quake. Her head turned to the sky, a seemingly endless number of eyes stared back at her. How many died this time? The thought overwhelmed her. Her eyes seemed to fixate on one point in the sky, at which point her conscious mind was snapped back into her body, locking eyes with the man who had grabbed her.

First, a scream, as terror filled her lungs.

Who was this man? Why had he grabbed her? What was he even saying? Her heart pounded so fast that it felt like it was going to explode.

Then, a low rumble.

Quickly it ascended into a high-pitched ringing as though her blood itself was shrieking out to defy this man's existence. Her ears felt as though they were going to implode from the sensation.

Next, the man was gone.

A single, mangled forearm clung to her collar, as her legs could not fulfill their obligation to keep her upright and her knees gave out from beneath her. She sat, crying as her eyes stared off into empty space, her mouth agape from fear, tears pushing down blood that had appeared on her face.

Blood?

A fine mist was in the air, as it descended to greet her it slowly painted her porcelain complexion with a sticky layer of crimson.

A loud, creeping crack filled the air as the tree the man had lept down from began to lean over, turning into a thundering boom as it smashed into the forest floor and kicked up countless leaves and a cloud of dust. More light flooded through the area, illuminating the mist into a rusty shade of bright red as bits of indiscernible chunks stained the other trees within the immediate vicinity, as though a conical blast had erased the man's body, aside from the chewed up scrap of forearm which now hit the ground.

Some of the stragglers, unaware of what had happened but highly aware that their pursuer had fallen, turned to try and take their shot as a group. Once they fell within the 3-meter range, they also exploded in a similar way, knocking down more trees and sweeping other miscellaneous vegetation back.

Daal didn't know what was going on, only that she was afraid, and could remember everything that transpired up until this moment. Those memories didn't normally come back this soon, if at all, and they were replaying in her head on a loop she would have given anything to break. In the meantime, she simply sat, bawled, and stared into the fine red mist as it washed over her.

The Major Grigory the Bear

 

[Cierrol Harlow]

For all the careful planning, the manufactured identities, all the moving pieces that came with the job, it was the letting down of one's guard that made for the biggest potential for a fatal error. Like a woman opening her hotel room door to a room service delivery, blissfully unaware that the delivery boy was an informant for a local crimelord, who was always interested in the bigwigs who were renting the best suites at the good hotels on Terminus. The hidden camera in his nametag captured her face, directly uploading it to the crime lord's database, where it was run against his list of targets.

And got a match.

Across town, Harlow tossed down his cards, his brow contorted in frustration as he watched another cool half a million credits walk out of his wallet. He still had plenty to spare, of course, but he didn't appreciate losing one, let alone over a million credits as he had done today. Something was fishy. Something didn't add up. He was about to say something when there was a kerfuffle at the edge of the crowd, and one of his trusted lieutenants, Carraday, pushed through. Carraday leaned down to whisper something in his ear.

"You're sure?" Harlow asked, his pulse quickening.

Carraday hedged: "90% certainty according to the computer scan."

"Close enough," said Harlow. He raised a hand to the pit boss standing nearby and stood to pull his tuxedo jacket on. "Cash me out," he barked to the pit boss. "You can wire the funds to my account on record." He tugged his cuffs and then pushed his way through the crowd, Carraday in tow, heading for the exit of the casino. He walked outside, hailing a cab.

Another act of impulse. Another chink in a piece of armor, this time Harlow's. His presence was noted by First Order surveillance specialists, who communicated with command. Back in the hotel suite, Delilah Graham's coolly efficient voice informed the agents and Auld: "Harlow is on the move. We're tracking him."

 

[Tir Grastis]

THE RED NEBULA​

"You-you broke my nose, you stinkin' frakker," Zo'koth the Zabrak stammered as he blinked and raised a hand to his bloody nose. His yellow eyes stared at the scruffy looking human-type in front of him. "I'm gonna kill you!"

Tir grinned, his canines visible, as he stepped forward. He didn't need to respond, not with words, as the Firrerreon prepared to take some punches for the team. It wouldn't look right if the FOSB agent went all out in the bar brawl, since it would be very one sided, so some bruises and cuts were expected. Zo'koth flailed with his hams, as he went for Tir's head and face, to try a quick knockout probably. Tir responded with some basic blocks with his forearms, as he stopped the other sentient's swings outer forearm to inner forearm.

Remember: Sloppy bar brawl, don't break him.

Taking a turn on the offensive, as Zo'koth was pushed back, Tir stepped forward and smacked a fist low into the Zabrak's ribs on the flank. It caused the guy to exhale sharply, but he kept going. Tir threw out another jab, which was blocked, then another, which was blocked, and the pair continued to trade hits like that for a few moments. All said and done, in a common fight the Zabrak would have been decent, he covered himself well enough to get by against drunks or casual brawlers.

Time to take it up a notch, let's see if this guy can keep up...

