Time-check (FO's Dominion of Elrood {Hex L-51})

[The Major]

Mandates left and right! ​

As politicians and committees sign off on edicts that would result in the eventual wheels of war turning onward, the slow bubbling, frenetic madness that was anticipation provided the wheels of imperialism energy to push and shove its way in this impossibly insane time. Haughty newcomers: ambitious immigrants looking to thrive in the machine of militarism, to former Galactic Empire officers thirsty to earn that one commendation that would push them back into the starlight after their costly civil war, and the fresh faced recruits from the latest conscription drives all swirled together as fleets and armies moved back and forth amongst the unspoiled core... ​

But the problem as always was that regardless of more space and industry out there to serve the First Order, only so many able bodied could work to seize every prize. However, there was always a key influencer or two to convince that could help magnify efforts. It was these movers and shakers that would be relied upon to change opinion whatever the means. Here in this part of space, it didn't take much other than credits to sway anyone any which way.

Obj 1: Time was the greatest enemy as systems now free of Alliance control worked their schemes and courted former allies. Central command has authorized search and seizure of key civic and industrial leaders to be brought to the Security Bureau to be interviewed. Targets vary in all manner of life and upbringing.

Obj 2: Civic owned shipyards orbiting over the world have been marked as a high priority target. Though these structures are not currently equipped to build war vessels securing them for conversion will help add another strongpoint to the sector.

Obj 3: Many secrets, treasures and artifacts from history scatter the planetside. Bring your own objective and imagination to the proceedings.

Heart pounding in her throat, Sybil pushed her chest into the back of the Stormtrooper as he kicked down a wooden door, pushing him forward and propelling him into the room as his blaster cleared his side and nervous eyes sought a target -only too slow. A blaster shotgun throbbed from the right of the opening, all too quickly sweeping the unlucky trooper off on his side with a squeal that was just muted by the mic on his helmet to cushion the psychological blow of hearing a fully grown man squeal in agony as fate propelled him away painfully from reality.

Her own revolver moved a bit faster than she could even truly comprehend, and the recoil bounced naturally against her bending elbow, sending the bullet through the assailant's face in something of a lucky shot. More blaster fired opened up from locations past this first room and what appeared to be upstairs, but whatever connected bounced with a magnificent, high pitched whine against the ultrachrome plate. Instinctively, however, her right arm came up across the visor of her face, covering it from further harm as her boots shuffled quickly to the right and drew fire from the doorway. Meanwhile, other troopers poured in, filling the room with rancid ozone and crisscrossing bolts of such pretty but hard to look at colors. A scream or two tore the air on the far side of the room, and then suddenly all went quiet.

Outside, shadows of transports smothered the room in staccato darkness, and despite the minimum damage to the intruders she could feel her arms trembling. Realizing time was being wasted, the Major looked back to the doorway.

Where, for Nether’s Sake, was the other operative?​

 

[Dresden Verbrennung]

Objective 1: Secure VIPs
Working with: [member="The Major"]

From the upper floor, there came a muted THUMP.

It wasn't loud, exactly, but it had a physical presence like a punch to the chest.

"Upstairs clear," came the call over the radio as one Dresden Verbrennung signaled his comrades below.

Exactly what the thump was, it was hard to say from down below. Some kind of explosively, obviously. It couldn't have been that impressive; the building was still standing and, as near as anyone could tell, no shrapnel. Or at least none that punched through the ceiling. And yet, there was silence from above.

There was, however, dripping.

It started as a trickled at first, and quickly advanced to streams as blood trickled down the stairs.

"Godda- Sorry about that guys, didn't think they'd leak that much, hang on."

Anyone standing at the bottom of the stairwell would be hard pressed not to notice the edge of the squeegee as it pushed the lion's share of the liquid out of the footpath. A once clean white towel was hastily thrown onto the top step to sop up some of the mess, while odd squelching noises could be heard.

"Oh, gross! His arm came off. Ugh. Stupid corpses. Look, guys, you're either gonna have to deal with the mess or take my word for it. It's karking disgusting up here. I knew the fiberglass fragmentation casing would do the trick, but holy crap that's vile. Ewwww, he shat himself."

It was safe to say that Dresden was no stranger to death and destruction in any number of forms, but even he wasn't prepared for the carnage wrought by his latest present. The fiberglass bomb had been intended to kill the guards without penetrating the walls, ceiling, or floor. It had performed magnificently, propelling itself up to waist height for the toughs that were waiting for the First Order's team to storm the stairwell. The tiny slivers of fiberglass, no more thick than a coarse hair, had so thoroughly perforated them that they practically sloshed on the inside.

Rather than the relatively large entry wounds left by typical fragmentation devices, this bomb left thousands of pinpricks all across the bodies of the thugs. They didn't so much bleed as ooze. And a disturbing amount of the liquid clearly wasn't blood.

"Bogan's beard that stinks. Okay, don't shoot, I'm coming down with the package."

The package, in this case, was a Devaronian female. Fully half her fur was singed off and she was clearly drugged to the gills, but she moved more or less on her own power as the mercenary prodded her down the stairs. Her hands were cuffed securely behind her back. She wore the tattered remains of a business suit, itself singed, and also stained with blood. Most of it was red, but there were a few distinctly black splotches, probably her own.

