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Drop Zone Seven
Delta Two

Fanno sneered at the device, slapping it on it's side a few more times before flicking the power button back off. "Can't get any sort of reception out here."

"Off the grid means off the grid, you know." She looked up from the datapad at the human, a scowl all but permanently etched on his weathered face. "Trying to catch your serials again?" She mocked.

"No." He shook his head, not entirely sure where to begin correcting that question. "One of my guys from the rim said they intercepted something with coordinates for our system, passed it along."

"Anything to worry about?"

"Can't tell. Pretty sure we got away clean, ain't nothing on long-range." He rubbed his chin, three days worth of stubble cleaning some of the grime out from under his fingernails. He looked at them for a moment, realizing it was now on his face, and grimaced worse. "All the same, we should probably get this shipment all prepped as soon as possible."

"The manifest seems in order." She sauntered over to him, the blue of her skin accentuated by the electrochem lights. "We're only waiting on the Tibanna gas from Cabana cartel, and they are due any minute now." She set the datapad down, smiling at him as she turned away, walking toward the door that led from the concealed hangar to the inner rooms of the old prefab base. It was a holdover, imperial surplus, sunk into the mud and guts of the jungle planet a dozen or more years back. But it was on the back end of nowhere, and it served their needs well enough.

Fanno watched the Pantoran disappear into the base, letting his hand fall onto his blaster, resting casually on the holstered weapon. He lifted his head a bit, eyes falling on the datapad, the inventory of all of their runs lately. A few crates of coaxium they liberated from the Devaronian transport ship, a few hundred weapons kits from the first order wreckage in the asteroid belt, and the massive amount of ...well, whatever they were, it had to be worth a lot if Cimmbik couldn't slice the locks. That kind of security wouldn't be worth using on ration bars or seed supplements.

The chirp of the sensor array brought him out of his own mind. Fanno turned, the display showing an inbound GR75 transport. He nodded, clicking the comm on his belt. "Cimmbik, Hala, I think Cabana just got here." He turned, stepping out from under the shade of the bay, regarding the sky as the rich blue slowly began winding down to the deep violet of sunset, the point of light in the distance getting stronger and clearer as it approached. He turned, seeing the Pantoran and Aleena make their way from the back of the bay. Hala came to a slow as she passed the sensor display, eyebrow going up in question, before continuing toward him.

"New ship, eh?" She grunted, nodding up at the transport as it got closer, navigational jets firing as it spun for final approach. "Didn't think they made quite that much money."

Cimmbik chuckled. "They have an entire mining colony, and you think a transport is out of their budget?"

"Have you even been to that 'colony'?" Hala looked at the diminutive slicer. "It's barely spinning."

Fanno stepped backward, out of the way, motioning to the others to do the same. "I've got a bad feeling about this."

"You say that every time we're about to get paid, old man." Cimmbik looked up at him.
"You know what?" Hala shook her head slowly. "I kinda do, too."

The whine of the hydraulic landing gear echoed through the clearing as the transport set down, the loading doors sliding open to reveal an empty bay. Empty, save for one man.

Fanno flipped the latch of his holster nervously, stepping forward. "Now, I might be mistaken, but it seems as though you forgot our merchandise..."

He stepped toward them, the heavy bootfalls measured and steady, the wash from the transport's engines whipping long hair and coat around.

"That doesn't look like any Cabana guy I ever saw." Cimmbik uttered the words as he got closer to them, an unease growing in even his mind.

Fanno drew his blaster smoothly, leveling the weapon at the man. "All right, that is about far enough, friend." The whine of the charging weapon comforting him some.

He kept coming, the dead black of his eyes glowering into him, cold and predatory. Fanno didn't mean to, but his finger squeezed the trigger, the weapon stirring lightly in his hand as the orange-red bolt tore from his blaster toward him.

The man raised a hand, the blast freezing in midair, the plasma roaring in an invisible cage as he held it there with his mind. Before it could register, Fanno felt the air behind him solidify, hard as old stone, shoving him forward steadily, boots scraping against soft earth and mud. He grimaced, feeling the warmth of the captive blast on his face as he fought against it, digging his heels in. He turned his head, wincing as he felt his skin start to scorch, eyes falling on his friends, their mouths agape.