Tir rushed forward with a growl, his attempts to restrain himself and keep things sloppy were starting to fluctuate. His natural inclination to fighting threatened to cloud his judgement and vision at any moment, and even if the Zabrak was a creep in a club, he didn't deserve a medbay visit - as far as Tir knew. So, when the Firrerreon grappled the Zabrak, and uselessly grabbed around his opponent's stomach, Tir waited for the expected response when presented with someone's back and free arms...

Thump! Thump! Thump!

Zo'koth slammed his fists and elbows onto Tir's exposed back, thankfully capable enough to try and get free with some convincing counter-attacks, which caused the Firrerreon to stumble and crouch low as he 'lost his grasp'. Still, Tir vowed he would never touch that floor, it was disgusting. The smells alone. Ugh. Zo'koth grabbed Tir from behind, his confidence all kinds of high, as other onlookers watched and a fight circle formed. Then, running with it, Tir went sailing into a nearby standing table, where he smashed through and scattered the drinks discarded on it to smash and cover the floor. And meanwhile, the bouncers inside the seedy club were speaking into ear pieces, informing the head honcho of the show...

Alright, that's enough. I've played along.

Tir turned and wiped at the blood on his lip, before he smirked and leveled his dark stare at the Zabrak. The Firrerreon expected the bouncers and gangster to arrive real soon, so now it was time to make sure the creeper didn't walk away with a reputation for fighting. As the Zabrak stalked over, Tir grabbed a piece the broken table stand and swung it at the last moment - it connected with Zo'koth's knee, which made a crack as the guy shouted in pain - followed by a solid punch to the sternum, which made Zo'koth lose his breath.

"You did your part, g'night."

While the Zabrak blinked in his stunned state, to try and understand the comment, Tir came forward and hit him several times in quick succession. Again to the ribs, a second time to the sternum and then a solid smack to the jaw, which had Zo'koth down and out before he hit the disgustingly dirty and sticky ground. The Firrerreon stood there for a moment, as he noticed the bouncers moving through the crowd, leading someone, but for the moment Tir couldn't see who - but he suspected he knew who...

______________________________

Dresden Verbrennung​

 

[Dresden Verbrennung]

Meanwhile:

Dresden was in the prone behind the stock of a kark off big sniper rifle, as per usual. Looking through the optic, he could see the whole club, near as not. The giant windows certainly helped in that regard; not only did the agent have a clear view of the dance floor, the bar, and large portions of the VIP section as well. The only part he couldn't see was the target's private box. That was to be expected, though. Crime bosses in this part of town tended to run towards the paranoid side, especially if they made threats against multisystem governments that, until a few years ago, had a reputation for being somewhat tyrannical.

This First Order was a kinder, gentler First Order, which is why Dresden was sitting behind a sniper rifle, rather than wiring the boujie bunker with high explosives.

One shot, one kill. Not one clack of the detonator and as many kills as necessary.

The agent spat over the side of the building in disgust. He wasn't a fan of this kinder, gentler approach. He understood it, to be sure, even agreed with it in most cases. As the SAIC, he'd planned this mission around the concept of minimal civilians put at risk. An agent going into the bar to break some noses and knock a few teeth loose, and another with a rifle to seal the deal. That's all it would take. No need to raise the body count any higher than necessary. But where was the fun in that?

For about the tenth time in as many minutes, Dresden sighed. It was going to be a long, long night.

Tir Grastis

 

[Tir Grastis]

THE RED NEBULA​

Zo'koth rolled across the ground, before he slid to a stop before the feet of some of the crowd. The young Twi'lek that the creep had been grabbing for earlier turned her nose up at his unconscious body, and even dug at his flank with a kick for good measure, before she went back to watching the spectacle. Brawls in the club were frequent enough that the patrons knew to stay back unless they wanted to be included in the beatdown provided by the crime boss who owned the place. And nobody walked away from him, not without a hefty cost for medical services rendered...

"There he is--"

"Oh, it's Boss Gurgur!"

"...this sentient is melted."

"Wonder if he stands a chance?"

"I need hiccup another drink."

From across the way, Tir stood with his back to the raised platform where the music DJ had been doing her thing. The platform was empty now, so the Firrerreon literally faced the direction of the entire club, which gave him a good sense of security since he knew his back wasn't going to be hit. Still, the murmurs and stop to the music filtered through, and Tir couldn't help but start to smirk as he anticipated what was to come, the fight he would have with a crime boss, no less, one with a reputation as shockingly fierce and deadly as Gurgur... and then the bouncers appeared, two burly sorts, who looked tough and capable.

"You dare mess up my place, you pile of munk?"

The voice came from the crowd, from between two bouncers, and for a second Tir was confused. He looked at the small alien that stood there, in his nice little suit, with the arms removed for ease of movement, and his curled legs tucked up against his chest. Turned out Gurgur the crime boss was a Dug, one who didn't look particularly strong or even skilled in much beyond wearing a suit and getting facial treatments; but the FOSB knew better than to judge a holobook by its cover, so he remained frosty, since the Dug had a reputation.