She was, until a few moments ago, a high profile businesswoman with ties to several independence movements across the galaxy. She wasn't quite to the level of financier, but she was known as a reliable source when one needed to move large amounts of cash quickly and quietly.

Dresden frogged marched the woman over to [member="The Major"] and passed her over to the waiting troopers.

"Lovely weather we're having," he remarked.

 

[Progflaw99]

​

[Former] Rebellion Safehouse | Operations Center Elrood​

Status: Compromised | Zeta Protocol Enacted​

​

- - -​

​

Fear. It was in the air, along with the scents of piss and death, covered by a haze of burnt ozone and smoking scars of carbon. The First Order had struck, hard, fast, and without mercy. For all their bureaucratic blunder, when it came to military operations and rooting out those threats to their order, there were no cards played but the winning ones. The man sitting at the desk looked almost through the illuminated display in front of him, eyes open wide, breaths slow. Perspiration had settled upon his brow, dark stains beneath his arms and a greasy swathe of hair resting across his forehead were evidence of his anxiety - and yet he felt at peace. His brothers and sisters outside had fought the good fight, and they had died for something. For a principle. For...

A rattle on the desk drew the man's attention, eyes falling slowly to his hand. The small glass tumbler in his hand was shaking. His hand was shaking. Deliberately he set the glass down, reaching out to the bottle next to it and uncorking it with a pop of his thumb. The cork rolled, disappearing into the corner of the dimly lit room as the amber liquid poured smoothly into the glass. Content with the amount in the glass he replaced the bottle, sighing as he picked the tumbler back up. A silent toast to the fallen, now reduced to anatomy and gristle scattered across the roof, complements of a particularly efficient [member="Dresden Verbrennung"]. He'd seen it all on the display in front of him, only a handful of the cameras having been knocked out before the assault - even so, the dead deserved some formality.

Perhaps sipped too quickly, though sip was likely the wrong word for what the man had done. Upended the tumbler, the slick and smokey liquid catching momentarily in his throat, a cough giving away his position. It wouldn't be long now. So had the die been cast. Part of him expected his head to be vaporized the moment the Order discovered him, a blaster bolt would be quick - painless. Unless of course they deemed it necessary to bring him in for 'questioning'. The man had heard the horror stories of the First Order's interrogators. FOSB agents who had sold their souls to some dark deity in exchange for knowledge undeserved of any ordinary man - demons. They were demons. His fears turned to little more than subtle nagging as the liquid courage just ingested burned their way towards his stomach.

The laugh almost caught him off guard, the sound rising through the durasteel door behind him. *They must have heard that. But I don't care...* Louder the second time, his voice rose, taunting the intruders. Their executioners.

"My name is Oren Oske! I am the Rebellion! Come and get me, you dogs!"​

​

[member="The Major"] | [member="Dresden Verbrennung"]​

 

[Robogeber]

Objective: 2, Put the Shipwrights Back On Schedule
Location: En-Route to Bexley Corporation, Elrood Shipyards
Musical Interlude: Approaching The Death Star [X]
Allies: [member="Lucan Sirrad"]

The deep space of the Bexley shipyard was usually filled with vessels, most of whom were either recently set free from their moorings for purchase by enterprising tradesmen. But now, the vessels around were not civilian. Star destroyers, and corvettes of all shapes and sizes now circled the yards, passing through the wrecks of the security vessels which had for a moment attempted to resist the full might and power of the First Order. But now, the battle was over, and the time the shipyards liquidation into the First Order war machine had arrived.

Shuttle JF-3401 departed the cavernous ventral hangar of the FIV Pellaeon. The gargatuan destroyer, had just arrived, and was now a symbol for the vessels which now patrolled. The Imperator, had arrived. Escorted by a compliment of TIE fighters, the shuttle breezed through the debris of shattered corvettes, and destroyers, through the skeletal hulks of as of yet unfinished trade vessels, and all the way toward the central command station. Sitting in between all the major manufacturing sattellites and drydocks was the large, singular station. A nexus of activity with troop transports departing in and out of the vessel, accompanied by even more TIE's.

All vessels, parted for the Upsilon-Class Command Shuttle as it entered the large, cavernous hangar. The dock had received some fighting in the taking of it. On the far end, the bodies of hostile security personnel, were haphazardly piled. A phalanx of stormtroopers stood to attention, accompanied by Grand Admiral Rausgber's black clad, personal protection squadron, the Skulls. The shuttles ramp extended, with a hiss, and the man himself exited. Levitating like a spectre, just above the ground, accompanied by a number of the Sixth Fleet's officers.

A military colonel, attired in tunic approached, and offered a salute, "Grand Admiral," The stern woman began, "We have secured the facility, and our troops have the entire workers barracks under lock." She paused, "The entire civilian workforce has been pacified sir."

The Grand Admiral breezed past the colonel, "The destiny of the workers here is of no concern." The droid drily retorted, not even facing her, "What concerns me is the fact you are behind schedule." The droid glowered bitterly, "The taking of this facility should have been easy, but instead, its reclamation has dragged." The droid paused, and scowled, "I understand you have secured this facilities engineering staff, take me to them."

