Retaliators

[DarthTofu]

OOC: Hmm... I see. I thought we were staying on the planets we'd been marooned on for a little while? Oh, well, guess not.

 

I still have a rather broad story arc for my fellows, so I'll be completing that over the course of... well, a while.

[Krytos]

ooc: Well, I was planning on being more of a galactic marine - where I'd get thrown around the galaxy more. Showing off more of what gets blown up and stuff - where the novels dealt with a handful of planets during the NJO they constantly talked about a wide spread war, so I'm planning on showing off some more never heard of worlds battling it out (a bit like the Clone Wars I guess). This will give a bit more of a difference between our marooned characters.

Also, it gives Ulic an opportunity to throw his character in now seeing as my character has currently resolved his situation ... currently.

 

Next planet I might run into Ulic if he wants. I'm planning on being part of a little planetary raid.

[UlicHorn]

OCC: I'm in Kry. Make you're move and I'll toss a character in. We'll see which haha!

[DarthTofu]

OOC: Yes, I know I said to limit the Jedi in here, but not all is as it seems. It'll be revealed in due time, I promise. In the meantime, I've got a far-too-long-for-most-people-to-read post to put in here.

 

IC:

“Well… You’re certainly not a walking carpet like the other two.â€

Edited June 13, 2007 by DarthTofu

[Paul]

Good post Tofu. - Grand Moff Conway

[Krytos]

OOC: Ok, busy busy week for me now - so don't expect a post for a little while (hopefully not a long while).

Ulic if you want you can post or wait for me - your choice. I'm thinking of raiding a world that folded to the Vong without a fight. They're being oppressed but there are a handful of cities still up and running - just swarming with slaves, and with people disappearing kinda quick.

[DarthTofu]

OOC: Yes, that's right, ladies and gentlemen: Just in time for Rebellion: Reloaded's Beta release, I'd given you a new chapter in an RP very few people read! Post a comment if you read it... I have some major events in the story (Which has a full plot and sub-plot routine plotted (no pun intended) out in my head) written out on another computer, though they're subject to change as I continue. Anyone who knows their Latin should like the name I gave Runt's kid.

 

IC:

 

I just met these people yesterday, and already I’m trusting them with my life. I hate this planet. I was presently elbow-crawling along a rooftop, one of the ones that Hohass’s readers assured me still retained enough structural integrity to hold my weight, hoping somewhere in the back of my head that the roof wouldn’t break from my weight, causing me to plummet the nearly three-hundred stories to my death.

 

This high up there was less chance of the molds and fungi that the Yuuzhan Vong were using to grow due to the thinner atmosphere. It also meant that there was a high possibility of the whole structure collapsing beneath its own weight from the lack of integrity loaned to it by the plants below, as well as of a coralskipper noting the monstrously tall building and deciding that their God of Planetary Décor wanted it blown up, killing us as well. However, it was the only way to travel other than through the streets, and a frontal assault would have killed us.

 

We were heading toward a Shaper’s Facility, one of the relatively new ones. It had just been planted- the word still made me cringe somewhat, despite having seen how every bit of the Yuuzhan Vong biotechnology grew for nearly half a standard year- the previous week, and was still trying to pry nutrients from its surroundings. According to Hohass and his son, Ingens, this meant that the building, for lack of a better term, was relatively defenseless.

 

It was a somewhat difficult concept to wrap my head around- these Vong structures were living things. Infiltrating them was impossible- nobody had to see you to know that you’d entered. The building itself felt you, impossible as that should have been.

 

Fortunately, as Hohass and Ingens had ensured me, the building was donating all of its resources to growth at this time, and so had lost most functions, such as defensive hard points, semi-crystalline structure formation (supposedly the same thing that gave the amphistaffs their rigidity and the vondun crab armor its tenacity) and, fortunately for us, sensitivity along nerve endings and nosetongues.

 

Nosetongues, from what I’d managed to gather, were exactly what they sounded like- an organ that both tasted and smelled anything that anyone trying to glean access through a doorway in the Yuuzhan Vong structures. If you were the right person the door would open, no problem. If you weren’t, however, it would sound an alarm, trigger a bunch of spiked needles, cause some other nasty trap to spring.

 

The nosetongues were still getting used to the shapers and warriors that would utilize them, however, meaning that they accepted and stored most scents that they received within this limited timeframe. The only downside was that the Yuuzhan Vong were countering the structure’s current weakness.

 

In rings three warriors thick, guards surrounded the living structure. The process, however, took several days to complete, and so meant that they had plenty of time to get bored with the task and to wish they were off stabbing smugglers in what was left of the city.

 

Not much was left of the city. Huge swaths of it had collapsed in on themselves, and the compact nature of the construction on Nar Shadda had led to a sort of domino effect, wherein one building that had fallen due to the corrosive mosses attacking it smashed into another with just as many stress fissures, and so on and so forth. Except for the buildings that contained tremendous amounts of transparisteel, which appeared to be immune to the growths, most of the city was rubble.

 

That ultimately worked out quite well for the new Yuuzhan Vong Shaper Facility, as I found out when it came into view. I suppressed a whistle, and felt tremendously glad that the people storming it with me were trained professionals in fighting and intrusion.

 

It was comforting, even if I was facing fifteen to one odds against the outer defenses alone. The building, organism, structure, thing was massive and still growing, at least the size of a residential area on the rural areas of planets, and tall enough to accommodate a second story, though Hohass and Igens had assured me that the facilities were always strictly one level, perhaps the reason that they sprawled so extensively.

 

What Hohass and Igens wanted to do here would be tricky. Rather than just blow up the facility, they wanted to give us access to it, constantly, by getting us to the nosetongues and forcing them to recognize our scents. That way, if anyone important with the Yuuzhan Vong or, say, a Master level shaper, were to arrive, entering would be easy enough for us, we could kill the shaper, and then escape, with the Yuuzhan Vong wondering how we were doing it.

 

As a failsafe Hohass was sending Igens and the Jedi down below to where the roots of the facility were breaking duracrete down into its essential components and absorbing it. They had a mid-sized two-component device which feat neatly onto Igens’s massive back, nestled within the fur like teenager that still thought himself a toddler, clinging to a parent’s back. A stupid practice, and one I’d certainly never had a chance to participate in.

