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- Sep 7, 2010
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OOC: Basically, my character is now a highly-wanted deserter on the run from the Republic. If anybody has a character lying around, you're welcome to join - with me or against me, up to you. Just PM me first.
Veln swore, hitting the ground with his shoulder as blasterfire flew over his head. He snapped back a few return shots, assumed he missed, and sprang to his feet, dashing around another corner and almost bowling over a confused civilian.
The poor Forgotten - an augmented Flea-class dropship that he had 'borrowed' to flee from the Republic - had hobbled the last fifty-thousand clicks of sublight on sheer luck. The hyperdrive's core, in some twist of fate, disengaged halfway through the jump, the subject of a faulty cooling coil. Veln's options had been limited to shutting down the drive, which would have kept long-term functionality but put him at risk of ending up inside a planet/leaving him stranded in space for a month, or forgetting the definition of 'redline' and turning the hyperdrive into a literal melting pot in order to get near Corellia.
Given that the hyperdrive was now little more than smoldering slug slowly burning into the Forgotten's metal floors, his choice was clear. The ship's battered frame had barely made it to one of Corellia's many fields before shuddering one final time and bucking into the dirt, leaving a kilometer-long furrow in some poor pleb's nutriflax plantation.
The failing hyperdrive hadn't only messed with flight, though. The reactor, stressed by the failing hyperdrive, had decided to shut down most of the ship's nonessential functions, including stealth and electronic countermeasures. As a result, Veln had come out of hyperspace brighter than a star, and received at least seventy target locks from orbiting vessels, no doubt confused as to the nature of this flaming ball of metal that had just exited hyperspace onto their doorstep. The ships, most of them planetary defense craft, had dispatched tracker dropships to chase down the intruder.
He had managed to shake them all - the Flea was renowned for atmospheric maneuverability - but one of them had decided to ruin his day, stay on his tail, and deposit an armed squad of Republic reservists to give him chase. Currently, they were behind him, but given the incredibly stupid layout of the village Veln had run to for cover, they'd probably catch up.
Seriously, he thought as he dived past a fountain for the second time in ten minutes - the stupid little cherubs that adorned it seemed to laugh at him as he passed by - who builds circular paths? In a business sector? He caught his breath behind the fountain's ornate walls and, in a move solely to spite city waterworks engineers, shot out the regulator pump on the fountain, causing it to spew a geyser of water into the sky. He bolted up another path, hoping to make his way into what seemed to be the residential quarter, and, in so, to lose his pursuers.
From what he could tell, the village lay on the outskirts of a small-scale industrial town - it was mid-day on this side of the planet, and there was a fair bit of traffic flying ahead, though it was mostly limited to inter-planetary skiffs and leisure craft. So far, his run from the militia had taken him through the outer rings of the village, but he was now beginning to run into more foot traffic and busier streets. Hell, he even recognized one of the greasy spoon franchises that was oh-so-loved by the planet's middle class.
He ducked into an alleyway, hoping to outmaneuver his pursuers, and ended up face-to-face with a puzzled tradesperson who had just finished taking a puff of his deathstick and was now in the process of evaluating this stranger dressed in dirtied Republic commando gear who stood before him. Veln quickly sized up the situation - there were only two entries here. One, the only open doorway, looked to lead into an armour shop, while the other was sealed shut.
"You, what is your profession?" Veln said, hoping to sound as casual as possible with whatever breath was left in his lungs. He quickly glanced behind himself, watching as the troupe of soldiers ran by.
The man, still confused, shrugged. "Uh, I'm a blacksmith, why?"
"Show me your wares, friend!" Veln wrapped his arm around the man's shoulders and maneuvered him into the shop, closing the door behind them. The blast of cool air from the air filtration system instantly chilled Veln's overheating body. He locked the door before walking over to one of the display cases, inspecting the piece of armour within. The craftsmanship was decent, as it tended to be on this world; most residents in the smaller establishments on Corellia were well-educated, but they lacked the funds or backing to enter the big leagues of manufacturing and were stuck to doing local work. However, they generally had exceptional skill, and Veln had always found hand-crafted armour much better than the mass-produced high-tech shit that the Republic put out.
The craftsman, apparently the only employee, threw his cig into a garbage receptacle and cleared his throat.
