Faction Shoot the Shavit [NIO]

[Lyra 'Sybila' Voikryt]

Location: Nirauan, NIO Military Installation
Theme: War Machine

The sprawling base was the better part of a well oiled machine, an example and epicenter of control. With the growing Order there was no shortage of work to be found, retrofitting and developing to make room for incoming forces. A new cog to turn out future soldiers, it was a tall order stacked against its personnel across the board. Yet the dedication of the legions couldn’t be torched. The sound of construction was heard in the distance, surrounding the reaches of the main facilities alongside incoming trooper transports passing over; it all served to feed the chaotic energy. For the Colonel, the better part of the morning had been spent handling quarter assignment and then the debrief with Genesis Company. Damage control had ended in an estimate of seven solar cycles needed for equipment maintenance. Shedding the comfort of armor for the sake of repair in favor of the new utilitarian cut uniform.

This was the first time she had to appraise the grounds, crossing the concrete yard with a steady boot clip, holo map in hand and black case gripped tightly in the other. It was the first time Lyra had properly laid eyes on the installation since her arrival planet side. It was proving to be lusher than any other station she had encountered; the kind greenhorns and officers dreamed about. The better part of the last decade had been spent between star destroyers in banal setting of space, and besieging bleaker despot planets. It did not change the realistic concerns in the wake of the military jump but the woman wanted to consider the placement a good sign.

The lull in direct orders was a rarity, but one she chalked up to swamped systems and less from a change of direct status quo. Her bars had yet to be recalled and the woman wasn’t going to go seeking out answers she didn’t want. It wouldn’t be long before assignments began rolling in, an inevitable case but Lyra had long since learned to weather the storm. Referencing the highlighted points on the data pad, she made for the outlying building on the grounds. Nodding vaguely to passing staff and stray troopers alike she passed. She had been left with an opening in the day, one that Lyra intended to monopolize upon.

A re-branding was what was really needed for the ranging company, and she weighed the selection of blasters encased in hand; courtesy of the armory. They had been outfitted with the bare bones before and the newly minted equipment funneling down in the likes of their hands was hard to resist. The case was a hefty thing, and Lyra paint herself excited under the drab and practiced expression. Halting before the lone clean cut building on the grounds, she swung the case up as she climbed the few steps to the shooting range. The durasteel hall was several degrees colder than the outdoors and the florescent lights hummed. The sound of blaster fire echoed out, several blinding bolts flashing past the transparisteel viewing point.

The woman had taken a brief moment to watch the show, watching the bolts make impact down range before continuing on through sign in. Setting up shop on the nearest bench in the range, the Colonel had slid the noise dampeners into place before she regretted it. Her eyes flitted over the heavy locks of the case before she undid each cuff on her coat, rolling up the sleeves a quarter way up each arm before tackling the weapon box; tossing up the lid. The hall was the better part vacant, and she occupied herself with taking stock of the new arsenal. The woman had read through the factory reports and seized the new bread and butter of the infantry from the case, sizing up the ‘Bozdugan’.

Spoiler: Tag List [PM to join]

Ravraa Vyshraal
Boram Predor
Cyr Vaust
Shaze
Hadrian Javik

 

[Ravraa Vyshraal]

Location: Nirauan
Task: R&R
---
Ravraa was far from what someone would call the traditional solider. He was a spacer, through and through, and that came with certain beats throughout his day that the average infantryman may send to other tasks. Most of these men and women had family to stay in contact with, and those that didn't, friends to do the same. Many of them took every second they got outside of their armor as a holy gift, holding it close and managing to get as much out of it as they could. Time was precious, afterall, and when you job involved sending yourself in droves against space-wizards that could shoot lightning out of their hands, you were careful to spend it well. He joked, of course, about the Sith. Many of the soldiers did, it was the only way to ease their tension when it came to the idea that they would be facing down these unknowable masters of life. Knowledge on the Force was much less arcane and occulted in the modern era of the galaxy, but that didn't mean that it was well understood most of those that weren't active practitioners. They couldn't understand it less. There was this incomprehensible pressure whenever one of those Black Knights entered the field of battle, whether you knew they were there or not. Hate and anguish personified. Moral could be broken by their silhouette.

