Auz

~ BLACK FLAGS OF THE ABECEAN ~

Darkness and wood had become familiar in the hours since he sealed himself inside the barrel. The air was stale but sufficient. The rhythm of the ship had been steady and long, rolling swells beneath the hull, and the cadence of waves against planks. As the day settled, Leaves-No-Wake allowed the ship to rock him into a shallow rest, waiting for dusk.

As evening fell, the Argonian stirred, listening intensely. The pattern of footsteps above thinned with the change of watch as voices diminished and lantern-light faded between the seams. Only in the deep of night did he ease the lid aside.

The hold smelled of tar, rope and grain. He remained crouched, straining his ears. No one around. No irregular breathing overhead. The vessel’s patterned sway was unbroken.

He slipped from the barrel and closed it carefully behind him. Luckily the ship's supplies were close at hand. A water skin taken from an already opened crate. Hard bread broken into smaller pieces and wrapped in cloth. A strip of dried meat cut cleanly and evenly. He removed nothing in excess and ate without haste.

When finished, he moved through the hold in silence, stretching cramped limbs in the narrow corridors between cargo stacks. He let the ship’s oscillation travel through his legs until balance no longer required thought. When footsteps crossed above, he stilled. When they passed, he continued. Before first light, he returned to concealment.

The following night required less waiting. The Argonian knew the sound of the watch changing and which sections of the hold remained undisturbed. He took what he needed for another day and left no obvious sign. By the end of the second day, the ship no longer felt unfamiliar. Its movements were catalogued. Its creaks and groans distinguished from one another with ease. He did not know how long the voyage would last, but the routine could be maintained indefinitely.

That certainty lasted only until the pressure changed.

The ship no longer rode the waves; it struck them. The motion beneath him sharpened, rising faster and falling harder, the hull complaining with each descent. Wind pressed against the planks in sustained force, no longer passing in brief gusts.

Leaves-No-Wake remained in the barrel this time. Cargo shifted across the hold as the deck tilted more steeply. The roll no longer followed any pattern. It hesitated, then lurched. Somewhere above, men shouted – not in alarm, but in effort. Lines were being hauled. Orders called over the wind.

The vessel corrected its course. Then overcorrected.

Even as the storm broke, the turmoil above did not lessen. If anything, it deepened. The sound that followed confirmed it. A hollow impact against the hull. Rope thrown and caught. Wood scraping under strain. Boots crossed the deck in numbers unfamiliar to the crew’s cadence. Steel struck steel, sharp even through the muffling planks. The fighting moved quickly. A body hit the deck with enough force to jar the barrel. Smoke began to seep through the seams, thin at first, then thicker.

The ship listed violently.

Something heavy crashed nearby. A crate split apart against the curve of the hull. Heat followed the smoke. Then the explosion tore through the vessel.

The force travelled through wood and bone alike, a concussive shock that shattered the barrel along one seam and tore the lid free. Flame flashed through the dark before the world inverted. The deck vanished beneath him and the sea rose to claim what remained. Cold closed over him, and he did not resist it.

The turbulence churned splintered beams and torn canvas around him, dragging fragments of the ship downward. He allowed the current to expend itself before pushing clear of the broken staves. Water replaced smoke in his lungs without issue.

The sea was different from the marsh. Heavier. Salt stinging faintly at the thinner skin between his scales. The swell was broader, less tangled than the waterways of home. It was odd, but not unsettling.

The Argonian’s bow remained slung across his back. He reached for it at once. Saltwater would loosen the string if left to whip free in the current. He slipped one arm between stave and cord, drawing the bow tight along his side so the string lay protected against his body. The upper limb settled near his shoulder, the lower along his hip, stabilised by the angle of his torso.

The quiver had shifted under the blast. He pulled several arrows free before they could drift away, holding them carefully between his teeth while he tightened the strap and secured it flush against his back. Once satisfied, he returned the arrows to their place.

Only then did he open his eyes.

Darkness pressed in around him, broken by distorted light from the burning wreck above. He drew magicka inward and released it behind his vision. Night-Eye spread in clarity, sharpening the water into dim dark-blue hues. Broken beams drifted past. Rope coiled and uncoiled in slow descent. Bodies turned with disturbing calm as they sank.

Above, the ship was failing. He angled upward and broke the surface long enough to catch a glimpse. Flames climbed the rigging of what remained of the boat as the masts collapsed. Shouts carried across the water, scattered and thinning. A pirate vessel remained locked against the wreck, burning and taking on water, but it was no longer his concern. None of it was.

Sinking beneath the surface once more, the noise dulled instantly. Preferring the quiet below, Leaves-No-Wake turned from the burning wrecks and began to swim, long, controlled strokes carrying him through the dark water and away from the sinking ships.

~ BLACK FLAGS OF THE ABECEAN ~

Leaves-No-Wake

Leaves-No-Wake

“I prefer to stand on the edge of sight.”

---

___________________________________ P R O F I L E Height 6’1” Weight 81kg Sex/Gender Male Race Argonian Age 29 Birthsign The Shadow Class Shadowscale ___________________________________ C A P A B I L I T I E S Attributes Strength – 40 Intelligence – 40 Willpower – 30 (-10 Argonian Male) Agility – 50 (+10 Argonian Male) Speed – 50 (+10 Argonian Male) Endurance – 30 (-10 Argonian) Personality – 30 (-10 Argonian) Luck – 50 Skills Major: Sneak – 25 Illusion – 30 (+5 Argonian) Mysticism – 30 (+5 Argonian) Security – 35 (+10 Argonian) Marksman – 25 Acrobatics – 25 Athletics – 35 (+10 Argonian) Minor: Light Armor – 5 Blade – 10 (+5 Argonian) Alchemy – 10 (+5 Argonian) Restoration – 5 Conjuration – 5 Speechcraft – 5 Mercantile – 5 Block – 5 Alteration – 5 Destruction – 5 Heavy Armor – 5 Armorer – 5 Hand to Hand – 10 (+5 Argonian) Enchant – 5 Spells Birthsign Ability (Shadow): Moonshadow – Invisibility (1/day) Starting Spells: Void Gazer - Night-Eye (Apprentice, Illusion) Detect Pulse - Detect Life (Apprentice, Mysticism) Remote Manipulation - Telekinesis (Apprentice, Mysticism) Chameleon - Chameleon (Novice, Illusion) Touch of Fear - Demoralize (Apprentice, Illusion) Commanding Touch - Command Creature (Apprentice, Illusion) ___________________________________ I N V E N T O R Y Weapons & Tools Steel Dagger Steel Bow Steel Arrows/Quiver Lockpicks x 7 Outfit/Armor Dark leathers (light armor) Hooded cloak Consumables Weak Poison of Damage Health (x2) Weak Potion of Healing Marsh reed stimulant (minor fatigue restore) Valuables 287 Septims Misc Small carved Hist-wood bead ___________________________________