 

[Omari Ngao]

Objective: BYOO

Omari's unit held the capital city's spaceport. They were one of many squads that were assigned the very glamorous job of guard duty. Nothing was better than this, the sarcastic remark saved for his own amusement as it crossed his mind. When he sighed, he felt his own hot breath rise up in the helmet and over his face before the suit's filtration expelled it. Maybe he didn't feel it at all and it was just his mind playing tricks on him. Something something about the brain and it making you feel something that you didn't, but you did because you expected to... Or something.

"How'd we go from attacking space stations to guard duty - Sarge?"

"Who'd ya piss off?"

"Y'all know the job," he answered. He wasn't about to get berated by his squad of dummies. Tough, lovable dummies. But dummies all the same. "Intel got us the dossiers. Keep 'em up in your HUD. It'll autoscan every face you see."

"Ain't no way this'll play out the way it should in broad day, Sarge."

This time, Omari didn't have a response. Mostly because he couldn't see where he was wrong. He knew what to call this kind of mission. He just didn't want to say it aloud, or even think it. He was a soldier. No... A warrior. Those other troopers were soldiers, the FNs and whatever other silly designations they got. "Us DNs don't question orders. Get to a higher level and get me a vantage. Get the... Heh... Assets on me."

Always wanted to say that. Assets. Heh. Real secret business.

 

[Kou'ha Escala]

Captain
Variation of Objective II
Equipment | Blaster Pistol
Location | Lodos, Elrood Space
Allies | [member="Robogeber"]
Status | These boots sure pinches a whole lot

[SIZE=11pt]As the Grand Admiral was about to enter negotiations with the engineering staff of the now defunct Bexley Corporation, Kou’ha found himself standing before the viewports once again. While his gaze was focused on the battle before him, he kept a careful ear on the stream of information being conveyed between his officers. From what he could discern, the confrontation was already over. The team of stormtroopers dispatched on the moon has already taken control of the base of operations. It was only a matter of time before the rest of the surviving defenders realised the inevitability of their defeat and surrender as well.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=11pt]Perhaps it was an excess for the First Order to assign two battlegroups to subjugate the twin moons of Elrood, Lodos and Sharene. But Kou’ha also understood the necessity of sending a message to the Outer Rim Coalition, a silent warning that the will of Sieger Ren was not to be defied. [/SIZE]

[SIZE=11pt]“Captain, the last of the insurgents have surrendered.”[/SIZE]

[SIZE=11pt]He turned to look at his second-in-command, one Deeran Vert, “Thank you, Commander. Please contact Central Command and let them know we have secured the cooperation of the mining facilities on Lodos.” If there were no further instructions, he would leave several cruisers and frigates to guard Lodos while he headed over to Sharene to provide aid.[/SIZE]

 

[Omari Ngao]

Objective: BYOO

Ahead of him he could see the two 'assets' heading straight for him, clad in their stormtrooper armour. People knew better than to get in the way of the Order's stormtroopers. Most people just wanted to get to where they were going without any trouble. To Omari, that was for the best. When it came to the First Order and people getting in its way, things didn't really work out for them. I mean, Ossus got karked. Exhaling, he pushed his blaster to the side and let it hang just to the side of his ribcage. Glad I wasn't out there.

"FN-2980 reporting."

"FN-5872 reporting."

"Sergeant." They said in unison.

Oh feth, I hope this mission ends quick.

"Come along," Omari orders as they turned into the crowd which then broke apart around them as they moved through them. "Now I ain't used to working with the, er, Bureau, but I'm glad it ain't my men on the line." To which the answer he got was silence. "Uh-huh." Not even bothering to look into their faces, their supposed visors would just show an emptiness that he wasn't about to question. He knew they weren't human. Other species? Most likely, zealots the Bureau brainwashed? They wouldn't be the first. "All I know is y'all ain't real troopers. So once the mission is over... Well, I hope y'all brought a change of clothes."

 

[The Major]

Objective 1
Allies: [member="Dresden Verbrennung"] and the First Order
Enemies: [member="Atlas Viridian"] and his accomplices.

The Major, craning her neck quizzically at the plethora of wet sounds, heard Dresden before she saw him. Pockmarked by the results of his effective form of violence, she marveled at the fact that he felt the need to use a towel when so compromised by the former bowels of those unlucky enough to be caught on shift. His… candor was very different than the professionalism of the stoic stormtroopers, but that sort of quirk was the kind of thing that she looked for in other operatives. It helped keep a certain air of absurdity.

::What're you, a store clerk? ‘Weather…’ I swear the explosive powder is choking the part of your brain in control of wit.:: She grinned under the chrome dome, knowing that Dresden would start shooting off at the mouth —especially in front of an audience. One of the other specialists clad in stormtrooper armor groaned as he checked the body of the deceased comrade, and began the process of stripping the dead operative of ammo and weapons. It was then as the dust settled that a voice could be heard coughing. Immediately the invaders in the room turned to source of noise hidden by some kind of worrisome, improvised hidden entrance masking as a wall. This was followed by a voice calling out a taunt to the operatives of the First Order.

