Last Reload

[Nicair Claden]

Warriors without a war are dangerous. Fighters with nothing to fight for are dangerous. A Mandalorian purposely without his armor.. is one of the most dangerous things in this galaxy and the next and the one past that. Some people can stare daggers into the abyss and never flinch with a returned gaze. Some people can fight monsters and not fret when they inevitably become them. It's when the darkness pulls back, and the light steps in to fill its place. It's when the light leaves that the darkness hits with more intensity than ever before. The briefest, smallest taste of the light, can leave people starving for it forever. Some, the strongest ones, keep searching for that light, they keep striving for it and displaying it. Some had it all along and didn't notice, or didn't want to. Some embrace the darkness when it comes back as an old friend. Some people who live their lives in the darkness, were stretched too thin trying to find the light. To compound on the earlier topic; a good man tired of living in the light? They are the most dangerous creature this galaxy has ever seen.

***​

He didn't know how long he'd been walking. Could have been hours, could have been mere moments. Time blended together recently. Everything was stretched out, every second ticked by with an agonizing lethargy. He had no way to keep track of time, usually he would have used his helmet, but he hadn't touched his armor in weeks. It was piled up in a locked storage closet on his ship which was.. east of his currently location? West? Was this the relatively bad part of the city? The planet? It was his old hunting grounds, he knew that much. He didn't know how long ago it had been since he stalked the stalkers and murdered the murderers in these particular streets. How easy it had been back then, however long ago that was. Everything was so simple. Kill the bad people. Avenge those that couldn't do it themselves. Easy. Cut and dry simple. Until it wasn't anymore. Until it all felt pointless, until he got bored living in the shadows, and made an attempt at the light. It didn't work.

He knew very vaguely what he was. His lineage was Sociph in nature, each one a psychopath. But he was something else, something different. There's always been the question of whether a Sociph is made or born, in effect it's galaxy wide. But for the Sociph, usually it was simple. Cut and dry simple. A Sociph is born, a psychopath is born. The two were inseparable, until Nicair came back to his planet. None before him had valued honor, integrity, or discipline. None before him had ever felt love. All of those things were considered insults, weakness, and would have labeled him a slave on their planet. A Tarish he believed they were called. The Tarish were, in effect, just like any other normally developed human being in the galaxy with their full range of emotions.

Nicair wasn't that either. He fought for honor, mostly; he lived his life with integrity and discipline, definitely so. Did he genuinely believe in those principles? He wouldn't have, but it's how he was raised. At least, that's what he always told himself. It made everything easier to deal with believing he wasn't a genuinely good man. That all the killing was just in his nature, that the enjoyment he felt was just.. that. He didn't enjoy it because he was doing the right thing, which is arguable in many cultures. At least he wasn't doing it because he felt it was the right thing. No, he liked to believe he did it because he enjoyed it. It kept everything from getting muddled. He enjoyed it, no reason to delve into the why. A "good" man tries to be happy, yes? He genuinely didn't know. His moments of happiness were a brief respite in the gladiatorial pits of his adolescence with his then wife. Maybe he'd never gotten over her death, not really.

It had been years ago, and it had started him on his path of vengeance at nothing in particular and a rage at something he couldn't find. Any further attempts at happiness were distractions that brought him away from his mission with the ambiguous objectives. It took a failed attempt at happiness for him to finally know what that goal was. Nicair wanted to die. So he'd taken hunts few others could survive, and he went to wars few wished to go. He'd delved into every underground death match the galaxy over, and had few new scars to show for it. It took him a few months, but it came to him.

He'd die where he'd killed. He was a hunter, a manhunter to be sure. But he'd never let himself be true prey, never let himself be stalked without a proper plan. Never let it get out of hand. Anyone who thought they had him trapped was soon found to be sorely mistaken, and quite dead. Without his armor Nicair was as vulnerable as he could be. The only other way would be if he were asleep of which he got little. If he was to die, it wouldn't be that way. There was no good in it, no dignity.

Nicair was tired, of waiting more than anything.

[member="Yasha Cadera"]

 

[Yasha Cadera]

In the animal kingdoms of the Galaxy, the most dangerous of creatures was a wounded mother, cornered by potential predation. So it was that Yasha Cadera, mother of Adara and Reyn, pregnant wife of Kaine and Caz Australis stood on the veranda of the Sundari Palace.

“Ambrose, you have to be wrong.”

“Yasha there is nothing for it. It must be done.” Ambrose walked along the veranda’s corridor, where it connected to the vaulted ceilinged throne room. He came into the diffused daylight of the biodome from the shadows, black fur receding as the gurlanin transformed to his humanoid form.

