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Author Topic: Interludes  (Read 144879 times)
Lord_S_Gray
Knight Commander
*

Force Alignment: 428
Posts: 1903



« Reply #435 on: April 12, 2022, 10:38:46 PM »

The Cataphracts remain a strong force, growing stronger as threats bubble around them, and given Sekots position in the near Unknown Regions at this point in time they have every reason to be vigilant.  Their new armour sounds exceptional, but I wonder if it isn’t lacking some of the force resistance the Dover Catalyst – harvested from beneath the Stone Guardian on Kewda – and legacy nature of the armour (if pieces have been replaced over time to include the new nanite functions) has been lost, or at least diminished in exchange for massively improved repair and resilience aginst more conventional weapons (understandable when the threat in recent years was from Imperial Stormtroopers)?

All the Triarchs of the ‘Rhadde’ dynasty present a very similar ‘Face’ to the Vhal’Dan (and their enemies) stern, unyielding but not unreasonable, Alcyorr follows in this tradition, but behind that ‘armour’ seems a bit more inclined to innovation and subversion, notably his distaste for Listian/Politicians and working with Zearic despite his well-earned pariah status – I wonder how much of that is due to this Triarch coming at the end of a long line of Internecine conflicts among the Vhal’Dan caused by just those sorts of political figures.

So often the Vhal’Dans greatest enemy has been themselves, one can’t help but wonder if this isn’t a flaw in the Vhal’Dan themselves, they try to embody the best of an all embracing accepting group, yet also one that is fiercely self-reliant and security conscious, the military innovation evidence of that.

There is a parallel to the Cataphracts and the Aethans, both are hard hitting elite forces, both suffer from a lack of numbers, Alcyorr is painfully aware of this fact and knows the Order will need to look outside itself to survive.   The question is can they build those bridges in time?
Logged

Lord_S_Gray

Surik: "Kreia, what are you—are you a Jedi, a Sith?"
Kreia: "Does it matter? Of course it does, such titles allow you to break the galaxy into light and dark, categorize it. Perhaps I am neither, and I hold both as what they are, pieces of a whole."

Lord_S_Gray
Knight Commander
*

Force Alignment: 428
Posts: 1903



« Reply #436 on: May 03, 2022, 11:34:57 PM »

Hymra’s Story — Chapter 2
The sound never ended.  The heat never ended.  The hunger never ended.

He turned painfully out of the drying rack he called a bed, wiping the soot from his eyes with the ragged cloth that was now more ash than fibre.  Shuffling along the hot floor on bare feet into this shifts line up. 

The cries of gas valves, bubbling molten metals and heavy clangs of compression moulds stamping the burning liquid metal into desirable shapes was the unending backdrop that drowned any possible conversation with the others on his shift.  Not that there was much to say…as much as the foundry stamped raw minerals into durasteel B2 chassis and limbs, so too did it stamp their flesh and spirits into compliance.

He came to the front of the line, behind a metal grill was an old B1 Battle Droid, beneath the soot someone had once managed to scrawl “Vcrgu’s Whore” across its beak like head.  He had no idea who Vcrgu was…or why this droid being its whore was funny…but it was the only piece of writing in the place. 

Its bony hand offered a glob of nutrient paste, he grabbed it up and ate it as fast as he could.  The unspoken rule was to eat it as soon as you got it…He licked grey blobs off his fingers heading to his post…if you tried to save any for later, as he had the first week…someone would bash you for it…as he had been the first week. 

So he bore the hideous taste and the stomach pains wolfing it down brought rather than face a hiding later.

He trudged along with the Scrub shift as they were called.  While most of the facility was automated some things were still cheaper by hand.  Past the compression moulds, past the acrid spray lines that coated them in rust and charge proofing layers to one of two dozen lines of open topped conveyors each bordered with dozens of seats for the slaves to sit and scrub.

Most took a seat toward the end of the conveyor, avoiding the heat closer to the machines and hoping people up there would finish off most of the scrubbing.  He sat right next to the front…he plunged into the heat here so his sleeping area would feel cool in comparison.

First he scrubbed off the excess oils and varnishes with rags soaked in a bucket of diluted Sodium Hydroxide…even diluted his hands were scored by chemical burns.  Typically two or three people a shift would ‘Take the Bucket’ and start drinking from it, killing themselves in excruciating pain. 

Every time he dipped the rag in he thought to join them.
 
Then he scrubbed off the flash lines and sprue marks the cutters missed with a rotating diamond hand saw that was locked to the floor with such a small chain it could barely reach some of the imperfections it was meant to scrub off – Even the tools were chained here.  Fewer people tried ‘Taking the Scrubber’, typically it just ripped off the outer layers of skin and muscle before being shut off by one of the droid overseers, leaving nasty wounds but nothing fatal. 

There was no concept of time here…a few of the walls had lines gouged to track shifts…but all had long since been abandoned.  The only measure he had was the gradually dimming pain of the Digi-brand lasered on his forearm, 3682-N. He didn’t know how many shifts he’d worked…how many thousands of chassis he’d scrubbed. 

Some shifts were worse than others…the foundry it operated constantly, but sometimes far less came down the line than other times…the number of imperfections to be smoothed out were getting steadily higher.  A distant part of himself realised that must mean the ores they were using were of ever lower quality, and supply wasn’t steady.

So engrossed in his work he barely noticed when the sound for shift change blared, he had to be grabbed painfully in the shoulder by one of the droids that had dried chunks of faeces rotting in the cleft of its torso. 

He shuffled back to the second line for the day, the second meal, wiping his hands off against the railings that were sheened by the wiping of hundreds of others.  Gulping down his glob from green eye – for the second battle droid server had one green and one red photosensitive he went back to the store room they slept in. 
 
<<<<>>>>

There was no conversation, only broken faces of seventy other sentients…a group of Bothan’s in one corner had some kind of mutual protection thing going, a three armed Besalisk beat a wiry Camaasi for a glob he had hidden, a human male was face down and stank…he had been in exactly the same position for two shifts now. 

He took the same rack as the shift before, indifferent to the usual scene in the rack across the room of the two Morgukai brutalising the female twi’lek that they considered belonged to them.

No they weren’t even sentients any more…

They were just Scrubbers.
 
<<<<>>>>
 
In most prisons there was some kind of black market economy…some kind of pecking order.  Here there was none.  He realised it was because the guards were droids…there was no way to get privileges or extra rations, no negotiation, no conversation.   Any slave who hurt the others too much was taken away and never seen again, the hushed whispers of the Bothans spoke of them being sent to Kessel or possibly thrown into the Separatist auxiliary forces…even information was worthless though…there was no one to tell it to…they were all stripped naked but for simple, fourth hand rags…heat alone meant even those had little value.

All that was left was a trade in flesh…a kind of slave system within a slave system.

The Morgukai had the twi’lek female, the besalisk had the camaasi and two broken horned gotals who would sit up the line so he had to only scrub when a droid wandered past. 

But that was just his shift…there were at least thirty shifts in the monolithic foundry he had spied from the gantries he walked back and forth each shift.  Some seemed to have an obvious dominant figure, usually a species with greater physical strength a Yinchorri or Crolute. 

They kept species and anyone brought in together apart to sever relationships.

They replicated the very slavery they were victims of…scrounging whatever sense of control they could over their situation by abusing those even more disempowered.

To keep his mind active he pondered the psychology of it all…the way they needed so few droids because the slaves were so resigned to the monotony of their existence…how they slaves then turned on each other…

As he was thinking something snapped…he had scrubbed right through one of the chassis…no…it had snapped…been too brittle to take the pathetic pressure his undernourished muscles could impose.  He looked carefully at the cracked edge…even in the molten light of the furnaces beyond he could tell the durasteel had a coppery tinge…they had added iron into it probably in lieu of lommite…but too much…

This meant something…this meant…they were cutting corners…getting desperate.

He heaved up the defective chassis off the line into the defects, looking around…as if…as if he would be punished for understanding this…as though his thoughts to hope this might come to an end would lead to some kind of retribution.

But the droids just wandered past on their rounds, the odd handful of faeces and buckets of Sodium Hydroxide thrown their way ignored. 
 
<<<<>>>>

It happened while he was on shift…for the last few shifts barely any chassis come out, he counted eleven the whole shift…the droids didn’t know the difference and if anyone tried to leave they slapped them down and dragged them back to their seat. 

He was waiting for the next chassis when the constant boiling thrum of the blast furnaces and melting pots suddenly stopped.  There were not many lights, they worked by the constant glare from the molten metal, but what few there were shut off.  Sounds began to die down…

The silence was unimaginably beautiful. 

Then shattered by explosions far away, more…the thvump of heavy blasters above them somewhere…yells…he looked down the line and saw past the jungle of conveyors thin blue and red lines spark past each other.  The explosions got closer, the sound of blaster fire louder.  The droids paused in their patrol , turned and sprinted further up the line. 

They didn’t know what to do…what was happening.  At the far end past a dozen rows of nervous scrubbers he saw them…like the Graces of Shili descending from the clouds in pure white armour…Clones. 

They rushed past, he dove to the ground as the fighting erupted around him, blue and red streaked over his head, screams as slaves were caught in the cross fire, the Morgukai rushed a droid that had come from a dilapidated office area, it was the spur they needed. 

Suddenly he was up…following a crowd consciousness…screaming his lungs out and charging toward the droids as they fell, kicking, biting, and scratching the metal as though forgetting he couldn’t inflict any pain upon the inert material.

It didn’t matter, the act of hurting it made him feel good.
 
<<<<>>>>

For the time being they were kept in their former quarters, Clone guards at the doors…some of the others were impatient, some had to be restrained…but he understood, the Republic needed to secure the facility properly and arrange for transit to refugee centres.  He kept patiently to himself in the back of the room, graciously thanking the clone for the ration bar he handed out.

“So how’s the war going,” he asked,

“War’s over…Grevious got his guts blasted, just mopping up the last droids and the traitors.”

“Traitors?” he asked chomping away on the bar, savouring every dry morsel.

“Jedi tried to stage a coup but we showed them.  Move Along,”  He stared at the blank helmet until the trooper elbowed him aside to serve the next person. 
 
<<<<>>>>
Something wasn’t right.  He had no way of tracking time…but it had been too long.  More slaves had risen up, the Bothan’s whispered that the Clones had put down an entire shift that rioted. 

From the grated wire wall of their room he could see Clone Engineers and officers wandering around the facility with scanners, taking measurements, and testing equipment…repurposing the facility was logical enough…surely you would remove the slaves first?   

The troopers that guarded the cell gave nothing away except the impression that they were still prisoners. 

The difference to the droids was palpable -  a droid would ignore repeated questions, the clones got annoyed. 

First it was the Morgukai, one of them demanded to know when they would be released, spitting into the now soot stained helmet.  He was met with a rifle but to the stomach.  His brother charged forward and was shot dead by the other guard.  They didn’t even move the body.  The twi’lek female gave it a gratuitous kick…but then suddenly seemed to realise she had not fully escaped her situation.

As heavy load lifters began to replace the compression moulds, the Besalisk was next, screaming they can’t keep him here he stormed out pushing the guard aside, only for another patrol to shoot him on site as it rounded the corner.  Again the body was just left to decay, whereas the Morgukai’s had been eaten by a Trandoshan to the amusement of the Clone troopers.

When an officer approached the guards with a four man escort he took his chance.

