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After Thoughts


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After Thoughts


The Visit



“Synthetic organic replacement has come a long way in the last five or so years. Whilst it doesn’t hold the 100% success rate, or the low price, of prosthetic replacement you cannot argue with the product. That metallic skeleton sheathed in synth-flesh might fool the eye, and even the brain, but it does not fool you.”


Bromé Maber grunted in response, still not looking the Doctor in the eye. Yet, he could feel the Doctor’s unblinking gaze burning into the top of his head. But Bromé’s eyes were focussed on the human hand floating in tank on his desk. Illuminated blue, it was an eerie feeling staring at the hand. A hand so life like, and yet it never truly belonged to a living body. To a real person.


“So, what’s the process again?”


“We take cells from your body and use advanced cloning technology to reproduce a copy of the hand you lost. This process takes several days in order to ensure the quality of the new hand, but once ready the hand needs only be re-attached, sorry, attached as if it were severed in an accident. This procedure is done by droid with several physicians standing watch. All in all the process takes just under two weeks for the new hand to be attached. The ‘rehab’ takes a little longer - closer to a month.”


“And what happens if it don’t take?”


“Several years ago this was of high concern – now it is more of a moot point. For varying reasons, a host sometime will not accept the grafted replacement.” He said interlacing the fingers of his two real hands. Even though this was the third time he’d asked the question, the Doctor didn’t even flinch with annoyance.

“It is simply removed and the prosthetic replaces it again. I realise your concern Mr. Maber, but you needn’t worry so much. Grafting technology took a leap forward after research into the Yuuzhan Vong’s techniques - improving operation time, improved probability of success and reduced cost to you. Of course, that’s not to say it’s perfect. Even their biotech didn’t guarantee the success of a graft, and again it was to do with the host’s body, what they called ‘Shamed Ones’. However, our modern technology can predict the likely hood of success, and you rank very high. Our techniques are arguably better than their biotech counter parts now. Success is all but guaranteed.”


He begrudgingly grunted again, eyes never leaving the hand in the tank. The hand that could be his. No longer would the cold metal on his forearm frightening him when he awoke with a foreign object on his body, haunting him, teasing him with realities faults. Ever since the war with those bloody Vong scum, those alien bastards, he has shared his body with a machine. The Army only allowed prosthetic replacements in their health care, thanks to the cheap price and guaranteed success of the parts.


“Thanks Doc. Maybe some other time.” At last his gaze left the tank as he rose and began to leave the room. Would a new hand really fix his shattered mind?


Draped in a heavy coat and less the expensive clothing, Bromé made a less than admirable attempt at blending into the doctor’s brilliant looking office. Curves, arches, fine details and ceramics shades of white and blue littered the room’s architecture. High tech gizmos sat on his glorious Oaften white wood desk. It was a stark contrast to the barrens he was forced to live in, the stagnant part of the planet born of refugees flooding any planet that would give them shelter.


“Err, Mr. Maber.” The Doctor faulted in his speech. “This is the third time you’ve seen me this month alone. How long have you been on Avsgot Vale now? How long do you intend to stay? I see people like you a lot more than you must realise. You’ve fought the good fight, come out alive but scarred mentally and physically and are looking to cleanse yourself someway. I know this will sound like a sales pitch, but from my experience, you will get some of your life back with this procedure. You needn’t torture yourself, constantly aware of your physical impairment.” There was a long pause as Bromé didn’t react to the doctor’s words. He just stood there, staring at the doorway leading out of the room, held in his place as if bound in place by an invisible force. Finally the doctor spoke again. “Do you even realise every time I mention the word ‘hand’ you stroke your prosthetic?”


Bromé looked down and sure enough his good hand caressed the bad. He stood still for a long, pensive second, then all of a sudden, as if the words broke his bonding to the ground, he curtly nodded and walked to the door.

“Thanks Doc.”


And he proceeded to leave with the thought burnt into his mind, All I need now is the money.




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Yakown Reth did not recognize the world around him. He sat in a chair. It was a comfortable enough chair, with padding in all of the proper places for a human. It had been designed, as all of the furniture in the room had, to look very much machine-made. It had organic lines to it, none of the military precision these men had seen while in active duty, but there was a certain fakeness to those organic lines, completely unlike anything the Yuuzhan Vong would have created.