“Then I’ll do it! I’m not endangering our men on suicide!” Yasha slammed her fist down on the railing, growling into the clarified air.

“You should have done that before you got pregnant with Australis!” Ambrose grabbed Yasha’s biceps, twisting the woman he’d protected since she was a child around to face him. “You irresponsible, loose thighed…”

“AMBROSE!” Tuulu rocketed forward, diving between the protector and the Infernal, as Yasha snarled.

“I love him!” Yasha barked, holding her stomach with her hands. “I love Caz, too! I’m allowed to love, Ambrose! I’m allowed to have children!”

“I didn’t allow you to bend for him!” Ambrose stuck his finger toward Yasha’s face. Tuulu continued pushing Ambrose back.

“Stop! Stop it! Nothing will come of this but heartbreak.”

“I can still fight! No one is going to die for me!” Yasha roared, stepping forward as far as Tuulu pushed back.

“Like my wife died for you?! Like Ka’lo!? Like my cubs!?” Ambrose snapped, digging at Tuulu. “You aren’t stepping a fething foot out of this Palace without half the Mandalorian military! I lost my wife and cubs protecting you and Adara, and I will be damned to the Netherworld for eternity if her sacrifice was thrown away by a swollen-bellied girl whose knees wouldn’t shut!”

“GET OUT!!” Yasha bellowed.

The seedier areas of Sundari were a hotbed for nefarious activity and down-on-their luck soldiers, who were, for one reason or another, unfit to serve. Many refused the military’s services, others wanted their own way. All Ambrose knew was this mission required a cooler head than he had, and the armour, which no longer graced his skin. He needed to breathe. He needed the freedom of shapeshifting unadorned. Beskar’kandar was expensive at the best of times, a pass-down relic carried from family to family, and Ambrose would not lose his.

He could feel Tuulu arguing with Yasha, opening his arms to a woman who would never love him the way he desired. Culling the crowd in his mind, the Alor of Death Watch sniffed out the next in a series of scent trails. There were rumours of a killer, a Mando’ad bleeder.

He traced the scent trail of [member="Nicair Claden"]. This was not a mission of Galactic import. It was the potential to save Yasha’s child. From the virility of his scent, he wasn’t far. Rumours were Ambrose’s business, these blood-killers needed slaying, and Claden had the same sensation that Ambrose aspired to.

It was time for Ambrose to return to his wife. There was no surviving the battle ahead. Yasha would have to grow up, without the hand of Death Watch’s Alor.

The alley ahead would be his place of business. Ambrose rushed silently through the street, attempting to kettle Nicair into the alley.

 

[Nicair Claden]

Something was following him. He couldn't hear it, nor see it, but he could feel it. He'd spent long enough in jungles of cities and wilds to get a sort of sixth sense about these things. Threat was something the Sociph were good at detecting, they were still alive because of it, Nicair had practically perfected it. Didn't mean he was going to do much about it.

His feet kept moving without much of a command. They knew where he wanted to go; anywhere that hastened his end, and they would see to it that he got there. He didn't have his eyes forward as much as he usually would have, his head was angled down like a predator stalking its prey, or an injured animal balling up to strike. He didn't know which and it didn't really matter.

Nicair's mind told him to avoid an alley ahead of him. The self preservation that mankind, and the Sociph in particular, are known for screamed at him to walk away. It was the precise reason he kept walking. His feet carried him deep enough that it would be hard for those walking the streets to hear or see anything. No need to put innocent lives in danger for one wasted life. His shoulders slouched and his body relaxed just enough that he could fight when the time came, but not enough that he could fight as hard as he would need to for survival.

"Well.. let's get this over with. I'm through with waiting."

[member="Yasha Cadera"]

 

[Ambrose Cadera]

“GET OUT!!” Yasha’s scream chased me out of the Palace, through corridors I knew better than she, for I was traversing them before even her father or grandfather were born. Members of my Pack filter out of my way, others yelping and making needless noise as I muscle past them. Straight out. No stop but to the armoury for a shotgun and two gun belts, a terentatek leather duster coat.

I move through the city, going after the scent of the elements who endangered Yasha and her children. Who dared condemn the girl. Those pathetic insurgents were allowed too long to fester on Mandalorian soil, with their hatred for the Mand’alor. For Adara. Yet, another scent roils in my nostrils. An operative I remember. One who has been out of our circles for too long.

Ah, so that’s where he went.

Calden’s posture was the first indication something in the warrior shifted inalienably from his centre. Good. I need a dangerous man, and the most dangerous were the most nihilistic. He smelled of despair.