“Officer, Officer, Hymra Naro, 63rd Shili Volunteers Engineering Division, Officer I need to speak with you,”  The Officer glanced up from his data pad and gestured him over,

“What can I do for you,”

“You can tell me what the hell is going on, we’ve been here for days…I know it takes time to get an extraction together…” he pointed to the newly installed moulds,

“But you’re bringing stuff in, surely the facility is secure by now?”

“What’s your point,” the officer asked,

“What…what do you mean, when are we getting released?”

“They all ask the same thing,” one of the troopers noted with that same helmet distorted accent he knew so well,

“Well shut them up,” the officer said turning away,
Hymra didn’t see the rifle butt that knocked him out.
 
<<<<>>>>

No one was coming…
No one…
No…

It was all he could think about…he didn’t eat, he didn’t sleep…he would be here forever…every day scrubbing…the Clones pushed and bludgeoned him forward each shift to the line.

Everything had changed in his small universe…. 

No longer did he scrub the imperfections off battle droids, now it was dozens of 30 degree struts for ETA-2 Interceptors and new ships that used similar parts the clone mentioned were being developed. …

Gone were the indifferent droids you could urinate on, spit on, swear at, insult, even write on if you were able. Clones got irritated, angry, hated being here “baby siting” the scum, and from sheer boredom began to torment and harass.  Deprived of the ability to unload on their captors, the slaves looked for punching bags that wouldn’t fight back – each other.

The fights between slaves got worse, an bloodier, fights over food, racks, seats on the line…a few died each day, buckets of sodium hydroxide poured over people as power struggles began, shivs and tools were smuggled by Clones for…favours… creating a new market and power structure.

It was ironic: the soulless droids had treated them with more decency and fairness than the faceless clones. 

They were units of input, left to their own outside their shift, Unit 3682-N was no different to unit 3682-M in a droids eyes, no one was give more than another – but clone had favourites, clones would beat you out of boredom.  With the clones he was even less than a scrubber.

All this he watched impassively between the random beatings…No one was coming, it didn’t matter. He would die here, scrubbing…

stabbed in the back…scrubbing
beaten by a clone…scrubbing
starved from having his food stolen…scrubbing
 
<<<<>>>>

One shift the clones were gone, in their place an assortment of Gamorreans, Weequay and Klatoonians. 

The casual violence toward the slaves and between the slaves doubled, daily he was struck for the sake of being struck, every night he was thrown off his rack as new slaves were moved in, he didn’t bother any more, every meal time he struggled to eat his portion before it was stolen.

The scrubbing was more intense…idly he realised instead of indifferent clones working for the ‘Empire’ he heard the Bothans whisper, now it was being run for profit by the dread whispered name…

Hutt.

After one shift a new guard arrived, a Wee’quay with a red dyed topknot, who spied the one remaining Morgukai during his nightly ‘session’ with the female twi’lek.  It wasn’t especially brutal…she had long since stopped resisting and lay indifferently staring into space.   The Wee’quay came in flanked by two Gamorreans, pulled the Morgukai off and smashed his face with a baton, dragged the twi’leki away.

Her dead eyes stared straight at Naro through the bars…accusing his indifference, his acceptance of what he was happening very shift. 

Somehow she reminded him of Syffa…perhaps it was because she was the only other being with lekku in the place…

He finally remembered himself…

His guilt at not having joined the Shili Volunteers sooner…and now his guilt that it had taken this twi’lek he had seen abused shift in and shift out finally locking eyes with him to make him act.

“SON OF A TRALK” He screamed and ran at the cage door, thrusting his arm through and putting his withered arm around a gamorreans throat.  The leathery fat thing considered it little more than an annoyance, in an instant he was dragged off, slammed to the ground and beaten
And Beaten
And Beaten
And beaten.
His body was broken and aching,
But his soul was restored.
 
 
<<<<<>>>>
Logged

Lord_S_Gray

Surik: "Kreia, what are you—are you a Jedi, a Sith?"
Kreia: "Does it matter? Of course it does, such titles allow you to break the galaxy into light and dark, categorize it. Perhaps I am neither, and I hold both as what they are, pieces of a whole."

TheDutchman
Knight Commander
*

Force Alignment: 1106
Posts: 4131


Avatar courtesy of For Tyeth


« Reply #437 on: May 05, 2022, 09:10:38 PM »

Hymra's time in slavery is an oppressive weight felt throughout the chapter: from the origins of "Vcrgu’s Whore" to the change in overlords, the (now former) Togrutan sapper sees his world go from bad to worse, victims of not only the horros of war but also the indifference of those in charge.  Consider such to be one of those uncomfortable open-secrets that politicians don't talk about, pretending that their efforts are completely honorable and on the sides of the angels.

Meanwhile, the horrendous reality of the slave camp illustrates the worst of war and those--guilty and innocent--that are caught up, eaten, and spit out from uncaring war machines (ironically on BOTH sides).

Hymra's suppressed yet visceral fear-by-way-of-apathy and complete despondency not only serves as a macabre metric for these atrocities but also to show just how dehumanizing his situation (and those of his fellow slaves) is.  Further underscoring this, witnessing the savagery through his eyes--the fates of the Morgukai and their Twi'leki "concubine" acting as glaring examples--we can now see just how far both sides, Republic and Separatist, are willing to go, even after victory has been achieved.  It is as brutal as it is compelling.

But as one particular "hope spot" emerges, in this case, as a result of Hymra's acknowledgment of Syffa's memory, it reminds us of the indomitable will of the man that he becomes and his tireless crusade against the very slavery that he survives (regardless of the MANY ghosts that haunt him...or perhaps more precisely, BECAUSE of them).

Meta-note: These chapter dedicate to Hymra finally allow us a greater understanding of the man and just why he is no longer "Hymra" by the time we see him.  Some part of him died in those camps, likely at least in part to Syffa's fate, and him assuming the name from which he's known during the present is indicative of the notable change in his entire being.
Logged

Sig courtesy of DarthScrub

Cataphract Triarch of the Vhal'Dan

My sabers:Zearic's Aldrnari, Archon v3 (modded w/ activation box) w/Obsidian, AS; Zearic's shoto, Apprentice v4 w/Obsidian, AS; Graflex SE w/Obsidian, GB; Archon v3 (modded w/ activation box) w/Obsidian, CG; Dark Sentinel v4 w/Obsidian, BR; Sentinel LE v4 w/Obsidian, GB; Initiate v5 w/Obsidian, AS; Sentinel LE v4 stunt, EG; Aeon LE v4 stunt, FO; Dominix v4 stunt, BR; Aeon v3 stunt, SY

TheDutchman
Knight Commander
*

Force Alignment: 1106
Posts: 4131


Avatar courtesy of For Tyeth


« Reply #438 on: May 05, 2022, 09:11:53 PM »

Sorry, double post  Tongue
Logged

Sig courtesy of DarthScrub

Cataphract Triarch of the Vhal'Dan

My sabers:Zearic's Aldrnari, Archon v3 (modded w/ activation box) w/Obsidian, AS; Zearic's shoto, Apprentice v4 w/Obsidian, AS; Graflex SE w/Obsidian, GB; Archon v3 (modded w/ activation box) w/Obsidian, CG; Dark Sentinel v4 w/Obsidian, BR; Sentinel LE v4 w/Obsidian, GB; Initiate v5 w/Obsidian, AS; Sentinel LE v4 stunt, EG; Aeon LE v4 stunt, FO; Dominix v4 stunt, BR; Aeon v3 stunt, SY

TheDutchman
Knight Commander
*

Force Alignment: 1106
Posts: 4131


Avatar courtesy of For Tyeth


« Reply #439 on: May 05, 2022, 09:12:53 PM »

Bah, sorry Triple Post (stupid internet  Angry)
Logged

Sig courtesy of DarthScrub

Cataphract Triarch of the Vhal'Dan

My sabers:Zearic's Aldrnari, Archon v3 (modded w/ activation box) w/Obsidian, AS; Zearic's shoto, Apprentice v4 w/Obsidian, AS; Graflex SE w/Obsidian, GB; Archon v3 (modded w/ activation box) w/Obsidian, CG; Dark Sentinel v4 w/Obsidian, BR; Sentinel LE v4 w/Obsidian, GB; Initiate v5 w/Obsidian, AS; Sentinel LE v4 stunt, EG; Aeon LE v4 stunt, FO; Dominix v4 stunt, BR; Aeon v3 stunt, SY

Lord_S_Gray
Knight Commander
*

Force Alignment: 428
Posts: 1903



« Reply #440 on: May 19, 2022, 11:02:45 PM »

Hymra’s Story — Chapter 3

No one was coming…
They were all scrubbers.  

These two facts were the pole stars around which his thinking coalesced.  

They had no one to rely on for help but each other, and they were one group, not bothans, not togruta, not twi’lek, they were just one group, all slaves.

As his wounds slowly healed from his most severe beating yet a fire burned in his heart stoked by the itching scabs on his skin. He could not look away, not slink into automata like obedience any longer, he had to fight, fight with everything he had - it was the only way to keep the guilt and regret from overwhelming him.

His resources were, in all honesty in the negative but there were still things he could  do.

He began small, giving half his rations each end of shift to the twi’leki woman when she wasn’t dragged off by the Overseer.  

The first time the Morgukai, already aggrieved by what was once his ‘possession’ being taken by the Overseers, beat him for further intruding on his territory.

She thought it was a trick for a few shifts, but he asked nothing of her.  

Others noticed.  He nodded to the Bothans every start of shift and every end of shift.  On the line he swapped places with the camassi to sit closer to the furnaces so the poor creature whose fur was falling out could get some respite.

These seemingly insignificant acts of compassion began to be replicated by others as they realised it was in their benefit.

Over weeks an unspoken grouping formed, people gave short acknowledgments to each other, grouped together. A core group of hardened desperate slaves continued to abuse the others, but as they coalesced more it became less frequent.  

Things were changing, slowly yes, but changing.

But the change didn’t go unnoticed.

The Hutts who had purchased the facility from the Republic brought their own guards, Nikto and Klatooinian, hardened Overseers who looked on any being that was not cowering with suspicion.

They were experienced in crushing dissent, they watched, they waited, they followed the threads of kindness to their source.

Scaled and gnarled, muscles built from hundreds of beatings they knew the real trouble makers weren’t the violent ones, or the escape artists, it was the patient thinkers.

Barely had Naro’s attempt to build a community among the damned begun than he was grabbed at the end of a shift, dragged along the rust caked floor and tossed into a wire cage.

He had been naive, underestimated the piercing gaze of the Overseers.  

What he had tried in that short period was nothing they hadn’t seen before.

Thrown like unwanted luggage to the corner of a smoke filled docking bay he was left to starve in his cramped confinement, his body twisted in a half foetal position as the wire cae cut into his skin, pressure sores flaring as vast trains of components were loaded onto droid controlled bulk cargo-haulers.

He wasn’t fed.

He wasn’t watered.

His own waste went dry and brittle in the unvented claustrophobic bay.

But he was vindicated, he has struck an invisible blow with his nothing against their everything. Resistance was possible. Survival and Sanity were Resistance.

This fired his energy through the long days of neglect at that start, his mind wondering what else might be possible…

But his physical limitations could not be ignored.

Time passed as hunger and thirst grew. His consciousness began to fade, reality slipped into delirium, and he was back beneath the mucky dirt of Vkmin, hands swimming through the compacted dirt looking for Syffa, mouth opening to swallow fistfulls of dit that punched the back of his throat with harsh acids of the planets soil…

Until he woke to the scratching pain of hunger and dry mouth, nose clogged with soot from the ships.