 

Hohass grabbed my shoulder and pointed to an area where a landing pad had bent along its walkway, still solidly connected, but now oriented so that any ship trying to land on the pad would be forced to stand on its tail while doing so.

 

“Can you get there?â€

[Paul]

I have been following this story Tofu and like it, even with my bias against the whole Vong era. Keep it up guys. - Grand Moff Conway

[SOCL]

OOC: Mates, I'm trying to catch up reading, but there's a lot of it. Any chance someone can catch me up on what year it is (? ABY), what from the novels has/has not happened, yet, and what's the status of the characters. I hate to jump in as an the idiot who doesn't bother reading the story, but I'm concerned that if I keep waiting to jump in until I'm finished reading, I won't be able to catch up. Here's my plan for characters:

-a company of Imperial Stormtrooper Commandos operating on reconnaissance missions for the Imperial Remnant (their exact mission will vary depending on what point in the war we've reached; i.e. has the Empire officially entered the war?)

-side characters will include an Imperial Navy captain, Captain Viscen, commanding officer of the modified Strike-class cruiser Orvic

-I have every intention of bringing my characters into direct interaction with other characters, which may mean taking control of other peoples' characters; in exchange, others are welcome to make use of mine (all major changes, such as deaths and such, should be discussed first for both sides, of course)

 

@Tofu: Can you bring me up to speed on what I need to know before jumping into the fire?

 

I should also point out: I will read through everything, no matter what, I simply want to be able to jump in whilst still reading. Cool?

[DarthTofu]

OOC: Ah, there's the thing- this thread is complete and total freedom. You can jump into the war wherever and whenever you want to, using whoever you want to. My stuff begins around the Agents of Chaos Duology, where I think Krytos's stuff is from around Star by Star.

 

As far as rules go, I only had one, and you've gone and broken it already. My rule was that you had to be stuck on a planet somewhere and start a resistence cell. I was basing it somewhat on the idea from Rebel Dream of creating cells on all of the planets to retaliate. I imagined that it would be easier for some to start with being dropped off by the Falcon or some other New Republic ship, while others could make their own bases up as they went.

 

As I said before, my characters all have their own futures mapped out, so I'd prefer it if you didn't interact with them for the time being. In the future- the far future- the cavalry will be arriving, and so there some interaction will be possible if anyone feels the need to. I'll alert folks in advance when that time comes.

[SOCL]

OOC: Sounds good, Tofu, and don't worry, my Imperial characters are a part of the a resistance, it's just there's has more to do with politics. Think American Green Berets training guerrillas to fight oppressive governments. Now throw some Heart of Darkness/Apocalypse Now elements in there, a healthy dose of My Thirty Year War (about a Imperial Japanese resistance holding out in the Philippines well into the 1970s afterward World War II) and start to map out what's going to happen to these commandos.

 

I only wanted my characters, at least the main one, to focus with yours because your character is a Mandalorian Supercommando, or was one, rather. My main character has something a hate and love for Supercommandos, which I planned to reveal in my contribution. It would only involve the very slightest bit of interaction, mostly in a quick encounter, conversation, and moving on. But if you decide against it, that's fine. I have other ways of working the fellow's past it in. And now, before you say anything, he's not a Supercommando-turned-Imperial. It's far more complicated than that...

 

I'll get to work with my contributions tonight.

[Krytos]

OOC: Ah, there's the thing- this thread is complete and total freedom. You can jump into the war wherever and whenever you want to, using whoever you want to. My stuff begins around the Agents of Chaos Duology, where I think Krytos's stuff is from around Star by Star.

 

Well, that's what I wanted to get to - and be part of the resistance on Coruscant. But for now I'll settle for make shift resistance

I found my stint on the original planet didn't really feel right, that and the planet gets mentioned in Unifying Force (the planet that is at the start of the book, the Vong prison planet).

So, I'll be writting something up soonish (and hopefully with the quality of Tofu. Seriously man, you've improved 10 fold and put us all to shame! ) where I'll be part of a raid to planet 'x'.

If you want SOCL, you can choose the planet. I'll try to write something in a day or two - maybe even tonight.

[SOCL]

OOC: I'm not fantastic with action sequences, so this is my first attempt. The rest of the story will be a little different from this, but it introduces the characters, their situation, and a little bit about their mission.

 

 

IC:

"A--ah!"

 

He cocked an eyebrow in the general direction of the grunt, letting the 360-degree directional view on his HUD to whirl in that direction. Off to his right, a pair of commandos scrambled up the embankment, lugging the "package" behind them, the metal box dragging in the mud. "You gents need help."

 

"Bloody--what? No, sir, we've got it."

 

Veriol shook his head. Stormcommandos were nothing like the regulated regiments of Stormtroopers or even the regular infantry, they were the best of the best who didn't give a damn about anything besides accomplishing the mission. In any other unit of Imperial surface forces, an cry like that would have earned one a dressing down from three nearest sergeants. Here, it didn't matter. Do the job.

 

"You kriffing--be careful with that!" One of the commandos, brandishing the insignia of a Master Sergeant on his shoulder, stood from his place and slid the rest of the way down the embankment. Roughly shoving one of the commandos away from the package, he pulled the metal box the rest of the way up the dirt mound to the top.

 

The commando who'd been pushed away watched in something between awe and exasperation, then shrugged. "Hell, Sarge, if I'd known you would done it for me, I would have let you bring it the whole way."

 

Veriol snorted a laugh and shifted his attention back down the opposite side of the embankment, towards their target.

 

"People who act like little girls get the rest of us killed," the Master Sergeant, Killian, called back over the comm.

 

The commando, Cris, just laughed and assumed his place on the other side of the box. "I'm just glad we won't have to keep dragging this thing around."

 

"Don't get your hopes up," Veriol said, keeping his gaze fixed on the target ahead of them. "We may have to bring it back out."

 

"What?" Cris called back. "Sir, is--?"

