Post by holyjunkie on Oct 5, 2020 14:02:49 GMT 8
The war is over, the Separatists were felled in one fell swoop by a precision strike by the 501st and the Emperor’s Champion. The Republic is gone, and with it the slow, bureaucratic incompetence many had complained about. Fresh in his seat of power, Palpatine’s grip on the workings of the Core Worlds cemented rapidly. Many who voted for his extreme policies did not see what they had wrought. Many more who voiced their concerns were swiftly “convinced” to pledge their loyalty. Those who pledged were the lucky ones.
The “corrupt” Jedi Order is vanquished, their temple sundered, their wisdom and archives within the towers were claimed by the Empire. Holocrons and the like were removed from public viewing- a poison to the minds of citizens, one that must be kept sealed away. Those few Jedi who survived the massacre at the Temple are now being hunted down. Some made friends, others flew solo. Their methods of hiding from the wrath of Palpatine numbered as much as there were survivors. As the Imperial Army extended across the core worlds, new blood of greater varieties shipped out from the cloning chambers Kamino.
With varied troopers filled the ranks, the old weaknesses of a typical army arose. Mistakes were possible when no soldier was perfect. While Vader’s Fist continued their spree of excellence throughout their select operations, there were thousands more who were more prone to half-measures, cutting corners, and the bare minimum to make ends meet.
While an existence within the Empire became more and more possible for those who hide, nothing in the Galaxy is without risk...
—
A well-kept- if currently filthy VCX-100 light freighter slowly moved to synchronized movement with the slowly rotating station. Along the side, the name The Visionary was scrawled cleanly in a professional, if slightly weathered font. Along the bottom of the ship, a large shipping contained was clamped securely.
The hangar hung still from the perspective of the pilot, Radimus Dorr. His face was rugged, haggard and in desperate need of a shave. He hadn’t reached a station for nearly a hundred cycles. Running dozens of errands in the Outer Rim with only the bare essentials of fuel and food supplies made for an overall uncomfortable trip far from the Core Worlds. On the plus side, it was not a terribly dangerous job. Some close scrapes with boarding pirates ended with a smoking blaster rifle, and that was the worst it got.
The rifle in question hung by the door in the ship’s cockpit. It appeared to be a wookie bowcaster that was missing its iconic crossbow limbs. Cleaned weld lines indicated that the chassis housed a more customized weapon system. The bowcaster scope made for an extremely comfortable and accurate weapon, far deadlier than the admittedly greater stopping power of the pirates’ rifles- pilfered from stormtroopers. They even shared the same energy cells.
He wouldn’t need the rifle for typical dealings. Instead he kept his personal security at an acceptable level for business: a sidearm holstered and with the safety on. Not many would remember the DC-17 pistol, typically reserved for Clone Commandos. Not unlike the rifle, there were some cosmetic changes to hide the weapon’s origins.
The Visionary shifted slightly as the shipping contained was released safely into the clamps of a large loader. The communicator rippled with chatter between Radimus and tower control as landing instructions were received. Radimus complied to a T. He loved his ship, but it had been a while since his boots touched anything outside the hull. The Visionary landed cleanly, and the cargo bay doors opened.
“Poodoo!” A hangar worker exclaimed as they boarded the loading bay of The Visionary. They followed with a couple of other choice words. “Smells like something died in here!”
“A hundred cycles with nothing but refuelling stations would do that,” Radimus retorted as he slid down the ladder with a stumble. He had been seated for a while. “And the cleaning droid got shot a quarter of the way through. I’ll need it repaired.
“You’ll need it replaced, more like,” a second worker picked at the droid in question- slumped dead on one shelf in the cargo bay. He then waved out to someone else in the hangar. “Don’tcha worry, Captain Dorr, we’ve got you covered.”
“Appreciate it,” Radimus smiled, “Where’s the nearest refresh station?”
“Bay Door 9, second left,” the first worker jerked a thumb in the general direction. “Can’t miss it. Be quick as you can though, Higher-ups got a new job, I think.”
“You think?” He was intrigued at the idea of getting a job so soon after getting back. However, he desperately needed refreshment from the previous journey. Radimus followed the instructions as he carried a duffel bag with a change of clothes. Soon enough, he found himself in a bright, clean refreshing chamber. Half an hour later, Radimus left the chamber with the same duffel bag, but with trimmed hair and barely a stubble remaining. His features were far less gaunt. In addition, he wore a slightly different exoskin that covered from toe to the top of his neck. Over top of the exosuit, he layered a pair of cargo trousers, a pair of boots, and a less dusty jacket. His pistol holster was securely closed.
The smell of cleaning solution stung his nostrils as he approached The Visionary again. Dozens of cleaning droids were hard at work now that the cargo bay was empty of the many crates of “Not Contraband”- all of which were thankfully sealed.
Radimus ran a hand through his now-trimmed hair, and wiped excess clippings off on his pant leg. After dropping his duffel bag off in the cargo bay for the droids to clean, he then stepped toward the first hangar worker he chatted with. “Where am I meeting this employer?”
“Just follow the mouse,” the worker then pointed to a small black box droid on wheels. “All yours, Vermin.”
With a few chirps from the droid, Radimus let himself be led through the station corridors. A couple of elevators and short walks later, he arrived at a meeting room. Much like the corridors, the meeting room was various blue-grays and blacks, with strips of smooth light fixtures filling the chamber with even light. The only hard shadow in the room lay below a large black meeting table. Various individuals sat at said table, headed by a striking woman about Radimus’ age with long, very dark brown hair that almost matched the table.