He didn’t open his eyes anymore, sticky sleep mingled with the filthy particle filled air to create a concrete that set his eyelids.

How long he couldn’t tell, but at some point he felt himself fly lifted up and brought somewhere that replaced the stench of industrial belching with biological rot.

His clogged ears heard groans and screams.  He felt the warmth of a sweaty body above him, princely scales beneath, and fur beside him.  He visualised his wire cage was now stacked among others.

A blast of icy water smashed into his face, his desperate mouth opened, tongue and gums grazed by the impact as he tried to drink.  Whent he blast ended he suckled what he could from the prickly scales and metal wire beneath him.

Trying to cling to any point of sanity he counted the water blasts and forceful tube shoved into his throat a thick gunk squirted into his throat that his stomach could barely process.

Two.  Three.  Four…the smells died as he became used to them.  
Five…Six…Seven…he managed to open one eye, but could see nothing but grimy brown and the occasional glint of rusted wire, cramped figures within.

Eight…Nine…

No one is coming…

Ten

We’re all scrubbers
Eleven

No One is coming

<<<<>>>>

Then there was light, blinding hot light that even his closed eyes couldn’t keep out.  shouting, screaming, the scent of fresh blood.

For the first time he saw his surrounds accorded with his assumptions, he was one of literally hundreds in tiny wire cages stacked on each other, a corpulent blue skinned being wandering between them escorted by weary filthy guards, scanning each in turn.

“Pathetic,” the fat blue creature sighed as he walked

“These won’t fetch 30 a kilo, increase feeding by10…no 15 per cent…”

Kilo? he wondered what that meant, his mind slowed by the pain of his tight confinement.

The blue fat thing paused in front of his cage.  Naro could only see the fat things belly face on from where he was stacked.  A  hand reached down and squeezed his montrails.

“Surprisingly plump…” the blue thing giggled there was some shuffling about then…then he felt the searing hot pain cut into his head at the high end of the left lekku, the neural pathways there set jolts of mad thoughts into his mind as they were severed, his eyes rolled back as the pain overwhelmed him…

the last he heard was a gurgling wet slurp

<<<<>>>>

Twenty-Two.

It was Twenty two feeding cycles since he’d been taken, 11 more since his lekku had been cut off and..and…well now he truly understood, more than at the factory even, just what he and his fellows in the cages were to the slavers.

Meat.  Once you’d expended your usefulness as labour, or deemed too disruptive, you were reduced to a sac of cells to be consumed in the slavers eyes.

Yet now, Twenty-two, he felt something sharp grind against his cage, cut shallowly into his skin before he sprawled out, his joints screaming in burning pain, so adjusted to their unnatural compression freedom was torture.

“...live one…”
“...next, move to the end…”

He was dragged along a slick floor, pressed up against something hard and cold.

Something sharp stabbed into his shoulder, a warm tingle flowed from the spot as the Stimm spread through his body, consciousness returning fully and with it some understanding of his surroundings.

He was at the end of a cramped alley between rows and rows of beings in wire cages, some dead, many still.  There were bodies on the floor and three humanoids doing their best to cut those they could out.

Another being rushed in from somewhere shouting as his heavy eyes closed again.

<<<<>>>>

The dry air scraping on his throat woke him.

Head swimming he pressed himself up from his stretched position.

“wahhhh…wahhhh…taaaa…wahhta..” he managed a few moments later a straw was pressed into his lips, the dozen times recycled water sweeter than anything he had tasted.

“Easy there,” a gruff voice said drawing the water back, his features obscured in the dim light. There was a strong smell of metal in the recycled air, loud hums of engines.

He was one of several dozen in the cramped corridors of a ship cared for over the next few days by the gruff voiced man, slowly regaining their faculties, the lights being turned up gradually as their eyes adjusted.

Naro waited patiently, sleeping as much as he could, moving his toes, then fingers then limbs as much as he could.  The rest of the ‘rescued’ were an assortment of different races, a small majority Twi’lek - many missing one or more lekku.  

Their gruff caretaker was a scarred old human with battered armour that had once been orange.

Naro occupied his mind trying to roughly work out how long he had been in the cage based on the feedings - most likely about 30 days on the ship. As his eyesight returned he saw he had lost a lot of weight, but nowhere near some of the others.

Four of their number didn’t survive, the Gruff man dragging them away.

As he dragged one past, Naro finally mustered the energy to speak

“Who…are….”

His hard grey eye - for one was milky and lost - looked down on the Togruta

“...We were the Sons of Kessel,”

<<<<>>>>

Most of them were up by the time the ship bumped along in atmosphere once more, the Gruff man handing out scraps of old clothes and placing credit chits in each of their hands.

“There’s thirty credits each, We’ll be landing at Mos Eisely in a few hours,”  there was a look of resigned defeat on his face

“Once there you’re free to go,”

“Thirty!” one Twi’leki male complained
“That is nothing, what are we meant to do?”

The gruff man shook his head
“I’m sorry it’s all we can offer, along with your freedom,”

“What freedom is that, we were better off in the cages!”

The Gruff man’s patience reached its end.
“Do you know where they were taking you? The Spice mines? No you wish, those were Meat-Hawkers you were being shipped by, two jumps away from the wet markets on Dal-Barshood,”

That seemed to quieten them for a moment, the Gruff man vanishing behind the bulky squeaking door at the end of the corridor.  Small groups began to form, whispers and sinister glances at others.

It wasn’t long before the harassment started, more aggressive survivors began to lean on smaller ones demanding they ‘share’ or ‘pool’ their credits.

We’re all scrubbers

“No…” he said without thinking
“No this is wrong, Sires, Sirras…please!” he was ignored, after all there was always two or three others ranting in their pain and trauma induced madness.

“Please this isn’t the way, we need to work together, to…” It was too late, at the far end of the corridor the first fight broke out, like a wave the conflict rippled across the heated compressed bodies.

Subsistence weakened fist and bodies pressed and pushed against each other, grasping hands tried to claim use of worn credit chit.  

Despairing at the conflict Naro looked beside him to the uncertain face of another Twi’leki, his fists balled, eyeing the three 10 chits held loosely in Naro’s hand.

Naro looked him in the eyes, holding the stare trying to find something ineffable yet critical.

The moment was broken as Naro was knocked from behind, shouting and stun blasts echoing, static current rippling over them as the Gruff Man and two others suppressed the fight.

<<<<<>>>>

White beyond white light of twin suns greeted them as the hatch opened and the thankless survivors were pushed out, Naro had only the thinnest of sandals to shield his feet from the intense heat of the sand that had long since covered whatever duracrete the vessel landed on on the outskirts of the town.

Blocky tawn buildings were up ahead, the jagged peak of a crashed ship the tallest feature.

The Survivors stumbled forward, within moments the first attacks began, the larger grabbing the slow as the fast made a run for it across the shifting sands.

The Gruff man and his companions didn’t do a thing to intervene as they gave into their survival instincts, fighting over the scraps in a freedom that was anything but free.

Watching the event Naro didn’t see the fist coming, his face smacked on the side, then another drilled into his stomach, he dropped his credits and saw a figure swipe them just as quickly.

Winded he retched forward, a mistake as the wind picked up blowing harsh sand in his mouth and nose.

Even after weeks, possibly months in the Meat Hawkers cages some still had the Will to force their bodies to fight…but they were fighting against themselves.

We’re all scrubbers

They all soon disappeared into the dust, Naro alone remaining unmoved.

“You don’t want to be here when the suns get high,” the Gruff man yelled to him
“Even less when the Suns set,”

“This is all wrong,” Naro spoke a conversation in his own mind,
“We need to come together not tear each other apart, what thirty men and women could do working together instead of fighting over the same scraps,”

“You’re not the first to think that,” the man said with usual Gruffness
“But where will the food and water come from? The ships, the fuel? “ The sound of boots on sand came up behind him

“All the years I’ve been at this…we’ve only gotten poorer, more desperate and now…now times are even darker…we raid where we can, steal what we can from the Masters, but it's never enough,” he tapped Naro on the shoulder with a twenty chit.

“Here, get into town before Suns-High, there’s a holo comm, about 15 creds last I looked if you have someone to call,”

For the first time since Vykmin, Naro contemplated what going ‘home’ would be like- calling up Shili, his uncle or accountant, possibly Nahski his secretary before he volunteered for the war, someone could send help for him…

No.

Syffa, the rest of the 63rd was still out there and…all the other Scrubbers still toiling, the Twi’leki woman, the Bothans, even the Morgukai…how could he go back knowing they were still in that factory?  And how many more in cages of the Meat Hawkers, Spice mines on Kessel?

“I can’t…my family, my brothers and sisters are still in that factory,” He said, raising his head to the high Suns, the binary stars bearing witness to his words.
“Still in those cages,” he turned to the Gruff man offering up the credits once more.

“Show me how to fight for them, how to free all of them,”

The Gruff man shook his head to protest
“Friend, we don't have the food or supplies to take on…”

“I will work, as I learn, I…I have skills, I was an engineer on Shili, a builder, a sapper in the army, I know how to build. I know how to destroy, just show me where.  I will spend every minute fighting for our brethren still in chains and supporting those freed from them”

The Gruff man turned to his two companions who gave a shrug and nod in turn.

“Well if you know how to rig some charges, and the Thinker approves,”  The Gruff man held out his hand lifting the Togruta from the sands.

“What’s your name?”

The Togruta shook his head at the almost comical thought he was in any sense an ‘individual’ any longer.

“I’m just another Scrubber,”

<<<<>>>>
Logged

Lord_S_Gray

Surik: "Kreia, what are you—are you a Jedi, a Sith?"
Kreia: "Does it matter? Of course it does, such titles allow you to break the galaxy into light and dark, categorize it. Perhaps I am neither, and I hold both as what they are, pieces of a whole."

TheDutchman
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Force Alignment: 1106
Posts: 4131


Avatar courtesy of For Tyeth


« Reply #441 on: May 25, 2022, 08:04:24 PM »

From a glimmer of hope to the brutal despair of reality and back again, Scrubber's history is truly a frightening story.  Not only is he effectively stripped of any identity (indeed, a fact in which we see in the current timeline) but he is then regarded as nothing more than weighed meat (in this case, quite literally).  I'd wondered just how he'd lost his lekku and--I have to completely honest--I never even considered that he'd lose it in such a...gory way (or rather for the implicit purpose of food; yet another haunting reminder from LSG as to just why the galaxy is full of horrors).

However, it is Scrubber's tenacity, his insurmountable will, that inevitably changes "Hymra" into the leader of the Sons.  This thread weaves throughout not only his imprisonment (sacrificing his food, his comfort, even his place) but also in the future where we see him as a soft-spoken yet immovable object, a proponent of liberty for EVERYONE.  THIS is a paragon that will lead the Sons out of the depths of obscurity.

Consequently, this is a poignant psychological tale of survival and identity intermingled with terrors both visceral and real, an interesting and evocative origin of the man that Scrubber was and IS.