"I mean... it's kind of a nerf hole anyway."

"And now you insult me? So, you come in here, break my things, hit my clients, insult my place of business and expect to walk away?" Gurgur muttered, as he walked forward dramatically, his bodyguards in tight formation around him. Two more appeared from the crowd, at the flanks. Four in total, it seemed. "Ya know what? You're not even worth my time, there's no point in me dirtyin' my suit for something as pathetic as you... boys? Get 'im!"

Tir grinned. The bodyguards rushed in and spread out, as they sought to approach from different directions. The Firrerreon licked at one of his sharp canines as he watched the four aliens with dark eyes, as he focused on which one would attack first. But, surprisingly, they all did. Four large aliens suddenly jumped in, piled onto Tir, and pulled him down into a mass of bodies on the ground. Tir grunted as large hard fists smashed into him from all angles, as he did his best to keep his head protected with his arms. He gritted his teeth, punch after punch laid down, until he saw an opening: one of the bodyguards near Tir's legs had stood up to get a better angle, to which the FOSB agent lashed out with a combat boot and made the alien's knee bend in reverse.

"ARGH!" The bodyguard shouted as he fell to the ground, his leg broken clearly. "Sonofa--"

Tir rolled under the pummeling, and found one of the glasses from the broken table from earlier. He grabbed it, spun it, then stabbed the broken end into the side of the next bodyguard several times - the alien howled as green blood began to flow freely from his flank - as he fell back and clamped a hand on the wounds. Now with two of the bruisers thumping down on him, there was some hesitation from the pair, as they saw what happened to their companions. Numbers usually helped them. Tir suspected this was common for little Gurgur, who likely sent his muscle in first...

"That all you got? Come on!"

With a mad grin, Tir managed to slip free of the bodyguard's grasps. They were focused on punching, so grabbing wasn't really something they could do without actually grabbing the smaller fighter. Tir looked back from the ground - ugh, sticky and dirty - and planted a boot firmly into the closest bodyguard's throat. The big alien gagged as he pulled back and went bug-eyed, gasping for air. Without waiting, Tir pushed off the ground and rolled past the sentient, before he stood and stomped onto the choking alien's ankle. The snap was loud. The Firrerreon's deceptive strength easily cracking the thick bone inside the pant leg.

"Wh--what's going on here? Take him out, you munks!" Gurgur shouted as his beady eyes got wide. This didn't usually happen. "Kill him! Kill him!"

Tir walked toward the last bodyguard, who grabbed inside his jacket for a weapon, and reached the alien just as he moved to pull a blaster from his holster. Tir reached out and locked the guy's elbow up, so his arm couldn't pull back, before the Firrerreon brought the glass down onto the thick hand of the alien. He left it there, stabbed in, which made the bodyguard lose his blaster grip with a cry of pain. Tir reached up, grabbed the alien by the scruff of the jacket, and pulled him down for a solid headbutt that knocked the sentient clean out!

"...wha... who? Who are you?!" Gurgur started to stammer, but he was grabbed by Tir around the throat. "Ack!"

With a smirk, Tir hefted the crime boss up then glanced to the window out front of the club. Then with a spin and throw, the Firrerreon tossed the Dug gangster up into the air away from the crowd, as he said simply:

"Pull!"

______________________________

Dresden Verbrennung​

*Edit: Fixed crime boss image link

 

[The Major]

NIGHT ON SAIJO
MORALE: NEUTRAL
Grigory the Bear | Daal ​

With a hissing thud the ramp fell upon a byway between square and a major commuter route jobwards to a small fishing district. Boots clad in white armor streamed forth from the third shuttle in as many hours: a fresh platoon for a fresh set of checkpoints. The fight in the forest had blossomed into full blown civil unrest as other gangs, including ones backed by the kind of police that was willing to throw all into the cycle of exploitation, made plays across the major gatherings in the area —gambling that the armed youth deadset, literally, would deal with their problem of ursine proportions. Unfortunately for this criminal element their hand was played too sloppily, as firing upon an asset of the First Order gave its state enough casus belli in the short term to conduct an aggressive search for perpetrators in connection to that badly cast sniper shot. There was no power in the sector to oppose them militarily at the moment. A tragedy for some, no doubt; a blooming flower of stability and finishing of Bear and Co’s work as the criminal apparatus would be snuffed out ruthlessly, but not as excitingly. Weeks, maybe even months, of work would be necessary to mend the damage of tonight and reconcile the meaning of its violence.

