Location: Inbound to Imperial Palace
Allies: Mando'ade and Omega Protectorate
Enemies: Dar'jetti and friends; [member="Bastian Briareos"]
Objective: Get to the throne room and knock some sense into Ori'vod; [member="Ordo"]
Haraan on wheels, the squad of bikes that resounded on the surface streets of Coruscant echoed the engines as close quarter combat was paved through. Flashes of light were shot back and forth pelting through Sith militia, tearing down their border patrol with unquestioned resolve. Admittedly though, Azrael and his group were late to the party - and as such, only an echo of the message that had been broadcast before was now filtering through the streets. An internal command piped the message into his comm to see if he had identified it right. He had thought it a hoax before, or simply an uncanny resemblance to a voice he knew all too well. Voice recognition in the buy'ce confirmed that the voice and command had officially come from the lips of Ordo. The besked raised and sliced clean through another guard as his bike swerved to a stop, and his booted feet hit the pavement. Very few things caught Azrael truly off guard, enough to stun his movements. This was one of those rare times, where he just dead silent. The team cut down their own sighted foes before they also paused at the indication of Azrael's cease to advance.
A thousand or more things went through the half-blood's head as he stood there, attempting to the process the man he knew, with the man who was now issuing decrees across Coruscant as the Dark Lord. All the way back to the first time he'd heard his Ori'vod amplify his voice and blast an Echani out of commission over the bar on Ord Mantell. The man who had rescued him from that life, and that planet. The brother who had shown him the art of flight. This couldn't be the same man who was now seated on the palace thrown. Nothing made sense, the Galaxy itself seemed to turn upside down in the young mind of the Field Marshal. Ordo was a Force user, that much he knew. There was no fething way he was the Dark Lord. This was a ruse, a ploy, something - anything besides the cold hard truth.
Several attempts to rally his attention failed before his head snapped to the side, and he took stock of the situation. Brows furrowed within the helmet as he sheathed the besked in the side holster and mounted the durasteel steed once before, a two finger double shake ahead gave the vode everything they need to know, and the bikes took off again. The Field Marshal took a sharp turn, bringing up scematics of massive palace that he was heading towards. A route was plotted that would take him dead center into the heart of the throne room. There was no more fortification of the vode in his plan, no more removal of the Sith from the site. There was only one objective on the Mandalorian's mind now - and that was to come face to face, eye to eye with Ordo. While he was trying to reconcile the man who had known with the one who gave that decree - he was also attempting to formulate a plan to take him down should the need arise -- and it likely had.
:: On my six, break formation if you get heavy fire, but we are getting into that throne room. :: A secondary channel was opened up, one that he hoped would at least reach into the palace and go directly to this new enthroned Lord of the Sith. :: You better have one hell of an excuse for this stunt, vod...because I'm coming right for you. :: He cut the transmission, not really interested in a reply at this point. Ordo had done a lot of things for Azrael in the past - but he had never upset him. This had gone beyond words, this was a time for action, and Azrael was intent to make this showdown mean something. Jerking the bike to a fallen blockade, he used the structure as a ramp, and let his bike roar up it. A series of pipe lines with a wide enough birth traveled straight towards the palace proper. All of the bikes took purchase on the lines and raced ahead. The shortcut was more dangerous, but the spirit of the Manda was with Azrael, and he wasn't even attempting to back down. Covert was out, and direct was now his plan of attack.
Minutes flew by as the adrenaline rose thick as blood through the Field Marshal's veins, giving credence to the acceleration of his tumbler, whining the engines high and hot as he tore across the pipeline. Advanced tracking data linked to the navigation of another one of his vode; the Liberator's armor pinging off to him for a nav point. The trajectory of the jump was plotted out well before he attempted it. Both hands jerked back on the yoke as the front wheel lifted up off the pipe, balancing on the rear before it hit the makeshift curve in the pipe and the bike lifted into the air. Clearing a sizable wall by just a foot, the black bike dropped down, slamming into the permacrete pavement the surrounded the palace and swerving into a slight fish-tail. Wheels spun and peeled some serious rubber before traction was retained and his bike sped forward. All five bikes whipped by as the vision of some solitary action was up ahead within the next few meters. The pack diverted, two going to the left, and three going to the right with Azrael in the lead. He saw Mia, in a standoff with another dark robed figure, but he wasn't about to wait his turn. He'd have to encounter a real obstacle if his path towards the throne room would be upset.
[member="Darth Mierin"] | [member="Mia Monroe"] | [member="Ordo"]