Reth wasn't alone, but he felt like it. His chair was set within a small cubicle; the cubicle contained a bed and refresher, but no real privacy. Identical cubes flanked his, and still more cubes flanked those. The architecture was mirrored on the other side, with ten cubes to a wall, and twenty to a room. To a ward.


Reth was, ironically enough, on Borlieas, the very planet that had driven him to his breakdown in the first place. He wasn't outside right now, and he was enjoying better meals than he'd eaten nearly ten years ago during the campaign, that was for sure... but it was still Borleias. Sometimes, late at night, on the rare occasions where the staff would let him go for a walk, Reth would look up at the stars and watch a few of them fall toward him. Half of his mind knew that they were just rubbish burning up in the atmosphere, but the other half still saw them as Yuuzhan Vong coralskippers diving down toward the Biotics Facility. That big burning mass up above was Lusankya, destroyed with ease because of General Antilles's inability to command properly, and they were all going to die, and his second in command was dead, hadn't listened to him, and...


There was a reason they didn't let Reth go for walks very often. He leaned back in his comfortable chair and closed his eyes to the world he didn't see in the first place.


It was almost noon. The nurse would be along with his lunch, soon. He hoped she'd brought nerf steak; it was so much better than the local tin fruit, after all.


Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la

Not gone, merely marching far away

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OOC: G'day all - I would have posted this yesterday, but when I hit the submit button the website went down :roll:


So, I'd like to invite any and everyone to join this RP - it's open to everyone! Even if you've never done an RP, jump on board - we don't bite! (except maybe Tofu). Join in and help write a fun story!


If you're interested, read the following - just some little heads ups.


Setting: It's 5-10 Years after the Yuuzhan Vong war, and what's left of the Vong have been mopped up by the Galactic Alliance (the New Republic renamed, sharing the banner with the Empire). The galaxy is still picking up the pieces, even though the Core worlds were able to start rebuilding as soon as the Vong surrendered. The further out from the Core you travel, the less has the Galactic Alliance (GA) has been able to do with their efforts focusing on the powerful core worlds.

This has left the Outer Rim to return to where its name of fame came from - unrest. Pirates, smugglers, bounty hunters, mercenaries, warlords and more roam the space doing as they do best. The GA attempts to help, though they are to stretched out at the moment and true help is still a year off at least.


Restrictions: The idea of this RP is to look through the eyes of those who are suffering the most (or causing the suffering) in this time of peril and rebuilding in the Galaxy. Character restrictions are that your character cannot be a member of the Jedi order or the GA (whether in the army, fleet or even a diplomat), however they can be retired from service.

We are avoiding over powerful characters, so while you can be in charge or a crack mercenary outfit - keep in mind that they too would be rebuilding from the recent ravaging war, and wouldn't be able to stand toe to toe against the GA military might. So, no pirates with a Star Destroyer :wink: You can have space ships, and have been from the Peace Brigade if you'd like - that's up to you.

The majority of unrest is to be kept in the Outer Rim area, seeing as the GA would be able to crack down on pirates and the sort attacking more controlled areas of space. But that's not to say that core worlds are immune :wink:

I'd like to see some evil characters - not cliché, lets destroy the galaxy evil cackling laughter, but more evil for their own greed. Such as a Pirate who's taken control of a small world and is pillaging it. Or even a corporate CEO of a core world taking advantage of refugees.

If you'd like more than one character, that's fine too - as long as they're not there for the sake of it and do get constant use as a main character (ala Luke, Leia, Han). Same goes for minor characters, but being minor they needn't appear much and adhere to the major character rules of use etc.

Other than the idea of keeping characters believable and not a powerful figure in the galaxy you're open to what you want to do.


Oh, the final "restriction" is just to proof read what you post. This is just to make sure other writers know what's going on and anyone reading it understands, avoiding confusion - so it may be an idea to write up your post in Word if you want and copy and past.


For those new to RPs and want to join, if you'd like to talk or comment (like this post here) start with "OOC:" - this stands for Out Of Character, so everyone knows what you're writing isn't meant to be part of the story. :wink:

Also, for your first post, introduce yourself and your character(s) with an OOC post - but you needn't give away character secrets if you want.