 

"Shut it," Veriol called back. The macrobinocular view built into the helmet's HUD showed not activity around the target, but then, how they hell were you supposed to tell the difference between activity and simple life? The whole bloody building was living and breathing! That's what made the scarheads creepy. Not the scarring or the coral growths on their slaves, but the fact they lived inside living, breathing creatures. Did they use tongues for mattresses and eyeballs for windows--?

 

"Contact," a deep voice came over the comm. "Captain, it's on the move."

 

Veriol pulled himself a little higher on the mound, all too aware that much higher would give his position away. Then he spotted it. It was a giant lizard, it's back covered with warriors and those volcanoes they used as turbolasers. For the last two weeks they'd been watching this place, trying to find the best moment to strike--and this was it. Two lizards lived here, working on rotating patrols.

 

"Idiot scarheads," Killian grumbled as he lugged a rocket launchers over his shoulder.

 

The lizard disappeared down a forest road and into the swamps of Nal Hutta beyond. They had approximately twelve minutes before the other one returned. It wasn't much time, but it would do.

 

Veriol scrolled through the heads-up display and brought up the unit status view. With the flicker of his eyes, he deleted the entries for the twenty-nine troops he'd already lost and minimized it to the lower right corner. "All right, gents, you know the drill. In, deliver, and out. Chrono's ticking." He paused, giving the barracks another once-over. "Fire-support on my mark. The rest, let's go."

 

No shouts, no battle cries. Nothing like what the action-holos showed of soldiers charging into battle. Sure, they ran, carbines and rifles raised, but they still held the element of surprise.

 

"Fire!"

 

Two dozen white smoke trails streaked overhead and slammed into the side of the building. The ground shook as chunks of what he could only describe as bark flew in every direction, opening enormous gaping holes in the building's side.

 

"Grenades!"

 

The commandos closest to the hole tossed in yellow concussion grenades. The shock wave nearly knocked him off his feet, and if not for the helmet's audio-dampers, would have rendered him deaf.

 

"Take, take, take!" he shouted into the comm, rushing in behind the others. Blue and red bolts sizzled through the air, but it was quickly apparent the scarheads had been caught off guard. Most of them lay on the ground bleeding from ears, eyes, and nostrils. Those were easy: Double-tap to the face and no more worries, Killian often said. It was the ones with amphistaffs he didn't like.

 

"Clear."

 

"Clear."

 

"Room clear."

 

The reports came from all over the building. It had gone much faster than he'd expected, and the unit status only showed one commando in the yellow, the rest green.

 

"Team 3, where's the package?" he called, moving towards the rear-most room. Nine minutes.

 

"On our way, sir," Cris called back.

 

"What's the status of the prisoners?" he commed, kicking past dead Yuuzhan Vong.

 

"Found them, sir. Two dead, one knocked out."

 

Veriol felt his eyebrow twitch. The idea had been to free the prisoners. He shouldered past taller commandos into the rear-most room. Lined against the far wall, held by their wrists and ankles by blorash jelly, were two Rodians and dark-complected human. The human was the one still breathing. He looked the man over, and froze when he saw the tattoo on his right forearm. Taung.

 

Eight minutes.

 

"Here, sir," Cris reported from across the building.

 

Veriol held his gaze on the human. What the hell was one of their kind doing here? He should just let the scarheads have him and do whatever they pleased.

 

"Sir?" the commando next to him asked. "Do we bring him with us?"

 

Leave him to rot! "Get him lose and extract him back to camp."

 

Seven minutes.

 

"Uh, sir. I brought the package." Cris again.

 

"Start the activation process," he returned into the comm, then switched to voice amplifier. "If he fights, kill him."

 

The commando working to free the prison stiffened, but nodded.

 

"I need the key-code, sir," Cris called over the comm.

 

"Needy, needy, needy," another commando, Perron, commented. "Not enough that you're here, is it?"

 

Veriol stepped back into the first room, the one with the hole in its wall and found Cris and Perron standing around the metal box, it's armored top open. He walked up to it and punched a few numbers into the keypad. With a hiss, another top opened revealing five white canisters inside. "Leave one."

 

"Oh, damnit! I knew this would happen," Cris said while moving to comply. "Hey, Sarge, you want to help me get this thing out of here."

 

"Cris, shut up and get moving!" Killian's voice came over the comm.

 

From the back room emerged six commandos, one of them carrying the prisoner over his shoulder.

 

"Any sign of the lizards?" Veriol asked, glancing out the entrance they'd made for themselves.

 

"Nothing," the deep voice of Hegerty returned. "You've got three minutes, sir."

 

Veriol nodded. "Killian, I'm sending Team 2 across."

 

The six commandos from the back rooms took the hint and made their out the hole.

 

He watched them go, the commandos of Team 3 covering their exit.

 

"Cris, what is taking so bloody long?" Perron asked.

 

"Patience, patience," Cris called back. "Wouldn't want me to make this thing go off now, would you?"

 

Veriol turned back. Cris was hunched over one of the white canisters, the top hemisphere open, revealing a timer mechanism inside.

 

Perron slammed both tops of the box shut. "At least it won't weigh as much."

 

"Stop your whining," Killian called back from his place across the clearing. "Captain, Team 2 has reached position."

 

"Begin withdrawal," Veriol said, eying Cris. "Team 2, continue out. We'll meet at the rendezvous. Team 3 and I will pull back and meet up at the camp. Team 1, make sure you cover us."

 

"Sir, lizard's on the way," Hegerty commed. "ETA, one minute."

 

"Cris!" Perron hissed.

 

"Huh? We're in a rush?" Cris came to his feet and ran back to the box. "Could have fooled me."

 

"Hard contact!" Hegerty's voice came again, shouting. In the background Veriol could here blaster fire.

 

"Team 1, cover fire. We're out!"

 

Outside, the night erupted into blue and red bolts. White streaks of smoke streaked dangerous close overhead, hopefully slamming into the lizard off to their right.

 

Cris and Perron ran in the middle of the team, lugging the metal box along. The rest of Team 3, Veriol among them, laid down additional fire on the warriors dismounting the lizard.

 

"Hegerty, you better be out of there!" Veriol shouted.

