Immortal Void-Tyrant
NAME: Umbra-3 (Real Name: Ryan Conner)
Age: 34
Species: Human
Gender: Male
Height: 2.15 meters
Weight: 140 kg
Force Sensitive: No
PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION
Umbra-3 is an absolute colossus of a man, a towering monolith wrapped in reinforced flight plating. His body is an instrument of war, honed and scarred, with powerful musculature that seems almost unnatural in its sheer density. His face is rarely seen outside of his flight suit, and when it is, it reveals a gaunt, expressionless visage with deep, craggy scars across his cheeks and brow. His skin is pale from prolonged time in vacuum-sealed gear, and his jet-black cybernetic eyes—lifeless—gleaming like polished obsidian.
His flight suit is a heavily modified, life-support-integrated variant of the standard Sith Flight Suit, custom-built to maintain his biological stability in high-G manoeuvres. It is sleek yet reinforced, lined with auxiliary cybernetic interfaces that connect directly into his nervous system, allowing him to control his craft through direct neural impulses. The suit is his second skin—if it were ever removed, it would be akin to tearing away his flesh.
INVENTORY
- Sith-Imperial Fighter Ace Augmentations – Embedded cybernetics that enhance reflexes and process high-speed combat data in milliseconds.
- Twin Plasma-Dagger Vibroblades – Stored in sheathes along his thighs, used in close-quarters survival combat.
- Sith-Imperial Identity Tag – A small metal plate hanging from his belt, etched with only his callsign: UMBRA-3.
PERSONALITY AND BELIEFS
- Unyielding, Monolithic, Unstoppable. Umbra-3 does not bend, does not break, does not yield. He is the epitome of Sith discipline without ever needing to speak a word.
- Lives Only to Fly. The cockpit is his world, the battlefield his purpose. Everything else—conversation, camaraderie, personal ambition—is irrelevant.
- No Emotion, No Hesitation. He does not boast. He does not question orders. He does not fear. There is only the mission.
- Has No Mercy. He views enemy pilots as mere obstacles to be removed. He fights with mechanical precision, obliterating enemies without hesitation or satisfaction.
- Despises Weakness. To be weak is to be dead. He respects only those who prove themselves in battle.
STRENGTHS
- Master of the Void: Despite his blindness, deafness, and muteness, Umbra-3 is a peerless pilot. His cybernetic integration allows him to process battlefield conditions beyond normal human limitations.
- Cracked Combat Instincts: Even without the Force, his reaction speed, targeting precision, and predictive analysis are unrivaled. His body is trained to endure extreme G-forces without blackout.
- Physically Indomitable: An absolute beast in physical combat, he possesses inhuman strength and durability, capable of breaking bones with his bare hands.
- Unshakable Resolve: There is no hesitation, no doubt, no fear. No matter the odds, he executes the mission with unwavering commitment.
WEAKNESSES
- Completely Dependent on His Flight Suit: His cybernetics and interfaces allow him to function, but without his suit, he is essentially a crippled man, cut off from all sensation.
- No Social Skills: He cannot communicate traditionally and has no patience for unnecessary human interaction. Outside of combat, he is an island, emotionally distant and unreadable.
- No Sense of Self-Preservation: He will complete his mission at any cost, even if it means his own death. This makes him terrifying—but also reckless.
- Overly Specialized: While he is an unparalleled pilot, his effectiveness outside of a fighter cockpit is severely diminished compared to more versatile warriors.
HISTORY
Umbra-3 was not always the unyielding monolith that haunted the void. Once, he had a name, a face, a voice. But names are for the living, and voices are for those who need to speak. He has neither. He is Umbra-3, the executioner of the void, the butcher of burning stars.
He was a pilot before he was a monster. The Sith Empire, even before its great expansion, had always needed men like him—those who lived and breathed the art of the hunt, who felt more at home in the cockpit than anywhere planetside. He was recruited young, pulled from some forgotten backwater where he had been flying atmospheric gunships for planetary defense forces. The recruiters saw something in him—something brutal, something relentless. He did not fly to survive. He flew to hunt.