Suddenly Sybil was inspired to try something with the self proclaimed rebel. She stepped carefully to wall and knocked thrice with the stock of her now equipped blaster rifle, saying, ::Good Day, Oren Oske. Won't you come out from your hidey hole, please? Drop all weapons from your person and we can talk. I'm positive we can reach an understanding if we only try.::

 

[Arahael]

Objective: 1
Location: Elrooden, Elrood

Max sat in the back of his command vehicle, moving along the city streets. A screen rapidly displayed the different faces that were being scanned as they passed by. One hundred million people in this city, and they were to find the mighty few that lived within. On another screen to his side was a list of names, positions and addresses that were of interest. Nothing had come up so far, but he wasn't too surprised. The real opportunity would surely present itself when they arrived at their destination.

"Thirty seconds to arrival, Sir" the driver called out.

As the vehicle turned into a narrow, unkempt street, they came to a stop. They were looking for a warehouse, number fifteen to be precise. Blue Star Manufacturing was written in inconspicuous lettering above the correct numbers further down the street. Placing his helmet on and ensuring a correct seal, Max exited the vehicle and silently ordered the troops that were with him to stack up at the door.

Max readied his blaster, standing on the side of the door with the code panel. Unpocketing a small device, he directed it towards the panel and counted down "Three, two, one. Breach."

As soon as he activated the device, a small click indicated the lock had released, allowing the other troops to storm inside the building. Inevitably, the sound of blasters began.

 

[Marriskcal Lati]

Praetorian Initiate
Objective I
Equipment | Training Lightsaber, Throwing Knives, Binding Wires
Location | Meeting Room of the Grace of Elrood, Daya Grand Plaza, Elrooden, Elrood
Allies | I... actually have no idea
Status | I'm 120% sure you are all guilty, but I'm trying to stay objective

[SIZE=11pt]On the topmost floor in one of the buildings that made up a part of the Perma, Marriskcal sat on an expensive desk crafted from kriin wood. Dressed for once in a civilian ensemble of a simple white blouse over a pair of tan trousers, she looked innocuous, especially when she was humming a slightly off-tone melody to a popular love ballad. Despite the almost blasé manner she portrayed, her steel blue eyes never wavered from the individuals sitting before her.

The owner of the vast meeting room, the President of the Grace of Elrood and his small coterie of directors remained calm and silent even as they waited, though the youngling knew better that to believe their false façade. Especially when the air around them was a saturated medley of fear and misgivings. “You know, there is no reason to worry if you did not commit any wrongdoings,” she said in a conversational tone. The First Order is fair, after all. But they were not foolish enough to trust in an unknown entity, especially not when they were operating so close to the Outer Rim Coalition’s territory.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=11pt]The flowing tendrils of their anxiety peaked, a high and unpleasant discordant note in the force. Marriskcal slanted her head to the side as she looked at the all of them with renewed interest. “… Or did you?” While she was usually deferential to her elders, the group before her did not command her allegiance. Therefore, Marriskcal was less inclined to be polite, and even less so to individuals that seemed to be working against the Supreme Leader.

Flicking a kyber crystal – the main commodity of the company – into the air, Marriskcal spoke into the comms. “Agent, I have apprehended the five officials of the Grace of Elrood. What are my next set of instructions?” She caught the translucent stone as it fell, bringing it closer to her eye to inspect its luster upclose.[/SIZE]

 

[Suki Klev]

Objective 1, Post 1
Allies: [member="The Major"] [member="Dresden Verbrennung"] [member="Max Fel"] [member="Marriskcal Lati"]
Foes: [member="Atlas Viridian"]

Close to the Rebellion Safe-House as The Major and Dresden were attempting to flush out Atlas Viridian, Suki's assignment was to make a high-profile capture in a nearby cantina.

The First Order had seized the holonet and commandeered communication satellites, ethernet and technological infrastructure so encryption between opposition was impossible. Call signs, graffiti, flimsiplasts and sentient interaction - this is how the Alliance in Exile were now forced to exchange information.

The bait had seemed easy enough. At a small dive bar called The Drunken Droid, the half-Lorrdian donned a purple sequined dress - and belted out a few Quernk Jazz tunes on the rickety stage in the back of the club, her rendition of “My Love is Better Than an Ionic Tingler” was somewhat rousing, or so she presumed by the half-hearted golf claps around the room. All the while, the junior agent had watched for signs of an intel drop. Her targets were a man and woman about to exchange coordinates of either another safe house or a docking bay of a ship where rebels and refugees would be fleeing that night. Another FOSB agent sat at a booth, drinking stout.

The man, an Elroodian diplomat was a notorious alcoholic and womanizer. The Drunken Droid was his favorite haunt.

After Suki finished her song, she sauntered to the bar and sure enough, the offer of a drink came in the form of a serving droid letting her know that Mr. Angevin had proffered a Noonian Fixer, a potent concoction which she needed to sip slowly in order to retain her senses for the mission.

The singing was easy, but now her palms sweat with the anticipation of actually accosting another person about the crimes they’d committed. And were they really crimes? It was not her place to say or judge. She was only there to do a job.

Problem was that Mr. Angenvin had brought along two burley bodyguards, an unwelcome surprise to the spy. Into her earpiece, she broadcast the following information to her FOSB colleagues: “To anyone standing by. Two diplomats, two security personnel at the Drunken Droid. Could use backup.”