I'm reminded of the "Firefly" episode in which Book is talking to Simon about Xiang Yu's quotes that suggests that the way to truly learn about someone is to torture them.  That is precisely how I see Scrubber emerging from his agonizing cocoon of pain and torture as the "real" person that we meet in "The Gray & the Unchained."  As brilliant as it is haunting...
Logged

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Cataphract Triarch of the Vhal'Dan

My sabers:Zearic's Aldrnari, Archon v3 (modded w/ activation box) w/Obsidian, AS; Zearic's shoto, Apprentice v4 w/Obsidian, AS; Graflex SE w/Obsidian, GB; Archon v3 (modded w/ activation box) w/Obsidian, CG; Dark Sentinel v4 w/Obsidian, BR; Sentinel LE v4 w/Obsidian, GB; Initiate v5 w/Obsidian, AS; Sentinel LE v4 stunt, EG; Aeon LE v4 stunt, FO; Dominix v4 stunt, BR; Aeon v3 stunt, SY

TheDutchman
Knight Commander
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Force Alignment: 1106
Posts: 4131


Avatar courtesy of For Tyeth


« Reply #442 on: May 25, 2022, 10:53:47 PM »

Intercept

[Ident-Confirmation – Password]
*******
[APPROVED]
[--DNA SAMPLE insert digit into scanner – note may cause some pain]
>>>
[APPROVED]
[Occular Scan Initiating – Photosensitive seizure warning. A very small percentage of Sentients may experience a seizure when exposed to certain visual images, including flashing lights or patterns that may appear during scan]
>>>>
[Approved]
[Welcome Agent Agate]
{SPYNET 17.8}
[Emergency Update > Imperial Triumvirate]
[To: GlobalAddressList]
From: Rainbow

Agents, at great cost we have compiled the following details on the new Imperial Remnant organizational structure, updates to follow. Trust No One.

<<<<>>>>

Imperial Remnant Navy c.10ABY

Eclipse III-class Star Destroyer, the "Gehenna"*

*Holodigital capture from six independent deepspace weather probes, rectified via algorithm from known database compilations
Sizes and ratios are exact to the meter/pixel; all other ships shown for reference only
Length: 35,000 meters
Hyperdrive rating: Class 1, Class 6 backup
Armament: Advanced Superlaser (1), Resonance Torpedo Launcher (12), Heavy turbolasers batteries (10,000); Heavy turbolasers cannons (10,000); Ion cannons (5,000); Assault concussion missile tubes (2,500, turreted), 95 missiles each; Tractor beam projectors (850), Gravity-well projectors (8; 4 fore, 4 aft)
Shielding: ISD-128x deflector shield generators (40)
Armor: black Quadranium-Alusteel plating, ionized hull quantumplating
Complement: 2,400 fighters (200 squadrons)->960 TIE-Interceptors (80 squadrons), 600 TIE-Avenger (50 squadrons), 240 TIE-Defenders (20 squadrons), 60 TIE-Defender Elites (5 squadrons), 480 TIE/sa-Bomber (40 squadrons) 60 TIE/ph Phantoms (5 squadrons); 450 Gamma-class ATR-6 assault transports, 250 Lambda-class T-4a shuttles, 100 Y-85 Titan dropships; 25 prefabricated garrison bases; 400 All Terrain Armored Transports (AT-ATs), 750 All Terrain Scout Transports (AT-STs)
Crew: 879,342, 6,790 gunners, 30,000 droids
Consumables: 12 years
Bio: The original Eclipse I&II had been commissioned by the Emperor to be the pinnacle of the Imperial Fleet, their 35km length commiserate with the then-current Tarkin Doctrine.  Unfortunately, due initially to Project Stardust and then later the Second Death Star, the star dreadnaughts' plans were scaled back to accommodate both of the battlestations' materiel requirements, their new length measuring half the original blueprint, 17.5km each.  However, before his death, the Emperor tasked one of his favored moffs, Moff Nomar Ghent, with seeing the Eclipse Project properly fulfilled.  

Initial construction began under the strictest secrecy at the Galentro Heavy Works Shipyards at Jaemus 3ABY, with the final work completed circa 8-9ABY.

Under the command of Fleet Admiral Sarna Mercet, the Gehenna was launched in record time.  It was also during this time that the Emperor implemented a new strategy, one fleshed out by Grand Admiral Thrawn.  The Gehenna was to be the flagship of the newly commissioned 986th Fleet, the so-called "Autonomous Fleet."  Leading a battlegroup consisting of the Gehenna itself, it also included 6 Imperial II-class star destroyers, 2 Interdictor-class Star Destroyer, and 8 Gladiator II-class Star Destroyer.  It would also resurrect and incorporate Thrawn's defunct TIE-Defender Program, transferring most of the remaining ships aboard the Gehenna itself.  In addition to the Imperial civilian and military leaders (Moff Ghent and Fleet Admiral Mercet, respectively), the Emperor assigned one of his own Force Adepts to complete the "Autonomous Fleet Triumvirate:" Darkside Executor Kintik RV (following the tradition of all Executors as choosing for their new name an ancient Sith word--in this case, "Kintik" meaning "blackest"--while relinquishing their former name to mere initials).  Each member of the Triumvirate would be given primacy in their respective fields (civilian, military, and Force) but would otherwise act as one anothers' equal.


Imperial Triumvirate: Moff Nomar Ghent (civilian), Fleet Admiral Sarna Mercet (military), Executor Kintik RV (Darkside Adept).

name: Nomar Ghent
rank: moff (civilian)
height: 176cm
weight: 82kg
race: Human
hair: gray (black&gray moustach)
skin: tan
eyes: blue
bio: Born on Corellia, Ghent survived the mean streets of Coronet City, enlisting at CorSec Academy at 17.  He rose through the ranks, soon becoming Sector Chief for first the capital city and then Corellia proper.  When the Emperor reorganized the Republic into the Empire, Ghent made an easy transition to the new order, being a firm believer in what he saw as a benevolent autocracy.  He then enlisted in the Imperial Security Bureau (ISB), gaining acclaim and accolades for his dedicated and fair (if stolid) handling of his position and authority.  It was Ghent that was responsible for foiling the attempted bombing of the planetary parade on Empire Day.  Emperor Palpatine himself recognized Ghent and his accomplishments, raising him up as moff to the Ferra Sector.  From that day onward, the unrest on planet Xorrn was subdued, ensuring that the Empire had a reliable source of heavy elements especially quadranium and alusteel...although it should be noted that a healthy and successful Black Market was facilitated and operated by the locals, all at Ghent's discretion (it allowed the moff to know precisely whom it was controlled Xorrn's Underground; incredibly, he never partook nor engaged in the corruption that was often rampant in Outer Rim Territories).  Indeed, it was this virtually unlimited supply of materiel from The Slice from which both the Emperor's and Grand Admiral Thrawn's Eclipse- and TIE-Defender Projects were sourced from.
Even after the Emperor's first death at Endor, Ghent continued his governance of the Ferra Sector.  However it was the resurrected Emperor that gave Ghent his final orders: commence "Project Gehenna" with the freedom to prosecute the war against the Rebels with impunity, all courtesy of the "Autonomous Fleet" and the Imperial Triumvirate.

name: Sarna Mercet
rank: fleet admiral (military)
height: 164cm
weight: 59kg
race: Human
hair: black
skin: olive
eyes: light brown
bio: Hailing from a respectable Chandrilan middle-class family, Sarna Mercet displayed early on tactical and strategic aptitude.  After graduating from one of Chandrila's premiere private schools (all due to full scholarships), she was enrolled at the Brionelle Memorial Military Academy.  Once there, Mercet advanced through her curriculum with an accelerated timetable, shaving off nearly a year of her matriculation and graduating with her commission to officer for the new Imperial Navy.  For the next twenty years, she was successful in every department she occupied, soon captaining her own ship, the ISD Adarga.  It was during this time she came into contact with Grand Admiral Thrawn, throwing her support behind his TIE-Defender Project.  Unfortunately, due to the machinations of Governor Arihnda Pryce, the Project ultimately stalled and was dismissed, materiel and effort instead funneled into Project Stardust.  However, neither Thrawn nor Mercet gave up on the Defender, able to develop and manufacture hundreds of the valued ships with the careful re-allocution of discretionary capital.  When confronted by the Emperor, then Commodore Mercet neither hid the fact nor shied away from responsibility, adamant in her decision that it was the correct path to victory for the Empire.  Palpatine immediately promoted her to rear admiral and assigned her the 214th Fleet, operating across the Shadola- and Ferra-Sectors.  It was also the first time that Mercet met Moff Ghent.  From then onwards, the two enjoyed a professional relationship of mutual benefit.
By the time of the Battle of Endor, Mercet had achieved the rank of full admiral, having been one of Thrawn's most trusted flag officers in his Chief of Staff before his disappearance.  However, it was the Resurrected Emperor that promoted her to fleet admiral, giving her command of the newly constructed Eclipse III-class star dreadnaught, the Gehenna.  From her new flagship, Fleet Admiral Mercet established a strong base of operations in The Slice, solidifying the control of the Imperial Triumvirate in the surrounding sectors against all aggressors.

name: Kintik RV
rank: Darkside executor
height: 196cm
weight: 79kg
race: Human/Epicanthix hybrid
hair: blond
skin: brown
eyes: hazel-gray
bio: Unlike the members of the Inquisitorious (which were former Jedi), Kintik was discovered early in his late childhood by Emperor Palpatine himself.  Never one to ignore a potential tool, the Emperor dubbed the young man "Kintik," which in ancient Sith meant "darkness," and took the young hybrid to Prakith to be trained by none other than Lord Vader and the other Inquisitorious.  Once there he completely forsook his birth name and begin to learn at a prodigious rate, especially emulating the one called Darth Rowan.  Although not near as powerful as Rowan, Kintik proved himself as exceptional, becoming one of the seven appointees of the Emperor's Dark Side Elite.  He soon established himself co-leader of the Elite alongside fellow Darkside Executor Sedriss QL.
After the Emperor's first death at Endor, he and Sedriss kept their own personal Imperial contingents from disbanding, panic, or entropy, retreating with his forces back to the Imperial Core World Byss.  Soon enough, the Resurrected Emperor found Kintic and assigned him to join Moff Ghent and Fleet Admiral Mercet in The Slice, officially establishing the Imperial Triumvirate.  Here, he was given command of the Shadow Legion, the deadly Imperial unit of Phase III Dark Troopers independent of the Imperial military.
Almost surprisingly, Kintik developed a mutual respect and synergy between his fellow Triumvirs, Moff Ghent and Admiral Mercet, certainly one of the contributing factors of their continued successes.  As an aside, Kintik claims not to remember his original name.

<<<<>>>>

All non-critical operations to be suspended and redirected to investigation of Imperial Triumvirate.

Trust No One.

Rainbow.
Logged

Sig courtesy of DarthScrub

Cataphract Triarch of the Vhal'Dan

My sabers:Zearic's Aldrnari, Archon v3 (modded w/ activation box) w/Obsidian, AS; Zearic's shoto, Apprentice v4 w/Obsidian, AS; Graflex SE w/Obsidian, GB; Archon v3 (modded w/ activation box) w/Obsidian, CG; Dark Sentinel v4 w/Obsidian, BR; Sentinel LE v4 w/Obsidian, GB; Initiate v5 w/Obsidian, AS; Sentinel LE v4 stunt, EG; Aeon LE v4 stunt, FO; Dominix v4 stunt, BR; Aeon v3 stunt, SY

Lord_S_Gray
Knight Commander
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Force Alignment: 428
Posts: 1903



« Reply #443 on: May 25, 2022, 11:24:55 PM »

Who doesn't love a Bothan Spy net intercept! The irony of the 'Trust no One..." now here is a bunch of information...but again ending in Trust No One is always a kicker...some times I wonder if there isn't an Odysseus 'Nobody' parrallel there...
regardless to the content...wow what detail and a dive into the Dark Empire Era of the EU, it all fits very logically as the revival of projects on pause and people on standby between the Emperors two deaths....of course after the second one well what is this vast autonomous fleets goals now? Astonishing potential here.