It was the last thing Fanno Ridge ever saw.

The man stepped toward Hala, Cimmbik hiding behind one of her legs. She threw her blaster on the dirt in front of her, hands trembling.

"There is a simple choice." He spoke slowly, the words seeming to echo in her ears and in her head. "Die now, or die the next time one of your crew take from us again." He tapped a button on his arm, the symbols of the clan erupting holographically above his fingers. He waited for a moment, for recognition to bloom behind her eyes before continuing. "Choose."

GR75 Medium Transport
Delta Two Low Orbit

"Kinda like using a turbolaser to hit a womp rat." Locke sneered at the Quaestor as he opened a channel to the Perdition.

"They'll never believe what they saw." The clone allowed himself a smile, regarding the former consul's retelling of the encounter.

"Right. But they will believe that taking from us has consequences." Locke tapped on the datapad. They had gotten more than they had lost, the crew assembling ill-gotten gains from a dozen jobs in that hangar. He looked up, happy with his plan, turning to the Quaestor and the materializing hologram of the Consul.

"Overkill is underrated."

When this day is over
and our blood has dried
when the horns have sounded
and our foes have died

In halls of the fallen
all our hatred fades away
the stories start to come
hear our father say

boy, raise your glass now
toast the dead with me.
girl, sing the words how
their end came to be.

the names ride on the air
those left in the fall
leaving us behind there
heeding the fate's call

feel the fire at our cheeks
drink the spirits down
our hearts full, our thoughts raw
see our father frown

girl, raise your glass now
leave that sadness be
boy, sing the words how
they met with glory

in the storm we have made
come stand with me now
drown our tears in the rain
and toast the dawn loud

Manually added by Prophet James Lucius Entar

Muz rose slowly, drawing himself up to his full height, the sunset tones of his lightsaber blades retreating into their hilts with an electric slickness. The Huntresses lay around him, limbs strewn in a wild array, the handiwork of a few moments of the saberist's attention. The cold predatory eyes slid up, regarding the horizon, the blackened scarring of his eyes hiding what exactly, if anything, he was focusing on.

The wind tore through the valley, a rush of sand and rust particles sweeping across everything, flecking the Devaronian's black beard with bits that used to be important a hundred years ago. He grunted, raising his hand, the rocket screaming from the wrist launcher in a dismissive gesture. It spiraled toward his foe, a trail of smoke visible before the wind tore even that away.

The Lion tilted his head in confusion, the rocket exploding in front of him, the faint image of a violet tinged sphere appearing for a moment behind the flames. He stepped forward, pushing sabers into their holsters at his waist, a measured and steady gait as he moved toward the alien. It took a few moments before recognition bloomed in his eyes.

"Ashen." He said the name as if it were a malicious curse. The Devaronian bolted to the side, making his way toward an oversized pile of wreckage, the only sort of feature that the Badlands had to offer. Muz kept his pace, slowly walking toward him, as inevitable as death.

"I know you." he snarled, angling himself, worming his big frame through a narrow crevasse, backing himself up, trying to find a defensible position, a place that could funnel the famed saberist into attacking from only one angle while still giving him the room to maneuver.

The crack of shattering rubble filled his ears, the crack widening as the Lion approached, bits of debris cascading from the broken pieces like rain. "Kerwin Drake." The Lion spoke, his words reverborating in the Devaronian's ears and his head. There was no mistaking the green skin and black bearded alien from the dossier that the Consul had provided. Muz kept his pace, his head swinging to look at the narrowing gulch, the unstable earth and ruins before a half smile crept up his lips as his advantage crumbled.

Kerwin turned himself sideways, lowering his center of gravity as his electrostaff snapped to life. "You could surrender."

The snap of lightsaber ignition was his only response.