 

[Dresden Verbrennung]

Objective One
Allies: [member="The Major"]
Target: [member="Atlas Viridian"]

Whatever witty retort Dresden had in mind, it was cut off by the discovery of the panic room with the whatsit.

The door appeared to be fairly standard for this sort of thing: durasteel, thick and sturdy, one each. It was the sort of door you could spend all day trying to cut with a torch, or crack in an instant with high explosives at the risk of killing the folks on the other side. A lightsaber would do the trick, but Dresden had resolved to stay away from those Ren wackos. As helpful as a magic glowstick would be right about now, it wasn't nearly worth the risk of some emo kid trying to stab him in the back in a fit of pique.

Besides, he had just the thing for the job.

"Don't let anyone shoot me," he ordered the waiting troopers. "Not unless you want everyone within a ten block radius to turn into ash on the breeze."

The mercenary could practically hear the vast majority of sphincters in the room clang shut like so many blast doors, probably taking a bite out of the undies of a few of them. Okay, so maybe ten blocks was stretching the truth a bit, but it was worth it to see their reactions. Besides, if he told them the real blast radius, they'd probably panic.

With a grunt of effort, Dresden shrugged off his oversized rucksack and went rumaging around in the pockets until he found what he was looking for.

The items in question? Two black cubes, roughly three inches to a side. They appeared featureless at first, but a fingernail inserted in just the right place popped off protective covers, two from each cube. Dresden took a moment to eyeball the door, then placed the cubes in the top left and bottom right corners. Magnets in their bases adhered them to the duralsteel.

From the cubes, he unspooled four lengths of lumpy black tape, which, when laid out, formed a rectangle only slightly smaller than the visible portion of the door.

"Don't look into the light, kiddos," he said, hoping to prevent curiosity from burning out anyone's retinas.

And with that, he thumbed the top cube, then darted to the far side of the room.

There was a flash of blinding white light and a series of sharp cracks as the baradium-laced tape detonated in a daisy chain. The resultant balls of plasma made short work of the door, each one cutting a perfect circle roughly six inches across. The trick was to space each pea-sized lump of the stuff so that the plasma bubbles didn't overlap by just the slimmest of margins. Though that meant some slivers of the metal remained, they were less than a millimeter thick, and superheated to boot. Testing hadn't revealed any issues, and allowing the baradium detonations to overlap carried the very real risk of them interacting in unpleasant ways.

In short, the formerly solid door looked an awful lot like an open window in less than thirty seconds from start to finish.

"Damn I'm good."

 

[Seto du Couteau]

Location: Elrood, Outskirts of Capital City
Objective: III (The Search for a National Treasure?)
Tasks: Retrace Steps of Alleged Antarian Rangers

​

Often those who find no pleasure in there work receive the cruelest form of rewards upon completion of said work. While others who enjoy their work immensely never seem to find the prospect of given more work as a punishment. Unfortunately for the young Du Couteau Heir, he found himself leaning heavily on the former rather than the later. The air clean, the floor polished enough and no armies to fight against certainly put things into perspective for Seto, but looking at a cowering male human soured the feeling. At least it's peaceful enough.

Questioningly he eyed the poor man for several more moments before approaching him. His hands grabbed a spare chair and Seto sat himself in front of the frightened soul, a soft sigh escaped through his pursed lips. "It appears my search has led me to your, shop," He explained, glancing between an assortment of nick nacks and other trinkets. Don't play difficult with me, please.

"I-I d-don't know anything! I swear! I have my papers!" The man scrambled to answer questions yet to be asked.

​I guess I still look too Inquisitorial-y Seto grumbled to himself, he appeared more to akin to a nobleman than anything remotely to some Imperial Agent. Then again, he mused that his eyes revealed more than what Seto want to showcase. Or it could be the First Order Stormtroopers guarding the front door. Regardless, Seto came here to learn something, anything really at this point.

Seto grabbed his holo-projector and displayed two images, two young humans; one male and the other female, each with light complexion and dark brunette hair with striking green eyes. "All I want are yes or no answers for my questions, that's all, so to begin; Have you seen these people before?" Seto asked pointedly.

The man nodded once, "Y-yes."

"And have they ever stepped inside your shop?"

Another nod.

"Always together?"

Another nod.

"Did they come this past week?"

Another nod.

"And finally, you knew nothing about what they were doing in your shop?"

Another nod, but the man hesitated slightly, fear welled up and Seto sensed the anxiety and fear immediately. Seto in turn though only nodded, standing back up he put back the chair and approached the cowering man. Kneeling down Seto looked deep into the man's eyes, "You do know something right? Remember, only yes or no." Seto asked once more.

This time a nod came, slow but the tension ebbed away from the man, finally understanding the gravity of the situation. "Wonderful! That's all I wanted to know, I'll be leaving now my good sir." Seto stood up, clasping his hands together and a smile appeared on his face.

"Y-y-you just needed that? That's it?" The man asked, bewildered that all this unpleasant was about to be over. Just like that.

"I just wanted some confirmation was all, I mean I know about the datacards and the book," Seto explained, grabbing his coat and getting ready to leave. The man simply shirked back, eyes wide as if Seto had just dropped a bombshell in the room. "Oh, I knew, all along. I knew those two people would come here weekly and sent messages in and out, worked on something but just recently they just came to remove all their equipment and try to hide their trail," Seto continued as he stepped closer to the exit.