APPEARANCE Leaves-No-Wake bears dark, marsh-green scales mottled with near-black along the shoulders and spine. Faint scarring traces the inside of his forearms, thin, ritual lines half-faded with age. His eyes are amber with a narrow vertical pupil that rarely settles. He moves with a controlled economy, no wasted motion or idle gestures. When standing still he appears almost statuesque, yet tension lives in his shoulders and tail, coiled rather than relaxed. His voice is low and even, rarely raised. He does not rush his words. MOTIVATION AND OUTLOOK Shaped for function, Leaves-No-Wake pursues order, containment and the pruning of instability. These are not his convictions, but instructions impressed upon him until they became reflex. He does not argue with direction, nor does he embellish it. He only moves when loosed, akin to an arrow: drawn, aimed, released. The arc is not his to choose. In conflict he is exact. The world narrows to distance, angle, breath. His pulse slows rather than quickens. Thought becomes clean. There is no room for doubt when survival or execution demands precision. In those moments, he feels neither righteous nor cruel, only aligned. The tension that so often coils within resolves into purpose. When eyes linger on him too long, his skin prickles as if something crawls beneath the scales. Muscles tighten without command. His gaze shifts to exits, to shadows, to the shape of hands at belts. He does not enjoy being perceived. To be observed feels like exposure, like standing without armour. In moments of isolated quiet, an unease begins. Stillness presses in. It draws something from him he does not fully recognise. Not regret. Not rebellion. Something softer, unshaped. A flicker of self that was never trained, never named. It feels like light slipping through a crack in a splintering wall. He does not linger there long. He moves. He sharpens focus. He counts footsteps. He listens. Yet the quiet returns. And each time, it lingers a little longer. BACKGROUND Leaves-No-Wake was born beneath the Shadow during the Great War. As tradition demanded, he was taken from his clutch before memory could form and given to the Shadowscales. By the time he understood language, the old prayers had long faded. The Dark Brotherhood’s grip on Black Marsh had faltered and in its place, the An-Xileel had tightened their own. The ritualistic words changed, Sithis was no longer uttered and the Hist were invoked with fervent certainty. Duty was no longer a sacred offering, it was a necessity. He was not taught to worship but to function. Silence was drilled into him gently and without cruelty. Observation was rewarded. Hesitation was corrected. Slowly but surely, Leaves-No-Wake learned how to wait without fidgeting, how to measure breath in darkness, how to become part of a room without disturbing its shape. Instability was described to him as rot. Rot must be cut away. Anvil smelled of salt and tar. For four nights he watched the Argonian delegates from balconies and rooftops slick with rain. He tracked them from the blind corners of taverns where sailors traded and gambled. They spoke carefully. Calmly. They sought ships willing to move supplies east and across borders without An-Xileel oversight. They spoke of protection for their tribe. Of autonomy. Of survival. Leaves-No-Wake confirmed their contacts, mapping their meetings and reporting back, waiting for permission. Finally, when it came, he entered quietly. The room was small. The light was low. They were unarmed. No one screamed or begged, they only spoke of their people, even as he stepped closer. The kills were clean, quick and as painless as they could be. The silence afterward was not. Something stretched inside him. Not doubt, nor mercy, but a hairline fracture in the rhythm he had known all his life. A breath taken too late. A hand placed an inch too far to the left. A body striking wood harder than intended. A sound carrying through a corridor that should have remained undisturbed. Footsteps followed. Lantern light cut across the wet streets as he reached the docks. Questions were already forming in the mouths of guards. Doors were being knocked upon. Near the wharf, cargo waited to be loaded. Crates of bundled cloth, pallets of goods and sealed barrels stamped with merchant marks. Quickly, Leaves-No-Wake split one open with controlled force, displacing the items within, and folding himself into the hollow space. Closing the lid, he slowed his breath. Outside, rope creaked as men shouted. The barrel shifted, lifting on to what he presumed was a ship. He did not know its course. Only that it was leaving and leaving was enough. RELATIONSHIPS AND OPINIONS — MISC —

Redshift Blues

Gravel - The Black Lung Cont.

With @TokyoPewPew

Gravel’s jaw ticked. For half a breath, the room shrank - just him, Rix, and the echo of the man he used to be. The one time had stolen piece by piece, until all that remained was a shell that liked to think it knew better.

Once, nobody would’ve dared talk to him like that. Back then, his name alone carried its own kind of gravity. The old him would’ve reached across the table without a second thought, wrapped that greasy collar in his fist, and bounced Rix’s skull off the counter until the jewelry stopped clinking. Just for the disrespect. Just to remind him what weight used to mean.

But the moment passed, like a wave breaking before it hit the shore. The urge was there, same as always, but there wasn’t any satisfaction in it anymore. Besides, there was too much potential at stake. If Gravel ever wanted any sort of return to the limelight, it began here and now, with the swallowing of one's pride.

So he let the thought cool behind a slow exhale, fingers flexing once before settling flat on the table. The revolver’s weight in his coat pocket reminded him it’d be easy, too easy, and that was the problem.

He leaned back instead, letting the chair creak under him, feeling the ache settle in his shoulder. Rix was still talking, puffed up and proud. Something about it almost made Gravel laugh. Not the kind of laugh that bubbles up from joy, but the tired kind that comes when you see a man mistaking noise for power.

Because that’s what this was: noise. The same song he’d heard a thousand times from men who used to matter. Rix wasn’t talking business, he was performing. Trying to fill the space with sound so nobody noticed how empty the room had become.

The truth was no one came to Adrastea looking for opportunity; the corps had strip-mined that long ago. What was left were vessels like Harrow, hollow men clinging to whatever scraps of relevance they could still convince themselves they owned.

Gravel shot a glance toward Mo when Rix wasn’t looking. The man met his eye, and for the briefest second, they shared it - the quiet absurdity of it all. A small roll of the eyes, a flicker of understanding between old partners who’d both seen better hustlers in worse bars.

Wait it out. Let the silence hang. Let it do the work.

As Harrow’s speech wound down, Gravel exhaled through his nose and gave a slow, weary and obvious yawn. Reaching for his cigarette case, his thumb brushed the scuffed metal before snapping it open with a soft click. The flick of the lighter followed, a low hiss swallowed by the flame.

Gesturing lazily toward the bar, he waved the barwoman over without looking up

“Double Eastcheap and tonic. On the rocks. Half-ounce simple, one lime. Shake it, strain it twice. Don’t forget the absinthe spritz.”

A pause. The faintest ghost of a smile.

“Or the rind from the lime. Man’s particular about that.”

He leaned back, slow and deliberate, chair groaning against the shift in his weight, smoke curling from his lips the way the smiles curled across their faces: the bartender’s for overhearing the first interesting tidbit of conversation all day (and maybe scoring a decent tip for her troubles); and the old conman’s, for having scored the free drink he was fishing for.

The magician behind the bar started on her potion inside the chilled, sweaty shaker tin, reaching and uncorking, measuring and straw-tasting, but it was Harrow’s exuberant squint what truly meandered their smoky environs, unconstrained by the rag-polished countertop. The other patrons inspired little scrutiny—though he gave to each of them the cursory shady glance, scouring for too much curiosity, too much intrigue—no, what gave him pause was the eye contact he made with the rooms’ corners; with each of several cameras, their gazes hard and black and unblinking.

