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They talked in circles over her head and Lyra flinched as a shadow descended over her, tearing her gaze away from the unknown man, greeted by a trooper’s faceless helmet. There was a team filing around and the cityscape faded into the background as her eyes trained on the soldier. A pained noise scraping out from behind her clenched teeth. He handled what remained of her limb with little finesses. Blood covered the greater expanse of her armor and Lyra’s vision waned once more. Faintly aware as something was applied and a fresh wave of pain descending her as the trooper fixed upon her tourniquet’s work. Where was the electrical tape and rebar stents at?
Had the spearhead broken through? These weren’t reinforcements, she had given an order..Unless they had persisted and come back, searching the man’s arm plate, her head lulling. White plates, not a single insignia-These weren’t her men, they would of known better. She mourned that there were no cataphracts roaring in the distance, where was the armor? Where was Waylon..or even Irveric Tavlar
. She wanted to see his face so badly. Her mirth in the face of absurdity gone, she was afraid.
Why couldn’t they be realistic? She wanted to rejoice, but damn, no man left behind when it was feasible. She had been prepared for the worst, could settle if this was it. Made her peace, there was a certain reassurance in death even if someone had come. One squad offered little guarantee let alone safety.
Bleeding out was a painful way to go barely clinging to consciousness. It didn’t change she was likely the only commanding officer present. Tears welled in her eyes and another string of laughter escaped her throat, the noise choked and pathetic. Why was it so damn funny, where was her last smoke? Salute? The irony was not lost on her. She couldn’t even die peacefully, maker be damned. Beholden to oaths until the end.
“Trooper,” Lyra rasped, coldness creeping up her legs. “confirm cloak presence-and get my legs elevated.”
There was only one kind of sadistic fuck who’d walk out in the middle of a hotzone that wasn’t her and theses idiot troopers. The soldier’s hand stilled on her and she caught the black visor’s stare.
“Cloak confirmed ma’am,” his voice distorted, gravel to the ears.
Yeah she assured herself, he looked like a bad feeling. With what energy she had left, her gauntlet unclicked the last grenade off her belt. Chuckling as her thumb popped the trigger, with a shaking arm, she lobbed the frag out at the space between them and the Sith; the metal canister bounced across the ruble and cement.
“Frag out!” she coughed, her one hand reaching back up to shield her eyes.
The grenade popped off within a blink of eye, showering them with a disorienting flash. A smoke like substance, voidstone particles lacing the air following; filling the space. It was a fighting chance for the boys. The trooper bless his heart had the decency to try to shield her from the flash bang, but without a helmet there were no dampeners and the noise deafened her completely. Sleep seemed a kinder fate, she couldn't level a pistol her eyes lined with lead as Lyra fought a losing battle to keep them open.
There was something almost primordial in watching the empty vastness of the void, and, by spectating, realizing just how unfathomably large it truly is. Each passing moment only meant another moment passing in which this native galaxy grew apart from others. There would never be truly the chance to discover what lay beyond the galax, to jump into another one, even if there was another one that one could pursue without fear, and even still such an action would be forgotten by the tyranny of time. Every passing moment wasn’t even a grain of sand in the vast beach called reality, every memory held, every word spoken, every emotion felt, fight fought, tear shed, triumph accomplished, or grief mourned for, they were all nothing. Little more than like tears in a great rainstorm, stardust dancing a short dance before returning to the cauldrons from whence they arrived.
Aagenti looked out across the vastness, blooming with fire and light, noise and fury, raging in a silent vacuum, and he felt just how small he had felt when he first awoke, his hand a framework of bones reinforced with metal, flesh stripped away and each fracture like a tiny accusation that he will always be human. The crucible all around him burned as furiously as the sun above Mygeeto, careless of those that were harmed within the great expanse and only hungering for more and more, until it burned out and leaves an iron casket, a cauldron once holding in its hands the light that made and the fire that undid. Aagenti felt how Telis did, and both facades aligned to make the whole figure.
There was something almost primordial in watching, at once, dozens of guns turning to aim straight at the very thing keeping not only oneself, but hundreds of other people separated from death. There was no valorous spark nor dread of death, but it brought Aagenti to a revelation that war was not a game that should be played lightly, even though every action leading up to this point was aching with said truth. Some others who stood in his shoes only lived to see the results, the bloody field laid barren beneath a black flag, and yet Aagenti saw the costs war had, not only for lives or for money - those things were easily replaced - but for the mind. He had stared straight into hyperspace without flinching, and yet here, he felt a different pang.
He felt it as he saw another rogue fighter shot through, wing pierced and screaming in an orange blaze. Like a shooting star it kept its path, unable to turn and spinning out of control like a ship lost in orbit. It screamed through the fight, miraculously avoiding slamming into an adversary or ally, as again and again the pilot kept their best cool, desperation flaying their focus as shrapnel had flayed their armor. Through the fight the lost soul spiraled, another shot piercing straight through the hull and silencing the pilot inside, leaving the fireball of a wreck careening into the hull of a satellite station, a bloom of fire and shrapnel being the few things left of the interceptor.
He felt it as he saw yet another Corvette, painted in blackened markets and cannons spewing red energy out into the breathing mass of metal and destruction that stood between himself and Tyrell Paxxus, all guns set into another of its type. In slow motion a bomb squadron pulled in close, armaments set down on the ship and overloading the shields with menial fire, disabling what turrets it had and leaving them in the dust. In a single turnaround, the bombers made their mark known, a payload being dropped and forgotten, pelting the hull of the ship like fireworks in the night sky. All through the relays the signals lit up, emergency calls and cries for order and assistance, desperate individuals who felt helpless. Then, all at once, a single torpedo, a lucky shot from somebody who was one in several trillion, slammed into it, breaking against the command center of the ship and silencing the calls. A wave of fire arced down the spine of the ship, before at once, as the universe held its breath, it exploded into a nova of shrapnel and energy, shattering the bomber squadron who struck it down and was caught in the catastrophic blast.
He felt it as, to his far side, the spider web of cracks from the Athena’s shield only continued to grow, holding onto its last few strands. It had done its duty, but Aagenti knew deep inside the how thin the chances of the Longbows for survival. They were a target, unprepared for what’s to come and unable to change their orders or prepare for what’s next without chaos and disarray. Time in and time out, Aagenti watched as the ships kept up their assault on the shield, constant barrages of heavy laser-fire from ships battering down the defenses without pause nor reprieve, while bombers, circling in dogfights as interceptors chased after their heels like hounds at a hunt, kept on the shield, often sacrificing themselves just to get off one bomb on the shield, a bright flash of blue before all around them, everything turned red, then orange, then black, and sound died to a distant memory.
Over and over the images played out, spiraling little fireworks against a black canvas, mottled with red and green and burnt silver in the wake of each trading blow. Aagenti looked out and saw every brief moment in slow motion, as he felt the revelation again and again, beating itself into his psyche and ensuring that the memories were branded, scars that’ll never heal but bring enlightenment rather than degeneration. War was a beast, a domain with no possibility that a single man should ever hope to lord over it. It was its own being, thinking, doing, writhing across system after system without pause.
Aagenti could take command of an army, that much was obvious to him, as every blow they took they dealt easily back to Tyrell, one way or another. He had shored up his courage to ensure that he would not falter nor make the call that would leave him weakened compared to the man he stood across from, but the cost for such an upper hand was strewn throughout the skies of Mygeeto. Call after call, the lines came in, devastation spelling out in great detail before, at once, there was static then silence. It became a rhythm, a pulse to match Aagenti’s own, and perhaps he would come to learn that this was the true thrum of war. Not any beat of drum nor hail of fire, but the outcries and the static, the noise and then the silence.
Outside the battle continued to rage as fiercely as the noontide sun. The swarm shifted and moved, waning yet never relenting, as more and more the scars of fire took their dues. Within the atmosphere, all sense of cohesion was lost, the lone captain trying in vain to regain control of a situation that they were losing but never bowing down to. They had not failed to keep Mygeeto from any support from above, but what defenses they had broke with each passing moment, squadrons reduced and one even entirely broken to pieces, a rain of shrapnel lost within the bitter storm raging below them, raining down as frozen specs of burnt, twisted metal. For every one they lost they took down readily many, many more, but even experts had their limits. Men were mortal, and legends could hesitate and fall.