Such a butterfly effect over a guy who was digested about a third of the way within the Bear’s stomach. Perhaps this eager sniper’s soul could take comfort from the beyond that his actions had led to these moments, even if his end was akin to that of being shoved into a food processor. Moments that were built were filled with instances like when the members of this poor excuse of a syndicate were caught out in the street and hauled in for interrogation. Moments like stormtroopers scurrying across the town, holding and questioning every person they could find, running credentials, taking statements, being incredibly invasive, stiff, and foreign much like the Major was not too long ago. In the heat and passion of law clashing headlong into disorder mistakes were made, procedures sometimes dropped like a cheap gum wrapper, or someone misunderstood and ran only to meet the business end of a truncheon, or an overeager grandmother blasted an imperial with a shotgun as they popped into the wrong address or followed the wrong suspect. Here and there a storefront was vandalized; here and there a power converter station burned alive with spilled hyperfuel.

Growing pains. . .

Sybil hadn’t even ordered such swift retaliation. She had simply reported the attack itself, the location of this incident, and updated her station that the investigation would continue. The rest was the result of those greedier and more pointed when at the big picture than the Spectre from Hoth was. Already the forest that once occupied the unlikely trio of fighters was now crawling thick with local authorities and imperial agents, who were now tasked with making sense of the brutality of the scene.

The trio had moved on from the area. To say they were friends now was a charitable interpretation, but having shared in the family friendly sport that was quick killing, they could at least say there was a better layer of understanding now built between them. At the very least, the Major could say she had a respect for the Bear and his partner, regardless of mental stability they could really churn a flank. Bearing witness to that potential enabled the auburn topped woman to see things with a wider scope. Enlightenment, however subtle, allowed light to pierce the shadow, providing a humbling experience; Sybil’s apology for her earlier behavior bore some fruit from Grigory, and now they had moved back to the original plan of partaking in some dinner.

Once at the hut, Sybil left the on duty shift stuff at the threshold of the Bear’s dwellings, seemingly throwing any assumptions or need to infer information in the trash. The Former Fallanassi was aware that there seemed to be a certain level of sensitivity within the person that she internally was referring to as the “Other One.” Shepard couldn’t ascertain if certain phrases, sudden motions, or even just her look was offensive to this Other One. Perhaps it was lost cause to even attempt to understand. Who could say? Regardless of this, once the Aspect of Imperialism was inside she excused herself to a makeshift table, and began to carefully unequip her utility belt and twin holsters, laying them down before undoing a few seals. Once this was accomplished, she squeezed the armor plate off and removed her tunic. Going into a stranger’s house and removing your clothing could be perceived as a bit overzealous, but it wasn’t like Sybil was trying to flex on her company. They seemed like people unconcerned with etiquette and far more robust when it came to need. Besides, her bandeau covered the difference in terms of modesty.

Getting the pressure off the wound on her chest was an immense relief, since the burnt skin had been chaffed off during combat. This had now swollen and seeped a mixture of blood and traces of pus. Lovely. Insignificant. A low price to pay for a lack of concentration. Considering the large scars that ran up and down her pale back and chest like black marker pockmarked with metal stitching, a little blood and scorch seemed to be like the least amount of abuse this woman had encountered in the last three years.

She started looking through different pockets of her belt, searching for a bacta patch to dress the new mark for her collection of barely healed scrapes.

 

[Grigory the Bear]

​

If Grigory was nonplussed to find the agent stripping in his home, it had more to do with the nature of the wound than anything modesty related. His interest in humanoids was trinary: were they friends, were they to be left alone, or were they tasty? Their state of dress had nothing to do with it. Myopia was a calling card of his species anyway. He got far more information from his nose than anything else.

"Smells infected," he rumbled.

Ever since taking in Matryoshka, the bear had taken to stocking human medical supplies. His own wounds healed naturally enough, thanks to his enhanced physiology, but the cub was accident prone to a ridiculous degree. She never seemed to get hurt in fights, at least not physically, but this whole "standing up too fast and passing out" thing was a semiregular occurrence. They went through nasal splints and bacta patches at an alarming rate. Considering her penchant for forging, it only made sense to keep more serious supplies on standby as well. She'd never so much as smashed a finger, but there was a first time for everything.

"This may help," he offered.

While two of his brain arms rummaged through the refrigerator for the fish he'd caught earlier (the steaks were off the grill and resting), another retrieved the first aid kit from its time honored position atop the refrigerator. From it, he extracted a tub of ointment of his own devising. It was a potent blend of bacta, topical antibiotics, analgesics, and other assorted goodies designed to promote rapid healing, all emulsified and suspended in seal fat, which had the dubious honor of being an excellent moisturizer and a topical sealant. It smelled awful and burned like the dickens when first applied, but the effects were undeniable. His own wounds were largely healed. The fur hadn't grown back, but the patches of newly formed skin beneath were healthy and pink, no sign of scar tissue.

"How do you like fish? Matryoshka and I prefer raw, sashimi, I think it's called, but grill is still hot. No problem to cook."