“It’s too quiet in here,” he muttered between stiff lips and braced jaw, perfunctorily wary of the lip-reading heuristics coded into every unit that left the assembly line. “Feels more like a funeral than a family reunion, don’t you think?” In the corner sat a jukebox, as weary and forlorn as the old-timers themselves, and over to this Harrow ambled, though not before popping his knees, squealing his chairlegs, hoisting himself from his seat with a labored groan. Dummy vinyls collected dust inside the scratched dome of this thing; a skeuomorphic coin slot slowly, painstakingly rusted off its screws. Harrow was across the room procuring from his stylish velvet blazer a debit chit when Big Mo’s unamused expression met Voith’s.

“It’s too quiet in here,” echoed the quartermaster—bitterly, but not unsubtly as he peered across the room, watched the withered old conman’s gangly fingers swipe the chit and then the song list.

Gravel caught the movement out of the corner of his eye, Mo stifling a yawn which wasn’t for show. The big man shifted off the wall, straightened, and gave the faintest bounce on his heels like he was half a mind to call it.

Gravel lifted both hands from the table, palms open in a slow, easy gesture that said steady. His eyes met Mo’s, a silent promise threaded through the look: Soon. I know.

Mo hesitated, then settled back into place, arms folded, gaze drifting somewhere far past the bar.

A soundbyte of a heavy coin rolling, clunking down into a receptacle and the machine-generated pop-folk muzak decrescendoed away into the sulkiness of the bar the way daylight dissolves into gloaming: seeping, percolating, edgeless. A moment’s silence—a silence unsettled only by the wet, rheumy coughs of the other patrons—by the omnipresent space-hum—and the first song strummed to life. Harrow danced his way back to his seat to find his concoction waiting for him, cloudy liquid cradling cloudier ice spear. Condensation crawling down the Collins. The bartender had been waiting for him, aiming the perfume bottle over the rim and giving the beverage a heady spritz but only when he was looking, only when his great hooked nose was right there for the assailing. Fennel and sweet onion notes dispersing on the mist, hitting all three noses so hard they could taste it. When Harrow picked up the glass only the water tension kept the G&T from spilling, the stuff beaded and domed just over the lip of it. When he set it down again two quaffs later it was two-thirds full. “Ah! Amazing what lubricants we didn’t used to need, us rusted-up, worn-down machines, eh, Voith?” he said, his tongue smacking the roof of his mouth, his sigh a satisfied one. “Alright—now that we can’t be overheard—”

Again he steepled his coltish, imitation-gold-yoked fingers, again he leaned hard into the crooks of his wrists pressed down into the tabletop, again he crossed knee over knee and peered out over the rims of his teashades—”the sob-story, or straight to business?”

Despite feeling Mo’s stare boring into the side of his skull, Gravel didn’t answer right away. He drew a slow breath through his nose, took another drag from his cigarette, and finally looked back at Rix. “Business’ll do fine,” he said flatly. He tapped the ash into the tray, eyes half-lidded but steady. “Ship’s not docked here on charity time, and I ain’t payin’ port fees to listen to nostalgia.”

“What’s the rush?—a little time-theft is the least of your sins. C’mon, Voith, just relax a little. Have a drink and a smoke with some old friends and cool off. Hey—I won’t tell the captain if you don’t, if that’s what’s got you so nervy.” Rix wasn’t much of a thespian; maintaining his cool under the hot lights, keeping a straight face in an interrogation room, sure, but the way he went to punch Garran’s shoulder, then noticed the heat behind his eyes—the way he flinched as if expecting a fist, the way he threw his hands in recoil, his every fiber screaming don’t hurt me, oh please god don’t hurt me—it was corny verging on embarrassing. Too corny to be anything but a great big joke, with Voith himself as the punchline. He was taunting him. Rix fucking Harrow—a flabby pink mole-rat in a cheap suit and ugly sunglasses—was all but daring the old man to grab him by the flaps and folds of his turkey-neck, to make him suck on a barrel. To show him exactly how insecure, how shakable, how fragile the great Garran Voith had become. And yet Voith could not. Not if he wanted the job, not if he needed the money (and he did), not if MacLaine and the Dullahan were going to carry him back into the limelight. Rix could smell the weakness (no—worse—the desperation) and he was savoring every second.

The class clown act slipped away, however. Harrow’s smile shut, his lips pursed tight, thinning the creases running from mouth to hairy nostrils. He took another drink, ice and grimy crystal knocking like a baby’s rattler. Set down the glass and swiped the hand along his thigh, smearing the condensation there across his pant leg in long, dark, tiger-claw stripes. “The local drug lord’s running on borrowed time. He’s pissed in too many cereals and he knows it, but more importantly so do his faithful soldatos,” said the mover with a wipe and a sniffle. “Any day now StarPol’s gonna send in a sting. Or maybe a bounty hunter or private security—courtesy of Mackee’s corporate—or maybe a rival pusher who smells blood in the water. Either way some of these boys can see the end of the line for this little gravy train and they want out before it gets here.”

Harrow shrugged his shoulders. Shrugged his brow, furrowing the slope of his forehead with all those feathery wrinkles. “It’s that simple, really. Escort these kiddos safely to your ship—sorry, your captain’s ship—got to figure this Grev Van Zantz character won’t appreciate being deserted in his hour of need, after all—get ‘em where you’re going, drop ‘em off on the next rock and that’s it. They get their tabula rasa, you get your chits. So? Sounds pretty easy, right?”

Each jab landed like a pebble in Gravel’s gut - barely noticeable at first, but they’d started to pile up, pressing heavier with every word. The truth was beginning to gnaw. Here he was sitting in one of Jupiter’s armpits, being toyed with by a washed-up wannabe in mirrored shades. And every word of it - every smug, needling word - scraped against his buried pride.

The pulse in Gravel’s neck thudded so loud it drowned everything else out. The weight in his coat pocket was pulling, dragging at him like a black hole. His fingers twitched. The revolver wanted his hand - it ached for it - and for an instant, he nearly let it have him. The old reflex, hot and bright as magnesium, burned its way up from the pit of his stomach. Acid flooded his throat. He could almost see it: Rix’s head snapping back, the whole charade ending in one clean motion, the room going blessedly quiet.

But before the thought could bloom, Mo’s voice rumbled through the smoke.

“Too easy,” he said quietly, not to anyone in particular. “You don’t move a whole crew off a rock like this for nothing. Somebody’s paying. Question is - who, and why?”

The sound cleaved through Gravel’s rage like a battleaxe. Mo wasn’t worked up, hell, he didn’t even look angry. Just tired. Suspicious. And that, more than anything, cooled the fire.

Gravel blinked slow, the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. The old dog still paced, but its teeth weren’t bared anymore. He exhaled once, low and steady, then looked back at Rix.

“He’s right, y’know,” Gravel said, voice even but rough-edged. “Whole thing smells too clean. You talk about moving people - but you ain’t said where the coin’s comin’ from. Or why you care if a bunch of goons make it off this rock in one piece.”

He leaned in just enough to let the dim light catch his eyes.