The system seemed to hold its breath, as with one final stroke, Aagenti felt a finality of the Athena’s defenses, broken by Tyrell’s flank and leaving the Longbows open to the swarm that now crashed upon them, a wave of energy and fury. The NIO ships knew their training and knew their training well, and within a wave of assaults, the heavy guns that the Longbows relied upon were disabled, struck down in swiftness like broadswords against a caber. Relays once again lit up, and behind him, Aagenti could feel the shift in the tide. While the Potentate was able to use what guns it had to protect the frigates closest to the Anathema, the Longbows were the focus of a heavy storm.
Crashing down on them in a blitz, before even the slightest sign of a message could be called out, the bombers and fighters had torn through the farthest of the Longbows like fire burning away at a dryad. In a hurricane of bombers, a barrage of bolts from the blue slamming into the heavy guns and annihilating them, lances of stray energy dancing with licks of flame in a dance that would be beautiful, were it not followed with the cry of captains and commanders, sounds filling the relays that centered on the Anathema, now the focus of all of Tyrell’s firepower as it returned all its own firepower to the flagship of the Grand-Vizier. Like two great Gemini each caught in their own war, both the Anathema and the Longbow held their own, though the Anathema had nobody to signal to for a saving grace.
In another barrage from across the darkness, the Longbows was struck, blossoms of green and orange sparking the void with a semblance of life, as in turn the vast, bloody expanse took all it could. The ship crumpled, engines dying in a great blast that left blackened streaks in the hull of the ship. As slowly as it had been built, the engine’s explosion followed through, the bridge of the ship being caught in a vast blast that shattered the reinforced glass and opened all that made it run into the dark of space. Down the spine of the ship came the fires as the oxygen burnt into nothing, expelled into the darkness before, with it, one final supernova of a bang shattered the ship into nothing more than a crypt, a memory followed by static and silence. War beat its pulse once again.
Aagenti felt the wave of energy flow through the force, a heinous brush of silence in an inner turmoil so endlessly caught in self-propelled conflict. It silenced him, as unity befell the brief moment in which all those with the Longbow were united, equalized, vaporized, atomized. It flowed through him like the worst part of any two-sided truth, making him cringe as all the energy of chaos and impassioned drive, desperation and fury, silence bit by bit. The galaxy became just a bit more silent, and if left Aagenti wrought with something that he couldn’t quite explain. Death was something so overlooked by the Sith, and yet it was something that, perhaps, weakened them more than all other things.
Torn across this new expanse within himself, he felt drawn to see now, every small detail across the gap. He could see in cruel detail as, far off, the stations that had sought to catch the NIO in a web were now fighting to defend their own stations, some standing strong, others burning bit by bit until all that remained was ash. In tandem, slowly, he watched as the bombers set upon the first of the Longbows now turned death-dealing sights upon the Athena, a far smaller prey and one without defense beyond its armor. They befell it like a swarm, and amidst the chaos of explosions in the dark, ion torpedoes crossed paths with escape pods, fearful survivors who turned their backs to live to fight another day, knowing that death was soon. Instead of letting the Athena try to remain in the fight, Aagenti bowed his head.
”Order all passengers of the Athena-class vessel to escape. To believe that it will endure would be pointless. Order the Potentate to leave the system, this fight is not theirs. They’ve done their job.” Aagenti turned to the admiral who now stood next to him, his arms held at his back and a strange expression between inquisitiveness and confusion. Looking down at the console that he had held in his hands, he swiped through it, observing details, before back outside, trying to see what Aagenti saw.
”But my lord, we aren’t losing by a notable margin… our losses have been great, but so have theirs… to withdraw the Battlecruiser would remove one of our greatest advantages…” The admiral looked down and tried to make sense of the statistics and the words spoken by the Lord of Genesis. The idea of retreating vessels and giving up overwhelming advantage seemed completely anathema to what all other commanders of Aagenti’s breed and caliber would do. Regardless, with a single look from the side of his eyes, the admiral backed down, ordering the full abandonment of the frigate and the retreat of the second Battlecruiser. It was slow, but after a few moments, breathless, the swarm of drop pods escaped the Athena, some destroyed in secondary fire as, behind them, the Athena was pummeled into nothingness - a small distraction to give the fighters time to lay into the bombers and decimate them without fearing too much retribution from the bombers.
Behind the Anathema, the weapons of the Potentate turned away from the fight, focusing on laying down fire against any who veered to close to the vessel, as it turned away from the fight, slowly drifting across the vast void like a sloven giant, engines beginning to turn from the normal orange to a bright, iridescent blue, as the systems were switched from combat to retreat. Aagenti knew that the Potentate was a sitting duck even for a ship of its size. The Sith-Imperial armada had nothing to fear from Tyrell, but to risk the damage of a ship outside of its purpose was a terrible move on Aagenti’s part. If it came to it, however, Aagenti’s more insidious mind undermined the noble intentions on the surface.
At heart, New Imperials were still Imperials, born and bred from the same violence and conquest, even if they aspired to be something far more benevolent. To draw the hive from its swarm and spread it thin, it would open up those poor ships who wished to take down and besiege the heavy Battlecruiser for rebuke from the Cruisers and Corvettes who remained, whose purpose before that moment had been to try to break through Tyrell’s complimentary heavier ships. The Cruisers turned their guns to the fighters that possibly trailed behind the Potentate, unleashing hell upon the trackers, while the Corvettes turned their movements towards the Longbows, moving as swiftly as they were ordered to possibly go to break through the festering swarm that danced around the orbital cannons.
And all the while, the Anathema took blow after blow, the flagship every so often met with a heavy, lucky shot from Tyrell’s barrage, and watching as flares of light were sent spiraling into the darkness. A barracks hit and destroyed, blast doors preventing the soldiers from escaping but sealing off the damage from being worse than it could’ve been. An underside array of cannons lighting up one by one before turning dark, each one carrying a shockwave felt by the engineers who had been unlucky enough to be near the gunnery rooms. All those fighters who had been brave enough to try to defend the flagship, robotic or otherwise, shred apart in the crossfire of vengeful beams, laced with red and green alike as, in the blinding flashes, none could tell an ally from an enemy.
”My Lord, the Anathema is taking heavy fire. We should consider pulling back and allowing our bombers and gunships to dismantle the flagship of the Grand-Vizier, otherwise we could be lacerated, and left with repairs that would devastate us after their own flagship falls. A course of action must be taken right away otherwise we’d risk death or having to evacuate and leave General Ordo without backup once the Grand-Vizier has been… dealt with.” The admiral beside him looked to see the destruction spreading across the broad side of the Anathema, behind engineers and technicians keeping up the constant updates of damage and hull levels - the former increasing greatly and the latter dropping just as much.
Around him Aagenti could feel the fear in the room, whispered breaths asking one another as to whether the man leading them was a suicidal warlord. He heard them, and let each little whip on his image sting, let every one of their fears fill his own chest, and build into a lead pit in his stomach. He was brought back, farther and farther into his memory, a past equal parts often forgotten and often buried, to try to defeat the feeling of mortality that Aagenti felt. In a galaxy full of gods, beings far older than he could comprehend, and legends who had entire worlds that would die for them, he was nothing more than faceless, a lord of beginnings and whose own beginnings are nothing more than pathetic and weak. He felt that weakness now, and let it burn him, deep, blackening his inner self and converting whatever furnace he had into scorn.
He felt that vex, and with every shot Tyrell’s ships pitted into his own legions, no, every shot anybody pitted into anything under his control and domain, he felt it grow. Beneath him, Mygeeto raged, caught in a war where more and more Sith were killed by the actions of careless New-Imperials. People who fought for a cause and wanted that cause to fight for them, people who looked up to Aagenti and asked him for guidance, and now he was without the ability to save any of them, so far removed and focused on fighting a war that none of them could truly grasp the scale of. He felt all that pain and scorn, all that expectation turned to disappointment, and he let it blaze deep inside, his cybernetics turning brighter than ever, blazing through his dark clothes and threatening to blaze through his eyelids as he closed them, going into a point of meditation between the peace and the chaos - Aagenti’s Twilight.
It flowed like a river between crushing rocks, unstoppable and impatient after years behind a dam, blocked up and waiting for the right moment to be released. Who Aagenti or Telis was faded into obscure thought, irrelevant to the being that stood there now, their eyes closed, heritage forgotten, expectations weighing upon them like a burning mantle and an iron crown. As slowly as the sun was setting over the battle of Mygeeto, as slowly as the Potentate crawled to escape, as slowly as the few stations left in orbit of Mygeeto fought in vain, he raised his hand, palm flat, fingers spread wide. In the trading of fire they looked pale, all color devoid save for the blackness of their hair and the tradings along their skin, changing from those lines of code to something more primeval, twisting and turning to writhing tendrils, coiling up their skin and threatening to choke them as the images wrapped around their neck.