 

"Roger that, sir," Hegerty called back, panting. "We've set up a turret drone. They're closing on that."

 

By then, Team 3 was across the clearing, flipping, crawling, and otherwise sliding over the embankment into the muddy ditch beyond.

 

"Cris, what's the timer set on?" Veriol called.

 

"Two minutes."

 

Veriol cringed. "Extract. Back, back, back."

 

A minute later, the Yuuzhan Vong outpost collapsed into a heap of dead matter. Warriors grabbed at their throats, cough in an attempt to breathe. Seconds later, everything in the clearing, warriors, lizards, structures, and foliage, wilted and died.

[DarthTofu]

OOC: Hey, I got a commando named after me! I'm touched! At least I assume he's named after me- then again, you could just have no creativity. You're good with action sequences, man, and remember: They don't always have to be action sequences. You're free to just do character-building stuff as well as set-up of bases, etc. I'll try to post again some time this week with the raid on the base.

[SOCL]

OOC: Hey, I got a commando named after me! I'm touched! At least I assume he's named after me- then again, you could just have no creativity. You're good with action sequences, man, and remember: They don't always have to be action sequences. You're free to just do character-building stuff as well as set-up of bases, etc. I'll try to post again some time this week with the raid on the base.

OOC: Yeah, Tofu, that's you in commando form. Don't worry, most of my stuff won't be action--rather, the effects and implications of action. I just wanted to start with one good shot-em-up scene. Thanks for the compliment, by the way.

 

 

UPDATE 1:

For those of you who are curious/crazy like me, here are some references:

-Wookieepedia article about Storm commandos

-E-55 blaster carbine (I created this one)

-better image of a Stormcommando

 

 

UPDATE 2:

Well, I just finished reading through this thread. Fantastic stuff! I see now, though, what you meant by taking your idea, Krytos. Sorry about that. I'll change the parameters of my story and the parameters of the Imperial commandos' mission so that it doesn't seem to parallel, if not copy yours. I am on Nal Hutta, though, but my mission is a little different from that of local resistance...well, you'll see.

[DarthTofu]

OOC: I'm glad to see that others enjoy obscure articles on Wookiepedia as well, SOCL.

 

IC:

I’ve heard that “Hard Contactâ€

[Krytos]

OOC: Don't worry SOCL, your post gave me a good idea of what direction to go in.

Also, I wasn't really saying that you were copying my idea - after all the idea of this RP was resistance cells

Oh, and nice post

 

IC:

“What now for your plan of initiative?â€

[SOCL]

IC:

"K'olar."

 

The voice came like something out of a dream. Electronic, hollow, unfriendly, unnatural. Like something out of a nightmare. And it spoke Mando'a. Did he actually dream in the joha'buir? The father language? It wasn't something he'd every really considered, but it seemed natural, except...

 

"K'olar."

 

There it was again, more persistent, and still in Mando'a, but it wasn't the fact it spoke Mandalorian so much as its accent. How awkward it sounded speaking the joha'buir. It didn't sound natural, at all. He'd spent his whole life speaking the native tongue, communicating with other Mandalorians, so had he been wrong in thinking he actually knew how to pronounce the words? How to enunciate? Maybe he'd been overconfident in his skills, but that didn't--

 

"K'olar!"

 

Again! "Come here. Come here. Come here!" Where was he supposed to--

 

And this his eyes opened. Slowly at first, bright light shooting stabbing pain back to his brain, and instinctively he closed his eyes again. He took a breath and opened his eyes again, and there was the light again, a bright star beam directly into his eyes, burning into his retinas. What bloody world was this? Had the scarheads decided to torture him on Nkllon and leave him to the system's primary? Well, at least it'd be a quick death.

 

"K'olar, Mando."

 

He shook his head, exasperated. Wherever that voice was coming from, whatever crazy nightmare this way, it really didn't matter. Then a thought crossed his mind: what if he was actually awake? What if he'd started going crazy? Worse: what if he was not only awake, but hearing voices? Was this the way his life ended? On the surface of some sun going insane? This couldn't be happening! He was still young--didn't even have a wife to annoy him, a family to waste time on! Not even a farm! A farm! He'd always wanted a farm! All the best Mandos had farms! It wasn't fair! It just wasn't--

 

"About bloody time." The sun winked off, and he blinked at the spots. "It's been an hour." It was that voice again, though wherever it was coming from, he couldn't tell. He blinked rapidly in succession, doing his best to make the spots disappear. He reached for his eyes, to rub them--nothing. Had he lost his arms? He writhed--

 

"Calm down, Mando. Disorientation is normal. It'll wear off in a few minutes." The voice seemed to consider him a second. "Your arms are fine. They've been bound at the wrists. Don't struggle too much or else the wire will start eating into your wrists."

 

He stopped moving, for the first time noticing the sharp pain around his wrists. He flexed his fingers again and felt something warm oozing over his fingers.

 

Something stirred behind him and he whirled his head around. He saw a dark object, roughly humanoid in size and shape, move across his vision, but he still couldn't focus his eyes past the red and white spots.

 

"Idiot," the voice said, again from where the sun had been. "Bloody moron, you're bleeding."

 

He turned back to where the voice was and slowly made out another, identical black, roughly humanoid silhouette, two others flanking the first. Defels? A whole pack of them? He looked around him and saw some more movement in the distance, or maybe he was imagining it... Maybe it was a Vong trick. He tried forming lips, but found his mouth gummy and hardly responsive.

 

"That's another side effect," the voice said. "We gave you enough to bring a bantha out of a coma."

 

With a wet smack, he managed his lips apart, and slowly formed words. "Wh-Who are--" He stopped mid-sentence. He'd was replying in Mandalorian. This fellow was speaking Mandalorian! "You're Mando?"

 

There was a long pause, his vision clearing more and more, and suddenly he realized he was looking down the barrel of a blaster. And behind it, sighting down a small tactical scope--

 

"Not quite," the fellow--the Stromtrooper!--aiming the blaster replied. "We rescued you from the Vong." This time, it was in Basic.

 

"And now I'm an Imperial prisoner?" All the bluff and dream-state gone from his voice, leaving nothing but bitterness and anger--all in Basic. "You expecting a thank-you?"