That's why he was heading to the range.

Practice made perfect, or so the old saying went, and Ravraa was never one to doubt basic wisdom when it was given to him. His steps were light throughout the halls of the facility. He was chattering back and forth with another one of the betaplast covered troopers, knocking back different ideas about what the best thing to do was in certain situations, swapping war stories, tales of home, and life before their service. Of course, Ravraa didn't take kindly to the long and winding tales of conflict. Most soldiers were intent to list off every last skirmish they had engaged in, show off the scars they had earned during it, and this fellow storm was far from much different than that. He swore that the training removed some sense of individuality. Ravraa was much more intent on keeping the chat geared to homelife and personal concepts rather than the sweeping themes of war. Slipping away from the conversation was a welcomed rest. He assumed that makes two reasons why he should head to the range.

Giving a nod and a wave as he parted ways from his fellow solider at a T-junction, the Togruta made his way through the peerless halls in the direction of the firing range. His boots clicked on the surface without his consent, sending distant echos around him. There was one thing that stuck to him, and that for all the military instillation he had seen, the New Imperial Order was one of the few groups that could manage to make one feel so empty. He had read the reports, he had heard the statistics, it shouldn't come off as barren as it did. Perhaps it was the size, but he swore he could walk for miles without ever encountering another sapient.

His helmet, a clunky looking hunk of betaplast that had to be snapped together onto a hinge to account for his odd morphology compared to the standard rank and file, was held underneath his right arm. He had popped and hissed the mask off soon after he had turned from his fellow trooper, and was pleased the moment he felt the synthetic atmosphere inside of the base hit his skin. He felt more aware, more alive outside of his armor. Despite the "second skin" training, it always felt more like a shell than properly part of him. His SFR was slung behind his back, clacking against the plating with every step.

He arrived to the door of the range, tapping on the console-pad next to it, before it oscillated open. Absent mindedly he took a few steps inside without registering who was slinging blaster shots down range.

The first thing he noticed was the uniform of someone much more important than himself.

The next was his lack of a helmet.

"Awh Hell..." He muttered to himself, fiddling with the betaplast in a grand and unceremonious rush as he brought the helmet up, quickly fitting it over his horns and around his headtails, before letting the faceplate slam shut. Rifle was brought at front, and his heels snapped to attention. It was far from the trained respect of the rest of the fodder, instead, it seemed as if the solider was simply going through the motions with the slur and catch to his motions.

"Apologies, sir, didn't realize the range was occupied." He hated his sound of formality.

---

// tags Lyra 'Sybila' Voikryt Boram Predor Cyr Vaust

 

[Cyr Vaust]

Location: Nirauan
Status: Lurking - Approaching Firing Range

A grandiose symbol of ingenuity - a stark monolithic entity stood before the gaze of Cyr. Wondrous was it to witness the sheer dominance and respect demanded from the New Order; however, Cyr held no personal excitement - only indifference and a simple curiosity of who she had to speak with to initiate a contract. Jobs were easy to come by in the massive expanse of the galaxy, but something such as this was most definitely too intriguing to ignore. For every backwater planet and minor league organization, there were a lesser number of sizable opportunities that implied a potential treasure trove. A storm was brewing, and it was much more preferable to place a bet upon a conglomerate of invigorated Imperials, rather than be passenger alongside the irritating egos and lackluster originality of Sith.

Cyr held no personal qualms when it came to who she was paid to murder; however, something seemed quite alluring when it came to taking shots and slicing into the widely renown Zambrano hierarchy. For years, the word of their triumph had spread like a plague - pestilence buzzing in the ears of every life-form until they grow sick of it.

It was time for a new perspective - a vanquishing of the flowery rhetoric the Sith spew from between their teeth while their tongues wallow in lies. When the blood runs dry, when the incessant drivel fades to silence, only then will Cyr lower her blade.