The breath left Aagenti’s body, their body devoid of all things, as he channeled it deep into that twilight, his hand shaking as his eyes twitched. Another blast against the hull sent a shockwave through his senses, threatening to break him from his concentration, but he let the defiance of such an action be more fuel to the fire, growing ever brighter. Aagenti felt himself alone in a system of destruction and fire, he felt himself driven to a point that he had not been before - the choice between backing down, or dancing to death’s door in a way he had only done once before. Tyrell thought he understood the tyrant within the gleaming black carapace of his armor, and for a moment, a spark of smugness lit the lofty kindling beneath.
Then, like a torrent, it all fled out, all the emotion, hate, drive, torture, pain, ambition, expectation, disappointment, success, failure, joy, grief, triumph, downfall, beginning, end, life, death, every inch of kindling born from paradox or feeling, every time that Aagenti wished to scream in defiance to all that existed. It flooded from him, filling the room he stood in and silencing all in a choking field of awe, as his breath returned to him, a scream filling his lungs and emptying out far beyond the air of the room. It emptied out into the main chambers of the ship, into the hearts of those that feared they would be dying for nothing, and far, far beyond the ship. It emptied out into the void, into the damaged scars that marked the Anathema, and into the wreckage that surrounded it now as a grim halo and reminder of death.
It was horrible and unfamiliar, an alien will and a force unrelenting projecting its across and through every inch of the ship. It awakened a malfeasance deep inside of Aagenti, and as it did so, in tandem it awakened a malevolence deep within the Anathema, the Sith Lord’s will made manifest and holding within it all sense of Aagenti’s defiance and fury. For a moment it awoke, and then it became part of the man who stood at the helm, threatening to be consumed by the power he wielded and being twisted in mind, body, and spirit, as a twisted incarnation took over the control of the Anathema. Around him, all those looking upon the Sith Lord felt nothing but fear, awed into silence and unable to speak or even move for fear of breaking the trance that seemed to settle far beyond their understanding.
In Aagenti’s Twilight, the will of the Anathema became manifest, and with it, so too did the single gift Aagenti gave to it: self preservation. Along the rifts that had been carved into the Anathema’s surface by unrelenting firepower, the metal warped, smoothing the scars, before, soundlessly, the metal reached out, long tendrils reaching towards one another to create a net, a lattice of metal almost like scar tissue over flesh, each pinion writhing in the dark as they worked to repair what had been damage, restoring the strength of the hull. From these great scars, however, new tendrils grew, sitting idle before at once lashing out, like a living entity, piercing through any small bit of debris or ship that flew too close, piercing through metal, flesh, and scrap, before pulling it into the broken scars, burnt wiring mending together while the metal tendrils stole the wreckage and tried to become whole again.
Aagenti’s scream died away, his eyes still shut and now both hands firmly entrenched against the wall of the ship, metal from the rims of the windows connecting to his hand and bringing him into the system, while in his biological hand the tattoos he had radiated into the glass, slowly growing to cover the entire screen as Aagenti and the Anathema became one and the same, save that nothing in the Anathema existed but Aagenti’s agents of malice and malevolence. It stripped what it could from anything nearby, and as Tyrell’s fleets continued their onslaught, it turned its gaze onto his ship, guns firing with a new vengeance that was filled with nothing but the desire to see everything that was Tyrell destroyed.
Where Aagenti ended and the Anathema began was unknown, but as the crux of the fight reached its boiling point, the Anathema now fought as Aagenti, those kept within the Anathema silent prisoners in awe of the seemingly living metal ship they were now captive to, and witness to the vileness that was harbored deep within Aagenti’s heart. Above Mygeeto a dark heart awakened, as Aagenti felt himself drawn into the twilight paradox, between order and chaos. The Anathema was far from being him, yet he felt every bolt that struck it, and it only led to anger him more. Beneath Mygeeto’s sun, an anathema on life itself awakened, Aagenti as it’s driving hand.
His will would be done, in complete.
Another Corvette destroyed, Aagenti has some revelations on the nature of war, as a primordial feeling grows within him.
Atmospheric team is struggling but holding strong to the best of their efforts; no real changes there.
Athena’s shields are destroyed; Potentate tries to defend, but one of the Longbows are quickly overcome and destroyed.
Athena is ordered to be evacuated, leaving the vessel itself as a diversion to allow Fighters to destroy bombers (or Fighters to target Interceptors going for Escape Pods).
Potentate ordered to leave, drawing it away from the fight and possibly drawing fire and small ships towards it.
Eradicator ships ordered to target anything moving towards the Potentate. Corvettes ordered to help defend the Longbows.
Anathema taking heavier fire; trading with Tyrell Paxxus’s flagship but still taking quite a lot of hits, still focusing all available firepower against the flagship.
Aagenti has a weird trance moment. Chaotic force-meditation!
Aagenti uses Mechu-deru to essentially take control of the Anathema (save for the fact that he focused to channel Dark Side influence into it solely).
Anathema begins mending itself and lashing at nearby scrap and ships to fortify itself while it begins to attack Tyrell’s ship with a living vengeance.
The Gen'dai continued to swing viciously, openly accepting Amur's invitation, not because he fought with careful planning, but because there was nothing that the Sith possessed that could possibly kill him short of being able to create a miniature star to incinerate him on the spot. The hulking Gen'dai continued his onslaught as he swung with his sword, keeping the Sith before him at range with his blade, occasionally extending or retracting his muscle cords to constantly switch the range from which he was able to strike at. All that was needed was a single crippling blow and it would be over within an instant.
The Gen'dai lunged with his blade, only to be taken briefly surprise as the Sith seemed to explode into a ball of light, searing his retinas as he was blinded while swinging. The blinded Gen'dai turned his head, facing directly at Amur as he was able to sense her heartbeat at such a close range before being disrupted by a flashbang, his senses ringing as he lost his bead on her. He was completely unaware of Amur as she lept into the air and landed on his back, impaling their saber through his neck as he seemed to freeze, his durasteel armor barely putting up some resistance as the plasmatic blade just slid through his muscle cords like a hot knife through butter. His armored hand seemed to stricken up as his blade fell and clattered to the ground, the monster of a Gen'dai seeming to have frozen over.
A few moments would pass, before the Gen'dai's head just rotated one hundred and eighty degrees like an owl as he seemed to cackle, " Ha...That tickles... " Rive's arms turned at a sickening angle as they readjusted themselves, with the way it was now oriented being as if Amur was on his chest rather than his back, Rive's arms coming up to bearhug the Sith Knight that had landed on him and lodged her blade deep into his flesh and through his armor.
OBJECTIVE: ELIMINATE HIGH-PRIORITY TARGET
ALLIES: NIO Forces
OPPOSITION: TSE Forces
ENGAGING: Mazrim Caide/Taim
EQUIPMENT: IN SIGNATURE, AS WELL AS SBR-60x BATTLE RIFLE
"Those treasonous words will be the last you speak."
FN-999's dropkick had thrown Caide a considerable distance away, giving the former a perfect opportunity. His rifle still lay across his back, tied to him through a pouch on the belt on his waist. Rapidly entering a kneeling position, he drew his rifle and pinned down the recovering human in his scope. Then, he let three bolts loose, one aimed for the man's chest, one for the neck, and one for the forehead.
C:\Murderhawke\Mission\Allies> Lord Venari
| Vallaro Kindall
C:\Murderhawke\Mission\Enemies> Ryv
| Lucien Dooku
| Dorian Sicarrio
C:\Murderhawke\Mission\Objective> Defend the Muunilist capital city of Harnaidan
C:\Murderhawke\Mission\Gear> In character bio
*: Replace the words "I am a real american" With "I am The Mandalorian"
The force, Something Leon never truly cared about, even if he had a body with the ability to use it he never sought to learn anything about it until he met Venari. Hell, even when Venari decided to teach him in it's ways he only payed attention to the parts that mattered to him, enhancement. Even the times when Venari tried to turn his mind into a fortress Leon was only half successful, Tricks didn't work on him anymore, Getting him to doubt himself was a thing of the past, but what this little shit was doing was beyond what he tried to learn from Venari. The boy was right, he didn't fight fair, using whatever sorcery at his disposal to assault the mind of The Murderhawke.