 

The Stormtrooper, or Scouttrooper, or whatever these black helmets were called, seemed to consider him a moment, then lowered the blaster. He noticed, though, that the fellow didn't take his finger off the trigger. "What's your name?"

 

"Frank Palpatine, you?" he spat, tugging at the restraints.

 

He could imagine the trooper grinning, but then, the blaster still nominal aimed at him, if only in his general direction seemed to belay any amusement. The helmet moved fractionally from side to side, studying him. "You plan on letting that wire cut your wrists off?"

 

"Whatever it takes to escape," but he did stop struggling, all too aware of the blood flowing from his wrists. "Look, we Mandalorians keep to ourselves. You Imperials keep to yourselves, and we respect that. So what's this about? You trying to cause an interplanetary incident--"

 

The stormtrooper gave a sharp, sudden laugh, made all the more startling by the helmet's voice amplifier. "Don't presume to dictate to me the ways of the Galaxy, Mando. Besides, if you wanted an incident, you got it when your glorious leader signed on with the scarheads, or should I say the Yuuzhan Vong?"

 

He felt the skin around his lips compress and narrowed his eyes. So that's what it was all about: revenge. Lord Mandalore made one...practical decision, and the whole galaxy was up in arms. First the Republic, now the Empire? They already had bounties out for them, probably all government-hires and privateers, so maybe the Empire's elite wasn't so far-fetched. Still, why did the Empire care? Why was he asking himself and not them? "Why do you people care what we do? I don't exactly see the Imperial Fleet fighting the invaders."

 

"That's right, the fleet at Ithor belonged to the other Empire," one of the troopers grunted.

 

"Yeah, and look how well that worked out," he said with a grin. "Good thing that wasn't your Emp--" He was cut off by a mouthful of mud, and only a nanosecond later did he realize there was a boot against the back of his head, pushing his face into the dirt. A sharp stabbing pain followed, shooting down his head and across his forehead, and he was brought up by a clenched fist in his hair, a vibroblade suddenly appearing at his throat.

 

The first stormtrooper seemed to watch him in amusement, then approached and bent down at face level. "Let's make something clear, Mando: we don't need you. As far as some of my boys are concerned, you're nothing but dead weight, and I'm inclined to agree with them."

 

"Then why did you rescue me?"

 

The stormtrooper paused a moment. He might have been grinning, but then, he might not. "Bait. Vong bait. When they hear of a Mando working with the resistance, they'll do what it takes to get at you. Cooperate, and you'll be live bait, and might even survive. Don't, and you'll do as dead bait."

 

There was something funny about the way the stormtrooper spoke, something different from the way every other Imperial spoke, and yet strangely familiar... An inflection in his voice. An accent...

 

The stromtrooper stood and motioned the one with the vibroblade away. Years of wearing a helmet and using a private commlink told him they were speaking to each other. Finally the first trooper looked back down at him. "What's your name, Mando?"

 

He hesitated a moment. It wasn't like that information was secret. Besides, maybe word would get back to Micus and he'd come to rescue him. "Saith."

 

"Saith," the stormtrooper repeated, pronouncing the name in a perfect imitation of the Concord Dawn inflection--

 

Saith's eyes grew wide, but before he could say anything, the world went black.

 

 

OOC: Sorry about the length and sudden change in narrator. It'll probably go back between Veriol and Saith, depending on the situation. Oh, and that scene where Saith is flipping out and crying about a farm--if that comes across a little silly and humorous, it's meant to. I certainly never intended that sort of flipping-out to be dramatic.

 

OOC UPDATE: A much improved E-55 blaster carbine

[DarthTofu]

OOC: Because SOCL pressured me to.

 

IC: To my eye it all went in slow motion. The synchronized detonations of all three explosives. The rip away along the line set by the first and second. That horrible retention along the corner.

 

Explosive Three had detonated, but hadn’t been close enough to the edge of the walkway when it did so. Rather than creating a clean tear along the bent edge of the landing pad, the circular part tilted and treated the still-intact part of the site where Explosive Three should have gone off as a fulcrum, swinging almost like it was caught in a breeze. It wasn’t falling.

 

Falling had been part of the plan. With the detonation the pad would fall, hopefully even skimming the sight of the Vong building, perhaps smashing a few of the fellows on guard duty. In addition to that, it would be covering my rapid descent, making the Vong think that I was still up there somewhere.

 

Now they knew where I was. They knew that the jet pack let me fly. They would know if I latched onto the hanging circle that was the pad until it fell, and they would immediately send troops down to track me.

 

While this would draw away from the numbers Hohass and Igens would have to face, this would make it nearly impossible for the Jedi and myself to plant the failsafe.

 

I gave a quick burst with my jet pack and clung to the framework of the underside of the landing platform.

 

“Hohass, what do I do, now?â€

[SOCL]

OOC: Tofu, that was absolutely fantastic! My only complaint is that there's not more to read! Looking forward to more of the same. As for what follows, I apologize ahead of time for the length, and if it's kind of boring to start, let me know so I know what to avoid in the future.

 

 

IC:

He was a commanding, that's what he was doing. He was a commander. There was a distinct difference between a commander and leader. A leader was a being some supernatural thing--the Force, any number of gods, something--had deemed capable of molding and shaping others, taking them to victory or to death, but only for a time. Only in the stead of another, namely the commander, because a commander was someone those great beings, those apparently all-knowing things had deemed capable of not only molding and shaping, taking to victory or death, but also deciding on the fate of those under him. A commander held the lives of his subordinates in the palm of his hand and at a whim could drop them. But a commander was also someone who knew how to keep his men from that ultimate fate, and keep them alive to be reclaimed by those things on-high, whatever or whoever they might be.

 

More often than not, they were another commander. Another visage of death's head, on the razor edge of sending his own men and those commanders below him to victory or to failure, to life or to death. The fact of the matter was, it had nothing to do with the supernatural, with the Force, a crazy notion of gods, or spirituality--that meant nothing. It was simpler than that. Someone, an officer, gave you orders, you followed them, bringing your fellows along behind, and doing your very best to get them, and then you, back alive. If the military had taught him own thing, it was that you spent your life on borrowed time. Every mission was a ticket to darkness, you just had to make sure you got off before someone called your stop.