As the masked woman walked, she noticed perplexed faces and odd glances directed at her from Imperial staff and grunts alike. Her own expression was veiled by neon light and apparatus, yet a devilish grin curled the corners of her lips. Something about being an anomaly among more uniformed individuals gave Cyr a tingle of amusement, whereas emotion in general was not her area of expertise. Typically her demeanor was a stoic one - unwavering and cold. She held no close connections nor immediate kin in which to confide in, yet this was a preferred measure of caution. No mouths to feed besides her own, no children to cherish nor hold, no lover to compromise with.

Cyr was alone, and always would be.

As she arrived at the firing range, she noticed it was already inhabited and currently in use by two others that appeared to actually belong to the military installation. Standing in silence, Cyr simply observed and gave them a subtle nod of acknowledgement before brushing her cloak aside, revealing a modified TL-50 heavy repeater fixed with a holosight and laser - hanging from her left shoulder by a weathered leather strap. At a glance, one might also observe the hilt of a lightsaber - sleek and untarnished.


Ravraa Vyshraal | Lyra 'Sybila' Voikryt

 

[Lyra 'Sybila' Voikryt]

It was a cathartic experience, snapping the powercell into place with a firm click. You could ask any trooper to disassemble their weapon, but it had been a favorable punishment across the board in basic training; she however delighted in the puzzle. The durasteel was heavy in her hands, her attention engulfed by the weapon, the opening of the blast doors an afterthought. Vaguely aware the isolated range had been treaded upon, the presence burning in the back of her mind. The Colonel laid the weapon out on the bench with care after the once over, reaching over to tap the data pad tossed haphazardly amongst her budding workstation.

Her back all but turned toward the incoming soldiers. A blue light illuminating her outline as she idly searched for a report, finger tapping away at the screen. She wanted to read over the specs a second time. It was the faint noise that finally garnered her full attention and snap of armor that drew her gaze. The Colonel tossed one haphazard glance past her shoulder when the trooper had spoken up, but her pale eyes trailed after the appearance of Cyr..

The Colonel nodded numbly toward the faceless..well she wasn’t sure how to describe the gunner, offering a mirrored tilt of her head to Cyr. They were packing some decent power, she noted, eye twitching as the vacant air swept over her; force be damned. That sort of chill was associated with a certain command and Lyra wasn’t in the mood to go barking up that tree.

“Ma’am will suffice,” Lyra’s words were drawled, swallowing a sigh as her shoulders tensed. She tossed the factory report aside as she looked back to the Trooper.. Her mind trapped on the last few words of the summary, atleast it hadn’t been a gaggle of greenhornes tumbling in-or perhaps that would've been preferable.. She regarded the Trooper, brows furrowing at the modified armorment; it wasn’t something she had seen before. Lyra’s expression was screwed by a plethora of scars that covered the greater half of her face. Tossing up a hand nigh lazily, she cleared her throat.

“At ease..have at it Trooper, there are enough slots to go around.”

Ravraa Vyshraal Cyr Vaust

 

[Belisarius]

When logistics pulled their assess out of their heads and got a hold of steady, sufficient supplies, Captain Belisarius called in a favor. An officer there owed him. So when the supplies arrived, Gladius Company of the 51st Airborne were first to enjoy it. Everyone needed to take a breather after what they had gone through in the past few days. Booze was always a good idea to loosen up the tension. He left the man to it, they'd need an abundance of it before he went back to disciplining.

And for himself? Alcohol wouldn't help, neither did the cigarettes; especially since he'd smoked a pack already and the sun was still high up in the sky. Shooting, he convinced himself, that'll help. Should help. Armored and with his helmet on top, a few had seen his face and he wasn't sure any of them had revolted and joined the New Imperial Order. The enigma helped, he believed, to maintain reputability and respect among soldiers. Some fellow peers of his criticized him for that but the Captain was unfazed.