The Sith took him, stripped him of his past, and reforged him in war. He entered the ranks of the Exarch Wing, an elite unit that specialized in high-risk, high-reward void warfare. He flew through the wreckage of shattered fleets, through ion storms that would scramble lesser pilots' senses, through the tightest formations of enemy capital ships, weaving between flak and laser fire as if guided by something greater than instinct. His ship was an extension of his body, his weapons an extension of his will. The Galactic Alliance began to learn his name, to whisper it across comm channels as his fighter tore through squadrons like a silent spectre. They feared him. But fear is not enough to kill a man like him.
Then came Woostri.
The battle was to be a decisive engagement in the Sith Empire's expansion, a strike into Alliance space. The Sith Navy, spearheaded by the Mors Mon, descended upon the world with overwhelming force. The Alliance fought back viciously, deploying entire armadas to contest the void. Fighters swarmed like insects, blotting out the stars in a storm of turbolasers and ion fire.
Umbra-3 was in the first wave, leading a strike against an Alliance command vessel. He broke through their defences with a squad of Exarch Wing pilots, carving a path through the chaos. The fighting was merciless. His ship, faster than thought and deadlier than reason, weaved between point-defense fire, rolling and darting as he slaughtered pilots who had spent their entire careers training for a moment like this—only to die screaming in the void.
Then the battle turned.
An Alliance Destroyer emerged from hyperspace, its batteries unleashing hell. The Sith fighters staggered, and in the confusion, Umbra-3's wing was isolated. A lucky ion blast caught his fighter's aft stabilizer, sending him into an uncontrolled spin. His sensors blared red, his systems failing one by one, his engines coughing and dying.
He should have ejected. Any other pilot would have. But Umbra-3 was not any other pilot.
Instead, he cut power to his failing systems, let his fighter drift dead in space, and waited. The Alliance fighters passed over him, ignoring the wreck. They thought him dead. That was their last mistake.
With a sudden burst of thrusters, he forced his dying fighter into a controlled fall, angling toward the bridge of the command vessel that had doomed him. His cockpit cracked, the hull rupturing, but he did not hesitate. He ripped the frontal rotary gun from his ship, the power coupling still sparking, and with his mag-boots locked onto the wreckage of his own fighter, he aimed it manually.
And then he fired.
The rotary cannon roared in the vacuum of space, cutting through enemy fighters like a scythe through chaff. He braced against the recoil, his body strained to the breaking point, as he turned what should have been his death into an execution. The Alliance pilots panicked, confused, watching as what should have been a derelict ship spat fire and death. The cannon overheated in his hands, the power conduits feeding into his suit, burning him alive. He did not stop. Not until his body failed before his will did.
Then, finally, the firestorm engulfed him.
He was dead. At least, that was what they thought.
When Sith recovery teams found him floating in the wreckage, he was more ruin than man. His flight suit had kept him from decompression, but his body was broken beyond recognition. They hauled him aboard, expecting a corpse, and when they revived him, they expected a shattered mind.
But there was nothing to fix.
Most men, when pushed to the brink of death, return as something lesser—fractured, lost, shadows of what they once were. Not him. The Sith looked into his ruined eyes and saw no hesitation. They listened to the silent rasp of his breath and understood.
He had already transcended the limits of flesh.
There was no need for indoctrination, no need to warp his mind. His will had already calcified into something unstoppable. They did not need to fix his soul, only his body. His voice was gone, his hearing stolen, his sight burned out—but he did not care. He did not need them. He only needed the hunt.
So they rebuilt him.
They fitted him with cybernetic augments that linked his nervous system directly to his ship, bypassing the need for traditional senses. His body was armored in a flight suit that never came off, turning him into something beyond human—a creature of steel and death, his existence reduced to the singularity of purpose.
And when he was ready—when he took to the void again, his ship an extension of his reborn will—the Sith Empire forged a new squadron.
Umbra Squadron.
The Empire's answer to every enemy pilot who thought they could hide in the dark.
There is no mercy in the void. Only Umbra-3.