 

Delta Company, 2 Battalion, 25 Special Operations Group. Total force count at seventy-three personnel at time of departure from Ord Sedra, divided into six teams of twelve commandos. Ten operational personnel per team. Six officers total, all captains--young captains, leading each team, assisted by six senior noncoms--veteran sergeants of various senior classes. Captain Veriol Jelvan, commanding.

 

Seventy-three.

 

He sighed, heavily, and scanned the immediate area. No one else seemed to notice.

 

Twenty-nine dead in the first fifty hours, ambushed by the Peace Brigade at the drop zone. Somehow, in the confusion, he'd lost contact with Orvic, the modified Carrack cruiser that had brought them. It had all gone to hell, but they were well-trained, well-honed weapons, and what had been an ambush had become a route, for the Peace Brigade. When the dust had settled, six young officers were dead, two irreplaceable veteran sergeants, and twenty-one commandos, the finest the Empire had to offer. Some of them hadn't even made it planetside before their pods had been shot out from under them, burning up alive in the atmosphere.

 

Forty-three commandos. That was all that was left. Forty-three in three temporary teams of fourteen, plus a fifteenth, himself, in Team 3.

 

It rung of days gone by. Betrayals, retreats, and death. The only fortune he'd had since entering the service had been nothing more than the luck of the draw--he'd always been on the winning side. The Imperial winning side. At seventeen, the orphanage on Muunilist had signed the paperwork and he'd enlisted in the infantry, part of the surface forces under General Ramic and Admiral Pellaeon. It had been luck which side he'd picked. Not under Lord Kueller at Alamania. Not the Deep Core warlords under the former Admiral Daala. Not even with Disra and the false Thrawn. Always under Pellaeon, always under the winning side, the winning side of a bleeding, festering Imperial civil war.

 

Champala, Anx Minor, the Deep Core, Yaga Minor... The peace accords. A dwindling elite Stormtrooper Corps, now more glorified infantry. A top-heavy officer corps.

 

When they'd notified him of selection to major, he'd taken it in stride. It was not secret that major was usually the end of a career for an officer because old habits died hard in the Empire. The peace treaty had proved that there were too many colonels, brigadiers, generals, and admirals, so they'd stopped promoting Army officers past major, waiting for the upper echelons to thin out. And thin out they had, but someone had forgotten to open the waterway again, so no one was hard pressed to find a colonel or a general. He could only think of three colonels and two generals, one of them likely retired.

 

So it didn't matter. The issue really was, what was he going to do? Some majors stayed in, lingering long after their "official death". Middle-aged majors weren't unusual sights, but they weren't respected, either, and were normally old, fat men behind desks, not here. In the mud, in the rain, with a weapon, leading from the front

 

Commanding.

 

The Army was all he'd known his whole life, it was the only life he had. The only life he had aside from...

 

He turned his head only a fraction to the left to look at the...Mandalorian in his dirty and stained gray flight suit. He was like a specter out of some nightmare. It had been more than a quarter century--

 

"Captain, he's stirring."

 

Then slit his throat, he restrained himself from saying.

 

They'd been taking turns carrying...him for the last few miles, since they'd interrogated him and knocked him out. He'd split the teams up immediately afterward, sending each in a different direction, all deeper into the swamps and hopefully to places where they could cause more damage. The idea was to appear as a large force striking out in many directions rather than three small forces hitting and fading--

 

The bloody Mandalorian is waking!

 

He shoved the personal feelings and the annoying reminiscences aside. All the bitterness, all the anger--it flowed away and he could feel the finely honed razor of the professional soldier's edge come back to him. "Give him another sed, but just enough to keep him out for the rest of the way."

 

"Uh, sir. Just how far are we going?" came Cris's voice over the unit's encrypted comm. They never used the audio amplifier except when addressing outsiders. "Not that I'm complaining, but--"

 

"Yeah you are." That was Perron.

 

"And married couple goes at it again," another commando, a corporal named Prestin, chimed in. "You two ever stop bickering? We can hear you clear through the wall! At least when you two mate, we only hear your shrieks and the squeaks of the bed."

 

Laughter resounded across the comm. That was, except from Ur'Ylee, a full sergeant himself. He only grunted, shifting the Mandalorian--Saith--on his shoulder. A second later, he came to one knee and with a dull thud all but dropped the Mandalorian on the ground.

 

"Full stop," Veriol ordered. The team complied.

 

Ur'Ylee opened a satchel on his belt and withdrew a small syringe. "Laugh it up, kids, because one of you is next carrying him." He raised his helmet to his forehead revealing the tanned, stubble-ridden face underneath. He bit down on the plastic tip over the needle and jabbed the business end into the Mandalorian's neck.

 

"Hey, Ur'Ylee..." Veriol trailed off, just watching as the clear fluid disappeared into the Mandalorian's neck.

 

Ur'Ylee withdrew the needle and replaced the cap, simultaneously bobbing his head forward, bringing the helmet back down to cover his face. "Yeah, sir?" he said, replacing the cap.

 

Veriol eyed the Mandalorian, half-grinning because he'd forgotten to mention that Ur'Ylee should only have administered a half dosage, not a full. The other half of his emotions were angry, at himself, for letting personal feelings interfere with the mission, even something as minute as this.

 

Doesn't matter.

 

"Nothing," he said. "You set?"

 

Ur'Ylee nodded, grunting as he heaved the Mandalorian back onto his shoulders. "This bastard's getting heavy," he said. Then, after a second, "How much further, Chief?"

 

Chief. It was their way of saying they were tired without saying, You bloody prick! How much farther you going to drag us?

 

"Three kicks at most. Move out." They started marching again, and he looked up at the sky. They'd been at it all night, but then, nights were strange here. Daylight lasted forty-something hours and night about the same. "Local day-time is in two hours. The scarheads will be out looking for us then."

 

"Why don't they just hunt at night?" one of the commandos put in.