“So what’s the truth, Rix? You even know? Or are your corporate overlords just jerkin’ the strings while you dance and call it business?”

“Last I checked,” Rix answered blandly, “‘upfront and in full’ was all the ‘why’ you needed. No?”

Gravel shifted his eyes sideways towards Mo, a small flick of the brow, a silent cue.

Mo caught it and leaned forward slightly, his voice rumbling forward, filling the space between them. “That’s it?” he asked. “So everyone’s packed and ready to go? How many people are we talking here?”

Gravel stayed quiet, watching Rix over the rim of his cigarette.

Rix reached up to his face, shoved the sunglasses up and aside; the fingers wriggling beneath the nose pads to access the bridge of his nose, massaging its bumps and ridges. “Didn’t bother with a head count yet,” he confessed, squinting, seeming all the sudden a bit exasperated. “Figured I’d do that when you were back at the ship getting the O.K. from your boss. But a dozen at least. More, once the others catch wind of a guardian angel stopped in for breakfast.”

This time it was Mo’s jaw that tightened, the muscle beneath his temple jumping as he took a deliberate step forward.

Gravel didn’t look at him - just raised a hand, palm out. Steady.

This was it. This was all they were gonna get. A dozen half-promises and a maybe. There was every chance Rix wasn’t holding out, not totally anyway. By the look of him, he just didn’t have anything left to give.

“Fine,” Gravel said, tapping the last of his cigarette into the tray and grinding it out with his thumb.

“We’re in. What’s the score?”

“Peachy.” The glasses restored; the weary, feeble scrunch of tired eyes replaced once more by the unflinching glint of mirrored glass. “You’re looking at five digits a head on the ones who can pay their way upfront—that’s, uh, lieutenants, caporegime types, that kinda shit. Thirty thou a man at least. Less for the small fry, but don’t you worry. I’m absorbing most of the risk there.”

Gravel rose from the seat, the legs of the chair scraping along the floor. “Ok, deal.” he said, nodding towards Mo. “We’ll be in touch soon.”

STARFINDER ~ Rogue Voyage

Nuru Adeyemi — The Meridian Blade

Character Appearance

---

Name: Nuru Adeyemi

Age: 24

Race/Species: Aasimar

Sex: Male

Homeworld: Verces (the Line)

---

Class: Solarian

Alignment: Neutral Good

Occupation: Monster-hunter and field inquisitor of the Meridian Circle

Faction Alignments: Starfinder Society, Exo-Guardians and the Meridian Circle

---

Primary Weapon: Solar Weapon (longsword manifestation)
Secondary Weapon: Tactical Semi-Auto Pistol
Sidearms:

• Azimuth Laser Pistol
• Survival Knife

Outfit & Armour: Layered synthetic weaved robes with simple plated pauldrons and bracers with monk-like ceremonial patterns.

Inventory:

• Satchel
• Long term rations
• Compact field medkit
• Meditation beads & holo-pendant reliquary
• Credits: 500

---

Short Backstory
Raised on Verces, where day and night divided the world into extremes, Nuru learned that harmony lived between opposites. During his youth, his Aasimar lineage had burned bright, causing the Meridian Circle to discover him, praising his radiance and his knack for quiet focus. In training, he excelled with the solar blade but spent equal time in meditation, listening for the cosmic current Solarians revered.

In later years, deployments against the void and cult cells left his order scarred. Senior hunters began to favour purging fire over discernment, with rumours spreading that mercy was weakness. Nuru disagreed. To him, Photon’s blaze without Graviton’s stillness was imbalance, and imbalance courted catastrophe. Lately, though, he had noticed a faint dimming in his own radiance. It was barely perceptible, like a candle’s flicker in a draft, but he felt it. He told no one. Perhaps it was punishment, reflection, or simply his imagination. Truth be told, he does not know but it lingers in the corners of meditation, a reminder that even light could waver.

Rather than abandon the Circle, he stayed. His superiors sent him on solo assignments, part test, part sidelining, expecting the darkness to harden him. Instead, each mission has strengthened his conviction. He sees value in precision over slaughter, protection over spectacle, balance over zeal. To those who fear his order, his name is becoming a quiet reassurance instead of a warning.

When the Starfinder Society requested aid from the Meridian Circle, his superiors agreed to send an envoy as a gesture of faith and cooperation. Nuru was the obvious choice, respected enough to represent them, distant enough not to be missed. For him, the posting was more than duty; it was a chance to act freely beyond the Circle’s growing zeal, to see the wider currents of the cosmos, and perhaps to understand why his own light had begun to waver.

---

Personality Description
Tranquil, devout, and stubborn in the soft way. Nuru is a patient listener, sparing with words, fond of koans. Offers hope first, force second. Meditates before battle; in Photon he shines, in Graviton he dims, and in both he remains centred.

Friends: A handful of young initiates who quietly admire his restraint.

Enemies: Zealots within the Circle who see balance as heresy; several Devourer cult remnants.

Romantic Partners/Lovers: Romantic trysts but nothing serious

Contacts: None

---

Feats

Racial:

• Darkvision (60 ft)
• Celestial Resistance 5 (acid, cold, electricity)
• Halo/Inner Radiance (soft glow at will)

Chosen:

• Weapon Focus (Solar Weapon)
• Mind over Magic
• Iron Will

Spells/Talents

• Stellar Rush (Photon)
• Defy Gravity (Graviton)

---

Attributes & Skills

• Strength 16 (10 base +2 Class +4 points)
• Dexterity 12 (10 base +2 points)
• Intelligence 10 (10 base)
• Wisdom 11 (10 base +1 point)
• Charisma 18 (10 base +4 Aasimar +2 Class +2 point)
• Constitution 11 (10 base +1 point)

• (DEX) Acrobatics 0
• (STR) Athletics 3 (1 Class + 2 point)
• (CHA) Bluff 2 (+ 2 point)
• (INT) Computers 0
• (INT) Culture 0
• (CHA) Diplomacy 4 (+ 4 point)
• (CHA) Disguise 2 (+ 2 point)
• (INT) Engineering 0
• (CHA) Intimidate 3 (1 Class + 2 point)
• (INT) Life Science 0
• (INT) Medicine 0
• (WIS) Mysticism 2 (+ 2 point)
• (WIS) Perception 4 (1 Class + 3 point)
• (INT) Physical Science 0
• (DEX) Piloting 2 (+ 2 point)
• (CHA/INT/WIS) Profession 3 (+ 3 point)
• (WIS) Sense Motive 4 (1 Class + 3 point)
• (DEX) Sleight of Hand 0
• (DEX) Stealth 0
• (WIS) Survival 0

Redshift Blues

Gravel - The Black Lung

Adrastea-1 wasn’t a place anyone chose to live. It was a rock built for extraction, not comfort - a chunk whose purpose was to be strip-mined down to its bones and left hollow by generations of tired hands. The surface was a dust-blown sprawl of domed habitats stitched together by service tunnels and cargo lines, all humming under the orange glow of Jupiter’s endless gaze. Inside, everything rattled - the vents, the lighting, the people; nothing ever really stopped moving.