On a meta note I can't help by see a parallel to a more ancient Triumvirate on Zillior, seems that method of command had worked well before, maybe not a direct influence, just coming to the same solution, but you never know.     
Logged

Lord_S_Gray

Surik: "Kreia, what are you—are you a Jedi, a Sith?"
Kreia: "Does it matter? Of course it does, such titles allow you to break the galaxy into light and dark, categorize it. Perhaps I am neither, and I hold both as what they are, pieces of a whole."

TheDutchman
Knight Commander
*

Force Alignment: 1106
Posts: 4131


Avatar courtesy of For Tyeth


« Reply #444 on: May 26, 2022, 07:57:08 PM »

Who doesn't love a Bothan Spy net intercept! The irony of the 'Trust no One..." now here is a bunch of information...but again ending in Trust No One is always a kicker...some times I wonder if there isn't an Odysseus 'Nobody' parrallel there...
regardless to the content...wow what detail and a dive into the Dark Empire Era of the EU, it all fits very logically as the revival of projects on pause and people on standby between the Emperors two deaths....of course after the second one well what is this vast autonomous fleets goals now? Astonishing potential here.

On a meta note I can't help by see a parallel to a more ancient Triumvirate on Zillior, seems that method of command had worked well before, maybe not a direct influence, just coming to the same solution, but you never know.     
First off: special thanks to LSG for letting me borrow Rainbow & the Bothan Spy Network (along with the idea)  Smiley

And you are precisely correct: if we've learned nothing else about Palpy, he seems to be an ardent student of history.  I'm thinking that he'd have access to archaic history and pariah Orders that the rest of the galaxy knows little-to-nothing about  Wink  And--just maybe--he'd have an idea for governance that, having done well in the past, might do well again, given his predilections for foresight^^

I completely agree: an Imperial Remnant Fleet left to its own devices, having already carved out a smaller yet steady bit of the galaxy, separate from the "official Remnant" could mean some interesting stories   Smiley

Plus: I just really, REALLY like the Eclipse star dreadnaught  Grin
Logged

Sig courtesy of DarthScrub

Cataphract Triarch of the Vhal'Dan

My sabers:Zearic's Aldrnari, Archon v3 (modded w/ activation box) w/Obsidian, AS; Zearic's shoto, Apprentice v4 w/Obsidian, AS; Graflex SE w/Obsidian, GB; Archon v3 (modded w/ activation box) w/Obsidian, CG; Dark Sentinel v4 w/Obsidian, BR; Sentinel LE v4 w/Obsidian, GB; Initiate v5 w/Obsidian, AS; Sentinel LE v4 stunt, EG; Aeon LE v4 stunt, FO; Dominix v4 stunt, BR; Aeon v3 stunt, SY

Lord_S_Gray
Knight Commander
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Force Alignment: 428
Posts: 1903



« Reply #445 on: May 29, 2022, 11:22:19 PM »

Hymra’s Story — Chapter 4 - Part 1
It had been hard the first time, he’d shaken for a day afterwards as the adrenaline pumped…he remembered the face of the Weequay, the bare teeth at the start and the tender shock at the end as the vibro-knife was buried in his stomach.

He had never thought the blood would wash off, and perhaps it hadn't really, they didn’t have the water to spare on the Boundless for a sani-steam.

Now it was easy, instinctual - fulfilling.  It warmed something cold and angry that had been beaten into him in the factory, and hardened into something sharp and unyielding in the meat hawkers cage.

Rolling on top Scrub’s thrust his blade down into the Gamorreans neck, thick black swine blood bubbling out as it squealed in its death throes.

Leaping back up, Scrub rushed back to the wires he was laying - it was old tech, they didn’t have any remote detonators, and all their radio equipment was needed for communications.

Unspooling more cable, the blood dripping off his body he raced round the corner of the ramshackle building he shouldered the wall, it resisted satisfying him it would - roughly - survive the blast.

His utility knife out he cut the cable and in a muscle memory motion snapped the wire spool beneath his backpack, plugged the raw end of the wire into his bulky rectangular detonator, adjusted the power pulse with the knobs then flicked the worn once red trigger.

A muffled blast boomed out and the wall shook but mercifully held, his ears ringing.

Kal-Jan Anwai, the Gruff ‘leader’ of the Sons of kessel was past him in an instant, hisarmour now more orange from rust than paint, countless more scratches and scrapes, his grey-white beard and hair always peppered black with soot and carbon.

Anwai kicked the remnants of the door down, a blaster bolt greeting him, slamming into his shoulder before Toruu snapped a shot back with his old REL-8 sniper rifle.

Scrub’s held the rear as the rest passed him, Anwai had taught him to fight, shoot, and make explosives from the few resources they had, for a long time he was probably more a liability than an asset, but now he was deep into the fight. 

Snapping round he heard dozens of feet approaching, clad in grimy overalls the slaves held in the camp bing ushered out.

“Faster!” Anwai demanded as blaster fire echoed from behind, Scrub’s grabbed the lead slave and led them at a jog, his blaster rifle, an old Theed Arms S-5 raised high, sweeping in front of him.

The camp was another minor target, on the fringes of a larger complex, barely thirty slaves and ten guards…and still a heavy risk.  They passed over six guards and three Sons bodies, Ferrgar, Maas and L’iTo, he would need to come back to take what equipment he could from them.

Heading out onto the salty plains the still air echoed the vibrational screech of approaching speeders he realised he might not have the time.  The clunky Boundless, a Corvette so modified and repaired over the decades it was impossible to tell what it had originally been, was waiting - the fuel to take the ship into and out of atmosphere was crippling, but it was the only vessel they had.

Teng helped usher the slaves on board, Scrub’s made a mad rush back to the bodies of the Guards and Sons, picking the powercells, comms and grenades first, vibro-knives, scanners and credits second.

He was trapped between two impending waves of sound, Anwai shouting orders ahead, speeders racing up behind.

No more time he bolted for the Boundless again, leaving Maas and Li’To to lie with their equipment, across the Salt flat he could see the tiny dots of the speeders, well aware at their likely speed they would be here in a minute.

Rushing in past the freed slaves he pushed toward the cockpit yelling

“Juul, what's the hold up?”

The Boundless sputtered and whined with each attempt to ‘fast start’ the repulsors.

“Same as always…” The Gado pilot complained.

Scrub’s grunted and headed back to the ramp, kneeling just as Anwai and the others came out of the camp's old wire fence, followed by seven guards with Las-Repeaters.

Scrub gripped his aged Naboo S-5blaster two handed managing to line up a good first shot hitting a guard in the shoulder, the second fizzed on the intervening fence…the third wouldn’t even fire as the Naboo weapon ‘choked’

Grunting annoyance he had to rush back in grabbing the first weapon off the cluttered rack of half functional blasters that would be even less use now, Li’To who performed miracles repairing the things, was gone.  The biggest problem to getting new ones as most Overseers and Guards were armed with stun weapons and shock maces to keep slaves in line n kill them, they rarely found many lethal weapons, and when they did they were handeled by the re-enforcments or the toughest guards.

Anwai took a knee and fired directly into a guards guts, Darwa from behind took a chance to move forward and swipe the repeater as Scrubs managed to fire an old Las-Arquebus to force the other guards to seek cover.

The Boundless shuddered as speeder blasts cracked the air firing on the patchwork plated hull from the otherside.

The Sons scrambled up the ramp under fire, Kyn took a solid shot the back, limply flopping off as the Boundless engines finally caught and began to rise.

<<<<<>>>>

“Sires and Sirras,” his words carried confidence that could not conceal the ramshackle state of the crew,

“Today your life is once again in your hands, we will take you immediately to Mos Eiley on Tatooine, there you will be provided with 50 credits to try and start a new life…”

At that Anwai winced. Scrub’s went on.

“Till then each will receive food and water according to their need, we treat all our brethren equally. I must insist that there be no violence among brothers and sisters.  Any who wish to join our cause, and have skills to offer in the the fight to free others, need only speak to me,”

The ‘Talk’ Scrubs gave after each rescue had helped reduce infighting - slightly.

Leaving the captive to their scrappy meals Anwai pulled Scrub’s aside

“We can’t afford 50,” he whispered
“I thought we had the crypto…”
Anwai shook his head
“We only got 2000, the other datanode locked down when we tried to slice it…”

That made a bad raid worse, they’d lost four Brothers, rescued a dozen and earned only 2000 credits.  Fuel, food and water along would cost 3000 - assuming prices hadn’t risen as they kept doing each time they pulled into Tatooine - plus the 50 credits each he’d promised.

“We can’t go back on our promise of 50,” Scrubs sighed “Our reputation matters,”

“We need creds to fight another day,” Anwai replied bluntly, moving past Scrubs, “You’re the Silver-Tongue, you tell them,”
<<<<>>>>

“Anwai…informed…me…” the weedy voice struggled out of the tiny form of Thinker. 

The diminutive Columi sat in a broken hoversled in front of the Hyperdrive, the poor creatures abode for at least a decade.  Recognized by their oversized cranium, Thinker’s head showed ugly dried scars where cybernetics had been removed at some distant point.

Thinker was the Sons ‘strategist’ but also repository of knowledge, he had told Scrub’s about the Sons storied history, the founding in the Spice mines during the time of Xim the Despot, Juhe’na the Liberator, the Three Yoruu’s, Reclamation of Solstice IV, the Ruination of the Freeblade under Keison the Determined, the scattered efforts of Mmbri the Psadan to rebuild after…

Much was myth rather than fact, but in those tales Scrub’s learned valuable lessons from his forebears, for the Cause and the Enemy hadn’t changed for centuries, and - increasingly to Scrub’s thought for the worse - neither had the Sons.

“...It was not an easy mission, none have opted to join…” Scrub replied, seated before the Columi.

He never rested until his body forced him too, if he wasn’t re-reading the few military primers and field instructions they had and working out ever more creative ways to use the little they had to make explosives, learning new languages from the crew, listening to Thinkers stories - anything that would help the Cause.

….and whatever it took to not think about himself, because there wasn’t time or energy to be wasted on himself anymore, not while the other Scrubbers, not while Syffa was out there.

The thoughts of himself almost rose to the fore…

“18 now…” he sighed. 

When he had joined three years ago they had been just over two score strong…but for every one who joined their cause, three fell.

“We can be so much more, every Sire and Sirra has skills, military or not…we just need resources, a true base of operations…” he said mostly to himself, Thinkers moment of lucidity were brief at best and, even in the short time Scrubs had known him, getting fewer.

“Keison the Determined thought as much, the wrath of the Black Sun and Hutts fell upon him,” Thinker warned

Scrub’s gaze into the musty floor became ever sharper as he heeded the failures of others, Keison had come closer than any to establishing a true free state of Brethren, but he had been too boisterous, aimed too high too soon.

“Even if we just had patrons, donations from outside…”

“And re-enslave ourselves to new masters, nooses of debt and obligation?” the sneering Gruff voice of Anwai came from behind
“Never, our brotherhood is forged only in broken chains, only others who have felt the collar and whip can understand, be trusted,”

Scrub stood as the human strode past to Thinker handing over a clunky datapad that looked older than the Boundless.