The Major | Daal

 

[Daal]

Daal had been dragged back to their home before she was even aware of what was going on. The shock of what had happened during their confrontation with the mob they had just fought was set in her mind, and when they had made their way back inside, she quietly took a seat at the bear's table, the metallic scraping of her needle dragging alongside the right side of her body. She laid her scarf in front of her, having just barely scooped it up during their hurried exit from the bloody scene they left behind. The seemingly absent-minded girl was quite a mess, still coated in a now-drying layer of blood with bits of dirt crusted to her hands, face, hair and clothes.

Are you going to stay covered in filth all night?

"I..."

Her voice came out as a dry whisper under her breath.

Stupid girl, you knew this would happen if you trusted that thing. Stupid, stupid girl.

Daal's expressionless face hung low as she looked down at herself. Arms and legs strained beyond their normal limits were beginning to ache severely as the adrenaline had worn off. Her belt was noticeably lighter by this point, as she had thrown several of her needles during the chaos that had sprung forth in front of them.

"I panicked."

Another dry whisper, airy and now somewhat painful. Her normally soft-spoken voice wasn't accustomed to producing such a loud scream, but as she was not the one in control, she didn't have a say in the matter.

"Why is my arm so heavy..."

The armorweave rope wound around her right arm was soaked with blood and had become considerably heavier than it previously was. With her now unsteady left hand, she reached over to release the rope from her arm, unwinding it and sending the lengthy needle clanging to the floor.

You agreed to pay the toll, now shut up and deal with it, stupid girl.

The Major Grigory the Bear

 

[Dresden Verbrennung]

​

In order to suppress something as large as Olga, one must first have a volume of space sufficient to allow the gas to expand without rupturing. Unfortunately, the conventional approach would have involved a can the size of an oil drum, and that still would have been barely sufficient for the task. Fortunately, Dresden was a clever fellow.

He was on top of a building, one with aircon units and associated ductwork scattered in a semi organized manner across the tar and gravel. It was a simple matter to put cut a hole in one of the ducts, sufficient to stick Olga's massive muzzle through, but high enough to give the optic room to see. He wasn't worried about the opposite side of the duct. Olga could punch through a tank. A few millimeters of cheap sheet metal posed about as much a chance of stopping one of the 15mm Longbow rounds as a sheet of paper. There was plenty of room for the gas to expand in a controlled manner, and it would help obscure the flash as well.

All that was well and good, but the crime boss had to-

"What the hell?"

He hadn't expected the Agent on the other end to chuck the little Dug in the air. What the hell, might as well. He did a bit of off the cuff figuring, centered the crosshairs on the apogee of his projected arc, and stroked the trigger.

There was an almighty whoomp as the firing gasses expanded through the ductwork. The bullet traveled the 500 or so meters between the rooftop and the club and passed through the ballistic glass of the club without resistance or noticeable delay. The frangible projectile struck center mass on the crime boss, such as it was, and the binder released. Solid sintered metal converted to powder in an instant, releasing all of the kinetic energy into the flesh of the Dug, rather than passing through and wasting it on the far walls. The whole thing looked a little bit like this:

Tir Grastis
​

 

[Tir Grastis]

THE RED NEBULA​

The reputation of Olga had been known to Tir, somewhat. He had never seen it in action, but he had heard others mention it in passing, so whatever Tir had expected... it hadn't been what had happened. No sooner had the little crime boss been tossed into the air, that he basically exploded into a fine red mist, which mostly sprayed backward against the back wall of the club with a splat. Still, some managed to go in other directions, and the Firrerreon found himself with some red on his jacket. With a lip curl, Tir wiped what he could off, as the club erupted into pure chaos and panic.

"Time to leave," Tir muttered to himself, as he turned and gave one last look at what remained of the Dug. There wasn't much. Tir smirked. "That's, uh, a beautiful thing."

By this point, most of the club patrons had started for various exits. And while that seemed like a great idea, unfortunately the roar of hover engines outside the club caught Tir's attention. He looked over, snarled, as he saw several black speeders had arrived and a large number of aliens in suits emerged with blasters drawn. Seemed the crime boss' reinforcements had shown up, admittedly late but better than never? Either way, they seemed to recognize Tir as they started to point through the large glass windows in his direction, likely from holorecorders in the club or something, it wasn't hard to guess a how.

That meant alternate exit.

The Firrerreon pushed through some of the remaining crowd, as he started for the stairwell. The building had been designed in the old styles, so one had been put in and made ornate for no real reason, but Tir wasn't complaining. It was one of the backup points for exfiltration. The agent started to run up the stairs, three at a time, as he heard shouts and the rush of hired help in pursuit. So, as he continued up, Tir pulled out his comm and found the frequency he was after...

"Iasos? It's Tir," He said as he huffed a bit from the fight and dash. The redheaded pilot Tir called had been in the area, he knew because FOSB reasons, and knew that any chance of escaping the building would involve her skilled hands on the stick. Especially now that he was forced to book it for the roof. "Need a favor. Can you get to the Red Nebula club quickly as possible, and hover on the south-west side about three stories up? You'd be a real life saver. And I'd owe you."