The shooting range was rather deserted, he assumed most were enjoying the fact they weren't fasting anymore. Belisarius found the few still in the shooting range - a colonel, a private and a lightsaber jockey. He saluted the colonel, posture as strict as a rookie on a parade despite the fatigue, wondered why the private wasn't out there with the rest of his comrade enjoying the surplus of supplies, and soured beneath the helmet at the sight of the lightsaber.

He rummaged through the weapons rack but found nothing of what he was looking for. Then, "Nothing heavier in here?" there was a lot of tension to be released.

Been a long week.

Ravraa Vyshraal Lyra 'Sybila' Voikryt Cyr Vaust

 

[Ravraa Vyshraal]

Location: Nirauan
Task: R&R
---

There was instantly a tinge of regret through his body when he was corrected. Despite this, the relative calm and relaxed demeanor that the officer did seem to portray. He didn't know her name off hand, he hardly even could take a proper guess as to the rank that she held. It was a problem that he had from the start of his service. His ties to the NIO were purely moment to moment, his ties to individuals fleeting and distant. Names fled as easily as faces, and it was a problem that he fully understood he had. Her face seemed familiar enough, however, whether or not if he had seen it sprawled on a propaganda piece or in some holovideo wasn't something he could clear with himself. She wore scars. They were deeper and more varied than some of the trenches that he had wandered. Conflict rarely left you free of wounds, much less mental than physical, but he could hardly fathom what could have brought that form of wrath down on one individual person. Perhaps a thermal detonation, or years of service, regardless if it was a collection or a single strike that had marked her, she had known far more of the horrors than he ever wished to. Then again, he was simply losing himself in his headspace, there was a chance it could have been a childhood injury or a birth defect. He knew, personal or structurally, it was far from his place to ask her.

He felt nearly like it was some sort of betrayal to someone he didn't properly know, to making these assessments, when he himself was safe behind a helmet. There was a fair bit to tell that he wasn't properly aware of. His stance was slacked more than a normal solider would, and in terms of purpose to his movements, there was little. Casual would be the best way to describe it, though pointless wouldn't be far off.

The moment he was put at ease, it was like a switch. His shoulders slouched down and his spine decompressed. His feet tapped slightly as his stance widened and leaned into itself as he refound his normal footing. Even the blaster he had brought ahead of himself so quickly was relaxed, cradled now in his arms more like a child. Perhaps it was too quick, too sure of a complete switch from solider to a bar hopping smuggler, but it was what felt normal to him. Besides, he could grit his teeth and stand through the yelling if she found problem with it.

“At ease..have at it Trooper, there are enough slots to go around.”

"Thank you. Just thought I'd get some rounds in during downtime." He said, his accented voice coming synthesized through the helmet. Cursing himself with the lack of a proper term to address her by.

Then, something new, something unexpected waltzed through the door.

Crystalline was the first term to come to Ravraa's head, past that, he had issues making an exact science of what the pink-purple-blue figure was intended to be. If he was a jumpier man, he would have drawn his blaster on it. He was not. Instead his eyes simply followed it from behind his helmet. He tried to take in as much detail as he could, assign some reason or some point of origin for the craftwork of the armor, or, at least what he supposed was armor. Regardless, the individual certainly kept a specific, if unknowable, aesthetic about them. A certain swagger to how they entered the room, seemingly wanting to dominate it without a word. It annoyed him, to some extent, and to another it was something he was more than respectful of.

The tossing of the cloak was a display of debonair style that the Togruta nearly found himself chuckling at. It was one thing to have your entire persona be dedicated to a single look, it was another thing to be able to pull it off as well as the figure had seemed to be doing. The blaster that was drawn nearly instantly registered with him. A dozen or so systems and the training he had received by the New Order familiarized him with a plattering of weapons from the Core to the Mid. The TL-50, while an older model, was something that he personally respected. He smiled.

He missed his slugthrower.

The snapping of betaplast coming to attention brought him out of his thoughts, and he nearly snapped to a salute himself before he looked over and caught the site of another armored individual. This one was in much more familiar plating, however. Stormtrooper armor, clad head to toe, it was something that he was familiar with. He didn't exactly recognize the man from the scuffing of his armor or the rush of his salute. He didn't recognize him from the way he walked or held himself. Something itched at the back of the Togruta's mind, however, that he should know this man. Something about the aged feel to his militarism. Perhaps they saw a similar front at somepoint, but no name was willing to come to him.