At first there was nothing, small embarrassing moments between him and his mother. The first time he had sex, only to be interrupted by his mother, It almost seemed to Leon that the boy in front of him was trying to make him homesick. Then came the most devastating point in his life. The vivid scene played before him over and over and over again, He had just beaten 'Taro, The Twilek Thunderbird' Once again to remain the Universal Heavyweight Champion. His girlfriend, Helios The Sun Queen had just announced to the entire crowd that she was pregnant with their child to the entire IGWF universe. Everything was coming up Aces for The Murderhawke until Helios got into her limo to go back to the hotel. The minute she stepped in, the limo exploded, leaving not a trace of Helios, the car, or The Murderhawke's humanity.
It was the most painful memory, his only painful memory, the greatest mistake of his entire life. He should have made her stay and celebrate with the rest of the wrestlers. He should have held her on tight and never let go. It was the one constant ritual throughout his life now, Every day when he woke up and every night before he went to bed, he watched that fateful episode on repeat. It was the worst self inflicted punishment he could think of, to wallow in all the sorrow, anger and hatred. The pain was always excruciating, every time he watched it he hurt so much he thought he would die, hell sometimes he wish he just would.
But it was a pain that The Murderhawke was used to. It was a pain that drove Leon to make sure that nothing like that would ever happen again. Not to anyone he loved. It was a pain that Leon had used over and over again to crush any opponent in his path, and this poor sack of shit was trying to use it against him. Behind The Behemoth's helmet the grimace turned into a grin and a fire was lit within his eyes. This poor excuse for a warrior DARED to stand in his way and USE The Mandalorian's own pain against him? Then it was time to drop the act.
Not wasting anytime, Leon would do the only thing he could think of at the time. Activate the Armor's speakers which played one song and one song alone. The Murderhawke's Theme song*
"Cute trick, hurts like fuck" The Murderhawke said between gritted teeth, his voice almost lost under the roar of the music. Grabbing a grenade with his left and and 'Big Liberty' with his right, he sprung into action, activating and launching the grenade at his opponent before firing a off a full barrage of 36 Whistling birds, emptying both launchers from his vambraces. In the ensuing chaos, Leon took aim and locked on with Big Liberty and fired off a Hel-class bio slug round directly at his opponent.
The entire hallway at that point was filled to the brim with Missles, lasers and a literal slug in a matter of seconds, all equipped to track and hunt down the his opponent. As the armored Terror ripped a combat knife loose from his shoulder and activated it he began to charge at his Prey with a frightening calm Leon was ready for anything the coward could throw at him any notion of a 'fight between warriors' the whole Murderhawke spiel would be put aside for the moment. He would use the near blinding pain to fuel his rampage, this was no longer a wrestling match to pass the time, this was to be a flat out murder, decimation, annihilation, complete destruction of someone who was so foolish enough to try to use Leon's own torment against him. No the boy had awaken the slumbering monster that dwelled within, the Apex predator was now wide awake and he was STARVING.
Caide Rolls to the side in a flash as the blaster bolts sear through the space he occupied a split second prior and throws the commando knife clutched in his hand with nearly inhuman speed and accuracy, the steel blade careening towards the enemy soldier, aimed at a tiny gap in his armor under his left armpit. Caide knows if it lands, the blade will pierce the artery, and the soldier will have two choices: Kill himself by trying to keep fighting, or sit and wait for medics as Caide leaves... the clock continues to tick down in his head. 60.61.62...
Allies: TSE
Enemies: Jekadius Lawson
and the NIO
Objective: Fite
When Lark thought of his past, he remembered peace.
He and his brother gently guided their sisters' stroller around the park, concrete ravaged by cracks and overgrown weeds. But their surroundings didn't matter, all that was important was that they smiled together. He and his brother were mere children at the time, but they understood that their circumstances weren't quite normal. And yet they were happy together. They were a family, even after their parents and sister vanished the two of them were so tightly connected. The laughs they shared underneath that cold, damp bridge were genuine, neither of them could have foretold the misfortune that would befall them. Oh, how much different things would have been if they had never been separated. Lark and his brother could have done anything together, so strong was their bond.
When Lark thought of his past, he remembered violence.
How else could he have survived his induction into the Sith Empire? The nightmares he experienced had to surpass his time as an orphan on Myrkr, and even then the Sith only barely surpassed his own brutalities. But his time spent in the libraries on Bastion and within the valleys of Korriban taught him much, most importantly he learned how to survive a fight against someone whose sole desire was to kill him. But it was so difficult to practice any lessons when Lark's own mind was constantly at war with itself. Sooner or later, he would have to kill some part of it. That was the only way he could ensure that his dreams of peace would be realized.
Which of his pasts were true? Perhaps both, perhaps neither. It was so difficult to keep them both in balance, when they were both in constant flux. They had both helped him survive, so was one really more true than the other? Lark wasn't even his true name to begin with, so why should he even worry so much about his past?
Because my sister is still out there. That much at least was certain.
The first blaster shot took him in his shoulder.
No matter how skilled his dueling prowess was, his own mind proved to be as consistent an opponent as any Jedi or NIO soldier could hope to be. He had just unleashed one of the most powerful attacks he had ever dreamt up, and he completely ignored the aftereffects. Lawson had clearly took a beating from his tantrum, but Lark hadn't recovered in time to completely counter Lawson's retaliation. The man was clearly no ordinary soldier.
Pure desperation saved him after that. Violence, brutality, and a familiarity with sadism preserved his own life. Lark had learned swordsmanship from the best. No longer did he maintain the defensive, waiting for the prime opportunity to enact some dirty trick. He fought with one goal in mind: To reunite with his sister. I'm trying so hard to find you, he thought. Perhaps the Necronomicon amplified his mindset, he didn't know anymore. Dear sister, we'll be together soon.
He didn't know whether she wanted that or not. Perhaps she fought against it. Maybe she knew what a monster her brother had become and only wished to ignore his very presence. But in truth, that didn't matter to him. Whether she wanted it or not, Lark fully intended to reunite with his sister. He deflected Lawson's strikes, letting a dark energy coat his sword. Once he gathered enough power, he'd unleash a miasmic wave that would devour anything in its path.
As hard as she fought, deep down Jyon knew that she was no match for the Sith Lord. Not now, not before, not ever. Still, she fought the hardest she could, in an attempt to do her best to keep up with the New Imperial Order Sith Lord. Losing had never been on her mind, and death even less so. She may have been very well-aware of her own limits and capabilities, but even these were getting tested to their breaking points as her emotions flared with the goading and mocking of herself by the Anzati general. As much as she didn’t want to, Jyon found herself listening to his words, and these words caused a great amount of internal chaos and havoc within her mind and heart.
The practical truth of the words conflicted head on with the beliefs and Sith propaganda she had been brought up and raised in and she let out a half cry-half scream in frustration. It was no longer just a battle between the Sith Knight and the Sith Lord. The battle between her two inner selves had begun, and oh, how well they were sending her into reckless fury.
The more the Anzati general spoke, the more sense he seemed to speak and that angered her as truth began to seep into her inner consciousness. She became angry. Furious with everyone. Furious at her injustice and insignificance for the beliefs and ideals she had fought so hard for her entire life. Snippets of her life flashed in her mind since the death of her parents as a child, as she realised that her life had been entirely devoted to the Sith Empire, and without that, that was nothing left in her. She was also angry with Kor Vexen for exposing the ugly truth to her and the realisation that her life had never been as meaningful and as significant as she thought as deep cracks within the Sith Imperial brainwashing she had been subject to began to show. The cacophony of war erupted around them, but no words had been exchanged since he finished his tirade. In reckless exasperation, such words erupted from the Sith Knight before she charged with saberstaff drawn, ready to attack. “Without the Sith Empire, I am nothing. I would be nothing. There is nothing else left for me.”
At this moment, she didn’t care if she lost or died any longer.
She had thoughts that perhaps, in death there would at least be some meaning for her.
Equipment: Weapons In signature, styled Medhir Armor
Forces: 173rd "Black Talons" Legion, equipped with AI-331m's, Shields, and Alpine Armor, commanded by Strategos Ranulph Tarkin
Sustained earlier injures were catching up to the Chiss, slowing her, body protesting and weakening. It was apparent when she met the first of her strikes, it was definitive when the attacks to the thigh and arm scored hits, sending her to the icy surface of the bridge. The attack to her head, the feint, was barely deflected and she was forced onto her back as the lightning erupted from the Dark Councilor's hand. The Chiss was reaching into her own darkness, trying to save herself in desperation...