Still, help wouldn't arrive immediately, so Tir had to stall. Thankfully he had some club floors to move about in, as well as a big ol' gun on the outside. Tir changed the comm frequency to Dresden, before he ducked through a doorway off the stairwell on the third floor, as he kept low and moved between tables and chairs.

"High Ground, gonna need to rustle Olga," Tir said as he heard the footsteps of the dozen or so aliens nearing the stair door. "Got a target rich environment, third floor, stairwell entry. Trim some of that fat for me?"

Tir slid to a stop across the way, well out of the sight line for the sniper rifle, as he looked around for anything that could become a weapon. Unfortunately weapon scanners in the club had made the agent leave his toys behind, so now it was down to whatever could be appropriated for FOSB use. He found some utensils, and while the forks were a last resort, the steak knives looked sharp and pointy...

Send the rain.

______________________________

Dresden Verbrennung | Iasos Kontarr​

 

[Dresden Verbrennung]

There were three rapid, muted whoompfs not unlike a petrochemical fire sucking the oxygen out of a room and expanding into a fireball, only louder. The stairway behind Tir Grastis just sort of ceased to exist. One moment, it was there, the next, three blinding flashes, and then a gaping void.

Baradium was fun like that.

The Senior Agent knew where the stairs were. He knew how fast Tir could climb them, within a few seconds. And, he knew how fast Olga's bullets could traverse the distance between them. It had been a simple matter to set the appropriate fuze timer length on a trio of baradium bullets, count down until the Agent had cleared the danger zone, and then vaporize the stair any pursuers all in one go.

Efficiency.

"You just keep running, Sandman, I got this."

 

[Isobel Nakano]

Isobel was out the door before Graham had finished her statement.

The turbolift took her to the garage, where the rental car she had arranged sat waiting. She got in, driven on pure animalistic rage, and cranked the ignition. The speeder rose and she piloted it out the door, flicking her datapad towards the display so she could track Harlow's location. She eased into the travel lanes, weaving at high speeds through the traffic. "Nightshade, what the devil are you doing?" asked Delilah through her earpiece.

"My job," Isobel replied.

"Isobel," was Delilah's reply, but then she made a noise indicating being intrigued by something. "He's heading straight for the hotel."

Isobel blanched, glancing in the rearview mirror at the hotel rapidly retreating into the distance. After a moment, she said: "He knows." Another moment and she bit back a curse. "Of course. I opened the door. I opened the kriffing door." She yanked the brake and swung the speeder in an arc as the saw Harlow's dot on the tracker whizzing past her. After a moment, she linked it to the car he was in. "I have a visual."

"Is it just him?" Graham asked.

"Negative," said Isobel. There were half a dozen men in the car, from what her scanners told her. "Multiple life forms. I'm seeing weapons signatures."

"So, not planning to go quiet," Graham observed, her voice grave.

Isobel took a shaky breath. "Neither am I. Tell the team to get away from the windows."

"Isobel -- "

"Stay off this channel unless you have intel to share," Isobel grunted, reflexively adjusting her grip on the steering yoke. Harlow's speeder had size, but Isobel's had speed. Both were hurtling towards the hotel at a rate far above the speed limit. If Isobel could time it right, if she could just get into the right position, she could --

The PIT maneuver was a well-executed as she could have hoped, given that she was a rank amateur. Harlow's speeder went sideways, and she followed with it, jamming the nose of her speeder to the side of Harlow's. He looked around in surprise and locked on Isobel's face. She stared back, her dark eyes hard as she pounded the accelerator with her foot. Her maneuver had damaged his thrusters; he couldn't turn against her. They were locked in position until the very end, when Isobel drove the larger speeder into the garage opening, plowing through three parked speeders and the valet stand before the whole mess collided with the rear duracrete wall.

The airbag exploded in Isobel's face, stopping her from being pulverized to a fine jam in the crash, but giving her a right knockabout. She tried to pull herself from the crash webbing, but her body ached all over. The damaged communicator crackled in her ear, Delilah Graham's disembodied voice coming through the static. " -- alright? Give -- status -- eyes on Harlow? -- Iso -- on its way."

 

[The Major]

NIGHT ON SAIJO
MORALE: NEUTRAL
Grigory the Bear | Daal ​

Sybil nodded in agreement with the Bear’s assessment, and one didn’t even need an ursine’s smelling ability to make out the stink.

“Thanking you.” She chirped, taking the proffered salve from the massive paw and wasting no time in questioning things by examining the label or sniffing the contents of the tub. Immediate relief cut out the need for putting on further airs. The question of food came up, and if there was one thing that Sybil had learned in three years, roughly, since her reactivation date, was that one always figured out those details before they applied a smelly cream to a creamy burn. Otherwise one might threaten their appetite and refuse a meal when eating would be more beneficial.