Radimus blinked, and took a seat. Evidently everyone was waiting for him. He didn’t have an excuse, nor did he want to try to make one. If there was a job that needed doing, why waste time with excuses?
The “corrupt” Jedi Order is vanquished, their temple sundered, their wisdom and archives within the towers were claimed by the Empire. Holocrons and the like were removed from public viewing- a poison to the minds of citizens, one that must be kept sealed away. Those few Jedi who survived the massacre at the Temple are now being hunted down. Some made friends, others flew solo. Their methods of hiding from the wrath of Palpatine numbered as much as there were survivors. As the Imperial Army extended across the core worlds, new blood of greater varieties shipped out from the cloning chambers Kamino.
With varied troopers filled the ranks, the old weaknesses of a typical army arose. Mistakes were possible when no soldier was perfect. While Vader’s Fist continued their spree of excellence throughout their select operations, there were thousands more who were more prone to half-measures, cutting corners, and the bare minimum to make ends meet.
While an existence within the Empire became more and more possible for those who hide, nothing in the Galaxy is without risk...
—
A well-kept- if currently filthy VCX-100 light freighter slowly moved to synchronized movement with the slowly rotating station. Along the side, the name The Visionary was scrawled cleanly in a professional, if slightly weathered font. Along the bottom of the ship, a large shipping contained was clamped securely.
The hangar hung still from the perspective of the pilot, Radimus Dorr. His face was rugged, haggard and in desperate need of a shave. He hadn’t reached a station for nearly a hundred cycles. Running dozens of errands in the Outer Rim with only the bare essentials of fuel and food supplies made for an overall uncomfortable trip far from the Core Worlds. On the plus side, it was not a terribly dangerous job. Some close scrapes with boarding pirates ended with a smoking blaster rifle, and that was the worst it got.
The rifle in question hung by the door in the ship’s cockpit. It appeared to be a wookie bowcaster that was missing its iconic crossbow limbs. Cleaned weld lines indicated that the chassis housed a more customized weapon system. The bowcaster scope made for an extremely comfortable and accurate weapon, far deadlier than the admittedly greater stopping power of the pirates’ rifles- pilfered from stormtroopers. They even shared the same energy cells.
He wouldn’t need the rifle for typical dealings. Instead he kept his personal security at an acceptable level for business: a sidearm holstered and with the safety on. Not many would remember the DC-17 pistol, typically reserved for Clone Commandos. Not unlike the rifle, there were some cosmetic changes to hide the weapon’s origins.
The Visionary shifted slightly as the shipping contained was released safely into the clamps of a large loader. The communicator rippled with chatter between Radimus and tower control as landing instructions were received. Radimus complied to a T. He loved his ship, but it had been a while since his boots touched anything outside the hull. The Visionary landed cleanly, and the cargo bay doors opened.
“Poodoo!” A hangar worker exclaimed as they boarded the loading bay of The Visionary. They followed with a couple of other choice words. “Smells like something died in here!”
“A hundred cycles with nothing but refuelling stations would do that,” Radimus retorted as he slid down the ladder with a stumble. He had been seated for a while. “And the cleaning droid got shot a quarter of the way through. I’ll need it repaired.
“You’ll need it replaced, more like,” a second worker picked at the droid in question- slumped dead on one shelf in the cargo bay. He then waved out to someone else in the hangar. “Don’tcha worry, Captain Dorr, we’ve got you covered.”
“Appreciate it,” Radimus smiled, “Where’s the nearest refresh station?”
“Bay Door 9, second left,” the first worker jerked a thumb in the general direction. “Can’t miss it. Be quick as you can though, Higher-ups got a new job, I think.”
“You think?” He was intrigued at the idea of getting a job so soon after getting back. However, he desperately needed refreshment from the previous journey. Radimus followed the instructions as he carried a duffel bag with a change of clothes. Soon enough, he found himself in a bright, clean refreshing chamber. Half an hour later, Radimus left the chamber with the same duffel bag, but with trimmed hair and barely a stubble remaining. His features were far less gaunt. In addition, he wore a slightly different exoskin that covered from toe to the top of his neck. Over top of the exosuit, he layered a pair of cargo trousers, a pair of boots, and a less dusty jacket. His pistol holster was securely closed.
The smell of cleaning solution stung his nostrils as he approached The Visionary again. Dozens of cleaning droids were hard at work now that the cargo bay was empty of the many crates of “Not Contraband”- all of which were thankfully sealed.
Radimus ran a hand through his now-trimmed hair, and wiped excess clippings off on his pant leg. After dropping his duffel bag off in the cargo bay for the droids to clean, he then stepped toward the first hangar worker he chatted with. “Where am I meeting this employer?”
“Just follow the mouse,” the worker then pointed to a small black box droid on wheels. “All yours, Vermin.”
With a few chirps from the droid, Radimus let himself be led through the station corridors. A couple of elevators and short walks later, he arrived at a meeting room. Much like the corridors, the meeting room was various blue-grays and blacks, with strips of smooth light fixtures filling the chamber with even light. The only hard shadow in the room lay below a large black meeting table. Various individuals sat at said table, headed by a striking woman about Radimus’ age with long, very dark brown hair that almost matched the table.
Radimus blinked, and took a seat. Evidently everyone was waiting for him. He didn’t have an excuse, nor did he want to try to make one. If there was a job that needed doing, why waste time with excuses?