The man slowly attempted to stand back up, with limited success, "B-b-but if you already knew all this. . . ."

"Oh and before I leave, these here Stormtroopers aren't here for the same reason I am, so I hope you still have your papers my good sir." With that Seto walked back outside. He nodded towards the pair of Stormtroopers and both began to march quickly inside, if Seto had wanted he could have heard several things breaking and meek calls for mercy and such but Seto had already left to continue his search.

Maybe I do miss my Inquisitorial days after all.

​

 

[Omari Ngao]

Objective: BYOO

Omari didn't get an answer. Well, he supposed that the point had gotten across. Sergeant Vyken's blaster was pulled from his side and hefted in one hand while he directed the two strangers. The mission could go a lot of ways. Whoever they were hunting down didn't come at this time and they'd be there all day, or they'd get a way. Preferably, they'd catch them but Omari was starting to think otherwise.

"Voice identification match, DN-149."

"Hangar and starship class identified. Sending to your HUD."

With the First Order claiming the planet, there were a many hangar lots that were either open or taken up by the Order's logistics, but with Omari's limited understanding of how the mission was to go, he figured they were keeping a few open for when a voice match came through the traffic control's systems that the Bureau were already scanning.

"Wait..."

This is on the other side of the hangar.

"We've got to hurry."

 

[Progflaw99]

​

​

[Former] Rebellion Safehouse | Operations Center Elrood​

Status: Compromised | Zeta Protocol Enacted​

​

- - -​

​

Oren's voice rang in his own ears, the white hot fire which had burned its way downward now creating a warm and soothing bubble in the pit of his stomach. Clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides, the would-be martyr took a deep breath and exhaled. This was it. The big time. All things had come to this, and in his last moments Oren wasn't going to go down without a fight. Courage both native to the rebel and a result of the libation welled within his breast, jaw tensing as the sounds of movement outside grew. A momentary silence - and then he heard a voice.

::Good Day, Oren Oske. Won't you come out from your hidey hole, please? Drop all weapons from your person and we can talk. I'm positive we can reach an understanding if we only try.::​

​

An almost singsong voice, both patronizing and genuine, it caused him a moment longer of pause. Refilling his glass with amber liquid from the desk top bottle, Oren raised his voice again. Stronger tones and an almost bitterness bit into his words. "The time for talking is over." Wet eyes scanned across those displays in front of him which yet showed the carnage of the First Order's assault. "Look around you. My friends are dead. You came in here masquerading as agents of order, of peace - is that what you see at your feet?!" Anger now filled the tenure of his voice, his mind reaching for the words he felt pouring from his heart. "You killed them, not their want for hope. Not their resistance to the tyranny of your blessed Supreme Leader. You come in the name of peace, freedom, justice, and security, but all I see is chaos!"

As his words went without response, Oren narrowed his eyes. He could hear more shuffling - no, almost a scraping at the door which for the moment held the beasts at bay. They wouldn't get in - they couldn't. No, they would. Even Oren, partially inebriated, knew that the panic room doors wouldn't hold. Not for long against the might of the First Order. Oren had watched as they had surgically inserted themselves, carried out their duty as they dealt death. A measly door wasn't going to stop them. Even as the thoughts pervaded his mind, he heard a hiss, followed by a massive flash of light. Violently he threw up his arm to cover his eyes, his free hand reaching for the drawer of the desk.

The scrape of the chair against the wooden floor, the loud creak of the drawer sqeaking as he drew it out, a rattle as its contents shifted. Blindly he reached in, fingers searching for the item he knew to be there. Behind him now, he could hear as the doors were turned to slag, an acrid smell followed by a burning in his lungs as the rebel's fingers grasped the grip of a weapon and began to withdraw it. Throwing his body towards the floor, Oren coughed out a half yell as he tried diligently to take aim in the direction of the doors.

"You'll never win! Long live the Rebellion!"​

​

​

​

Undisclosed Location Near [Former] Rebellion Safehouse
Status: Ambush Set, Standing By​

​

Atlas fought back the bile threatening to exhume itself from his innards. The rebel pilot hadn't felt quite right from the outset, the idea of someone volunteering to be the bait didn't sit well with him - especially given their knowledge of the First Order. They wouldn't come gently, they wouldn't be kind. The First Order would come crashing down with the weight of a thousand suns. They had.

Blood had been let, spilled by their brothers and sisters of the cause. Atlas had been forced to watch, unable to help or save them. *Not until the moment is right, or it'll all be pointless.* Each member of the Rebellion had their role - it was how they survived, it was how they kept the fight going. Atlas' was to wait for the right moment. When the First Order had inevitably reared its ugly head, they were ready, or thought they were. One thing however they hadn't accounted for. Or in this case, two.

As the troopers breached the building, Atlas had spied a figure known to him only via secondhand reports. The chrome armor reflecting the days sun was hard to miss. A woman known as "The Major" according to the intel he'd received. A strange mix between Inquisitor and Soldier, the woman had shown up on the battlefield more than once sporting her signature outfit. If she was here... they needed to make sure they succeeded. Untold horrors filled the rumors surrounding the wearer of the chrome armor and while Atlas assumed many were exaggerated, if even half of them were true they had a perfect opportunity to eliminate a monster, a true threat to their organization, a true threat to the Rebellion.