And then a blur moved, a barrier parting the violet energy to the sides and away. The wayward son had reached them, his presence an aberration in the Force that Taeli felt was rather unique. In the moments he spent encouraging the Chiss to be better, she allowed herself to examine the Zambrano between them in those few brief moments as her lightning arced around his barrier.
Skull mask, evoke fear in opponents. Careful patterns of speech, control of vocal situation. Lightsaber, curved, pulsing with power. Qixoni crystal core perhaps? Not Lignan, too feral for it. Additional components, possible dual-phase as the Zambrano family prefers? Perhaps, need to be wary of surprise length changes. Wound in the Force, not similar to recorded cases... feel a pull on emotional state? Interesting. If only he could be dissected on Amaltanna...
As the lightning faded, the attack obviously useless at present, the Zambrano scion resumed the combat, launching into a powerful and rage-fueled offensive. Two handed grip, power stroke, came down against her lightsaber and it indeed batted it out of position for the Makashi style, his follow through coming towards her torso, the saber slicing into the phrik armor plating and scoring deep enough she felt the heat on her side, but before it cut further... it was deflected away by the hilt of her saber extending. Where she had been wielding what appeared to be a standard saber was now a lightsaber pike as had been favored by the Knights of Zakuul. Phrik handle met blade as she twirled the weapon, falling into a defensive style similar to that of Darth Zannah. His powerful blows fell upon her, and she knew she did not have the physical strength to meet him blow for blow. To do so would invite calamity and stupidity into this dance of death.
She would redirect his attacks away, never full on contact but making them glancing blows. Even then, the power of his strikes was deeply impressive and it was taking everything to keep him off her. The Chiss had recovered enough that she was able to leap through the air to land behind the Dark Councilor and the aberration, likely fully intent on flanking her. Under her breath, even engaged in a vicious fight as she kept giving ground to his advance, she started to chant in the Sith language. The ice shards from earlier had been a minor spell.
This... this was something else...
The death and emotions and pain of war were a readily available fuel for her magic, but wounds in the Force were different. They echoed with pain, with the horrors that had caused them in the first place. In some ways, they were a perpetual engine of dark side energies that could be harnessed.
As the Chiss rushed her, a shadow would fall between the dueling Dark Councilor and Lord Executor, a shadow in the shape of Taeli. The swirling snow and ice and crystal of the storm fell upon it, merging with it, melding together to form a moving sculpture. The last bit was the weapon of the icy doppelganger of the Lady of Secrets, an icy blade that glowed unnaturally, empowered by the dark side. The Sith Mirror Shade, summoned by her magic, given form by the blizzard around them, and fueled by the brutality of war, moved with all the speed of a Master to engage the Chiss, icy blade resuming the Makashi style from before.
Where once one Dark Councilor stood on the bridge, two of the same now fought.
White-hot light flashed from each clash between the cyan blade and the Sith Lord's crimson saber storm. Ryv's initial offensive of Djem-So quickly shifted into a more keen-minded defense. Unable to maintain a powerful forward momentum due to the rain of lightsabers, not unlike blaster fire, the Jedi Knight flickered into the use of Shien fluidly. The Blade of Ruusan flashed to his left to bat away one weapon before the Jedi spun about, the blade sweeping a wide arc to parry aside a joint attack from two more crimson swords. His chest rose and fell with each swipe of the sentient weapon, perfectly matching the rhythm of the Kiffar's movements to help maintain the necessary energy and endurance to meet Lord Venari. As the sabers descended once more, falling in at erratic and awkward pacing meant to change the tempo of their dance, Ryv ducked beneath one, his weapon flashing up in a vertical strike to bat away the second, only for his shield to come up short to catch the third. The red-bladed sword bounced off the Aspis, catching Ryv across the side of his neck. Pain coursed through him, flesh melting from the brief contact the weapon had with his body. Fighting back the urge to drop the Blade of Ruusan, he held out long enough for the soothing effects of the artifact to kick in. Ryv barely managed to bring his saber up in time to catch and lock the Sith Lord's blade.
Venari's words struck as hard, if not harder than the lightsaber. The bond Ryv held to Allyson connected the duo no matter how much distance they put between them. When she felt fear in the face of the Dark Lord, flashes of those emotions dug into the Jedi Knight and gripped tight on his heart. When he spun head over heels through the air, crashing to a lower floor only moments before, the terror of the unknown latched onto their tether, coursing through it and into Allyson's conscious thought. Ryv hadn't realized this bond could be felt or seen by others, and the surprise shone through his features momentarily. Once more, the Blade of Ruusan pulsed, its light strengthening the Jedi Knight's resolve as it washed over him. He grits his teeth, fighting back at the shaky feelings caused by the Sith, once more welcoming the raging blizzard within him. Ryv prepared to bring his weapon to bear once more, his mind and body working in tandem to ascertain which angle the descending sabers would fall from. Instead, his mind was met by the battle-drunk intentions of Lucien as he unsheathed the Bladesworn. Unsure of how to proceed, Ryv took advantage of the power's sudden appearance and dashed back, making room for Lucien to reengage the Sith.
Ryv reached up with his gloved hand, pressing down on the still-warm flesh that formerly graced his neck. The sudden cloud of dust saw the Jedi Knight narrowing his eyes, struggling to pierce the cloud now rising around them. The murderous intent of all three combatants set Ryv apart more than the cyan glow of his battle-worn weapon. Thus far, his actions were not without thought or consideration of the pieces on the battlefield, but the opposite. The fluidity in which Vallaro and Venari supported one another had not gone unnoticed by the Sword of the Jedi. It was beneath a Battlemaster he received the majority of his training, one exceptionally skilled in the art of battle meditation. He'd spent months beside the Jedi Master, observing warriors on and off the field and preparing to face the Sith Empire in battle as he did this day. While many Jedi fell to the sins of hubris and arrogance, Ryv Karis was no such Jedi. He lived much of his life peering through a cracked looking-glass, frightened by the misshapen monstrosities that stared back at him. Having lost his parents to the war between the One Sith and joint forces of the former Alliance and Republic, Ryv knew what awaited him following a single misstep or error. Far from perfect, the Jedi Knight still struggled to see himself the best he could be.
As hell rained down on them from above, Ryv kept his focus entirely on the defensive, entrusting Lucien's empowered form to keep Venari off of him. Ryv closed his eyes, falling inward to adopt the horizontal stance most associated with the force power, center of being. The lightsaber flashed out, guided unconsciously by the flow of light side energy emanating from the Blade of Ruusan.
"Do not give in, my son."
A familiar voice cut through the overbearing echoes of war. Over a year had come and gone since Ryv last heard the comforting tone of his late father's voice. The Jedi Knight believed himself a lone star, shining brilliantly within the endless expanse of shadowy space around him. Yet, the Blade of Ruusan centered him, tethering the Jedi Knight to the infinite azure, allowing the touch of Ashla to once more find her noble sentinel. A hint of a smile broke the tight-lipped expression Ryv held once falling beneath his father's guiding hand. Visible to the gathered force sensitives, a pale apparition bearing a strong likeness to Ryv materialized behind the struggling Jedi Knight. The two seemed to move in tandem, father and son, to defend against the seemingly endless onslaught of the gun-toting mercenary. Both the Aspis-shield and the cyan blade met the rounds fired, the detonite bursting on impact. While the shield bore much of what it managed to intercede, fissures spread through the surface of the armament, dents of various sizes marking the surface. Beneath the protection, Ryv felt his arm numbing, the only feeling cutting through said numbness being the fracturing of bone crawling up the limb. The Blade of Ruusan flashed out to belay the detonite rounds, only for more explosions to rip past the weapon and batter the Jedi Knight's form without remorse.
"There is no emotion, there is peace," Ryv muttered, maintaining his concentration through the pain wracking his body. Behind him, Vyrin Karis guided the young Kiffar, feeding his son a flow of power to fuel the force body keeping him alive in the direst of moments. "There is no ignorance, there is knowledge," he continued the mantra, the cyan saber spinning within his grasp, carving deep grooves into the bridge beneath their feet. He focused solely on the defensive of Lucien and himself. "There is no passion, there is serenity," his words flowed from him like a calm river. The Jedi Knight's serene mindset kept him aware of the reality of their surroundings. Ryv and Lucien were trapped between a rock and a hard place, with a seemingly-unkillable Sith Lord and his battle-hardened mercenary bearing down on them with killing intent. The Jedi hoped the passions racing between them, coupled with the dust cloud, would provide him the cover necessary to complete his gambit. "There is no chaos, there is harmony," each word maintained the clarity of the last, a testament to the power of the Blade of Ruusan, and the guiding hand of the Ashla itself.
