Caught up as he was in the speech he was giving Ignatius, it took a moment for The Mongrel to recognize that Ziare had responded to him, and was waiting on him to confirm her orders. Was this the man he was becoming? One who monologued while racing across a warzone? He had changed so much since that first raid on Batuu, when he'd crawled - alone - under a burning market stall to escape a lightsaber-wielding assassin. He could not have imagined having authority back then, could not even have
pictured anyone listening to him.
"You have my authorization to pick your targets, Mercy," he finally told her, speaking once more into his wrist comm. If she was already in the senate district, there was no sense in sending her somewhere else; the targets she had identified would eventually escape or be evacuated, and they needed to reach whoever they could snatch or kill before that happened. That would start with the closest ones, the true targets of opportunity.
"Contact me if you require support. Otherwise, you are free to make tactical decisions."
He trusted her battlefield judgement on this. An odd feeling, trusting someone who'd once nearly killed him... but he did. It was something about their shared heritage: people who would once have been horrified by the Maw, captured and changed until they rejoiced in serving the Brotherhood. It was just like he'd told Ignatius: their past lives didn't matter anymore. They had been remade by their dark baptism into the Maw's service, their minds broken and reforged into something new. In that way, Mercy was like a sister to him.
The highways and airspace surrounding the senate district were rapidly being caught up in a deadly crossfire. Most civilian traffic had come to a panicked halt, with only a few terrified drivers still trying to weave through the chaos. Instead, military-grade speeders (and converted civilian craft, given the Maw's particular brand of engineering) dueled between skyscrapers, and commuter stations such as rail depots and hoverbus stops were transformed into fortified outposts. Alliance troops and Brotherhood marauders clashed amid the duracrete jungle.
Ignatius had taken The Mongrel's admonition with admirable stoicism. He had not flinched or quailed before the warlord's attention, and though a man accustomed to reading fear in the eyes of others - as The Mongrel was - could see it buried in his gaze, he had hidden it well. That was good. If he had proven weak, perhaps voiding his bowels all over the LuchsHai's seat, the warlord would have killed him then and there... likely by heaving him over the side of the speeder to follow his letter and then taking the driver's seat himself.
But he had once again proven stronger than expected.
"Iggy" did not question orders, either, though The Mongrel could read the question written on the features of
all the marauders. Why weren't they attacking the Senate Rotunda, or the Galactic Stock Exchange, or some other high-profile target? The warlord did not provide a reason - at his rank, he did not explain himself to his troops - but he had one. In the past several years of raiding and warfare, he had learned a simple truth. Buildings could be rebuilt. Fleets could be replenished. Whole worlds could be raised from the ashes of ruin.
But people? Kill the right people, and they're irreplaceable.
The targets Mercy had identified at the 500 Republica were all key lynchpins of the Bastion Accords, the diplomats and logisticians and middle managers who made the sprawling alliance work. If they all fell into the hands of the Brotherhood today, the disruption that would ripple through the pact would be
immense. Long after the last of the battle debris was removed by Coruscani emergency crews or picked over by underlevel scavengers, their
absence from the war planning would
still be granting the Maw a decisive advantage.
All their knowledge would be captured, or die with them.
Of course, the further they got into the district, the more likely it was that they would encounter direct resistance. Their spotter saw it first, as was his job: a fortified position further up the highway, some group with serious kit. Obviously not Brotherhood, which would have been clear right away even without their continuous tactical communication. The Mongrel was about to weigh in, giving his orders for how to deal with the enemy hardpoint, when Ignatius showed that side of himself that the warlord had observed way back on Rhand.
A side that might see him become a commander one day.
The Mongrel said nothing as "Iggy" and his comrades hashed out their plan, preparing the weapon named for the warlord himself as they raced toward their target. He simply watched, the piercing red gaze of his visor sweeping across the crew, taking in how each one acted. He watched Ignatius most of all. The man might be a diplomat, a soft and cultured creature, but he clearly had a tactical mind locked inside that skull of his... one that was beginning to emerge now, forced out by his dire circumstances. A Mawite school of hard knocks.