Kerwin reacted with rage, launching himself at the man, his staff snarling forward to catch the Lion in the chest, but finding himself short by a few feet. Ashen's feet carried him aside the strike, a fast metal hand crashing against the Devaronian's horn. The shockwave sent echoes of pain through his skull that he shook off, breaking backwards to give himself a little distance. Ashen kept moving toward him, the same steady gait, even as his saber rose to meet the illuminated end of his electrostaff. He alternated his strikes, some the man simply dodging, the others intercepted by violet blade. Kerwin was good, better with a staff than anyone he had ever met, and he could not find an opening in the Grand Master's defenses. He felt a bead of sweat on his brow as he moved, buying time and life with each strike, every step backward. He had seen the holos, he had heard the rumors, and he did not understand why the Keibatsu hadn't attacked yet. The thought raised his pulse. He had seen the holos, after all.

"You could surrender." Ashen repeated the words Kerwin had said, half a smile still playing across his face. He tarried a moment, his mind racing to the twins, Den tugging on Ira's horns as they chased each other through their home. Happier times, before the Lotus, before the Collective. He sneered at the Lord, pointed teeth bared as he contemplated options, his staff bouncing forward as if by rote. Who would take care of them? Who would feed them, make sure their clothes were clean, that they got to bed on time?

Kerwin bounded backwards, out of range, his hands slipping toward the power switch on the staff. Perhaps they would take him back, station him somewhere safe, out of the reach of the brotherhood's political backstabbings and open warfare. Perhaps he would be able to watch the twins grow rather than the angry blades of the Lion as he walked toward him. He shut down the staff, lowering himself to one knee, resting the staff on the rusty earth, averting his eyes in the old signs of respect. After all, if he fell here, who would take care of the twins?

The blade screamed through his neck, and he could taste the burnt blood on the back of his tongue as his head rolled forward.

Rath Oligard would.

This is using my main, and with the battlefield loadout if the attached snapshot does not come through.

I knew I should have stayed on the 'Spear.

I don't really blame the Consul for wanting me on his flagship, because it is exactly what I would have done, if the roles

were reversed. Having a Grand Master on deck is a big deal, and not just for morale. But the clever little bait didn't put

together that the same reason made us a priority target. And now I am trying to hold together a sorry escape pod as it is

trying to make what can only be classified as an 'extreme landing'.

Which is to say, something already basically shot it out of the sky, and I am trying to make it out of this thing with my

internal organs still internal. However many years later, and I still am not the best of pilots. I remember back in one of

the last Sith Rites of Supremacy where I...

And that'd be the ground now. The sound of a crashing spacecraft is not what you'd expect it to be, metallic and grinding.

It squeaks more than it grinds, the alloys crumpling against the rocks and whatever else in ways that set your teeth on edge,

if they weren't already there based on the not insignificant fact that you were hurtling at the ground at the speed of

seventeen cursewords a minute.

The stink of ozone, burning air, and crackling electronics are the first things you notice when the adrenaline slows down.

It's going to take me forever to get that smell out of my warcoat. And of course, the escape hatch is jammed, half buried

under debris and whatever other junk that the planet has lying about on it. Not terribly sure why this Collective set up shop

here, unless they have some sort of giant smelter that they can use to reclaim all of this junk. I suppose it's not out of

the question. Oligard was a resourceful man. Probably still is.

Twisting in my chair, I try to determine how bad the door is shoved in, wondering not so idly if the fool in the headhunter

had any idea who was riding in this pod, or if he was just stabbing at the low-hanging fruit. The way my luck has been,

probably the former, which means I can expect company, and soon. I go to release the safety harness and get up, but find

myself held back. The console to my left had collapsed down, pinning my arm to the seat, a pretty heavy gouge in the metal.

I'm not entirely sure of the provenance of the stream of profanity that rushes from my lips, not that it mattered anyway.

I go to move the fingers, my ear trying to tune into the sound of those tiny servo motors, the fine ears and electronics that

have quite literally been at my side ever since...That doesn't matter right now. What matters is that I can't hear them, and

the synaptic interface isn't giving me any feedback anymore. At the very best, the neural interface is fried. At the likely

worst, the whole arm is scrapped. I find the release at my bicep, detaching the failsafes and breaking free from the

wreckage. If I have the luck to come back and get it, I will. The last thing I need is to have one of these half-droids

bouncing around the galaxy with my arm strapped to them. I'd never hear the end of it.