Rounding out the circle, the cyan saber once more led Ryv's defensive against the Sith Lord. The weapons seemed to dash between the two Jedi, Lord Venari splitting his attention between each of them. Not having to contest the four sabers alone, Ryv further relied on Lucien's force of presence, while still carving through the bridge. As Ryv opened his eyes, his voice echoed between him and the closest to him.
"There is no death, there is the Force," Ryv finished, his saber flashing downward to complete the loop. The orange glow of melted metal caused by the saber's super-heated surface gave way, slipping through the bridge entirely to descend from the raised platform. The detonite mag made contact maybe a split-second after, the explosion rocking the surface, crashing up and out. Ryv took a deep breath, dropping to a knee as the apparition paused to study Lucien Dooku's raging form. A soft smile, reminiscent of Ryv's typical grin, decorated the man's fading face. He knelt down, a ghostly hand falling upon his son's battered form. His presence seemed to fade away, appearing to join with the struggling Jedi Knight before him. Their brief fall came to an end, the Sword of the Jedi aided in his escape by the Exiled Prince. "Ah man," he groaned out, steam rising from several burn marks decorating his already ragged armor. "That sucked," Ryv slowly struggled to his feet, taking whatever aid Lucien offered him. "I can't maintain this pace, these guys are fucking untouched from all this fighting, like, it should be impossible for them to be unscathed, yet, they are," he looked towards one of the adjacent halls, knowing full well he couldn't outpace them anymore. An escape seemed most preferable, live to fight another day, and all that, but it didn't seem likely given their foe's endless energy and momentum. "You got any tips or tricks left, brother?"
"I'm here for the charge,"Kentarch asked the sergeant bluntly. "Your orders have changed. The Warmaster wants you to infiltrate the enemy positions and provide recon." The sergeant said. "I was under the impression I was to lead men in the final push," Kentarch replied. "The enemy is withdrawn their position to the thresholds of the bridges on their end of the mesa." The sergeant turned away from Kentarch and picked up a small holo-communicator, as he turned back to Kentarch the Sith Lord had simply vanished into the storm.
Burring his presence deep with the force that he would be completely undetectable be even the greatest force users. The blizzard provided plenty of visual cover, so there was no need for force cloak or rendering himself completely invisible. He moved swiftly across the bridge, ducking behind debris and rubble, moving unnoticed to either the Loyalists or NIO forces. Every so often he would gaze behind to see to ensure his footprints had vanished into the snow, so no one could track him should the sense something was afoot. Progressing farther down the bridge, Kentarch noticed a corvette firing on Imperial forces trying to cross. Letting out an exhale, he ducked down as blaster fire whizzed by his head. As he grew closer to enemy lines he came across a fallen Sith-Imperial who was carrying several detonite charges. Picking up the fallen soldier helmet, he heard orders for charges to be set and the bridge networks to be blown.
"Command come in,"Kentarch spoke as he switched to a secure channel on his own communicator."We've got an issue. The Sith Imperial are pulling back because they plan to blow both bridge networks one and two. As a backup plan in case the plan fails, an orbital strike will be issued should the detonite charges fail to be placed by the two individual companies. Sith-Imperial Company C will place charges on bridge network one, while Company M places charges on bridge two. This is a priority message to be sent straight to Warmaster Kor Vexen."
There was static at first, and then a long pause. Then a voice came through. "Roger that my lord we read you loud and clear." An NIO comms officer said over the communicator.
The Sith Lord gazed in the direction of the Diogenes. If NIO soldiers were going to make a big push to breakthrough the Sith-Imperial held thresholds, taking out the ship or at least its guns would reduce casualties significantly. He looked down at the fallen and the detonite charges, Kentarch could take the enemy's charges and destroy the Corvette. At the moment it was the only move he could make. He headed off for the ship.
With his back against the thick vault door, Tithe had nowhere left to retreat. He held his SI-HB-2 Power Mace before in a guard position, the AxVRD attachment using it's micro-repulsorlifts to keep the weapon much steadier than would have otherwise been the case.
Despite tutorage under the Princess of Dromund Kaas, Joycelyn Zambrano
, Aerarii knew he stood no chance of fending off the armoured behemoth before him. Survival would rely not on his skill with arms, but rather his silver tongue. The longer he could keep Tambor talking, the more likely it would be that help would arrive. He and his Legionnaire escorts would be missed soon enough, and someone would be sent to find him. He fully intended to sacrifice his saviours if that was necessary for his survival.
The Tyrant Of Trade spoke about the folly of empires, pontificating that galactic conflict was little more than a series of transactions underpinned by bloodshed. Tithe did not disagree with what Tambor was saying; the bureaucrat was loyal to credits first, the Sith Empire second. So long as the later was a gateway to the former he was happy to wear their uniform and curtsey to the Lords and Ladies.
Of course, he could never acknowledge this. The SIBC vaults were without peer the most surveilled in the galaxy. Dozens upon dozens of devices would be recording every word he and Tambor exchanged. Tithe dare not speak a word of heresy, lest he end up on the personal skinning table of Darth Carnifex
.
How far away was help? Surely someone had noticed he was missing? Was it possible that he was not as well regarded amongst his peers as he believed?
Impossible. There must be another reason.
“I fear the rhapsodes will tell that Voyance was a poor investment,” he observed. Aerarii had not heard from the Qotsisa… the Keepers of the Sith Code, in some time. While they had purchased copious amounts of Tabor’s wares, unless they were biding their time for a major push, the contact was but a flash in the pan. A quick injection of credits eaten up by high overheads, a good way to build wealth but not equity. “Were I your accountant I would exhort writing it off your balance sheets.”
The Pillar Of Annihilation detailed his plan to ride his client states into debt and bankruptcy. Tithe’s eyes narrowed as he mulled over the proposal, slowly moving along the wall of the vault corridor to find a better position from which to defend himself. Again, Tambor was running on a short term strategy - quick credits in favour of building a strong foundation. Bankrupting your rival serves to cut was find to cut down your competition and allow you to drive up prices, but customers without credits was not good business. “The New Imperials will burn out long before they reach Bastion,” Tithe replied. “You may come to own them, but it will be a nugatory asset, little more than the crushed dreams of revolutionaries.”
Even if the enemy captured Mygeeto and neighbouring Muunilist, the Sith Empire would rebound. It was a fool who thought that the wealth of the Empire was limited to the contents of a few treasury worlds. The priceless artefacts, crown jewels and ancestral objects secreted away by the SIBC to allow corners of the Empire were worth more than most individuals could begin to imagine.
Unless...
“But this is personal for you, isn't it?” Even in his suit of armour, the Shakoan was taking a huge risk coming here. A stray artillery shell or a vault collapse would unceremonially end the High Lord of Skako life, as if he were just another expendable soldier. If the New Imperials were but clients to him, what did he care for their success or failure?
Aerarii stop skirting along the wall. “You’ve over-invested Lord Tambor. You’ve fated yourself to the Apostates. When they fall, so will you.” Finding something rare inside himself, something he had never before experienced - an ounce of courage - he stepped away from the wall to give himself more room to move. He could sense that conflict between the pair was approaching. Tambor was a careful planner and would have studied Tithe closely - the last thing he would expect was for his opponent to stand up to him.
A realisation dawned on Tithe, one that gave him an iota of hope. Tambor was not too different to him, a being in pursuit of credits who had become wound up in galactic politics. Neither of them could unravel themselves from these powerful empires any easier than they could control their boundless greed. And yet, there was a power that throughout history had risen time and time against from the ashes of destruction.
“But the Sith. Yes, the Sith, and their many, many credits, are Immortal.”
Following Sam's direction, Davis remained latched onto the larger trooper, stumbling alongside him to the best of his ability. The sound of their hunter's marching reminded the stormtrooper of an omnipresent war drum, it's beat echoing from all directions. Wraith didn't think to consider how many of the legionnaires moved through the tunnels, for he already knew they had more than enough to handle the duo. Given the circumstances of the affair, the trooper assumed he and his battle-buddy were small game, nothing more than a quick kill to pad the stats of some rookie red-skirt. Yet, rather than finish their food, the S-IMPs thought it better to herd the stormtrooper's like cattle into likely another trap. Was this a sick game of theirs, learned from their demented, red-sabered masters? Or perhaps a play for intel to break the siege?