He even had the presence of mind to offer earmuffs.
The Mongrel's mask was more than capable of filtering out auditory attacks - he'd made sure of it the moment he'd started using flashbangs and sonic weapons as Jedi-killing tools, not wanting them turned back on him - but he bemusedly accepted the earmuffs nonetheless. He could feel the tension in the speeder as it raced toward its goal, the dangerous thrill brought on by Ignatius's audacious plan. The big gun
squeaked into position, finding the right firing angle. The warlord fitted the earmuffs over roughly where his ears hid.
Despite his auditory dampers, he was glad that he had.
The piercing, shuddering
howl of the cannon made The Mongrel feel somewhat honored that the weapon had been named for him. Rockets roared out of the speeder and slammed down all over the enemy checkpoint, sending men running for cover - or flying in pieces. It was like a rolling barrage, only
behind them, as though the little fleet of speeders was towing a curtain of roaring flame. Small arms opened up next, firing madly down at the rest of the Brotherhood's foes, adding to the casualties and deepening the chaos of the scene.
Ignatius turned to look at The Mongrel, whose durasteel mask reflected the fires raging all around... and earned a nod of approval.
"Perhaps you should embrace this calling you have found," the warlord told him, his crimson gaze once again boring into the auxiliary. He said nothing more, letting the words sink in. All around them, men screamed and burned and
died, and it was Ignatius who had made it so. Was this the man who, moments ago, had been writing a formal letter begging for pardon? Clearly he was becoming something
more.
The moment was interrupted, however, when the speeder suddenly
lurched. An invisible hand had taken hold of it, pulling it back, struggling against its forward momentum. That first lurch nearly tossed The Mongrel through the windscreen; only bracing himself with his cybernetic arms kept him in his seat. Then the pull of that invisible hand became a
push, and the front of the LuchsHai angled straight down at the ravaged highway checkpoint below. From this height, at this speed, a crash would be fiery and instantly fatal.
"Brace yourselves," The Mongrel bellowed, reacting swiftly as the speeder began to fall. His satchel of tricks was gone, lost when that wolf-man had ripped it away on Rhand... so he kept his tricks
inside his cybernetics now. Raising his left arm, he triggered an inbuilt grenade launcher and fired the entire clip down at the road. They weren't explosives; instead, they burst open in a shower of rubbery foam. The
glop grenades, the latest anti-Jedi weapon he was trying out, were designed to entangle dangerous enemies.
Instead, the sticky foam became a makeshift crash pad.
The LuchsHai slammed into the mess of frothy adhesive just before it began to harden, stealing the speeder's momentum before it hit the unyielding street. As the glop rapidly air-dried, becoming duracrete-solid over the next few seconds, it would become safe to walk on. The Mongrel shook his head to clear it; he'd slammed his skull
hard against the side of the speeder, but thankfully it'd been the part already covered in durasteel. With his right hand he drew a heavy blaster pistol. With his left he reached for Ignatius.
The warlord had no idea what had become of the crewmen behind him, and he didn't stop to check just yet. He hoped "Iggy" hadn't broken his neck or back, because he was hauling the man out of the driver's seat by his collar. At the same time he was popping off blaster shots with his other hand, trying to keep any nearby NIO troops in cover. His targeting optics were connected seamlessly with the synthmuscles of each hand, and his aim - even one-handed, even distracted - was unerring. Anyone foolish enough to pop his head up...
... was very likely to get a blaster bolt to the dome.
"On your feet, 'Iggy'," The Mongrel growled, doing his best to pull himself and his driver from the twisted wreck. They were lucky the cannon behind them hadn't broken free of its mount, or they both would have been flattened in the crash.
"Some wretched sorcerer has pulled us from the sky... and I doubt he's gone far." Breaking off his shooting for a moment, the warlord raised his comm, contacting the other LuchsHai speeders that had flown through the opening Ignatius had created.
"Stop for nothing! Seize the Republica 500!"
The Mongrel
| Open