Gravel and Big Mo moved through the refinery concourse, boots clanging against the grated deck. Somewhere below, the two could feel the drills chewing at the rock, a low, constant groan that bled through the floor and into the bones. The corridors sweated condensation, and the walls were plastered with peeling safety posters, each of them stamped with the logo of some long-defunct mining corp. As they cut through the crowd, the miners’ faces told the same story: blank, bruised, force fed with scraps and broken dreams. Their coveralls stained grey-brown from work that never really washed off.

Jovian corp policy kept it simple, people were cheaper than robots. After all, machines needed upkeep, their parts were both sophisticated and expensive, especially for a mining project this size. They also didn’t care for liquor, stims, or the promise of a better life. Flesh broke down just as fast, but there were far more ways for their overlords to skin that cat.

Why spend fortunes on obedient machines when you could build an economy of addicts who paid for their own chains? Keep ‘em hooked, keep ‘em hopeful, and they’d buy the very poison that kept them docile. The debt came standard, same as the housing, the food, the air they breathed. And all of it circled back to the corps, clean and profitable.

Everest had sent Gravel rockside to "sniff around for work," though the old man already knew where to start. Rix Harrow. A former associate from Callisto days.

Now, there wasn’t much worth smuggling into Adrastea; the miners already had their vices, and they were too doped and indebted to need more. Gravel wasn’t about to waste his time with that approach. Instead, he was here to see if there was anything left of the old Rix under all that corporate polish.

If Harrow could get his hands on a private vein, a stash of ore or rare metals that could quietly slip off the books, there’d be helios in it. Not a mountain of treasure, mind you, but enough of a profit to keep the boat afloat a while longer. Mo was the kind of man who could tell you if a deal like that was worth the trouble, which was why Gravel had brought him along.

“Keep your eyes open,” Gravel said on the way down. “All we need to do is plant the seed, see if the bastard has any creativity left in ‘im.”

Mo kept pace beside him, silent but alert, nodding along to the boss's advice.

Rix had once been a mover for the Syndic Eight. He was clever, slippery, and always good at spinning vice into helios. When the Commonwealth decided it was easier to regulate their trade rather than kill it, he did what Voith could never, and kissed the ring. Now he peddled the same stims under a new banner, every gram logged, taxed in their own way, and blessed by corpo law. A legitimate businessman, on paper. A domesticated wolf.

Gravel still remembered him as a tall, wiry bastard with silver caps on his teeth and a laugh like a busted engine. Word was, time hadn’t been kind.

“Hard to believe he’s still breathin’,” Mo muttered, half to himself.

“Men like Harrow don’t die,” Gravel replied. “They just crawl from under one rock to another.”

Passing under a half-dead neon sign, it buzzed overhead blinking THE BLACK LUNG through the haze. It was one of the few joints on Adrastea-1 where you could buy both a shot and a stim legally, courtesy of Harrow’s corporate license.

Inside, the heat hit like a wall. The air reeked of ethanol and stale atmosphere, a metallic bite from the haggard ventilators fighting a losing battle against smoke. The lighting was a sickly amber, barely cutting through the smog. Tables were patched metal, their surfaces etched with years of knife scores and spilled chemicals. A low, repetitive track thrummed from the wall speakers - music made to fill silence, not to be heard.

Rix was where Gravel expected him, back corner, under a dim bulb, flanked by two off-shift loaders. The rumours proved to be true, age had softened him, but not kindly. His once slick hairline had retreated far back, his frame thinned almost unbelievably, and his silver teeth had dulled to tarnish. But his eyes, sharp, predatory, hadn’t lost their shine.

Gravel slowed, scanning the room out of habit. No Syndic colours, no obvious muscle. Just miners, drinkers, the usuals. He nodded once to Mo. “Stay close. Let him talk first.”

As they crossed the room, Harrow looked up, recognition flickering like a dying wick. His grin came slow, crooked.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he rasped, voice almost as rough as Gravel himself. “Didn’t think you of all people would crawl off Callisto alive.”

Stopping by the table, Gravel waved him off with a faint scoff. “Pfft. If you call this livin’, I’d rather be stuck in a grave.”

Harrow barked a laugh and kicked an empty seat out from the table. “Sit, old dog. Let’s see if we can’t make a little business outta the past.”

Gravel sat, coat settling around him like a shadow. Mo took post by the wall, silent, watching.

The air between them hung thick with history - half friendship, half rivalry.