The man that rustled into @Nicair Calden is singular and vicious. None remain calm in the Pack, not while I am bleeding from the soul’s heart. Not while I’m grieving. I must rectify this, or never return.

I toss the second gun belt at Nicair, and growl.

“You want it over with? Follow me. I go to put down some cancerous dogs. They’re well fortified, better armed, and preparing to harm the Infernal’s child. So shoot me with my own gun or help me send them to Manda.”

 

[Nicair Claden]

It wasn't the good death he was expecting. But it had the opportunity to do what he wanted. He'd heard stories of this one, Ambrose Cadera, unflinchingly loyal, leader of the Yalilyr. The Hunters. When Ambrose gives a Mandalorian a shotgun and says to follow him, you follow, and you accept that you're more than likely going to die along the way. Ambrose knew that's what Nicair wanted. Not simply because he said about as much, but because old warriors have a sense for such things. The slightest shift in posture can reveal the world to those trained to see it.

Not what Nicair expected, but it'll do.

He gave a grunt of affirmation, shouldered the weapon, and followed on.

[member="Ambrose Cadera"]

 

[Ambrose Cadera]

The winding streets of Sundari City cleanse my mind of small talk as I navigate the smugglers' paths and narrow avenues of the lower level. Desert sand drifts across my boots. One of my ankle clasps is loose and slapping haphazardly against my leg. I wait until we're at a crossroads, put my foot up on a crate, and clasp it. In my mind, Yasha's scream desolates the engendered disquiet of telepathic communication with my pack.

All of them heard it. Over and over, unending as each thinks again upon the way I reacted. Yasha screaming at me to leave her side.

The first time.

I refuse to think that I shouldn't have called her a whore. [member="Nicair Claden"] picked up the weapon without a word. He knows the dangers on the path ahead, yet like me he refuses to stay in the stillness of those backward places, where people try to maintain a sense of one place in time, only to age into a natural grave.

"Kill all inside." I don't need to justify the order. Nothing in me could. Nothing but the ferocity of cleaning up another mess made by that dashed Australis the day he saved Yasha's child from her untimely, yet battle-won death. Four days old... Adara had only been four days old. Yet, Adara isn't the only progeny of the Mand'alor we go to protect.

To salvage.

Our destination enfolds before us, a symphony of many architects adding unscrupulous additions on a structure which by rights shouldn't stand. Whatever cobbled the massive thieve's warren to its' moorings ought to be studied for a decade... and it would, if we were not about to tear it down.

Over two dozen beings remain inside, at various stages of battle preparedness. As I creep up the side emergency escape to a series of thin windows, I peek in. There, on the table were vials in sterile transport cylinders. Barcodes emblazoned on the side. Three... four... five. They were all present.

"Oy! Fronk, get these loaded up! Boss wants 'em before she gets old!"

"Easy for you Gala. You didn't have to get the samples!"

"Just shill them on the speeder."

I push open one of the windows, and slink inside.

 

[Nicair Claden]

Nothing about the situation needed elaborated on, no explanation, only direction. Only the simplest of orders, "Kill all inside." It was easy, straightforward, the aiming of Nicair's bullet. It was the basest position a warrior could be in, point and shoot. He'd grown reckless, death seeking, but a pointless death rushing headlong into combat with no reconnaissance or idea what the battlefield would be like won't do. He stuck close to Ambrose, let him find them a position.

The small drop to the ground was easier without the armor, quieter as well. He'd trained in the subtle art of assassinations, but it had been awhile and it hadn't been near as extensive as his other endeavors. Luckily, martial arts is applicable to a variety of different activities, moving silently and body control during falls are just two examples. The next part is what he really enjoyed.

Keeping his body low he moved through the almost maze-like array of crates and equipment, it wasn't an ideal set up but it was something he could work with. His main target were a variety of corridors slightly disconnected from the main group, that is where he chose to make his killing field. Tight corners and close together space made it all the more fun.

It didn't take him terribly long to become acquainted with his environment and he was counting the steps in his head from each turn or side niche. Three paces, hard left; four paces, two man long in-cropping. He quickly grew comfortable enough to start making a controlled amount of noise, just enough to draw some attention, not enough to bring a large force. His ears picked up what he'd been straining them for, "go check it out" or any of its variations. It was far from a wise decision, but he set his shotgun down and leaned it against a wall facing a corner such that someone inspecting it would have to turn their back to the new passage.

The steps were approaching from the intended location, he made sure to make small amounts of noise to keep his prey moving closer. Shuffle here, brush against something there. Soon enough a young man turned the corner, it took a little straining for Nicair to see clearly, but it was plain to see that he was late teens to early twenties. Good. Humans are dangerous at that age, so full of fire and a lack of any sense of consequences. His grin was one of the first he'd shed in a long while.