Davis leaned against the wall as Sam worked through the turbolift's exterior controls, catching his breath as he struggled to keep standing. His damaged leg felt as if the initial impact of their crash saw it trapped in a place between two immovable objects, only to be torn out of its trap by an unreasonable amount of force. His shoulder still burned from the errant blaster bolt that leveled him in the last engagement. And he didn't even want to think about the number of bruises and lacerations decorating the rest of his battered form. Instead, Garrick reloaded his rifle once more before doing a brief check of the rest of his gear. His beskar dagger remained at his belt, secured by the sheath gifted alongside the weapon to the scout. He looked up as the doors slid open and limped in after Tempest, once more falling against the wall for aid. Muunilist? Definitely on his worst-places-to-visit list once this is over and done with.
"Two-One?" Garrick muttered under his breath. He bit down on the inside of his cheek almost immediately, struggling not to let his emotions get the better of him at that moment. He, alongside any other trooper in the corps, knew what that meant. Some unlucky bastard saw to Belisarius' life, likely catching that tough son of a queen off guard. Rather than focus on the unfortunate truths of the battle, Davis allowed his mind to wander back to the precarious situation he and his brother found themselves wrapped up in. He reached out, taking hold of Tempest's shoulder before giving him a thorough shake. Garrick pulled his visor off, once more wiping away a line of blood from the leaking wound, before looking the demolitions expert in the visor, Wraith's own reflection staring back at him.
"Tempest, hey, you gotta cal-" Garrick squeezed down on the man's shoulder, taking the other in his free hand. "Sam? Sam! Listen to me, dammit," he shook him once more, just enough to set Deckard off balance if not for Garrick's grip. "We can't do anything for the captain right now. We don't know if he's gone, mate. But we do know we're TARFU, got it? We need to reach the evac-point, or we're not getting out of here," he released him and took a step back, pulling the helmet over his head once more. "We can ascend the lift and make our way to the roof," Garrick tugged his bag off of his shoulders, his hand immediately diving inside to rummage around for a moment, only to remove an ascender from his pack. He pushed Deckard towards the lift's cable, snagging the heavy trooper's from his bag. The sound of a sudden banging on the lift's door caught Garrick's attention.
"Shit, mate, you're up first," Garrick helped fit the ascender in place before watching Tempest zip up the line. "Alrighty then," he winced at the sound of the lift's door scraping against the durasteel plating of the wall holding it in place. "Yeah, that's a no from me," Wraith muttered out, shakily fitting the ascender to the wiring. Once in place, he activated the mechanical device and shot up the cable, maybe five or six stories behind Deckard. The blastdoor finally screeched open, the familiar red plated armor of the legionnaire's pushing inside. Garrick shifted in place, taking aim with his blaster, before raining fire on the unsuspecting soldiers. "Yeah! Eat this, you S-IMP SOBs," he growled out beneath his breath, dropping each one in turn as they struggled to take aim at the distant stormtrooper. Reaching the top, Garrick pushed out after Deckard and tugged a pistol-like blaster from his side. He raised the weapon and tightened his finger's hold on the trigger, sending a single red flare into the sky.
"Let's hope they see that, huh?" Garrick reached out, patting Deckard on the back. "We're gonna get outta here, brother. We just need to focus-up and hold the LZ down until Hellhound-Two-One arrives. We'll be alright, we always are," he turned and limped towards a point of cover on the roof, mounting his rifle at a position that presented him a prime position to gun down any Sith-Imperial legionnaire's who joined them on the roof.
Fury radiated from the faceless trooper, fingers tightened around his carbine, and yet he did was he was told. For now, anyway - as arrogant as he was, Adrian has was self-aware enough to realize that gravitas alone would not bring to heel the New Imperials' rabid dogs, and so he remained ready to protect himself in the only way he knew how at a fraction of a moment's notice, invisible energies half-way coalescing around his form.
Quirking his head to the side, the Sith Lord's features seemed almost regretful as he continued to face the squad leader, or whatever the trooper's title was. "I gave her the chance to surrender, you know. What motivates you people to throw away your lives like this?"
Frown deepening as he felt a sudden sense of wrongness, he looked around, eyes settling on the rather stubborn not-Sith just as she...
... chit.
Air rippling as a shimmering barrier burst into existence, he was nonetheless dazed, ears ringing and eyes blinking as he struggled to compensate for the dampened blast that had struck him head-on - before any reaction could be decided upon, his barrier flickered, for this was no normal grenade.
Backtracking in something resembling panic as his connection was distorted, he all but threw himself away from the smoke, the thrice-cursed voidstone smoke, all thoughts of offence fading from his thoughts as he struggled to maintain a barrier that had previously come naturally.
Objective: Hunt the Enemy, Kill the Enemy Location: Southern Mesas, Bridge One, No Man's Land Enemies: NIO | Tarrik Kestis
(Engaging) | Ignatius
(On Approach)
Vaylin grinned when she saw the interior of the gunship wreckage suddenly light up. Streaks of red slipping through the jagged strips of metal. She pulled on her mount's reins, ordering it to stop. It's Projection of Fear receding from around the gunship, until it remained eminating from only the source.
"There you are. Come on now...there's no need to hide."
In that moment, Vaylin pondered whether she had found an ally rather than an enemy. But that notion was squashed, remembering they were dealing with those that sought to uproot stability and the status quo. It had been a long time since she had crossed blades with another Dark side user, at least one that was a serious encounter.
The beast stomped forwards a bit, getting closer to the wreckage. It had came crashing down, skidding across the bridge throwing up an untold amount of snow. And despite the storm's best efforts, it had yet to completely consume the wreck. Parts that were still burning, kept the snowfall from smothering it entirely. Time would eventually see to it, but right now it was providing a small perimeter of visibility.
Vaylin muttered something in the Sith language, before hopping down from her mount, landing into the snow with a soft thud. The moment her feet made contact, the snow began to melt around her, almost in a perfect circle. The 'Firestarter' she kept on her person was the cause, projecting a warm aura around her. Wherever Vaylin walked, she carved a path through the snow, only for it to get covered back up the moment the snow could settle.
"It's pointless to hide." She enhanced her voice again, intent on being heard by Tarrik. "You signed your death the moment you and your traitorous lot attacked." Vaylin reached to her belt, grabbing her main lightsaber hilt and sliding it into her hand.
"Now the question is, how do you want to die? Freeze to death, burn to death? Or maybe I should just have my mount throw this wreck over the side." She began to stalk around the sides of the gunship wreck, still leaving her blade unignited. Vaylin wasn't a fool, she wasn't about to go into a confined space to reach her foe.
She was going to burn them out.
Speaking audibly in the Sith tongue, Vaylin began to chant as fire swirled from waist, crawling up her side and twisted around her left arm, finally forming into an orb in her free hand. Ordering her mount to remain where it was, watching that side, the Zabrak began to slowly walk around to the other.
Getting closer and closer to the opened half of the gunship wreck...
Crest Section continued to race through the streets, Larkin had been waiting for orders from the Mandalorian for a while now. At this point, he didn't think he could wait any longer and neither did the rest of his men. The resistance from Sith forces seemed to be getting more intense with each passing moment. At one point, the sergeant to his left got on the comms; "Sir, what are orders?" There was a pause as Larkin considered his options. His train of thought came crashing to a halt as a missile slammed into the ground, missing the men by mere inches. The resulting blast and subsequent fireball, however, was enough to send them flying off their speeders. A couple of troopers were not thrown from their speeders but quickly came about and helped up the others.
As the group was getting their bearings, another rocket came screeching towards them. "Incoming!" shouted the sergeant, throwing himself ontop of Larkin. After the explosion, the group scattered. "Follow me." Larkin said as he led the group to a nearby abandoned building. Crest shuffled inside, two troopers carrying a wounded soldier with each of them holding one of his arms over their shoulders. "We need to barricade that door and then get to a higher level." Larkin told the men. The able-bodied ones acknowledged the order and got to work finding anything they could to board up the door. The shelling continued outside as the door was sealed but at least now they would have some time to breathe.
"Around me." Larkin ordered, prompting the soldiers to gather around. "Report?"
"It would seem they're firing rockets down from one of the nearby rooftops. Most likely shoulder-mounted by the rate of fire sir. One soldier is down, two are injured. None missing."