“Lightly grilled. Kissed by the flame, as it were.” Meanwhile, as this occurred the whisperings continued, reminiscent to Shepard’s mind like a bee darting between the blades of grass. This wasn’t something that annoyed the Imperial Agent, but it struck her as an inefficiency that would not be ignored if the Other One was working within the agency or a branch of the military. This wasn’t to say Sybil found this person to be a freak. Well, not because of the whispering under breath. The rehabilitation facilities that had helped the former Fallanassi stitch together her consciousness was sadly filled with a multitude of broken people made that way by the Downfall. The first memories formed of other people that weren’t doctors or scientists were other Other Ones, survivors of trauma extensively experienced and in monumental magnitudes.

Perhaps there was some common ground there. Perhaps any comment would cause another trigger to snap. To Sybil it seemed disingeounous to not at least try to speak to this whispering creeper —affectionately thought— if only for the like minded kinspeople still fighting that fight on the road to recovery back on Dosuun.

“Marty’oush’ka,” attempted the Almanian, failing to imitate the Bear’s Cyrillic diphthong and not trying since that was in poor form. She spoke to the Other One without turning to look, aware that it could be misconstrued as a challenge.

“When you whisper, I can hear you. Are you speaking to Grigory, to yourself, or to me?”

 

[Daal]

She's talking to you, you know.

Upon being addressed by the new woman, Daal's face panned up. She didn't like making eye contact, but the bear had taught her enough basic conversational etiquette for her to understand that it would be considered impolite to seem as though she were completely disregarding their guest when she spoke.

"I-I just--"

Speak UP girl, you're mumbling.

"--I just have to think out loud sometimes."

Sometimes?

She might be considered crazy for any number of reasons, but she could at least feel confident that this wasn't one of those things. Just one of her minor eccentricities.

"Sometimes I think back to myself... but in my head."

Her left foot began lightly bouncing on the floor. Talking to new people wasn't something Daal did often, it always made her anxious.

"I'm... I'm not so nice to myself when I do. But not all the time. I think."

It was true that she was her own worse critic, as many are. Maybe she did manifest it in a more vocal way than most, but it was the only way she could carry on a conversation for much of her life. After all, if she wouldn't talk to herself, who would?

"I don't like the hurting... but when I think about it, it's somehow... louder, I think."

Only louder? You can barely understand yourself.

"Sh-shut up."

Daal's eyes widened as she realized she had done it again, while talking to the new woman. She turned to look at her face. It was her first time doing so, since they had been in more consistent lighting than the forest they had come from. Maybe she didn't dislike her as much as she first thought.

"N-Not you! Sorry... I... I did it again."

You mumble and you stutter and you pause halfway through a sentence and it's no wonder they all think you're dumb and crazy! Stupid girl, you just won't quit, will you?

"Stop!--No, sorry. I'm sorry. I just... When we have to fight like that, I just sort of... disappear for a bit. When I come back, everything hurts. I used to forget everything, but now I remember. I don't like it."

Daal looked down to her own bloodstained lap, while the bear was finagling fish for the trio. She couldn't eat like this, it wasn't comfortable to more once the blood on her clothing started to dry.

"I just need a moment."

She stood, slowly, and the soreness she felt before had graduated to sharp pain. Muscles and tendons that had been brought to move too hastily and too harshly were now paying the price. Her joints felt fine, for now, ever since the bear gave her the braided armorweave rope, she didn't have to strain her body as much whenever fighting was required. Still, she had to get as much of the blood out as she could, it was important to not let it dry or else it would be harder to clean later. Her fingertips fumbled with the knot on her oversized needle, the tension of the wet rope was always a pain to undo. Once it gave enough for her to put one finger through the loop, it was easy enough to undo the rest of the knot. The elongated sharped rod was loose, and she wiped whatever blood hadn't dried onto her robe, and set it off to the side next to an array of similar instruments of various lengths and thicknesses, some even curved. Their organization was something that made Daal happy, as she had rarely had a place to call her own in the past, let alone anywhere she could leave her tools and be able to come back to them later. The bear encouraged her to make use of the extra space he made for her, and while she had been hesitant at first, she was slowly coming to embrace it.

Once her first needle was put away, she removed her black robe, which was still black, of course, just wet and sticky with blood. Her clothing underneath wasn't in much better shape, but most of the blood was down her front where the robe hadn't been covering. A belt hung from her waist, and from the belt hung another half-dozen of her favorite needles. She sighed as she removed it, realizing that it felt lighter than usual, and she set the array aside with the other weapons.