Have fun and enjoy!




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OOC: I resent the implication that I bite people. I don't deny it, but all the same I resent it.


Seeing as I didn't get to introduce Reth, I may as well do so. Those of you with ridiculously good memories may recall that he led Blackmoon Squadron in Rebel Stand. For those of you who don't have ridiculously good memories: He led Blackmoon Squadron in Rebel Stand. He went into a nervous breakdown a little while before the big battle (Operation Emperor's Spear), and was never seen in the EU again.


Now he's off on a hospital on Borleias, built specifically for war-striken ex-soldiers. Dishonorably discharged, he's a wreck, and chok-full of paranoia. Shooting stars are orbital bombardments, and anything that flies just wants to shoot him down. Capital ships are all the Lusankya, left to age and die because of the incompetency of Antilles. He's slowly recovering with the staff alongside a number of other veterans who were knocked out of service; those who are still in shock from watching the destruction of their homes (Ithorians), those who are still in a state of shock similar to that of Myn Donos, having been the only survivors of decimated squadrons and groups (See Wraith Squadron, or else look up "Talon Squadron" on the Wookie), etc. I'm certainly willing to let other folks plod around in the hospital, as it's rather expansive; my only condition is that anything drastic (IE Blowing up a whole wing, killing the staff, meeting up with Reth) be talked over with me via PMs first.


I don't intend for my story arc to be tremendously excited; while the rest of the galaxy is breaking apart more and more, this is going to be the story of Reth's slow, painful recovery.


Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la

Not gone, merely marching far away

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The Money

The male Rodian opposite him looked more scummy and cliché than Bromé could have imagined. Cliché or not, the job he was offering is worth a lot of money.


“Alll weee neeed is som more mussil, and yoous military experience means you get goood price for helping oot.”

Bromé rubbed the stubble of his chin and moved his jaw side to side.


“I’m interested. BUT, I don’t want to end up on the wrong side of the law – I don’t need the GAAF taking away my pension.”


The Rodian shook his head and made a high pitch wheezing sound that Bromé took as a laugh.

“Thee GA hass little to doo heer in suuch parts of the ooterr rriimm. Beeside human, this is agains som pi-rates. The GA should be thanking us forr doiing theiir work bee-coss theeey too busy elss wheere.”


Bromé stared at his bad hand, which had once been his good hand. This was what was at stake here. Screw the pirates, screw this alien scum opposite him. This was a chance at getting his life back.


“Fine. I’m in.”


“Goood Mee-stor Mab-er. Heere is whére to meeet us.”


The Rodian handed over a data chip and quickly rose and left the dank, smelly cantina they were in. Bromé finished the cup of what was meant to be a Corellian Ale, and started leaving the bar as quickly as the Rodian. He didn’t like this cantina. Not a bit. It wasn’t so much the atmosphere that could choke a small child; it was the things that resided within. Bromé halted his exit in a pause of regret and his face grimaced. As time went on he had begun to realise he was becoming xenophobic. He never use to be, yet now he had trouble looking into another species face without feeling anger and having a whispering call for vengeance against anything non-human.


He shook his head, hard, and walked out of the cantina and into the open – he didn’t want those feelings. Squinting as he exited the building, fresh air and sun light welcomed him home like a mother to a long lost child. In a slow exhale the bitterness within him left and Bromé was feeling better already. But reality got a hold of him too soon, as the stranger that was his right hand played into vision. Shoving the prosthetic into his pocket he strode off to his slum in the distance.




“All I have to do is stand there, act tough, and let these smugglers do their bit. Shots shouldn’t even be fired. These guys are meant to be cowards.” Bromé said allowed to himself whilst in the confines of his temporary home, pacing back and forth. It always comforted him, talking aloud what he was going to do. Every day he awoke to the same ritual of verbally laying out what he was going to for that day – even if it was as simple as staying home and sulking.