He could hear the young man mutter to himself upon seeing the Mandalorian made shotgun, even in Sundari, military grade armaments like this would be relatively hard to come by let alone lying around. Nicair lowered himself, his body ready to pounce, muscles primed for explosion. Once the upstart began to turn towards him he shot forward using his momentum to slam him against the opposite crate and in a movement almost too fast to recognize he struck the boy's throat with a crushing elbow. His opposite hand shot up and grabbed his face, holding it steady. Nicair wanted to look him in the eyes as he died, slowly suffocating from his shattered trachea.

His grin widened. The predator was hunting again.

[member="Ambrose Cadera"]

 

[Ambrose Cadera]

“Fronk? There pleckles in here again?”
“Trap ain’t gone off. Go check it.”
“I’m not checking it! Send the beech.”
“Wasn’t Booie back there already? Get him to do it! Oy! Booie!”
“Fething men. Can’t handle rodents dead in traps… I got it…. buckets for brains.” The female slung her pistol back in her holster, and stomped away from the canisters in the middle of the table.

Fronk went back to cutting foam to keep the biochem seal containers safe during shipping. The Beech, a stout woman short of stature and wide of frame stomped on.

“Booie, you find the rodents yet?” The Beech peeked around containers. This place was a sty. “Booie?”

Booie would say nothing. His eyes faded to a dullness devoid of life, in [member="Nicair Claden"]’s grasp. I leave Nicair to his kill, slinking along the upper deck in the form of a viper one could see in the Mandalorian jungles further north.

The Beech’s hand twitches on the handle of her pistol, as my fangs rip her throat. I coil around her, setting her body to the floor and hissing into the warehouse.

“Beech? Kad Harang, where’re the bozos? Fronk, finish up will you? Darth Gyaumchem won’t wait long, and you know how she gets.” The other voice, too deep to be sensible, continues to get closer.

“Fronk do this. Fronk do that. Go screw an intake manifold, I’m working! You know how hard it was to get these blood samples from the kid?”

A speeder grew closer outside. The doors slammed, heavy boots hitting duracrete. Reinforcements. My body slithers to a warm spot, by a series of pipes. I take in the heat, tongue tasting the air. Fronk. It’s time to kill the man with the stupid sounding name.

If I don’t now, we might not get the chance, when the reinforcements get into the building.

 

[Nicair Claden]

Ambrose covered him, he'd never seen the abilities of the Gurlanin in person but had heard no small amount of stories. A death by blaster shot in his back wouldn't have been what he was looking for. The boots that sounded on the duracrete would be far more sufficient. Reinforcements arriving just outside by his guess. Too far to determine how many, didn't much matter. All it takes is one well aimed blaster bolt without his armor and it would all be over. The thought, while pleasant, wasn't the death he wanted either. Too quick.

All listening to the voices echoing in the building did was point him to his next target. This, Fronk individual seemed to have very little power over the rabble. Whether his death would mean anything didn't matter much to Nicair as, he wasn't the Sociph's intended kill. It was the man commanding him. He would let Ambrose have this one, but Nicair wouldn't be behind for long. It didn't take him long to gather up his shotgun and anything this "Booie" was carrying. Pistol, some ammo, a syringe of something tucked in one of his pockets, and a small vibroknife. Far from appealing, save the blade, but everything has its use. He tucked the pistol in the small of his back, held the knife between his teeth and picked the body up, draping it across his shoulders. When going for shock value, always have evidence.

While it was certainly true he hadn't done an extensive exercise routine for some time, this wasn't to say he hadn't been training. His joints groaned slightly in protest but his muscles were more than willing to bear the extra weight. Thankfully they had made the mistake of stacking an assortment of both stable and unstable, in terms of climbing, material next to the walls. If he was careful, it wouldn't be too much trouble staying balanced while using the junk as lanes. He worked quickly in setting up what he had planned. Using some tubing and straps that no doubt coil around engines he strapped his corpse to swing once pushed. Around chest level he placed the syringe. Placed was kinder than reality, the glass casing he broke and jammed the needle end into the flesh of young Booie's chest.

Guerrilla warfare was always his favorite. So creative. There was the matter of springing the trap, but nothing a little wire and ingenuity couldn't fix. He'd been in the underground for a long while, traps were something he picked up on swiftly. The trigger was far from hairlike, but someone distracted could set it off with little problem. Wouldn't be quiet, but he left that up to Ambrose. His legs started carrying him on again; it wasn't a dead man walking this time, it was a predator stalking.

[member="Ambrose Cadera"]