Redshift Blues

Gravel History Garran “Gravel” Voith was born on Callisto in 2120, at the heart of Jovian industry. He grew up amid the black-market boom of stimulants, the lifeblood of independence during the Jovian Secession. Factories needed their workers awake around the clock to fuel economic freedom from Sol and Garran quickly learned that selling what the corporations needed was worth far more than their own rules. By his twenties, he was moving contraband in bulk, not just stims but anything that was worth slipping past tariffs and duties. He bribed officials to scrub names from blacklists, compensated inspectors enough to forget their jobs and turned a decent portion of Callisto’s streets into his personal marketplace. By the 2140s, Garran had been folded into a Jovian outlaw guild, The Syndic Eight, one of the most powerful networks that dominated piracy, smuggling and contraband across Jovian space. His success earned him a strong seat at the council table, where his voice carried real weight. The guild gave him protection, legitimacy and the resources to expand. When one of his corporate allies was posted to a pivotal Transit Anchor, Garran leveraged that connection to build a smuggling fleet, stretching his influence far beyond Callisto. For decades, he was indispensable, the man who could move all kinds of cargo, hush up a scandal and make your shipment appear in the right hands. Yet his reputation wasn’t only forged in boardrooms and back alleys. Garran was a duelist, infamous for settling disputes at gunpoint. The nickname “Gravel” came from a throat wound that left his voice ruined, wearing it as a badge of survival. For years, he balanced his roles, guild elder, smuggler-king and the last man you wanted to face across ten paces. But power has a half-life. Over time, his senior contacts aged out of their positions and were replaced by younger, sharper faces. The guild itself began to change, corporatised, polished, no longer built for bruisers and gunmen like Garran. Rivals muscled into his markets while he refused to split his attention between planet and space, losing ground in both. Jovian's corporate overlords shifted their stance, legalising and taxing stimulants that had once made him rich. And finally, the Bloc Crisis slammed Sol blocspace into lockdown, severing Anchor routes that his trade depended on. His empire didn’t collapse in a blaze; it withered. Contracts dried up, favours went unreturned and younger guild members adapted where he could not. For a man who always imagined he’d go out in a blaze of glory, the quiet erosion of his legacy was unbearable. Garran turned to the very substances he once sold, drowning his bitterness in drink and stimulants. It was inevitable he’d pick a fight. Half-drunk, half-spun, he challenged a rival duelist to prove he wasn’t finished. Instead, he lost, badly. An ironically cruel bit mercy kept him alive, forcing him to walk away with broken pride and shoddy implants that barely held him together. Now, in 2178, Garran is no longer a guild elder, kingpin, or feared gunslinger. Instead, he's a consigliere. A relic of another era, too dangerous to dismiss, too ruined to lead. His hands are unsteady, his contacts are old but his tongue is still sharp and his mind still knows every trick of the Anchor lanes. Personality & Reputation Cynical survivor. Garran has seen syndicates rise and fall and corporate masters shuffle in and out. It’s left him pragmatic, sardonic and slow to trust idealists. Bravado masking bitterness. He clings to swagger and sharp wit but the shine is gone. Sometimes it seems as if he’s trying to convince himself he’s still dangerous. Respected… but pitied. Older spacers remember him as a ruthless smuggler and quick-draw duelist. Younger ones see only the bottle, the tremor and the man who lost the duel that broke him. Addictive personality. He doesn’t just drink and stim, he chases risk, arguments and conflict. Garran is addicted to being important and spirals when he isn’t. Despite all this, he’s still invaluable in the right role. The consigliere who knows when to cut a deal, when to stall and when to pull the trigger. Appearance Age: 58. Build: Broad but slouched, the frame of a man who once commanded presence. Softened by age, stimulants, and drink. Cybernetics: Left arm replaced with outdated Callisto-made augments. Plating worn smooth, servos sometimes glitch. Facial subdermal patches from the final duel, one eye slightly offset, leaving him with a permanent squint. Style: Wears outdated Solar syndicate fashion long high-collared coats, battered jewellery, boots with old-world flair. Notable detail: His voice is his most recognisable feature, gravelly, broken, like every word costs effort. It’s equal parts unsettling and iconic. Aura: The smell of smoke, old liquor and ozone from overworked implants. The kind of presence that enters a room before he speaks. Strengths & Limitations Strengths Connections: Decades of favours, bribes and deals mean he still knows people across Sol and Jovian blocs. Negotiator: Reads people fast, knows what they want and how to twist it. Half threats, half persuasion. Street wisdom: Can smell a setup, spot a mark and tell when someone’s lying. Instincts honed by surviving long after he should’ve been dead. Still dangerous. Though slower now, if given time to steady his hands, he can still put a shot exactly where it needs to go. Limitations Declining body: Tremors, dulled reflexes and fading stamina. He’s not built for long firefights anymore. Addiction: Dependent on drink and stimulants. Sharp when dosed right, unstable when he isn’t. Paranoia: Convinced everyone’s working an angle. Sure, he's often right but it makes him abrasive. Relic mentality: Stuck in old ways of doing business. Resistant to new methods or tech, which could frustrate other crew. Miscellaneous Criminal record: Long list of smuggling, racketeering, Anchor fraud and bodily harm charges across Federation space. Cybernetics: Callisto arm, patchwork implants from his duel loss, out-of-date and prone to malfunctions. Belongings: - A battered, customised hand-cannon he still carries (symbol of pride, even if his hand shakes). - A deck of old-fashioned playing cards, yellowed with age. Reputation nicknames: “Gravel” for his ruined voice but also “The Old Dog” in some circles, usually muttered with a mix of mockery and respect. Fun fact: Carries around an empty stim-vial on a chain like a talisman. Supposedly the first batch he ever sold, though more likely it’s just a reminder of when he mattered.

____________________________________________________________________________ ◤ “I ain't dead yet.” Full Name: Garran “Gravel” Voith Age: 58 Homeworld: Callisto (Jovian Commonwealth) Occupation: Consigliere, former crime boss Affiliation(s): Former Jovian crime syndicates, The Syndic Eight, currently serving aboard the Dullahan

Crew Opinions

Everest

Met the kid in a bar - where else. Walked in like fresh meat, barely knew which way was up, and already had half the room sizing him for a coffin. Would’ve been a short story if I hadn’t stepped in. Don’t know why I did. Habit, maybe. Or maybe I just wanted to see how he’d spin it.

He talked to me straight. No polish, no act. Spilled the whole rotten truth about how he got his ship, and it weren’t clean. Underhanded, some would say. Smart, I’d say. Shows a streak of grit under the green, and that caught me. World don’t reward honesty, but there he was, laying it all out on the table like he thought someone might care.

I almost sent him packing anyway. Kid didn’t know what he was asking for, not really. But I was already a few drinks deep and wallowing in my own ghosts, and damned if it didn’t sound like something worth stickin’ around to see. Might be he burns out fast, might be he learns to swim. Either way, it’s a story I ain’t heard before, and that counts for somethin’ these days.

Vĩnh

Too clean. First day aboard I pegged her for the type that irons her socks, if she wears any. Straight back, straight words, everything in order. Which begs the question: what the hell’s she doin’ here? Nobody signs on with this crew for the pension.

So I dug. On the surface she reads just like she wants it to, law school, clerk work, résumé polished bright as a badge. Nothing under the nails. But Callisto’s small, and I’ve got friends in smaller places. Turns out our little steward’s been knockin’ on basement doors after all. Not for chrome or edge, just carbon-fibre sticks, blacked-out eyes, and meds. Not the fun kind either. Folk remembered her ‘cause she was boring. Boring, and desperate.

Now she’s here, pouring coffee and pretending she ain’t knee-deep in the muck with the rest of us. Can hear it in the way she talks at me, polite, careful, like I’m poison she don’t wanna breathe. Calls me ‘Mr. Gravel.’ Cute. She don’t like me, not a bit. That’s fine.

What grinds is the hypocrisy. Wants to believe she’s still clean, but you don’t swim with sharks and act surprised when you spot one.

I’ll keep what I found close. No sense showin’ a whole hand. Maybe she’s useful, maybe she ain’t. Time’ll tell. But I’ll be watchin’. Always do.

KC

Can’t look at her too long. Not ‘cause of the scars or the shakes, I’ve seen worse, been worse, but because it’s like starin’ in a busted mirror. Not your face comin’ back, but everything you’ve done, bent out of shape. I don’t want it shoved in front of me.

She’s sittin’ there with that crooked grin, jitter in her shoulders, eyes too wide, and all I see is the echo of choices. My choices. Things I pushed, things I let slide. And maybe that’s just the liquor talkin’, maybe I’m seein’ ghosts where there ain’t any, but it bites.

Don’t wanna think on it too long. So I turn away. Order another. Let the burn do its work. Easier than askin’ the questions I already know the answers to.

Laughtrack

Another kid, and this one don’t shut up. Sit with him a few minutes and you’ll hear his life story five times in five different ways, swearing on his own bones each one’s the truth. Scrap-rat grin, voice bouncing, laughs like he’s got a detonator wired to his lungs. Some folk find it infectious. Me? I figure all that chatter, all those stories, ain’t for us at all. It’s for him. A way to drown out the quiet. Better than hittin’ the bottle, I guess.

Can’t deny the nerve, though. Treats the black like it’s his second skin. Crawls into wrecks no sane soul would touch, straps charges to bulkheads like he’s stringin’ up party streamers. And somehow, somehow, he always comes back with something worth the trouble. Scrap, gear, even a body if it’s worth the drag. That kind of consistency, I can respect.

Chef

Chef. Straightforward name, straightforward job. Every ship needs someone to keep the crew fed, keep the edge off the grind. First look at him online, he’s plain as dust. Job logs, rental slips, the kind of paper trail that says ‘average man.’