His walking took him mere meters before he was forced to turn around and walk to the other side of the room and begin pacing again. This place was pathetic, and illegal. A temporary shelter set up almost 10 years ago for refugees during the Vong war. The last thing it was meant for was to be actually lived in long term. These shelters had been built on a moment’s notice and shipped all over the galaxy, and now on worlds out of the reach of Galactic Alliance’s firm grip shanty villages had been erected with these derelict domiciles. Someone just trying to rip other people off, again. Since the war with the Vong, the GA had been slowly repairing the galaxy. More ‘important’ worlds within the core only had scars of the past these days, not still open wounds like the Outer Rim. But, too their credit, they were working their way out and helping each planet they could – it was just taking time. The most GA action in this particular stretch of dull planets was fleet activity, searching for any Vong that was missed in the 3 year long mop up operation. The presence of the GA held merit still, and would scare off pirates operating where ever GA vessels approached. It was so effective that some governments made up lies and said they’d spotted a Vong ship in their system urging a response from GA navel assets and scaring of pirates – sometimes indefinitely. And thanks to a group of merchants who found a Vong camp site that looked to be only several months old, the GA was pouncing at any information they got. Although, because of the rebuilding effort, there was a swagger of pirates in the Outer Rim – not that Core worlds were impervious, but they never had their government held ransom and the planets controls at the hands of villainous scum.


That often lead to governments dealing with things themselves, with their police forces often too weak Mercenaries were the first call. When that failed, drastic actions came about. Which is where his new job came in, dealing with the ‘ruling’ and abusing pirates. He had no qualms in killing a pirate, but not if it was going to affect his later life when the GA finds out. He’d earned his pension, and he was only out here to try and fix his twisted, downward spiral of a life. As luck had it, the same world that had been suggested to him for new hand (where it wasn’t going to go on record like on a Core world) had plenty of high playing, risky jobs. He needed this new hand. He needed to start a new life and that sure as the 9 hells wasn’t going to happen with this monstrosity attached to him.


“Mmm. Too much thinking.” He murmured out loud in his deep, gruff voice. On his next pace past the kitchen he grabbed a bottle of what this world calls alcohol. Ripping off the lid, he slowly began to drink away his problems.




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"Mr. Reth?" He didn't look up. He remained seated, remained glued to his holodrama.


It was an old one- the technology of it wasn't quite up to modern day specifications; it was too grainy for that, and the color wasn't quite right. And there was something undeniably fake about the special effects that had evaporated in holodramas a few years back.


It didn't really bother Reth. So far as he was concerned, this was the pinnacle of holo technology. It was the greatest thing ever produced, full of wonderful, advanced techniques. It had been released over a decade ago, but his shattered mind no longer saw time appropriately- it had chosen to blot out as much of the last decade as it could, and Reth lived in the wrong year.


"Mr. Reth?" The voice was more insistent this time. Without looking up, Reth answered.


"What is it?"


"Mr. Reth, we're concerned."


Reth didn't answer. That was a statement, not a question. He only had to answer questions.


"Mr. Reth, that's a very old holo. You've watched it over thirty times since you came here, Mr. Reth."


Still not a question.


"Why do you like it so much, Mr. Reth?"


"Because it's new."


"But it isn't new, Mr. Reth. It's very old."


Not a question.


"Mr. Reth, how many years ago was the battle of Yavin?"


"I wasn't alive at the battle of Yavin."


"How old are you, Mr. Reth?"




"It says here that you're forty-three."


Not a question. Tetran Cowell was jumping away from an explosion, his face cut and bloody after his long struggle with a corrupt guard. Tetran Cowell could break his way out of anything.


"Mr. Reth, you're forty-three."


Not a question.


"Mr. Reth, why won't you answer me?"


"I only answer questions. You aren't asking questions."


Reth reached for a bowl of soup he'd been drinking, found it, and took a long pull from the nerf broth.


"Mr. Reth, would you like to watch something else?"


"I've never seen this holodrama before. Wait for it to end."


"Mr. Reth, you've watched it over thirty times. You know how this ends. Tetran Cowell kills the man who killed his family with his brother's lightsaber, and the Jedi marries Cowell's sister."


"You're ruining my holo." There was no menace in Reth's voice, just a matter-of-fact statement. He realized, belatedly, that he'd answer a statement, not a question, and was silent.


A warm body sat down next to Reth's. He didn't glance at it. "Mr. Reth, we want you to get better, but right now you won't acknowledge that you're sick. What do you want more than anything else in the world, Mr. Reth?"


"More than anything else?" Reth considered. "I want to go for a walk outside."