 

Veriol could almost feel the others rolling their eyes. "It doesn't matter why," he said. "They just don't. Not here, at least. Something to do with the pollution in the air. Day-time scrubbers clean it up--"

 

"I thought you said it didn't matter..." Now that was Cris.

 

Now they were getting uppity. "You're right, so march," he said, then a thought cross his mind. "And, Cris. You've the Mandalorian next."

 

There was curse on the comm, accompanied by a quiet chorus of fatigued laughter.

 

He turned his attention back at the unconscious Mandalorian. For a moment, he let the bitterness rise in him again as he glared at what might as well have been the source of his life-long hatred. A single thrust of his fist, a single tightening of his muscles of his hand... That's all it would take. But, no, the mission first.

 

Then he would deal with him.

[SOCL]

He gasped for breath, his throat dry and raspy, and everything breath sent shivers of pain down his back and into his stomach. Had he anything in his stomach, he would have wretched. Instead, all he could do was dry heave as a vice clamped down on his head and threatened to force his brain out through his eyes. In some strange recess of his thoughts, he almost wished that would happen--it would have stopped the pain. As it stood, he gasped for air again, rolling over, too nauseous to care about the slime that could only be spittle and stomach acid oozing down his cheeks.

 

He pinched his eyelids shut, willing the pain from behind his eyes, just to be assaulted by a second wave of nausea. He'd never been this sick before--never. Suffice to say, even nights of drinking and no water didn't make him like this. At least then he had day-old ale to accompany the spasms in his stomach and throat. If nothing else, part of his survival training was kicking him, and kicking him hard: he needed water. He was dehydrated and dehydration meant certain death. "Hydrate or die!" The words floated up to him--appropriate, but strange. Even in his worse moments, Micus was somehow pushing him. He'd probably be there, too, yelling at him, standing bedside on his wedding night--

 

A third wave of nauseous brought him to a sitting position. He immediately regretted it, but fought the knives of pain working their way across his brain, eyes, and extremities. Everything hurt, as if he'd ridden a dewback for years, on his face and stomach, then been dropped, shoved, picked up, and dropped again. Keeping his gummy eyelids shut, he reached for the pouch on his belt--

 

Nothing.

 

Then it struck him: when he'd wretched, he hadn't splattered it across his face because--well, he had been dry-heaving... Yet, there was stuff on his cheeks and it hadn't splattered back on his face, which meant he hadn't puked while wearing his helmet, which meant he didn't have it on. For that matter, everything hurt because he wasn't wearing his armor.

 

His armor!

 

He all but tore his eyes open, feeling lashing coming away where they should have stayed, but he ignored it. He had to find his armor! It was all--

 

His desperate gaze stopped when he saw the dark armored figure watching him and the barrel of a black blaster pistol sighted on his face. The figure--the Imperial Stormtrooper--watched him with all the silent knowing of one too often accustomed to killing. If it wasn't for their past, the Imperials and the Mandalorians might be one and the same.

 

"You're awake."

 

It was only then that Saith realized he wasn't alone with the Stormtrooper and the pistol...and the cave they sat in. Off to the right, a shorter form of the Imperial stereotype sat cross-legged, the blue hue of the datapad in his lap illuminating the sharp features of the helmet he wore.

 

"It's about time."

 

The voice was the same one that had woken him...before... That familiar inflection when he spoke Basic--similar, but not as crisp or pronounced as Imperial Basic; rather, it was smoother and a little more...slanted, similar to Concord Dawn, and yet...

 

K'olar, Mando.

 

The way he'd pronounced his words in Mando'a had been...awkward, like he wasn't used to saying them. Or rather, like a youngster learning how to speak the father tongue, with all the funny pronunciations and strange form of childhood.

 

"You know, k'olar means 'come here'."

 

If the Imperial had reacted to his statement, he didn't show it.

 

The other Imperial--the one with the pistol--stirred a bit, his helmet moving only a fraction. To Saith, who'd spent his entire life around people in armor, it was more than obvious that this one was saying something over a private comm. He slid his gaze back to the cross-legged Imperial, still looking down at the datapad, but nothing--the fellow was unreadable.

 

"I no longer know the word for 'wake up'," he said after a while, never once taking his eyes off the datapad, and completely in Basic.

 

"And yet you know the joha'buir?" Saith asked in Mando'a.

 

This time the Imperial stiffen some, but played it off as he shutdown his datapad and sat up, turning his helmeted gaze directly on Saith.

 

"I know some." This also in Mando'a.

 

"And him?" Saith asked, cocking his head to the Imperial with the weapon, still in Mando'a.

 

He hesitated a long moment, studying Saith from behind those black goggles, probably calculating how much of risk Saith posed. Without my armor, not much, he heard himself grumble in the back of his mind.

 

"Nayc," the Imperial replied. Remaining in Mandalorian, "No one else in my unit knows Mando'a."

 

Saith felt his mood lighten, if only a little. Perhaps this wasn't as bad as he'd thought. Perhaps this fellow was a Mandalorian double-agent. He allowed himself a slight grin. "What brings you here, ner vod?"

 

He regretted the words the moment they left his lips.

 

The Imperial tensed with all the ferocity of a Rancor that had been backed into a corner. In a flash that Saith's splitting head couldn't follow, the Imperial all but leaped the few meters between them. He felt himself fall backward, thumping hard on the dirt, landing hard, but before he could react, something hard forced the air from his lungs and clutched at his air, pulling hard. The Stormtrooper was on top of him, on knee in his stomach, the other pinching his right hand down. The man's left hand yanked at his air, pulling his chin up to give a clear path to his throat. Only then did he feel the cold metal pressed against his neck, a razor edge pushing every so carefully against his jugular, and certain death.

 

Saith didn't move. Even with one hand free, he'd be dead before his mind realized what had happened. He watched as the black helmet grew closer until it was finally nearly pressed to his nose. A second passed like a century and two like a millennium.

 

The voice that spoke was so tense, it was hardly recognizable as being the one from before, whispered, full of venom; "Never...ever...call me your brother again."

 

Saith swallowed hard, the tip of the vibroblade all the more apparent with the bounce of his throat.