“Here see what you can come up with from this intercept,”

Anwai marched back out as Thinker plugged in the pad to a universal port, scanning the scattered fragments of unencrypted conversations and ship movements download from a Siphon-Node on a Navigational Buoy, one of only a handful they possessed the only intelligence beyond word of mouth when buying supplies at various ports they had.

Scrub’s watched him go. 

No one could doubt Anwai’s dedication to the cause, but he was obdurate in his insistence that only other freed slaves could join the Sons, and further than that considered accepting anything else from anyone an anathema.

The Togruta feared such rigidity would make them brittle.

<<<<>>>>

He fumbled with the plasma-lighter, lighting the alcoholest rag into a blue-pink flame before throwing it round the corner, the bottle shattering and spreading fire over the ground.

The flames were ineffectual at best, but the smoke gave GolMir and BolMir a chance to move up to the next cover position.

Scrub’s felt thankful when the antiquated fire suppression activated overhead.  Any open fire was dangerous on the Re-fuelling Station given the lax safety standards surrounding the more combustible materials.

The Meerian brothers charged forward into the acrid smoke, their silver hair vanishing into the black fumes that their biology allowed them to ingest easily as Scrubs coughed into his bandana.

He peeked around the corner as blaster shots and screams were heard. This raid was just that. They hadn’t docked at this outlying half forgotten refuelling station for any other reason than they needed fuel and gas exchangers and hadn’t the credits to buy it.

For the third time in as many months they were fighting not for the Cause but for themselves.

Scrub’s hunched down low shuffling forward following GolMirs signal.  Raiding slavers' other holdings to supplement their efforts was a legitimate strategy to further the Long Term goals of the cause…but this…this was short term survival and in many ways, delaying the inevitable.

They were dying, quickly today, slowly over the course of years.

BolMir was dead.  GolMir had visible tears streaming from his pupil-less eyes as they reached a room full of compressed gas canisters, many leaking noxious fumes the Togruta could barely breathe.

He caught movement nonetheless, a figure cowering behind a mechanical lifter.  His Naboo Blaster raised he inched forward

“Please don’t hurt me, I can work, I can fly the Picker!” came a strange wheezing voice.

“Come out,” he demanded

Slowly a brown skinned Kel’Dor with a shock collar and lacking the species ubiquitous breathing mask poked out, the noxious mix of gases in the room obviously not poisonous to her.

“You’re, a slave,”

She nodded, wearing a threadbare flight suit

“I run the Pick ups for the Oxygen clumps in the rings, and work the gas exchangers, I don’t eat much,”

The Refuelling station was positioned at the far orbit of a large gas giant surrounded by rings of frozen oxygen on rock, most likely she meant she flew whatever tug brought fresh oxygen to the station in the form of those asteroids to make it semi ‘self sufficient’ amidst the constant need to vent gases from the putrid cheap fuels from the station.

“We’re not…we’re not here to take over…we’re here to…”

To steal fuel, we didn’t know there were any slaves here at all… that was the truth…but not the Truth this battered Kel’Dor needed.

“...to liberate you and any others, then turn the masters fuels, ships and credits against them,” he holstered his blaster and reach out his hand
“What is your name?”

Her voice carried high pitch in the strange mix of light gases

“Ornil, who are you,”she said, taking his hand.

We are the Sons of Kessel,”

<<<<>>>>

Logged

Lord_S_Gray

Surik: "Kreia, what are you—are you a Jedi, a Sith?"
Kreia: "Does it matter? Of course it does, such titles allow you to break the galaxy into light and dark, categorize it. Perhaps I am neither, and I hold both as what they are, pieces of a whole."

Lord_S_Gray
Knight Commander
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Force Alignment: 428
Posts: 1903



« Reply #446 on: May 29, 2022, 11:22:55 PM »

Hymra’s Story — Chapter 4 - Part 2

“We can’t take on anyone else!” Anwai boomed in fury causing Ornil to shrink back further

“We came here for supply not to…”

“Not to what?” Scrubs replied sharpness in his voice, the hard icy core that drove him within keening the blade as he confronted the ‘first among equals’ in the rotten command room of the refuelling station, smoke still hissing from bodies, the tang of blood in the air and coating the ancient consoles that beeped and booped along.

“To Free Brethren in chains, to fulfill our purpose?”
Most of the other Sons were in here, ripping out wires and scavenging parts, looting everything they could.

“What difference are we making?” Scrubs asked suddenly, his voice carrying a timbre of conviction none had heard for decades if ever

“In the last year we have rescued 42 of our brothers and sisters. 42! Our success and righteous cause cannot be measured in mere numbers, it's true, but that number is so small, our impact so immaterial we are not even worth the Hutts or Black Sun hunting us down!”

A tension building in him since he had joined the Sons finally could not be held back, the burning passions forged and chained in the intense pressure of the Factories had to be unleashed or he felt he would burst apart.

He grabbed a scrunched, oily often read Flimsi rag ‘Nar Shadda Correspondent’ - mostly a Hutt mouthpiece - beneath the lines defaming the latest Hutt to fall out of favour with the publishing Kajidic was a small article.



“Look at this 300 Slaves escaping from the Sweat shops at Rampa Minor.  Seven times our own success in a year achieved by our brethren in one day.  They Hired Trandoshans to hunt them down. Where. Were. We?”

He asked rhetorically his gaze raptor like drilling into each set of eyes or equivalents in turn as all stared at him.

“We should’ve been the name around which their efforts rallied, the promise of support once they got out or the provider of succour if they can contact us. We must become the safe harbour for all fleeing slaves. We cannot be, physically, in every camp, in every ranch, every mine, but our Name used to be - and it can be again,”

He paused his tone lowering as relief swept through his body to articulate at last what he knew was right and true.

“When I was in the Meat Hawkers cage, in the factory, one phrase repeated to me more than any other, No one is coming.  Every slave feels this. We need to burn so brightly every slave from Tatooine to the Bootana itself whispers with hope The Sons are Coming!...every overseer shudders in fear The Sons are Coming!...Zygerrian captains look anxiously at their scanners every few moments because The Sons are Coming!

More and more nodded, or stood struck by the riveting cadence of his words, Ornil rather than cowering stood proudly behind him.

Now he turned to Anwai

“And we cannot do that as we are - we are not raiders but liberators. We need credits, weapons, food, ships, soldiers, pilots, medics - more than we can recruit or steal, we need an ally outside Hutt space. The Sons are not special, they are not unique, countless other freedom fighters and abolitionists like us have risen, and fallen over the centuries, The Six of Dar Sheeve, the Blades of Khorpesh, Altarrian League we are simply all that is left, and for the sake of those still in chains...” his voice was a breathless plea

“We must do so now!”
 
“I’ve led the Sons for two decades!” the Gruff soldier countered his face red with indignation and offence

“And what have you achieved, Anwai, my brother…I do not question your dedication to the Cause, but you must see in that time things have only gotten worse, this new Empire has allowed slavery in all but name, and the Sons are only ever fewer, you are a warrior, a solider, but today that is not the kind of leader the Sons need,”

“Oh I see,” Anwai glared beneath angry brows, his face creased in rage
“You want to be the great hero… the Master”   

Scrubbers eyes so earnest and determined sharpened in an instant to vicious at the insinuation, even the slightest suggestion that Scrubber might hold a single ounce of ambition or consideration for is own life was an insult to all the other Scrubbers his life was dedicated to saving. The cold hard diamond within him turned to a crystalline blade of words.

“I have never done any of this for myself, everything I do and everything I am is in service to the Cause, let no one doubt that,” The Togruta hissed

“We need leadership, I do not care who, so long as it furthers the Cause, if it must be me, then it must be me,”

Anwai scoffed
“Faux humility if ever I saw it,” he pounded up to the Togruta
“You think because you were ‘educated’ on Shili, have a degree in engineering and architecture, served in the ‘Grand Army of the Republic’, can read and write, you’re smarter and better than us born into the pits and cage fight hovels…how long were in the factory Naro? four, Five years, nothing compared to some of us,”

“One Century, one day, the Gladiator pits of Lirra or the Maize-Estates of Nadiem, scholar or scavenger - it makes no difference to me Anwai,” Scrubber replied coolly
“That it makes a difference to you…is the very heart of why we are failing.”

Anwai looked around, as if he needed a visual cue to believe the feel of the room could be so completely against him.

Scrubber tone and face softened, respect for the old warrior evident in his eyes
“You must know this is a path to nowhere, we must change. If not now, when?” he half whispered offering Anwai a chance to, not acknowledge he had failed - Scrubber had no desire to diminish what Anwai had accomplished - but accept that change was necessary and be part of it.

The hardness of Anwai’s one functional eye told Scrubber that would not happen.

“You’re a Silver Tongued Traitor,” he sniffed “And the Boundless is my ship,”

“It’s the Sons’s ship,” GolMir said behind Anwai, Yeg and Nug with him,
“And the Sons,” the Meerian spoke for the majority “Are with Scrubber,”

“Mutiny,” Anwai roared
“No one is taking anything from you Anwai,” Scrubber -reiterated “You are still a fine tactician, brother, we just need a change in strategy to ensure your efforts have maximum impact,”

“Never,”  he replied “I’ll never take orders from another ‘Master’ again,”

Scrubber realised there was not getting through to him, he could not see the difference between ‘master’ and ‘leader’ crucial to the Sons operating.  Scrubber didn’t think less of him for it, after all Anwai had suffered and seen, having to comply to anyone's direction, however subtle, was simply too much.

“There is a small skifter on the east platform, Anwai…I hope you will continue with us, but if you choose not to…go in peace brother.”

The Gruff man stalked off alone.
<<<<>>>>
Logged

Lord_S_Gray

Surik: "Kreia, what are you—are you a Jedi, a Sith?"
Kreia: "Does it matter? Of course it does, such titles allow you to break the galaxy into light and dark, categorize it. Perhaps I am neither, and I hold both as what they are, pieces of a whole."

TheDutchman
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Force Alignment: 1106
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Avatar courtesy of For Tyeth


« Reply #447 on: June 13, 2022, 07:31:07 PM »

This is such a bleak contrast to the current Sons that we're used to: under-funded, under-manned, desperate & over-worked.  But it also illustrates just as to WHY Scrubber is the right person at the right place and time.

Anwai is as much a victim of circumstance as he is what they've made him.  But he is also too narrow-focused, too oblivious of the wider ramifications.  He is the perfect example as to how a good tactician does not necessarily make a good strategist; good for a battle but not for the war (I'm actually reminded of Rob Stark from the books where he wins every single engagement but still loses everything).  And that's precisely where Anwai is leading the Sons: to losing everything.

This also helps to illustrate just what kind of "reluctant leader" Scrubber is: he sees the inherent problems that the Sons are facing--from both a logistical- as well as strategic-viewpoint--and ultimately how ineffectual they've become.  Granted much of that also has to do with the Sons' decimation at the hands of Black Sky but they are seemingly intent on following yesteryear's itinerary regardless of the new galaxy that they're in.  Which is where Scrubber's particular strengths come into play: he recognizes, assesses, and works towards a viable solution instead of more of the same. 

But it is also an interesting character study, not just of character but also of identity.  "Scrubber" is NOT Hymra.  And while we've yet to fully see "Scrubber" fully emerge, this nascent almost-leader of the Sons is nevertheless a person to take note of.

...Perhaps that is just precisely how he comes into contact with the Black Armors...