He assumed that the man was human, or at least near-human, and the fact that he didn't take a double take when he saw the oddity that was Ravraa's helmet stuck with him more than the stormtrooper could have probably known. It was an unspoken respect to simply be regarded as another in the same struggle, at least, that's how monuments it felt when it wasn't the first thing someone concerned themselves with when they entered the same room as him.

For Ravraa himself? He was here to shoot at the range, and that was what he intended to do, but it appeared that this may end up being a much more interesting situation than he had originally signed up for. Taking his steps over to one of the open slots, he adjusted the SFR rifle in his grip until he loosely held it in a nearly combat ready stance. The small slot that he occupied had a holopad on the wall that separated it from the next section of the range. A small tap brought to life a target, just thirty feet away. Another tap would send it scooting backwards.

"Nothing heavier in here?"

The first words he heard the man say, somehow, he knew they would be along those lines.

"The rotary blasters not heavy enough?" Ravraa would say aloud before sighting down his rifle, muttering the next line of "unless someone took them, dunno..." to himself.

---
// tags Lyra 'Sybila' Voikryt Boram Predor Cyr Vaust Belisarius

 

[Lyra 'Sybila' Voikryt]

“Likewise, a good choice Trooper,” Lyra spoke lightly, her words measured almost thoughtful in nature. The hustle for the two by three stack that made up her bars had been like reaching a plateau that led to something like an ugly sobering. The woman was neck deep into the better part of a decade’s worth of service and had shared space with all walks of military life and she wasn’t here to lite pointless fires under arses.

It wasn’t good for her blood pressure either, when the Trooper relaxed she occupied herself with her own work. Vaguely entertaining the painfully ebb and flow of the force and it’s sensories that whispered impressions, prodding at the back of her mind. She wasn’t ignorant when that mess was very well being stared at. The corner of her mouth twitched and her lips pressed into a thin frown.

It was a commonplace and one that was tolerated. Lyra turned back to the weapons cache, offering the second Trooper a stern nodd. It was quick and equally dismissive, hardly catching the man’s face but trained eyes roving over the badge.

“Welcome in Captain,” the woman greeted the man, an ever so enthused tone lacing her words.

So they were collecting a small gaggle of gas canister junkies in the end, she might as well have ordered the entirety of her rifle squad here if they were going to torch up the range. That would have involved a touch of a brandy on top and breach of conduct but that was beside the point, at the thought an itch formed in the back of her throat but she wasn’t going to sneak out that flask here. Getting caught among peers may be one thing to write off, but she’d be damned pulling a deplorable stunt with indistinct troopers. But who would believe them?

A soft snort escaped her at the very notion. Shaking her head to herself, Lyra swiped away at the data pad before it dawned upon her. Maker help her, she didn’t want to analyze every detail accompanied with every weapon. The rather bland rifle was a class finer then what they might have produced back on Bescane but that wasn’t a compliment. Seizing the blaster and disengaging the powercell, she pushed it aside. One hand trailed over the other blasters packed in the case foam, the KXR AK-57x Charric Rifle was new territory for the woman and she seized it. Some obscure note or two was attached with Charric grade weaponry; it just hadn’t been delegated in the initial budget. Turning on her heel and taking up a slot, she grimaced at the neon interface; tapping the startup and lighting up her lane.

The Colonel flicked the through the setting of the weapon, setting it to automatic and gave a simple roll of her shoulders. It was like testing a box of chocolates. When the target reached the modest placement of ten meters before she raised the rifle, tension went with a deep inhale. The bolt noise was loud, deafening even if one didn’t have the proper dampener in place. A sudden onslaught of bolts hailed from the weapon when her finger slid in place. The green light casting over her face as she blasted away, a source of an impromptu lightshow. The times she had to face recoil outside of armor could be counted on one hand, a Trooper lived, drilled, and died in their armor but for the weapon grade she found it tolerable. The butt of the rifle stirred a dull ache in her shoulder as she let loose.