 

"Do you understand?"

 

Saith nodded what little he could.

 

For a long moment, the Imperial just stared back at him, and in those seconds, Saith was certain he'd sealed his own fate, but then the Imperial let go of his air and stood.

 

Saith didn't dare move, watching as the Imperial slowly released the fist in his right hand. With a sickening hiss, the vibroblade disappeared, sheathing itself above the Imperial's knuckles into what could only be a Katarn-class knuckle-blade, or the Imperial version of one. He'd seen them before, made all too popular by the stories of Jango Fett's commandos--Republic commandos. The thought alone made him sick. Mongrel half-Mandalorians, created to be unthinking, uncreative soldiers whose who sole goal in life was to serve the Chancellor, and then the Emperor. They looked like Mandos, they sounded like Mandos, some even spoke the language and pretended to be Mandos, adopting clan names, but they were nothing, disgusting decisions made out of greed by one of their own, a Lord Mandalore--a former Mandalore.

 

There were rumors that Boba Fett himself was one such half-breed. Not the seed, but the exact duplicate of Jango--

 

When it hit him, it the Imperial might as well have knocked the air from him again. If he was an Imperial.

 

He spoke the joha'buir, though badly, awkwardly...like a child. He sounded like own, that accent from Concord Dawn, so familiar, the same the Fetts carried.

 

"You're..."

 

The Imperial turned from what he was saying to the other, the other also standing, both hands on the pistol, barrel trained on him, unflinching.

 

"You're cloned." He said the second word as though it were a curse. He spat at their feet. "Mongrel, half-breed! What, has the Empire finally found some cloning cylinders? A willing Mandalorian traitor! Your very existence disgusts me!" The words echoed loudly off the cave walls, deep into the caverns beyond.

 

The two Imperials exchanged looks, something between amusement and confusion. Neither seemed very insulted or even bothered, but maybe that was just as it should be. If they were clones of Mandalorian stock, then they would know their existence was an insult to any true Mando, and they would accept it. And still, they didn't seem distraught, which bid another question: maybe they weren't clones. Maybe the one Imperial knew Mandalorian by chance and not be choice--he had forgotten certain words, and certainly didn't speak the language like a native, if only oddly. But, then, why had he reacted so badly to being called a brother? Even a clone would have been happy to have someone call him that, as an equal. It was an honor to be called a brother, a sign of trust! If anything, he should have thanked him!

 

All this flashed through his mind in the span of a few nanoseconds. All that time, the Imperials watched him--and the pistol remained trained on him.

 

He considered yelling at them again, if only to provoke a reaction, but he quickly quelled that thought when two more black-armored Stormtroopers--Scouttroopers came running from deeper in the cave, their blasters leveled at him, glowrod beams aimed at his face. He squinted in the bright light and considered his next move. He was unbound, unrestrained, blasters aside, but no armor. His eyes flickered around his immediate surroundings, but there was nothing--dirt and dust. It even looked as though they'd pick up all the rocks before laying him here, just to make sure he didn't have anything use against them.

 

So it came down at hand-to-hand--

 

The thought left him when he noticed the knuckle-blades on all of the Imperials, one on each hand. They were all sheathed, but one wrong move, and he'd be facing four angry Imperials, each with two vibroblades at the ready. That assumed they didn't blast him first.

 

A motion of the first Imperial's hand--the one that spoke Mandalorian--lowered the blaster carbines, and then, reluctantly, the pistol. So maybe he did have a chance at hand-to-hand--

 

"Mandalorian, I take no insult at your petty words," he said in that accent... "Perhaps to someone a little more weak-minded, it would mean something, but to us." He shook his head.

 

"I'm no Jedi," Saith found himself declaring. "I don't bother with weak-minded fools."

 

The Imperials all exchanged looks, again, their reactions somewhere between amused and perplexed. At this, Saith wondered who was the weak-minded fool...

 

"I let you live, Saith, because we have some use for you--"

 

"How do you know my name?"

 

The Imperial paused, clearly taken aback by the question. "You told me," he said, as though he were speaking to a child.

 

Saith's eyes widened as the memory came to him--so he had... Weak-minded--

 

"If you value anything, you won't do anything foolish like what you did a moment ago again." With that, he turned away, further down--or was it out?--the cave and started away, only one of the new Imperials following him.

 

"Hey, wait!" he shouted, standing.

 

The reaction to his sudden move was expected. Both pistol and carbine came to bear, and one of the Imperials gruffly ordered "Sit down!" over the audio amplifier.

 

Saith moved in compliance. "Hey, wait!" he called after who was very apparently the commander. "What the hell is going on here?! You kriffing bastard, what do you want with me!"

 

 

OOC: That first "shot" of the Imperial commando aiming the pistol as Saith was inspired by this all too familiar image.

[DarthTofu]

OOC: ‘Cause SOCL yelled at me to post something new…

 

IC: Before I really registered what I was doing I’d pulled my blasters on the Jedi again. “You could have done that and gotten Igens across without a sound. Why didn’t you?â€

[UlicHorn]

OOC: Sorry about the extreme lack of posting. I'm really planning on jumping in soon. Promise!

[Paul]

Great posts you guys. Keep it up. - Grand Moff Conway

[SOCL]

Nice work, Tofu. The dialogue without marker is cool--a page out of Ernest Hemmingway's book, or less metaphorically, literally open any of his books and one actually has a hard time keeping up with speakers because he goes to a certain extreme. You strike a clean balance, Tofu. What's the bad? Well, I seem to remember a younger Tofu complaining about Timothy Zahn's use of "Delta Source" because of the word delta, and its origins in real-world Greek. So what about "bullshitting"? Did I manage to forget Mandalorians keep bulls, and understand the real-world concept of "bullshitting"? Of course, that would make a neat and somewhat humorous bit for a scene--as a way of explanation.

 

Mandalorian: "I was bullshitting."

Other: "You were what?" inspects ground for feces

Mandalorian: "It's a saying for stalling, or making stuff up."

Other (probably Runt): "Okay, so what's a bull?"

Mandalorian: "Think of a bantha, except..."

 

You get the idea.

 

 

I really need to post...