The body shifted sightly, as though a head he wasn't paying any attention to was nodding. "That can be arranged very easily, Mr. Reth. But first you have to do something for me. Something very simple. You just have to watch a different holodrama with me."


Reth nodded. "When this one is over, I'll watch yours."


"Watch it with me now, Mr. Reth."


He shrugged. "Alright. I'll watch it with you now."


Nu kyr'adyc, shi taab'echaaj'la

Not gone, merely marching far away

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  • 3 weeks later...
OOC: Sorry for the lack of posting - I'm extremelly busy. With any luck, I'll get something up and out this week.




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  • 2 weeks later...

The Job


“And you said this was going to be easy?” Bromé yelled over the sound of blasters and explosion echoing through the dank asteroid hanger. “When the bloody hell did it occur to you, ripping off a pirate gang was going to be fraking easy!?! And, AND, where the hell do you get off saying this is what the Alliance would want?”


Anger stained Bromé’s face. Wrinkled together in a frown, all he could do with his anger was screaming across the new found battle field.


“You bloody fool! You bloody moronic fool. And look what it got you, dead. You’re a smouldering pile a crap waiting for a cleaning droid to sweep you away.” His teeth gritted together with enough force they felt like they would shatter. He just sat there, back against a heavy cargo container, staring at the smoking, charred remains of that Rodian fool wishing with all his anger to bring him back to life just to kill him – slowly this time.


“Hey, soldier boy. Wanna, geez I don’t know, help us the frak out?” An almost sweet voice called to him, accompanied by a harsh shove to the shoulder. So strong it almost pushed him out from his cover.


Bromé had been so pre-occupied with his anger he’d almost forgotten about the battle raging all around him. Except for the sounds, he’d forgotten there were other people in the room. Even that people were responsible for the energy lashes threatening to tear open his flesh.


“Yeah. Right. I’m on it.” He said as he manoeuvred from sitting down into a squat. This was real life. He knew one man, or woman, wasn’t about to become a hero like in a holodrama – diving in and out of cover and blasting every bad guy while saving his friends. In here, those “bad guys” were fighting for their lives too. And their shots were just as deadly as yours. Though Bromé did have an advantage, even beyond that of his years fighting the Vong.


Thanks to being the only one with the knowledge of how to use it, Bromé was packing a nice, large grenade gun. And, unlike the rest of the equipment that had been supplied for the job, this was a brand new Etech 119 Houser. And ideal tool to blow people out of their cover with their repulsor field controlled grenades.


Pocking his head out of cover, Bromé identified the largest group of pirates hiding together. 5 packed tightly together, foolish for them. Not waiting for his compatriots to help with some cover or suppression fire, Bromé slid from cover and fired the grenade launcher. The small, almost spherical, object landed two metres away from the desired target but didn’t detonate. Holding a small button down and moving the grenade launcher from behind cover, he managed to use the micro repulsor field the grenade had to move it behind the enemy’s position and detonate it for tremendous effect.


Fire gauged out of the plume of erupting smoke that dismembered the bodies of those unfortunate soles in the blast. When the smoke faded, nothing was left of their bodies.


He shot a sideway glance to the lady who’d knocked him out of his angry trance. She returned it with a quick smile that melted back into a determined mask as she got back to firing. Bromé took that as his queue to keep up the fire support. Repeating the same process as before, he emerged and pulled the trigger – but nothing happened. Falling back to cover, Bromé looked at the weapon baffled. The revolver magazine had cycled to load in another round – it should have fired!


Grabbing hold of the large cylinder attached to the underside of launcher, Bromé tugged it free and looked inside.


Empty! The cheap bastard bought the fraking gun and one shot!


“That’s one more reason to smoke your smoked carcass you bastard!” He yelled as he tossed the grenade gun away.


“Oh calm down you big baby, that was enough to get them running.” Said the lady in a playful voice.


Bromé stuck his out from cover to look, and sure enough the pirates were running. Seeing 5 buddies get turned into a fine powder was enough to make the pirates turn coat. And, they didn’t know the gun was out of ammo. Back in the day when he was a soldier, such a site would have rattled a soldier, but not forced a retreat – but then, these weren’t trained soldiers.


“Looks like you’re a hero soldier boy.”




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