"Uh, if you don't mind me asking sir - is that Republic special-forces gear?"
Veln walked the outer row of cases, surreptitiously checking out the scene outside through the windows.
"You betcha, my friend. The finest money can buy. Composite ablative plate, layered onto fiber-woven underarmour with fully-integrated -"
"Fully-integrated targeting, weapon and situational command uplinks, as well as adaptability modules, zero-G maneuvering capability, blast resistance - ceramic-reinforced tri-weave with durasteel thread?"
Veln raised an eyebrow and looked at the owner.
"Yes, actually. I feel like you've been doing your research on what's supposed to be top-secret military equipment." Veln put on his best look of disapproval.
The owner blushed, flustering, and sputtered an apology.
"No, no, of course not, sir. There's just talk, uh, in the trade, you know. Harmless stuff! We really admire what you guys are doing for the Republic..." the owner's eyes turned back to the jet-black armour. It was a wonder he wasn't drooling yet. Veln laughed, picking up a floral-pattern novice hunter's helmet.
"No worries, I was only teasing. But yes, this is spec-ops armour. I'd tell you why I have it, but I'd have to kill you, ha ha!" Veln grimaced as the silence became infused with awkwardness. "Er, do you happen to have a washroom? I've been on the move all day, really could use a bit of cleanup!"
The owner peeled his eyes away from Veln's armour. "Of course, of course! Here, right this way." Veln followed the owner to a back room, thanked him, and shut himself into the roomy washroom, laying his slim supply pack onto the ground as he hit the wall with his back, letting himself slide down to the floor. He had evaded capture, but only for now, and he doubted his pursuers even knew who he was - but, even though he had scrubbed the Forgotten's memory banks and shot out the computer system, the ship still had multiple serial numbers that would tie it to the Apostasy with enough digging. After all, the S.O.L.A.G. had never been classified, so records were still available.
And, when the Republic figured out one of their most elite commanders-turned-defectors had crash-landed on Corellia, they'd probably lock the whole planet down and turn it inside-out - and that was after they set the Sector 13 spooks on him. He sighed, then pulled out the blonde hair dye and blue eye lenses he had stashed in his pack. Time to become someone else.
Veln swore, hitting the ground with his shoulder as blasterfire flew over his head. He snapped back a few return shots, assumed he missed, and sprang to his feet, dashing around another corner and almost bowling over a confused civilian.
The poor Forgotten - an augmented Flea-class dropship that he had 'borrowed' to flee from the Republic - had hobbled the last fifty-thousand clicks of sublight on sheer luck. The hyperdrive's core, in some twist of fate, disengaged halfway through the jump, the subject of a faulty cooling coil. Veln's options had been limited to shutting down the drive, which would have kept long-term functionality but put him at risk of ending up inside a planet/leaving him stranded in space for a month, or forgetting the definition of 'redline' and turning the hyperdrive into a literal melting pot in order to get near Corellia.
Given that the hyperdrive was now little more than smoldering slug slowly burning into the Forgotten's metal floors, his choice was clear. The ship's battered frame had barely made it to one of Corellia's many fields before shuddering one final time and bucking into the dirt, leaving a kilometer-long furrow in some poor pleb's nutriflax plantation.
The failing hyperdrive hadn't only messed with flight, though. The reactor, stressed by the failing hyperdrive, had decided to shut down most of the ship's nonessential functions, including stealth and electronic countermeasures. As a result, Veln had come out of hyperspace brighter than a star, and received at least seventy target locks from orbiting vessels, no doubt confused as to the nature of this flaming ball of metal that had just exited hyperspace onto their doorstep. The ships, most of them planetary defense craft, had dispatched tracker dropships to chase down the intruder.
He had managed to shake them all - the Flea was renowned for atmospheric maneuverability - but one of them had decided to ruin his day, stay on his tail, and deposit an armed squad of Republic reservists to give him chase. Currently, they were behind him, but given the incredibly stupid layout of the village Veln had run to for cover, they'd probably catch up.