Peering carefully through the macrobinoculars, he could see the troopers moving. Gestures made by the woman indicated they were about to breach - and that's when the telltale flurry of action above caught the rebel's eye. Another figure, this one moving too fast to catch more than a glimpse of. Blaster fire rang out and Atlas knew that many of those now assaulted by the First Order strike team wouldn't make it out alive. Ducking below the parapet of the building he was on, Atlas took a deep breath and began counting. They had to be sure everything unfolded the way it was supposed to, timing was everything. But Atlas hated waiting.

The pilot couldn't resist and after only several moments of silence, he peeked once more. In the shadows of the doorway, just beyond, he caught a glimpse of a cuffed figure being escorted out - a Devaronian. *Sian* he thought. She was one of the contacts they'd met when they'd first arrived a few weeks ago. If they got her to talk, it could compromise their entire operation this side of the galaxy. It was time to move, he couldn't sit still any longer. Ducking back down, he slid quickly down a set of stairs and into an alleyway where his comrades in arms were waiting.

"We're going. Now."​

​

Without hesitation the small gaggle of rebel fighters moved into action, jaws tensed, eyes widening. They had all been ready, but now that the moment was really here all play from their demeanor was extinguished. In the alleyway, a small wash of dust blew up as the engines of a speeder were fired up. It would take them maybe thirty to forty seconds to traverse the narrow avenue leading to the building where the others had drawn in the First Order troops. The trap was sprung, and they'd caught a shiny in the process. Vaulting up into the seat of the repurposed Seraph-class Landspeeder, Atlas only waited a millisecond to ensure his companion [member="Petra Vitalis"] had managed to board before throttling them forward. In a whoosh of dirt and exhaust, they were on their way. Behind and above him, the light swivel blaster spun to life as his co-pilot prepped for contact. No turning back now, and the First Order wasn't about to have an easy day of it if Atlas had anything to say about it.

[member="The Major"] | [member="Dresden Verbrennung"] | [member="Petra Vitalis"]​

 

[The Major]

Objective 1
Allies: [member="Dresden Verbrennung"] and the First Order
Enemies: [member="Atlas Viridian"], [member="Petra Vitalis"] and his accomplices.

::Via! Remind me not to get on your bad side, Mr. V.::

Some of the active chemical of whatever magical kit of destruction was sizzling away at parts of the Major’s red cape, harmlessly burning off tatters of the cloth and giving her the distinct and sultry stink of rubbing lead and spilling gasoline. It had not come soon enough after the speech of the rebel operative who had actively signed his death warrant by continuously resisting. She appreciated his passion; could understand how someone fighting over something they truly believed in could inspire them to achieve great things. In this case it was a grand gesture of resistance in the face of certain death, when nobody would see it. These troopers and their leader were ruthless. All his outpouring of emotion would ensure was a more memorable evening for the team that survived the day. Could he reckon with such? Could he imagine them happily mocking his demise?

She stalked into the room, swinging her hips in a faux slowness for the situation, indulging in trapping the animal into a corner, so sure of invincibility in the face of someone so weak. Glistening shiny and chrome, she spoke, one hand on a G-11F, the other brandishing a songsteel axe.

::It all ends so violently, I know; it all ends so painfully, so slow.::

 

[Dresden Verbrennung]

Objective 1
Allies: [member="The Major"] and FO
Enemies [member="Atlas Viridian"] [member="Petra Vitalis"]

Soldiers often like to pretend that they have some sort of sixth sense for danger. Just before the midden tips into the windmill, many of them recall feeling a sensation not unlike butterflies in their stomach, and accompanied by an emotional rush somewhere between existential dread, manic excitement, and rage. This sense is often attributed to a higher power warning them of impending danger, or perhaps some sort of extrasensory perception.

In the strictest sense, this isn't true, not for most of them. Save for the occasional bout of latent Force sensitivity, what they think of as a sixth sense is a combination of training, attention to detail, and experience. When you strip the mystical element away, it's entirely possible to isolate the ability to "sense" danger and to hone it to a razor's edge.

Call it intuition, call it foresight, call it whatever you want. When you get that feeling, you pay attention. You don't get to be an old man in a business where the careless die young if you don't.

"Too easy," the mercenary muttered to himself. He keyed up his throat mic an called Ms. S over their private channel.

::Something is off. You got any of your boys set up outside?::

Without waiting for a response, he checked his rifle. This was a custom number, a semi-automatic battle rifle chambered in 6.5mm. It was a beautiful weapon, accurate out to over a kilometer, with a smart scope that did the job of a spotter to compensate for things like bullet drop, atmospheric conditions, and the rotation of whatever rock they were on. He had ten 20 round magazines in pouches on his plate carrier, and another dozen or so in his pack. With the suppressor, the rifle was over three feet long, which made it awkward in close quarters, but Dresden figured that's what the troopers were for.