I take a quick look around the pod, finding a few odds and ends that might make the next few minutes a bit more bearable

before trying to shove on the escape hatch. At least there was water on board. Someone was thinking. I try the door. It

doesn't even pretend to budge. I try a second time, then decide there's no time for any of this. The throb behind my eyes

tells me the door is gone before my eyes themselves do, the thick metal skittering across the ground a few paces away like a

kicked pet.

Brown. This planet is brown, there's no other real way to describe it. A thousand year old rust, dirty sand and filth from

what must have been a hundred wars just caked the entire landscape. It was not winning any awards for vacation destinations,

that was for certain. If I had to guess, this was what they called 'the Badlands'. Inventive.

It occurs to me that standing this close to a crashed escape pod is a good way to be found by things that would rather you

hadn't escaped, so I bolt toward a dune a few hundred paces away. A dune of what exactly, I am not entirely sure, but it at

least gets a little distance between me and the bullseye. Not that the black warcoat didn't make me stand out already in this

endless brown.

The whine of engines reminds me that this was not a sightseeing trip. I close my eyes for a moment, reaching upward, barely

into orbit, finding the point I recognize. Confused and worried beneath a veneer of bravado and a lifetime of callouses.

Kojiro.

I survived. Here.

I speak into his mind, then show him what I see as I open my eyes before stopping, the swell of pain behind my temples

growing. The landing must have rattled me more than I wanted to give it credit for. There would be time enough for that

later, because right now, there are a few things coming my way, and odds are pretty good they aren't trying to sell me a

holonet subscription.

The engines stop suddenly. I let their essences wash over me, reaching out, sensing my surroundings. Three of them. That

tells me that they don't know who was in the pod. Oligard is going to be angry when he figures it out.

The first one falls too easily, smashed into the pod, pulled back and pounded into it again, her neck going all floppy by the

third time her flesh met the metal. I let her go, then send the golden sabers from behind my coat take flight. They drop at

first, then scream toward them, igniting at the last moment, their golden light leaving the second girl in a neat and steaming

pile of what used to be angry. I step up, cresting the dune, calling them back to me with a thought. The third girl has some

spunk, lowering her center of gravity and raising a bow similar to what I had seen Ashia play with. Nightsister toys didn't

seem to make sense with what I had heard about the Collective.

She draws back the weapon and let loose, the frozen in the air in between us as I narrowed my eyes at her. Her boots dragged

at the sand and rust as she found herself pulled forward suddenly, the blast from her own weapon ripping through her as she

stumbled forward against her will. I watch her gasp for breath against the ruin of her lung and probably heart, trying to

place her race. The tattoos look Kiffar, which stands to reason with the skintone, but it was weird. The other two look like

clones. Did Oligard buy himself some crazy premium grade clones?

The dull roar of atmospheric entry focuses me for a moment, looking up to see a lambda-class. Good, Sanguinius did not decide

that he wanted to take advantage of the situation. I imaging that Locke would have. I reach into the bag of stuff from the

escape pod, finding the flare gun and using it, the wide arc of colored light and smoke letting everything know where I was.

It occurs to me how remarkably un-clever that was a moment after I pulled the trigger, throwing the flare launcher to the dirt

in disgust with myself. I watch the shuttle circle, then come in closer. It would only be a minute now, but with the roar of

the engines, I wouldn't be able to hear if any more of those clone whatevers were coming.

It took a moment for me to recognize the armor of the Black Guard, the black washing out against the gray of the shuttle,

surrounded by that fecal brown. He asks the normal questions, almost by rote. I barely answer him, as usual.

"Did you have any trouble, Lord?"

I gesture to the huntresses, then walk up the ramp past him. He laughs to himself. "Only three of them."

Yes. Only three of them. I could handle twice that number with my hand tied behind my... never mind.

attached for entry