"Here's what we're going to do. We'll split up into two teams. Alpha team will accompany me to the roof, we're going to take out those rocket launchers. Beta team, you'll go with the sergeant to take up a position in the middle of the building. Keep an eye on the entrance and snipe anyone who tries to get in who's not wearing an Imperial uniform."
There was a collective "Yes sir." Before the men separated into two equal teams and headed off to their respective objectives. The wounded soldier agreed to remain behind and watch the door. Once on the roof, Larkin and his men crouched behind some cover. One trooper peaked his head out to take a look but almost instantly, a sniper bolt pierced his helmet dead center of the forehead. The trooper's body jerked backward and slumped over. "What the..." Larkin uttered in shock. He activated the commlink on his wrist, patching through to Beta team, "Sergeant, come in. They have snipers. Repeat; they have snipers."
It was not going to be difficult to follow this chilling feeling. Not one of natural climate or situation, but the fear factor of what laid ahead. We started to lose the aspect of stealth. If there was someone else out here ready to fight, then there was no point in hiding any longer. While they likely couldn't directly see us through the storm itself, it would not take long to do so. Infrared showed another down ship. This one a gunship. There were licks of flames in the infrared, and massive shapes further beyond. They cold obscured them for the most part, but then around one side came a singular individual who was almost brighter than even the flames from the vessel.
Infrared changed to normal vision. Seeing a clad figure and suddenly a bright wrapping go around their arm and focus to their hand. Only a smirk formed upon my face. I was going to be looking forward to this.
First Brother's voice came over the radio that someone was close. Instead of revealing my position to him right now, I opted to reveal it to whoever this new person was. Reaching out with my hand, I drew upon the years of training, study and usage of Pyromancy, and Fire shaping. These powers were borne into my bloodline. Drawing all the fire in the area to myself. Including the flames still clinging to the ship. Yanking them through the air, and attempting to snatch the power from this person who attempted to conjure more.
"Many thanks for your contribution."
Gathering it all together before unleashing it back upon them. A swath of flames gathered, only to be intensified by my own prowess. A concentrated stream of flames, violently roared towards their direction. While it may not be the most useful of tactics against someone who I had just seen use flame, the attempt was to dissuade them from closing the distance on my fellow man.
"Fear not brother."
Speaking out loud into the com system so that he could hear me either way he desired. I wanted him to know only one thing from me.
Location: Mygeeto \\
Objective: Traverse the Bridges and Capture Mesas Tower B\\Find and Remove who's controlling the Sith Spawn
Allies: NIO Forces, Imperial Force Corps, Imperial Warlord Zovesa
Enemies: Lark
Gear: In Bio
Focus! It was getting harder to breathe, the throw Lawson had taken at best fractured some ribs and their cracks protested each gasp for air. Focus! His arm screamed bloody murder, each motion cracking the frozen blood and clotting agents making the knife wound pour blood into his gauntlet. Focus! Despite one of his shots connecting and a flurry of followup attacks, all of his efforts merely amounted to a growing frustration.
Focus.
Law was not a master of the Force. In truth, he never expected that he would ever find complete dominion over the power. But it was a tool he had to learn if he ever expected to be able to bring order to the galaxy, to ever be of use to the Force Corps and the New Imperial Order. As his body crept closer to failure and his emotions to revolt Law gathered the force, it was not some tidal force of power, it did not form into some masterful skill like lightning or battle mediation. It was a Force power that most learned, mastered, and moved on. Law used telekinesis, every bit of power that the Knight Errant could gather, compacted to the greatest degree he could muster, driven at a point. Driven forward by a fist halted halfway into what looked like a strike to the solar plexus. The Force was pointed lower aimed at the Sith's healthy leg's knee on a mission to disable mobility.
The attack took a lot out of him, Law's head swam like when he rose to quickly and the blood fled his head. He backpedaled feet trying to keep a base as his body forgot it's balance. He was at his most vulnerable if his attack had not connected and prevented the Sith from pushing the offensive something very dire was about to happen. This did not disturb the Knight though, his job was to stop the Sith controlling the monsters killing the Auxiliary Corps. No matter what happened Law would keep this man busy here and his allies on the bridges safe, even if it cost Law his life.
OBJECTIVE: ELIMINATE HIGH-PRIORITY TARGET
ALLIES: NIO Forces
OPPOSITION: TSE Forces
ENGAGING: Mazrim Caide/Taim
EQUIPMENT: IN SIGNATURE, AS WELL AS SBR-60x BATTLE RIFLE
The man evaded FN-999's shots, and then drew a concealed knife and tossed it.
It traveled with incredible force and accuracy, utterly unavoidable.
It hit him between the armor plates on his left armpit.
Pain.
Incredible pain shot up FN-999's left arm, the shock of it causing him to drop his rifle. He had been in countless hundreds of battlefields, but he could not remember ever suffering such an impediment. Never before had so much blood gushed out of one singular location in FN-999's body. It poured onto the ground in a rapidly expanding puddle of red. An artery had been broken, and FN-999 was now in unbearable pain. He collapsed to the ground, his vision becoming consumed by white. He attempted to take off his helmet with his right arm, only for the white in the back of his head to become splotched with red. Death approached rapidly, consciousness fading away into a vast ocean of blood and bones.
[H-help...] sputtered out FN-999 through his comms array, his voice weak and shaky. Moments later, he fainted, blood loss taking its toll.
After exactly sixty-five seconds, the veteran stormtrooper had been knocked unconscious.
TWENTY-FIVE YEARS AGO
CORELLIA - CORONET CITY - A SLUM DISTRICT
Within a decrepit neighborhood, there is a house covered in moss.
The house is ancient, close to a millenia old. It contains three rooms in a single horizontal row, each square room roughly 5x5x3.5 meters. A dozen torches haphazardly placed throughout the house provide its only source of heat and light. A rotted wooden table wobbles on three legs in the central room, with no chairs around it. The stone walls of the house are well-worn, and have clearly seen better days. The walls are spiderwebbed with cracks of various sizes. One of these cracks is large enough to create a hole in the wall, allowing for bystanders to witness the interaction between a bitter father and his emaciated son.
"Well, look what we got here."
A middle-aged Caucasian human male stood in the center of the rightmost room, which was empty except for two broken-down beds tucked into a corner. His unkempt brown hair flowed down to his shoulders, and he wore a dirty beard that descended down just as far. He was lean but not noticeably muscular, his weight reduced by decades of poor living conditions. In his hands lay a bag filled with a plant known officially for its therapeutic properties, but had another reputation within the underworld.
"If we can make a profit off this, then we'll be able to eat well tonight."
"B-b-but... aren't those things bad for you when they're in that shape?"
A Caucasian human male of about six years of age approached the man. Their shared hair color and skin tone hinted at a familial connection, though the child's hair was much shorter than his father's. His skin was tight almost everywhere, bones showing through the ruined shirt he loosely wore. He had never known true happiness, nor had he ever had the chance to pursue anything that he sought on a personal level. He was usually a shy and timid person, often stuttering in his speech and complying with orders that others put upon him regardless of consent. Yet his moral compass was stronger than that of many of his neighbors, and often put him at odds with his father.
"They wouldn't buy this stuff without knowing that, you stupid child."
"W-what if the authorities catch them? Isn't it ill-illegal?"
"That's their own fault if they get caught, what matters is that we get the cash."
"We shouldn't be going against the order of society like this. What would Mom s-"
"SILENCE, CHILD!"
The boy trembled as his father approached, a look of pure rage on his face. He was powerless as the man grabbed him roughly and drew his fist back, before slamming it into the face of his child.
"YOU are why your mother died!! YOU are why our hope for restoring the bloodline is gone!! YOU are the disappointment that NO ONE ever wanted!! With only you to succeed the family, we have no hope of EVER returning to our former glory!"
The boy took the beating silently, tucked in a fetal position against the floor. He knew not to cry or shout. He knew not to fight back. He knew to never mention the new bruises he would recieve to anyone, especially his father. He simply took the blows, both physical and verbal, and thought of his wish. One day, the child wished for a galaxy where order and justice prevailed. He wished for a galaxy where police and soldiers could come to take away all the bad men and women, even his father.
He wished for a galaxy under a single state whose power to bring order was absolute. It would be another six years before he was taken in by a state that could bring his wish to fruition.
AMCO
Ravraa Vyshraal
Irveric Tavlar
. She wanted to see his face so badly. Her mirth in the face of absurdity gone, she was afraid. 