But I don’t shake an itch easy. Scratch deeper and you find talk of a restaurant on Ganymede that went under. Depending on who you ask, he was either the mastermind running a front or just another sap strung along. Truth’s probably somewhere in the middle. Figure that’s how he washed up here.

Still, credit where it’s due. Man works hard, no fuss, no drama, and a hot meal can go far in this life. Crew eats better than most ships I’ve been on. I’ll keep that story of his in my back pocket for now. He’s useful, steady. Not a problem, unless he decides to be one.

Ringworm

Centaurian blocspace, where they don’t just raise men, they grow ’em like crops. Hard to run a smuggling line in a place like that; ain’t just the patrols, it’s the people. When the dockworker’s bred to load crates and the clerk’s bred to tally ‘em, there ain’t much appetite for what you’re selling. Not that I was scared of trying, just knew there's no profit in bangin’ your head against a wall with no seams.

Not to mention the stories that came back from the few pirates who tried. Squads that never bent or broke? Enough to make even the boldest of men think twice.

And now I’m lookin’ at Ringworm, product of all that. Muscle stitched with steel, eyes like a drill bit, steady as a gun mount. Funny thing, that kid Laughtrack keeps whisperin’ I’m the robot, but this one? Closest thing I've seen to it. Makes me wonder: is he here ‘cause he chose to be, or is he just a leashed Centaurian? A quiet reminder the Triarchy’s still got their hand on our reins.

NPC's

Big Mo
Every man in this line of work’s got a “guy.” The one you call when the heat’s on and the goods need to walk themselves into clean hands. Big Mo was mine. Reliable as the sun rising. Didn’t matter if it was guns, chems, or scrap stamped with the wrong seal, Mo could make it vanish into the system and come out the other end lookin’ like it belonged there.

He was easy to shape, too. Burned by the Feds, unable to chew through the bullshit of Jovian boardrooms, but still hungry enough for fast helios. Perfect mix. Of course, didn’t hurt that he looked like he could crush a skull without setting down his clipboard. Half the time, folks saw him coming and assumed muscle; never realised the real danger was the paperwork he carried.

Mo wasn’t one for the thick of it, and I never asked him to be. Better off behind the crates than in front. I kept him out of trouble, let him do what he did best. And now? Couldn’t imagine shipping out without him. Would feel like I’d lost another arm.

Brenko
Some folk you don’t need to talk to in order to understand them. Brenko’s one of ’em. First day aboard, we traded a nod and that was all. Haven’t needed more since. Man’s got the same weight in his stare I’ve carried half my life.

We got common ground: corps are a stain upon the 'verse. Difference is, he don’t dress it up. No talk of crusades or futures, just helios on the table. He’s pure pragmatist, colder than me in that way. I still cling to the idea there’s more to it than coin. Brenko? Man’s honest enough not to bother.

I respect it. And I respect the silence. Could sit across a table from him for hours without a word and it wouldn’t be awkward, just steady. But part of me, the part that still itches for old thrills, can’t help but wonder what’d happen if steel cleared leather. He’s one of the few that I think could've walked ten paces with me. The thought makes me smile. A duel worth the blood.

Doc
The Doc. Every ship’s got one, ‘cause bullets and blades don’t care if you’ve got a good cook or a sharp pilot. This one though, he ain’t your usual back-alley sawbones. Too much skill in the hands, too much calm in the eyes. Don’t fit the shit he works in.

I’ve heard the stories back on Callisto - malpractice, theft, experiments, corruption. Take your pick, everyone’s got a version. I keep that dirt to myself. No sense spreading it, not yet. What matters is he’s here now, and he works cheap.

But I don’t miss how his scalpel lingers. Man enjoys his work a little too much, looks at a wound like it’s a Rubik's Cube. And that kind of curiosity? Don’t sit right. Makes me feel like I’m the specimen under glass. I’ve lived too long in this life to take kindly to that.

Auz's Lot

Kysar Cont.

Pre-SRN History

Since the Unification Wars of 500CE, Turians had worn their Colony Insignias with pride. Despite their xenophobic past, the face tattoos of their species took on a new meaning after the end of the war. Even though they were now one society, working towards one single goal, their individual homes still mattered and were something to be proud of. Barefaced was the derogatory term coined for those born without such privilege. Unlucky Turians who slipped through the gaps of their great hierarchical machine were shunned and harshly labelled as untrustworthy. Outcast, these individuals banded together to form small knit communities, often creating slums in the far corners of cities on Palaven. Despite their position and treatment, these Turians still dedicated themselves to society at large by often taking remedial roles such as cleaners, garbage collectors and menial labourers.

It was here, in one of these communities on Palaven, that Kysar Proctus was born to a poor mother and ailing father. Marcellus, Kysar’s father, was born with a genetic abnormality in which his ‘exoskeleton’ like plating was significantly less dense than that of regular Turians. Doomed to a life of poor health and unable to fulfil any role in supporting the Hierarchy, the Turian was given up for adoption by a prominent family at a young age. Unfortunately, the noticeable poor formation of his plating made selection near impossible, so in the end he was given to one of Palaven’s casteless communes. It was here in this community of barefaced Turians where he met Savita, Kysar’s mother.

Curious, fierce and passionate, Savita was the life of the party, full of energy and bouncing off the walls. Opposites attracted and from a young age the two were inseparable, with admiration turning to love during their adolescence. Despite their numerous adversities, the two had a whirlwind romance, the kind songs dream of, choosing to marry at quite a young age. With Marcellus unable to work, Savita took whatever jobs she could, often monkey branching from contract to contract. There, during one of her roles as a labourer to an offworld shipping yard, she fell pregnant with Kysar. They were both overjoyed at the news and even more so when Savita gave birth to a healthy baby boy. For the next two years, the family lived in absolute bliss.

Sadly, Marcellus was not long for the world, developing an invasive and aggressive cancer that riddled the poor Turians body. He died not long after, leaving Savita broken-hearted and with a boy to raise all on her own. Life had handed her lemons but the woman never complained, finding solace in the life they had shared and determined to give the living reminder of her husband a better life than either of them were ever afforded. Savita did her best to preserve the memory of Kysar’s father and pushed the boy to become something more. At 15 Kysar was made to apply for the military alongside the majority of Turians his age. Life in the military would either make or break him, Savita thought but adolescence had been kind to the boy who was a foot taller and a decent chunk wider than most. Little did she know, it would do both.

Barefaced. That was the name the others gave him, even his instructors. They did everything they could to bring Kysar down. On top of rigorous and gruelling training, he was given the worst duties, from latrine duty to cleaning the mess alone. Bullied wherever he went, he was constantly being physically challenged by groups of kids at a time. At first, he took it, believing that that’s what a true Turian would do. Stand with honour against the slings and arrows of others, never swaying in conviction. A noble but unrealistic view, it wasn’t long before Kysar learned the grim reality of torture, that everyone breaks eventually.