Ravraa Vyshraal Belisarius Cyr Vaust

 

[Jackson Vernault]

Location | Classified
Objective | Chew out some new recruits
Focus| Lyra 'Sybila' Voikryt | Cyr Vaust | Ravraa Vyshraal | Belisarius

"Your dismissed." Chairs squeaked as their passengers got up. "WE ARE THE 25th LIGHTNING BATTALION, NO MERCY, NO FEAR, HOORAH!!" Everyone pumped their fits in the air. It had been a good day so far. Jackson was the first one in and now the last one out. It had been like this for the past few weeks. He and his captains had been training the new recruits for the past two or so weeks. They would be taking their placement examination tomorrow. Those that had high scores would join Alpha company or Beta company. Those that didn't would join the ranks of the shamed Echo company or Foxtrot Company. Jackson didn't care much about competition.....competition led to hard work.

Jackson could be heard all the way to the mess hall, his boots were super loud, but also super shiny. He stopped at the shooting range. There weren't many in tonight. He stepped in, "Evening Ma'am, Captain, Private." There was one other, but he didn't see any rank plaque or anything that would denote their rank. Mercenary....or new recruit. Jackson thought. He walked over to one of the stalls, and unholstered his officer's blaster pistol.

 

[Asmus Omaand]

Location: Nirauan, NIO Military Installation
Task: Weapons Practice

Asmus was not normally concerned with perfecting his aim. That interest changed however when paired with the ability to convert his weapon's functionality in the middle of combat. The ability to function while under fire was a strange ability by itself and some never got much farther than that. Asmus however went a step further, feeling almost at peace when the fighting started. He always felt a touch uneasy when the fallacy of peace was in the air. Peace was always the precursor to violence, visited on the unsuspecting by those that practiced inflicting wounds and ill intent with an almost loving touch.

The least Specialist Asmus could do was be prepared when the call to arms came.

The separate cases holding the modular components to the carbine blaster in his arms were stored in individual containers. The frame on his back looking like a small luggage case as most of the containers pieced together so well that an untrained eye could not make them out as separately. Memorizing the cases had been the first part of the initial challenge, then came the putting it all together. It had been frustrating at first, and with time he had learned the order.

All of them eventually had snapped together in a certain order to function as a small framed style back pack which latched onto minimally altered plates via mag-locks on his armor. The magnetic locks operated with a small set of straps running over his shoulders and latching into the front and bottom plates. Other small alterations in the Specialists armor were visible. Knife sheaths on both thighs molded into the armor, magnetic latches on the back and front plating for the frame for the modular containers, and a few spots on the arms for something not currently equipped.

He entered the range, doors announcing his presence as they hissed open. His helmet nodding in proper respect to those of higher rank, the barest of nods to those equal to himself, and plainly staring at the mercenary that was among them for a long moment. As the others had not called any attention to it, or had already done so, he did not address the outsider.

If they were this deep inside a New Order facility, there would have been checkpoints to pass through, guards to question. It was just a curiosity at this point for the Aegis guard as to what had prompted allowing an unknown into an NIO facility with such....ease. Call it paranoid, but it would have been a fair idea to at least have a temporary badge created for the mercenary to wear to avoid being stopped by someone such as himself in the hallways. Spying the saber however caused an entirely different reaction.

Beneath the helmet, his right eyelid twitched a few times, looking the mercenary up and down while taking pictures of them with the eye motion. A lightsaber could be claimed from a force user's body as a prize, especially one that seemed pristine. The chance of them being able to swing a saber while being an independent made him take note of the person before moving on to a spot down the way. Stepping into the booth a moment to set the carbine down, they stepped back out and touched the mag-locks, catching a strap and setting it down before moving back into the booth.

Spoiler

Lyra 'Sybila' Voikryt | Cyr Vaust | Ravraa Vyshraal | Belisarius | Jackson Vernault