Seriously, he thought as he dived past a fountain for the second time in ten minutes - the stupid little cherubs that adorned it seemed to laugh at him as he passed by - who builds circular paths? In a business sector? He caught his breath behind the fountain's ornate walls and, in a move solely to spite city waterworks engineers, shot out the regulator pump on the fountain, causing it to spew a geyser of water into the sky. He bolted up another path, hoping to make his way into what seemed to be the residential quarter, and, in so, to lose his pursuers.
From what he could tell, the village lay on the outskirts of a small-scale industrial town - it was mid-day on this side of the planet, and there was a fair bit of traffic flying ahead, though it was mostly limited to inter-planetary skiffs and leisure craft. So far, his run from the militia had taken him through the outer rings of the village, but he was now beginning to run into more foot traffic and busier streets. Hell, he even recognized one of the greasy spoon franchises that was oh-so-loved by the planet's middle class.
He ducked into an alleyway, hoping to outmaneuver his pursuers, and ended up face-to-face with a puzzled tradesperson who had just finished taking a puff of his deathstick and was now in the process of evaluating this stranger dressed in dirtied Republic commando gear who stood before him. Veln quickly sized up the situation - there were only two entries here. One, the only open doorway, looked to lead into an armour shop, while the other was sealed shut.
"You, what is your profession?" Veln said, hoping to sound as casual as possible with whatever breath was left in his lungs. He quickly glanced behind himself, watching as the troupe of soldiers ran by.
The man, still confused, shrugged. "Uh, I'm a blacksmith, why?"
"Show me your wares, friend!" Veln wrapped his arm around the man's shoulders and maneuvered him into the shop, closing the door behind them. The blast of cool air from the air filtration system instantly chilled Veln's overheating body. He locked the door before walking over to one of the display cases, inspecting the piece of armour within. The craftsmanship was decent, as it tended to be on this world; most residents in the smaller establishments on Corellia were well-educated, but they lacked the funds or backing to enter the big leagues of manufacturing and were stuck to doing local work. However, they generally had exceptional skill, and Veln had always found hand-crafted armour much better than the mass-produced high-tech shit that the Republic put out.
The craftsman, apparently the only employee, threw his cig into a garbage receptacle and cleared his throat.
"Uh, if you don't mind me asking sir - is that Republic special-forces gear?"
Veln walked the outer row of cases, surreptitiously checking out the scene outside through the windows.
"You betcha, my friend. The finest money can buy. Composite ablative plate, layered onto fiber-woven underarmour with fully-integrated -"
"Fully-integrated targeting, weapon and situational command uplinks, as well as adaptability modules, zero-G maneuvering capability, blast resistance - ceramic-reinforced tri-weave with durasteel thread?"
Veln raised an eyebrow and looked at the owner.
"Yes, actually. I feel like you've been doing your research on what's supposed to be top-secret military equipment." Veln put on his best look of disapproval.
The owner blushed, flustering, and sputtered an apology.
"No, no, of course not, sir. There's just talk, uh, in the trade, you know. Harmless stuff! We really admire what you guys are doing for the Republic..." the owner's eyes turned back to the jet-black armour. It was a wonder he wasn't drooling yet. Veln laughed, picking up a floral-pattern novice hunter's helmet.
"No worries, I was only teasing. But yes, this is spec-ops armour. I'd tell you why I have it, but I'd have to kill you, ha ha!" Veln grimaced as the silence became infused with awkwardness. "Er, do you happen to have a washroom? I've been on the move all day, really could use a bit of cleanup!"
The owner peeled his eyes away from Veln's armour. "Of course, of course! Here, right this way." Veln followed the owner to a back room, thanked him, and shut himself into the roomy washroom, laying his slim supply pack onto the ground as he hit the wall with his back, letting himself slide down to the floor. He had evaded capture, but only for now, and he doubted his pursuers even knew who he was - but, even though he had scrubbed the Forgotten's memory banks and shot out the computer system, the ship still had multiple serial numbers that would tie it to the Apostasy with enough digging. After all, the S.O.L.A.G. had never been classified, so records were still available.
And, when the Republic figured out one of their most elite commanders-turned-defectors had crash-landed on Corellia, they'd probably lock the whole planet down and turn it inside-out - and that was after they set the Sector 13 spooks on him. He sighed, then pulled out the blonde hair dye and blue eye lenses he had stashed in his pack. Time to become someone else.