Meta-note: love the focus on just how much of a struggle the Sons are going through, just how far down on their luck they are.  Plus: seeing Ornil before she's the Son's CAG is a wonderful nod with her volunteering to pilot  Wink

Looking forward to the next chapter!
Logged

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Lord_S_Gray
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Force Alignment: 428
Posts: 1903



« Reply #448 on: June 15, 2022, 12:44:32 AM »

Hymra’s Story — Chapter 5
Part 1
When your enemy outnumbers you by billions, controls all the resources, strong points and supply lines, your options are limited.

But as Scrubber had learned in the factories, limited options were not ‘no’ options.

They had other tools, propaganda, 400 credits to Nar Shadda Street-scum to graffiti walls and buildings with the Sons Symbols. 

A single brutal murder in daylight just outside the Lower Level Slave markets, nug was getting old, his injuries meant he couldbarely walk.  Striding up through the pain to the Elomin Slave master who was ‘walking’ a near naked Sephi on a leash, Nug fell on the Master with rusted old knives, screaming at the top of his gills ‘the Sons are Coming!’.

The guards dismissed it as a madman's raving as they cut him down, but every slave nearby heard it, saw it, whispered it to others.

It was the start of a year long ‘soft power’ campaign, no raids or attacks, weapons were sold for food and docking fees, instead they built networks on Nar Shadda and Rorak, listened, learnt.  Not everyone liked it, a few fell away, but most understood, and, unlike previous years, more joined. 

Scrubber made mistakes…oh so many mistakes. Friends and those who had trusted him suffered as they were discovered and disappeared. But by the end he had information and a bud of reputation.

The first raids were targeted and focused - outlying estates with only a handful of houseslaves, small crew vessels ferrying pit fighters to new owners, barely half a dozen slaves in each to make sure they could support them if they wanted to join, perhaps only a fifth did, but the rest they could give a decent amount of credits to.

Everyone who joined had talents, even Household adept at concealing things, stashing food, making them excellent pickpockets, observant and quiet they could act as lookouts and spies, rescuing a group a pleasure slaves being transferred to a new den three even volunteered to keep working in the flesh trade to supply credits and information back to their liberators.

When that first 48 credits reached their Shadow Bank account, it validated so much of what Scrubber had intended.

It was slow, painful, they rarely had enough food as everything was given to the Cause. 

But it was working.

<<<<>>>>

Thinkers talents set to analysing intelligence from their new network of contacts, Ornils in piloting the Boundless, and the others all prepared, this was the right time to step up their efforts.

Floating with minimal power at the Navigation Buoy on the Ylesia junction of the Shag Pabol Hyperspace lane, they watched ships drop, pivot and jump again by the dozen, waiting for their prey.

It had taken months to arrange through their growing network, dozens of slaves still in chains were risking their lives and bodies for this even now, trusting in the Sons to deliver.

This was the moment, make or break, if they didn’t deliver now, all they had carefully built would be for nothing - if they succeeded….

A sleek curved vessel with two large nacelles, their target.

Ornil sat at the cramped targeting controls, the most recent addition to the cramped conglomeration of patches and part that was the Boundless, the Kel-Dor’s breathing through a second hand respirator loud as she lined up the critical shot, the thrumming of the charging bespoke Ion cannon bolted to the underside of the hull rocking the entire ship.

Everything at risk yet with utterly no control over the situation Scrubber sought for some measure of distraction or relief, in the end tugging his remaining lekku to dissipate the nervous energy.

The bolt fired with a near heart stopping surge through the ship, the blue streak infinitesimal against the black velvet quilt of space, as the target vessel shifts 33 degrees on side thrusters preparing for the next jump.

It’s engines burned blue about to leap.

The Ion blast hit! A crackle of mag-pulse energy reverberating around the vessel.  There was not time to celebrate the Boundless already accelerating.

Scrubber clapped Ornil on the shoulder
“Your work is perfectly done, now our brothers begin!”

<<<<>>>>

Three of the eight Lunar-Guard were dead by the time they boarded. A lucky shot by Hudu killed another…the rest…the rest were living up to the reputation Ni’ri - the household slave of Count D’secra D’amter, an exiled Core Noble currently residing in the Corporate Sector - had given the Echanni.

Through their network of household spies they had been informed of the purchase of an especially talented enslaved Siniteen by the Count, this Siniteen was said to be a very competent slicer and programmer, a skill set the Sons currently lacked, making this liberation a targeted one.

Anwai’s heart had been true rescuing any and all slaves he could, but Scrubber was looking more long term - if the Sons were to prosper they needed beings with particular competencies now.  Ornil had been an excellent addition, but they couldn’t rely on random chance to deliver what they needed.

Ni’ri and her fellow workers had through intermediaries provided the Sons with the details, managed to poison three of the guards and were now sealed in with the Count in his cabins.

Scrubber and the Sons were in the halls and rooms, the whole place filled with smoke, lights all but dead as they fought the lithe Echanni tooth, nail and claw, Scrubber just behind GolMir as they fired off rounds at the Echanni who almost danced through the hail with incredible dexterity.

The air was unbreathable from the blaster smoke fumes and stench of blood, every second more seed to be added to it.

Striking a flint behind cover Scrubber lit the cocktail bomb and rolled it along the floor, GolMir shooting it causing it to explode in an incandescent wave of blue fire holding the Echanni back for precious seconds to allow Kovos a chance to lien up the Plex launcher.

With a screech the oversized weapon fired one of only three missiles they could afford, each hoping the internal wall held as it exploded, the backwash intense and bitter over their ramshackle makeshift ‘armour’.

The smoke didn’t clear, the ships ventilation system shut off, Rasa, a Barabel used her thermal sight and rapid low strides to cut through the haze, bloody Stiletto daggers driven into armour joints before the Echanni could rise.

“Keep the pressure up, we’re nearly done,” Scrubs yelled leading from the front
“Rasa, cover me!” he ordered crouching by a now blackened doorway, yanking free a panel to hotwire the door.

He need not bother,  moment later it opened the hot air pouring in and a cough coming out.

In the sealed room was a single figure, a bomb collar around his neck.  The final goal of this whole operation.

“Kal’Estp I presume,” Scrubber said extending his hand, the Siniteens large pupiless eyes looked past it.

“You are the Sons of Kessel whom Ni’ri informed me of,”

“We are,” the Togruta replied proudly as the battle rung out across the ship.

<<<<>>>>

The Count took a little convincing to provide the deactivation code for Kal’Estp’s bomb collar.

Specifically having his face pressed up against the collar while he entered the sequence so if any attempt at trickery was made, the Count would be the first to experience the explosion.

The Echanni had taken a severe toll on the Sons warriors. 
“Heroes, each and everyone,” Scrubber said as the bodies were collected up, what valuables and equipment could be salvaged taken from them with as much respect as possible

“They’ll never know all the brethren they’ve saved this day…” the blood price for future success was high, but with Kal’Estp they had a dedicated slicer who could bring in thousands of credits otherwise lost due to their lack of skill breaking Credit-Crypto locks.

The Counts wardrobe, jewelry and Echanni gear no one could fit in could bring in a few thousand on top of that, plus a new ship they could now actually afford to fuel and run, and had sentients to staff.

“What about them?” GolMir asked as the last of the Echanni survivors, along with a handful of attendants and the counts Sycophant retainers

Scrub’s eyes hardened, the cold bitter core of suppressed rage at his own suffering allowed escape for a single vindictive sentence.

“Strip them, then push them out the airlock, we don’t have the power cells to spare for an execution”
<<<<>>>>

The icy numbness spread from his elbow through his aching body deadening the pains earned over a lifetime of hard labour then war.

The Opiate was a cheap one, but it worked well enough for Anwai as he lounged back in a sweat moist chair in the steaming humid of Nar Shadda’s Under-bars.

The vague sense of hunger faded as well.  If he wasn’t completely addicted to the Opi-Stimm, he soon would be…and if he wasn’t already dying from the indifferent apathetic state it left you in, un interested in food or water, that wasn’t far off either.

He wanted to escape the pain, physical and more, to still the raging storm of his mind.

Eyes half open he noted the flickering holo’s above the bar of low level contracts, 500 credits here, maybe the odd 1000, issued mostly by local loan sharks and sabacc dens to the local gangs and under-level scum to act as ‘debt collectors’.

The usual crowd of burly beings in a mix of scavenged armour took contracts here and there, images that flew past Anwai without meaning…till

A rarity came up, a 5000 credit contract, off-moon…for brigands who had killed some Nobleman and stolen his ship.  Went by the Name of Sons of Kessel….

“Hey…I know them…” he mumbled out half coherent “...mutiny…bastards…”

A weedy weequay beside a vast gamorrean looked over to him

“You know these ones?”

“I was those ones till they mutinied,” Anwai hissed the Opi-stimm unable to deaden the emotional pain.

“You Know where these ones are?  You Show us we get you crate of Opi-Stimm?” The Weequay offered.

“Yeah…” Anwai breathed “I know where…”

<<<<>>>>
Logged

Lord_S_Gray

Surik: "Kreia, what are you—are you a Jedi, a Sith?"
Kreia: "Does it matter? Of course it does, such titles allow you to break the galaxy into light and dark, categorize it. Perhaps I am neither, and I hold both as what they are, pieces of a whole."

Lord_S_Gray
Knight Commander
*

Force Alignment: 428
Posts: 1903



« Reply #449 on: June 15, 2022, 12:47:01 AM »

Hymra’s Story — Chapter 5
Part 2

“Thinker, no surely not…”

The Columni nodded sadly, his worn skin crusted and dry.  

That Thinker wasn’t well was obvious for all to see, but over the last few months, as the Sons gained more and more success, he had begun to flag further.  Already restricted to his broken hoversled, he had trouble even lifting his arms to feed and clean himself, the long slow degradation caused by whatever nightmare cybernetics were forced into his head finally taking its toll.

“My Time depletes…but before I go…I give you this…” he reached into his damaged hoversled, pulling what to Scrubber would be a small box, for the Columi an enormous chest.

It was old, battered durasteel with a Sons symbol of a hand and tentacle breaking a chain between them etched and faded on the front. The Togruta took it from the Columi's trembling arms.

“Open,” Thinker instructed, Scrubber complying gently
“These are the relics of our Brotherhood…passed on over millennia…”

Scrubber gently lifted what seemed to be a rag encased in yellowed Transpariplas for preservation.
“That…” Thinker explained “Is said to be the names of the First, written on the tunic of one…”

Barely visible were ancient aurebesh marks, Scrubber able only to make out a few letters on the old dried off white cloth.  

A dagger that slit the throat of a long forgotten Hutt, a small jewel gifted by a Queen of Hapes for the return of her lover, a broken piece of metal from a fabled ship among other tales than mingled fact with myth as so many of Thinkers stories did.

Finally the box was empty and Scrubber set it down.

“The last…” Thinker wheezed

“That was the last?” the Togruta replied

“No…feel for it…” Scrubber placed his hand inside shuffling about astonished to feel something round and barely visible, lost in the shadowed corner of the box, a marble, that he struggled to lift with his fingers alone, the box itself far less weighty than he had thought.

“That is the Marble of Mmbri - after Keison the Determined and the Thousand Sons of Kessel fell, he scattered the Sons into cells to hide from the Hutts and Black Sun…this marble was gifted to him by the Shadow Lords of the Deep…Three of the Lords were rescued by Keison the Determined, they helped him lead the Sons to such heights…freed so many…” there was bitterness in the Columi’ voice at opportunities lost.

“When the Shadow Lords Returned to the Deep, they promised, one day they would return to repay their debt to us…”

Scrubber smiled sadly, it was a nice tale, as they all were designed to bring hope and comfort to those fighting for the Cause when they doubted.  