Truly, she thought, the bear had thought of everything, as she crammed her robe and rope into a makeshift contraption fashioned from a steel drum, filled with water and detergent. He had explained to her in the past that he had little use for it on his own, but it was handy from time to time. Bears, you see, frequently do not compelled to do laundry. Daal, on the other hand, was just excited to be able to wash her clothes consistently for once in her life, as she removed her gray tunic and dropped it inside as well. She wore a black tank top underneath it, something she had gotten in the habit of doing after she first met the bear. The first safehouse he had brought her to was filled to the brim with tacky, gaudy clothing, but there were still simpler articles to be found inside, which she had made off with.

With a wet cloth, Daal scrubbed the blood from her scarred and bruised-up hands, arms and face, and examined herself in the mirror the bear had provided. Why did the bear already have a mirror like this lying around, anyway?

Good girl. See? Don't you feel better when you take care of yourself?

Having satisfied herself with that brief amount of productive activity, Daal felt much better, and returned with a clearer head back to her original seat which was only slightly flecked with blood from the robe she removed. The orange scarf on the table found its way back to being draped around her neck and shoulders, not covering her face this time, but she didn't move her long hair aside either. A sigh of relief escape her lips as her arms and legs would be able to rest once again.

"Can... I have some of the brown sauce with mine again? The salty one."

Her stomach growled loudly.

The Major Grigory the Bear

 

[Auld]

Catching a data chit with the space between your eyes tended to hit a person with a cold reset. Lounging with a cigarette in hand, all swagger and spit, might work with a pirate crew, but A.G was caught blinking when Dash tossed that card.

She let the embarrassment slide, water off a duck’s back; an unintended consequence was that Auld was now a lot more helpful —in the sense that she wasn’t being belligerent. Having now acquired an appropriate outfit to help her blend in. Her and the Aurelian fellow, the one who was also initially grouchy, were now departing from the hotel.

Hell had broken loose on the street and into the parking garage inside.

Not even a IFF tag or link device was necessary to follow the wake of the crash to its conclusion. Auld, stupefied for a moment, snapped out of it and jabbed Dash with her elbow since the pair of them were posing as a couple en route to the train. Nodding towards the crash, she started pacing over to it, unsure if there was going to be some firefight breaking out.

Isobel Nakano | Aurelian Dash | Val Pellian | Adrian Cassidy | Virginia Schnapp | Delilah Graham​

 

[Kimiko Taiyou]

Resurgent Narrative

At first, the Sakuran High Command could barely believe the reports of First Order movements into the former Alliance territory. It came as even more of a shock that a request for an audience had been sent, for not that long ago, the two governments had been staring one another down the barrel of their blasters.

No response had been sent as far as the Empress was aware of, so she had readied her bored forces to satiate her own curiosity, and to get to the bottom of what was being requested. The Cyaron, along with escort squadron, had assembled and rapidly made the journey to Terminus. Not a force for a battle, but one for diplomacy...

The small Imperial Naval task force, fell into synchronous orbit above Terminal City, as the Cyaron descended towards the city and designated meeting spot.

"All nets, this is SIN Cyaron, with VIP aboard, responding to request for audience. We are approaching Terminus port, please advise on follow-on instructions, over." Commander Takami let her mic go cold before letting loose a sigh. The woman turned to the Empress standing beside her station and nodded as they continued their descent into the unknown.​

 

[Resurgent Narrative]

Criminals ran the lot on Terminus and it was the criminal element that the First Order targeted on Terminus. Ultimately they had their work cut out for them, but the hope was that by working with the various agencies already present in the Outer Rim such as the Judges of the Outer Rim and their colleagues that bringing peace, order, and stability to the region could be done a lot easier. Various agents and their teams had set to task on Terminus, and still, others would meet with dignitaries from the area. Meanwhile, on Saijo a bear, a force-sensitive, and an agent would manage on their own. ​

​

Both worlds would be welcomed into the First Order's family worlds, as the Free Imperial nation continued to expand its borders. Working to not only reclaim what was lost to them in the past but to show forth their new policy of Pax Imperialis; Peace from the Empire.​

​

[OOC Note: Please continue on with your stories! This is just to wrap up the dominion aspect of the thread.]​

 

[Elisea Apollodor]

​

Terminus Space Central wasn't exactly glamorous, but then neither was Terminal City. Everything was stacked on top of each other and sometimes, a lot of the time - Elisea wondered when they would all fall down. She had been part of a team of workers sent to Terminal City to gauge it. To see how much work would need to be done to bring it up to the Dosuunian Standard of Living, or DSoL. It was a requirement that all systems within the First Order share the same standard of living as the capital. For Elisea's part, she was here with FIMS and going over the healthcare organizations and systems.​

​

She overheard the calls regarding Kimiko Taiyou and her task force, admittedly the Avalonian hadn't paid it much attention. At least not until she was told that she would be part of the welcome wagon. Elisea had been seated in one of FIMS' makeshift tents somewhere between the Terminus Space Central and the Talon Exchange. As for Kimiko, they would be directed where to land, and where to proceed in order to meet with Elisea who would be their appointed representative. ​

​

Nylea Apollodor ​