 

[Petra Vitalis]

The whine of speeders coming to life rang in Petra's ears as she followed [member="Atlas Viridian"] and leaped over the edge of the speeder to settle into the co-pilot's station. She booted up the control mechanisms for the mounted gun. The system was operated from her seat by an aged but functional display and joystick targeting system. It could also be used with a rudimentary IFF system which probably hadn't worked on this model for decades, so she was the only game in town, it seemed. The pitch of the speeder's whine increased as Atlas throttled it away from their current position.

"Is it as bad as we thought?" asked Petra through gritted teeth.

She pulled her kerchief over her nose and mouth and had covered her eyes with a pair of enhanced goggles. She hadn't known Oren besides by reputation, but his apparent murder was a dagger in the heart of anyone familiar with his work and with the cause. There would be more time for grief and regrouping later. Now it was time for kicking ass and chewing bubblegum. "And I'm all out of bubble gum," said Petra under her breath. Her black eyes cut to Atlas and crinkled, indicating a shy smile beneath the ornate gold and violet kerchief that formed a part of her disguise. "Sorry," she called over the whine of the engine. "Something of a confidence-building routine!"

[member="The Major"] | [member="Dresden Verbrennung"]​

 

[Arahael]

Objective: 1
Location: Elrooden, Elrood

Max charged into the warehouse after his troops began the breach. The rebels within had not been prepared for such an unexpected attack, but they had anxiously kept their weapons nearby. Finding cover behind a tall terminal unit, he exchanged fire with some of the rebels who had been fortunate enough to survive the initial entry. The warehouse had been dept dimly lit, but blaster fire lit up the area to reveal some of the remaining hostiles.

As the opportunity presented itself, Max rushed up to further cover. Looking above, there was an office next to the catwalk that likely held their target. One last flurry of shots left them in silence, but after a brief moment a figure appeared with their hands in clear vision.

"Alright! Just - Don't hurt my family, I'm coming down."

The figure, now clearly seen as a man in formal clothing descended slowly down the stairs. The Stormtroopers made no delay in cuffing the man, roughly directing him outside towards the waiting vehicle.

"You're under arrest for aiding and being directly involved with enemy activities against the First Order. Any attempt to escape will be met with further charges. Your cooperation will lead to more lenient terms."

Max pushed the man into the back of the vehicle, before going around to enter himself. The government figure would prove a valuable asset to bring in for further...persuasive questioning.

 

[Progflaw99]

​

​

[Former] Rebellion Safehouse | Operations Center Elrood​

Status: Compromised | Zeta Protocol Enacted​

​

- - -​

​

Stray blaster bolts singed the doorframe or what remained of it, as the chrome clad soldier strode arrogantly through the gap. Though the beverage had steeled the rebel's nerves but not his hands. Having dove free of the chair Oren now found himself horizontal - but only for a moment. With a grunt of pain he hit the floor. Hard. Oren's eyes bulged as the blaster clattered free of his grip, the nerves in his arm protesting at their sudden strike against the floor. Gasping for breath he propped himself up, slowly crawling away from the approaching trooper. *Gods that's shiny... so shiny..* The thought pervaded his entire being as he tried to focus his vision on the woman, her armor glistening menacingly as she so casually swung the songsteel axe. *What even... an axe? A bloody axe?!*

As the woman's voice carried over the vocalizer he could feel despair creeping - no, bashing its way into his mind. Forcibly taking over. Words usually quick to form now remained little more than a whisper on his trembling lips, hands quivering like that of an old seamstress. Wide eyes settling on the woman's dark visor, he sneered. If this was the end, he wouldn't give the woman the satisfaction of his terror. Though, if she were particularly vigilant, she might see a dirt smudge tear escape the very corner of his eye. In what he judged to be his final moments, he spat, the man's saliva spattering against the reflective chrome of the woman's boot. Defiant to the last.

​

​

​

Undisclosed Location Near [Former] Rebellion Safehouse
Status: Ambush Sprung, Approaching​

Targets: Chrome Dome ([member="The Major"]) | Solid Snake ([member="Dresden Verbrennung"])​

Objective: Rescue Oren, Sian | Inflict Casualties on First Order Troops​

​

Terse was Atlas' response, though he found some comfort in its familiarity. Atlas and Petra were practically a team now, present for some of the more major operations against Empires around the galaxy. He was glad for the familiar company, but it didn't keep him from gripping the controls of the speeder so tightly his knuckles turned white.

"It's bad. Very bad."​

​

Eyes darting towards the edges of the street, Atlas swung the speeder recklessly around a corner, nearly tipping the occupants free before managing to pull back on course. *It's just a a bit farther now.* he thought to himself. In a matter of seconds they'd burst into the small courtyard in front of the safehouse, or what was left of it.

"Get ready!" he yelled above the final roar of the engines.​

​

In another second they cut loose from the narrow street. Atlas twisted the rear end of his speeder around in a wide curve, hoping to afford Petra the widest firing arcs and putting at very least the transparisteel viewscreen between the rebels and the First Order troops. If they had done their homework, it was likely that they'd have a few precious seconds before the stormtroopers knew what had happened. After that, it was anybody's guess. Reaching an arm over the side of the speeder as they strafed across the front of the building, Atlas fired his own blaster pistol at the armor clad forms, searching for any glimpse of the Devaronian or Oren - if there was any way to yet get them out, he would die trying.

[member="The Major"] | [member="Dresden Verbrennung"] | [member="Petra Vitalis"]​