He gripped Mmbri’s marble in his fist, feeling out the abnormal weight idly wondering what in the galaxy it was composed of.

“Well…if they are still out there, we could certainly use their help now,”.

<<<<>>>>

He woke to shrill screams and blaster fire

They had been laying low on Uirba, a vast rocky mist world of innumerable caverns sunk into the brittle crust by ever sinking sulfur pools that ate into the crust, a few patches a of thicker ironstone just large enough to land the Boundless on.  It had been a Sons refuge for centuries untold.

His hand darted under his cot to pull the vibroknife and trusty Naboo S-5, he quickly leapt up as those around him in the cargo hold that served as barracks on the Boundless likewise sprinted into action.

Racing barely clothed into the ships central corridor he saw it filled with blaster smoke and Sons crawling injured, through the mist of war a vast grunting Gammorean crushing the life from Urda one handed, a vast bladed rectangular shield in the other to crush Tovv into the wall.

This was no bloated piggy more fat than muscle from snacking on their Hutt masters leftovers, but a true Gamorite Warrior hide thick as durasteel, arms the size of tree trunks.

GolMir was quick to aim and faster to fire, the bolt struck the Gamorrean direct under the left eye, but did little more than burn into the nose and cause it to grunt.

The entire ship seemed to vibrate at the Gamorite charged, astonishingly fast for its size, crushing anyone in its path to death, even Rasa with her thick barabel scales was ruined by the bladed edge of the Gamorite shield then trampled under foot.

They rushed backward into doorways and alcoves firing everything they had at the creature whose weight brass coloured plate ignored every shot.

The universe ground to a pause as the Sons on the cusp of so much success seemed about to fall prey to a single hired killers rampage.  

But the Gamorite paused.

A Shadow seemed to seep from the blackness behind the Gamorrean into a vaguely humanoid giant figure that slowly gained solidity.

A massive swing of the Bladed Bash-Shield straight into the Shadow Creatures chest stuck with a clang.  The entirety of the Gamorites vast strength did nothing more than shatter the metal as it broke against whatever malefic substance the Shadow Warriors body was composed of.

Shocked the Gamorite resorted to brute fists.  A mistake.  A single punch and it cried out in extreme pain, breaking its own knuckles and not moving the Shadow Creature a single inch.

A hand snapped out and grabbed the massive muscular throat, lifting the Gamorite - who must weigh at least 300 kilos - from the ground with disdainful ease.  The berserk warrior thrashed and kicked to no avail before a deep sick crunch signalled the breaking of its neck.

Scrubber was beyond ‘fear’ in the conventional sense, he had tasted so much pain its absence was strange, desired and courted death so many times he simply wondered which moment it would arrive.

The Shadow creature walked toward the Sons slowly and inexorably, palpable dread emanating from its lightless form.

The hard determination in his very soul gave Scrubber legs to rise from his crouch and walk toward the being without fear or trepidation.

They stopped before each other, stench of gases escaping the Gamorites guts befouling the air.

“Our Thanks Sirra,”

The Vast Shadow held out its hand with a piece of age weakened flimsi.  

Scrubber looked down to see a recruitment flyer for the Sons in archaic Aurebesh, at least 400 years old, on one side the Sons call to arms and symbol of arm and tentacle breaking chains, on the back an image of the leaders of the era, Scrubber recognised from Thinker stories two who could only be Keison the Determined and Mmbri the Psadan…

“You wish to join us…” Scrubber began until a lightless finger pointed to a human man with neck length brown hair and world weary stubble at the back of the photo, then the Shadow pointed to himself.

Thinker…you were right…this Shadow Lord is not here to join us…He is already one of Us!

Where he had been, what he had been doing for the last few hundred years didn’t matter, and Scrubber would never ask - what a being did with their freedom was up to them alone. There was no moral high ground in joining the Sons, nor judgement for not doing so, that was the essence of Freedom.

“Welcome back,” Scrubber finished

<<<<>>>>

He knelt beside the broken hover sled, the frail small body of Thinker lying limp within, an indifferent blaster bolt had punched through his tiny torso, the Weequay mercenary responsible slumped against the wall across from Thinker dead, a victim of an overcharge of the hoversleds concealed las-cutter, probably the only piece of it that still worked..

Scrubber could only offer a wry smile, the Columi had gotten his own back.  

The Togruta gently lifted the Columi into a more seated position, revenant almost to the being who had been the living memory of the Sons for so long, a task that now fell to Scrubber.

“A True Hero,” Scrubber sighed,
“A Thinker, yes but a dreamer, he dreamed of a place all were welcome, all could find succour and aid…that is the Dream he shared with me, and I will share with all I can…”

He tenderly closed Thinkers large eyes to leave him to dream forever more.

<<<<>>>>
 

It was two days later as they prepared to leave that Black Armour, as everyone called their new member, took Scrubber aside, through the Bounty Hunters ship laded a few kilometers away.

In some ways Scrubber was happy, they must be making a difference if they were worth placing a price on.

He led him to a sealed doorway, checking no one else was around before opening it.

Scrubber stopped dead as he looked within.

There was Anwai, eyes blood shot, face streaming tears over a long beard.

“Naro…” he whezzed
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry…I…”

Scrubber held up his hand

“It’s not me you owe apologies to - but thirteen brothers and sisters dead, and for what? Credits, drugs?”

“I’ll do anything,” Anwai pleaded “I can’t live with this pain!”

“I’m not your master or your god Anwai,” Scrubber replied coldly “I cannot absolve and I won't judge you…it's up to your victims to pass sentence…”

The Togruta turned to Black Armour
“Thank you for showing me this, we’ll take him to the others, hold a trial and…” he paused, considering what that might mean.

They had already suffered a large physical loss, the psychological impact of a former leader selling them out, the emotional tax of a drumhead…

Scrubber thought of Thinkers tales, how traitors and spies in the ranks had undermined the Sons many times before, how personal conflicts had defeated grand plans.

The cold hate in him tightened ever harder and more determined.

“No…that would be too much…” he looked up to his new ally, in that featureless abyss understanding what this being truly offered - unquestioning destructive power and a merciless but Just balance to any individual's power.  

An Enforcer that could do in the dark what an inspiring leader never could in the light - the other side of power and leadership the Sons needed - Fear to balance Hope.

“Leave no evidence,” Scrubber whispered quietly, stepping out as Anwai shuddered, the titan of oblivion looming over him.

Unphased Scrubber hit the door lock behind him.
 
<<<<>>>>

“The Sons!” the cry echoed off the blunt walls of brutalist architecture of the manufacturing plant.

The young Mirilian raced his voice in time to the crack of blaster fire drawing ever nearer.

“The Sons are coming!” he cried a smile on his face that the fist of the grizzled nautolon guard could not remove.

From three sides they attacked, the Electro-fence brought down from within by sabotage, stockpiles of various small manufactured products the sweat shop slaves assembled stacked neatly waiting for a pick up that had already been intercepted.

They came in Imperial surplus armour repainted oranges and yellows, bearing E-11s and Z6 Rotary Blaster Cannons a smattering of EE-4 Carbines, at their head a Togruta, one lekku missing, his face scarred by beating and war, behind him a clutch of loyal advisers and experts directing their forces.

The one significant threat the guards possessed, a Rothana Engineering TX-100 light Occupier tank rolled out only to be inexplicably lifted of the ground by a figure wreathed in darkness that stood before it, then causally cut through it with a sword that sliced durasteel and doonium like blue-nerf-butter.

Scrubber saw his ‘Enforcer’, the killing machine the Sons called Black Armour from a distance, nodding in appreciation to their friend and ally. The Togruta understood the why of Black Armours silence - menace and mystery was a weapon in and of itself.

“Rise up Sirra’s” Scrubber yelled “Your time is now!”

The cell planted over a year before was ready, the vulnerable shuffled to safety, the stronger implementing their sabotage and attack plans making the attack all the easier for the Sons

Scrubber raced cover to cover, hurling incendiary grenades of his own design into clusters of guards, azure flames lighting them into painful death, till he finally came across the Overseer, the brutish Nautolon with a scar across one eye and a tattoo to match it on the other.

The Overseer lunged with a tremor dagger, it scraped on Scrubber chest plate, the Togruta smashed back with an elbow, trying to raise his E-11. Black Armour had been able to supply three crates of Imperial Surplus weaponry and rations when he first joined two years before.

Scrubber was not a novice, but nor an expert, the Nautolon quickly recovered with a knee to the Togruta’s hip, the knife plunging into his shoulder, another scar no doubt.

Three electric thrums rang in the Togruta’s ear, one leaving a heated scar on the side of his face as a Sons sniper finished the Nautolon.  As he rose up more Sons rushed passed him, a unity in the diversity of races and species, cultures and customs, all joined in service of the Cause.

Among them now also were non-slaves, volunteers, any who truly believed and were willing to fight, fly, cook or clean Scrubber welcomed.

As a figure went past him for a brief moment his heart froze still, thinking he recognised the woman who went by, Syffa…

He rubbed the carbon dust from his eye and realised it was a pale skinned twileki woman, a trick of the light as flood beams were put on across the camp making her look like Syffa

A blink of his eyes, the image was lost and the battle was all but over, but the thorn that such could distract him from the purity of the Cause that could favour no one individual above another remained.

<<<<>>>>

“Eurydice base…” Scrubber mused over the images and topographical scans Black Armour had laid before him.  

The nature of their communication was odd, Black Armour never spoke, and yet Scrubber knew what he was saying and intending, felt the caution or encouragement toward each tactic or strategy Scrubber or the leadership discussed  viscerally.  

They did not always agree, indeed it would be detrimental if they did, but Scrubber always heeded the soundless advice of the centuries old warrior above all others.
 
“...looks promising…but not yet my friend…we are still too few to hold such a location and continue our raids.”

Whatever organization backed Black Armour was itself building its resources and capacity elsewhere, while currently only supplying occasional drops of Imperial surplus weapons or Core-Charity aid containers of medicine and food, Scrubber knew much more was coming in the next few years.

The Sons needed to be ready to receive and use it first.

The balance between building the Sons' capacity and fulfilling their mission was difficult, but Scrubber was slowly learning the best way to go about it.

Black Armour nodded, the papers vanishing swiftly, to be reassessed at another time.

Yet as the figure turned Scrubber felt the tug of a question he had longed to ask but not had the gall to despite their years together.

“One other thing…” he summoned the last courage of a dead man.

“My pledge to fight and live my life for the liberation of all slaves in the galaxy is firm, I expect no thanks or reward…but there is…” his voice faltered as if embarrassed

“there is one thing that I ask, just one wish for myself, and never another I swear it,”

The Shadow Lord seemed to contemplate the request then nodded in acquiescence.

Swallowing hard Hymra Naro spoke for the last time to seal the one chapter from his life that needed to be closed before he could fully give himself to the role the Sons needed him to play.

“When I was taken as a slave, there was a young Togrutian woman, Syffa Hotos, if you can find her, help her, or at least…”  

His head hung, well aware of how many years it had been, and the likely horrid fate of a young female in the Zygerrian markets.

“...at least discover what became of her,”

<<<<>>>>

Logged

Lord_S_Gray

Surik: "Kreia, what are you—are you a Jedi, a Sith?"
Kreia: "Does it matter? Of course it does, such titles allow you to break the galaxy into light and dark, categorize it. Perhaps I am neither, and I hold both as what they are, pieces of a whole."

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