One evening, after a particularly long and hard day of training, Kysar was cleaning the latrines when several other Turians entered. Fresh from a bout of hand to hand training, the group were keen to test their ability, cornering Kysar, with the leader of the clique challenging him one on one. The teenager knew it was a trap, even if he bested their leader or came close to it, the others would join in and he would return back to his cot covered in bruises. He tried to walk away but the others encircled him, their leader calling him every name in the book, throwing the odd jab here and there. It wasn’t until they began on his mother that the group really got underneath his skin. Shoving the leader back, the group pounced, fists and feet flying everywhere as they pummelled Kysar into the wall. It was there, in that moment, that the young Turian thought of his mother, ashamed that he had failed her and the memory of his father. He knew she wanted more from him but he could no longer abstain from temptation.

Anger surged through him like lightning as a blue light enveloped his being. The more they punched, the stronger the light grew, finally erupting with a roar from Kysar. The others flew back through stalls and walls, each of them receiving some sort of serious injury. The Turian had just discovered he was a biotic.

Branches shifted with Kysar being made to train with the Cabals. Life was harder and more physical than ever before. Here they were pushed to be the best of the best and there was no room, or tolerance, for weakness of any kind. Trainees were to be ground into dust so they could be remade from clay anew. Still an outcast, Kysar was no longer left behind. Trained in everything from infiltration to piloting, a Cabal was only as strong as its weakest link. His Kabalim, Inventus Scipio, was one of the best. The ageing Turian always seemed to churn out the cream of the crop but was often mired in controversy. He was obsessed with personal glory and seemingly clung to this feeling by constantly putting his own needs above that of hierarchy.

Regardless, Kysar was finally becoming the Turian he had always dreamt of. The Cabal moved past training and into live scenarios. Their first assignment handed to them by Scipio was to infiltrate a recently formed smuggling ring. Turian military hardware was being sold to the Blue Suns by an unknown official and it was their job to find out who. Kysar was chosen to make contact with a long standing inside man they had placed within the Suns, who would then accompany him during weapon sales. The goal was to offer them the same hardware at a better price, hopefully drawing their competitor out of the shadows or at least gathering more information about them. The rest of the group would play supporting roles, keeping an eye on hand offs from the shadows and finding what they could through any other means. Kysar played the role of smuggler for years, gathering all the evidence he could but was always seemingly one step behind his faux rival. It wasn’t until a deal went wrong that the Turian found out why.

Deep in the hidden corridors of the Citadel, the usual suspects met to complete the transaction. A crate of Armax Arsenal was on offer, being sold for a quarter of what they were worth on the open market. The deal unfolded just like any other until officers from C-Sec swooped in from all sides. Outgunned and outmanned, the few there surrendered, with Kysar coming in without issue. In the interrogation room, the Turian spilled out their sting operation, angry that C-Sec had interfered with Cabal operations. The officers retorted with an investigation of their own, dropping a huge vanilla folder packed to the brim with evidence. They claimed that there was no ‘other smuggling ring’, only his. Laid out before him were logs upon logs of evidence, claiming that Kysar had gone rogue due to his mistreatment in the military, highlighting the incidents reported during his youth as a root cause. They then went on to show how the report of the original smuggling ring was doctored, an excuse to launch a venture of his own.

It was impossible, the Turian claimed, he couldn’t have co-ordinated this by himself as a mere trainee. Plus, the others in his Cabal could also vouch for him, they too were put on assignment and Scipio had all their proof collected. The C-Sec officers then produced further evidence; no one in his Cabal, bar Kysar, had been assigned to any such thing. The truth finally dawned on the young Turian when his Kabalim entered the room. Scipio played the victim, disgusted by his students choices, condemning him as a Turian and claiming that he knew he shouldn’t have allowed a barefaced into the program. The case was airtight and of course the money from the smuggling had disappeared into the ether. Now there was just one loose end to take care of. Invictus asked for the officers to clear the room, releasing Kysar to make it appear as if he had broken free. When asked why he did it, Scipio simply laughed, it was the money of course, the military paid like shit and…

Kysar ignited, hitting his former instructor with a slam mid speech. The Kabalim hit the floor with such force, his side arm came loose. The young Turian was quick to collect it and even quicker to fire, killing the older of the two. When interviewed later, officers would ask Kysar why, if he was truly innocent, would he kill Scipio.

“I knew the score.” Kysar replied. “He betrayed us all and was going to get away with it. There was no choice, not really.”

With murder of a senior official added to the charge list, Kysar was sent to Purgatory. Despite the claim of the prison’s warden, the floating penal colony was easier on the Turian than his time in the military. The guards, mostly made up of his own kind, were quick to resurrect his old label of barefaced. Though, finally off the leash, any inmate who repeated such a thing was killed unless the guards got there first. Held over the course of several years, the Turian earned a reputation just shy of their meanest inmate, Jack. Perhaps inspired by the best, he also allowed other human inmates to tattoo his face, seeing it as a final ‘fuck you’ to the customs that had plagued him his whole life. He may have been clanless but at least he was now his own Turian.

Freedom came shortly after, when Shepard’s release of Jack brought the entire prison crashing down around them. Overpowering a guard moments after the kerfuffle began, Kysar managed to acquire a gun, using it to force his way onto one of the few lifeboats on board. Ejecting from the doomed vessel alone, the Turian fled the system, charting a course for Palaven. Instead of choosing to go on the run, Kysar returned to the Hierarchy in a bid to honour Turian tradition and try to clear his name once and for all. Impressed with the soldier’s survivability, the powers that be promptly threw him back into military prison, resealing his case without further investigation. There he remained until the Reaper invasion.

Attacking several systems at once, the Reapers moved quickly to overwhelm both the Batarian and Human forces. Striking at the Turians next, Taetrus fell before the Hierarchy could lift a finger. With the realisation of just what they were up against dawning on every species, the brass was quick to enact a sweeping declaration. All hands were needed on deck and those in military prison had a chance of freedom if they signed up for the ‘Extreme Tactical Insertion Squads’, colloquially known as suicide squads. Not wishing to die in prison, Kysar signed and was assigned to a squad of 15 others. Their first task was to wait as Fleets 29 through 32 retook the Mactare Relay then they would follow with a planet invasion of Taetrus.

Warp bombs were sent via the relay to clear the enemy laying in wait on the other side. The Hierarchy’s tactic of smothering the enemy with overwhelming force was employed with the fleets performing a mass jump. What followed was horrific. Live videos were broadcasted from the Reapers as they tore the fleets apart, followed by more footage of them saturating ground forces planet side. The order for reinforcements to be sent through the relay came just as the Reapers appeared, Palaven side.

Kysar’s mission was scrapped, with his new one being to report for active duty on Manae. There, he and his squad were put to the test by clearing LZ’s and scouting positions for forward bases. Unable to get a communication away from his mother on Palaven, Kysar's request to be redeployed to the surface was denied. The fighting on Manae continued, even after the assassination of their Primarch and the flight of their newly appointed General turned politician. They were ordered to hold for as long as possible until reinforcements arrived.

Doing so in the most unexpected fashion, re-supply came in the form of Krogans who hit the planet's surface running. Together, ground forces on Palaven pushed back the Reapers and gained significant ground. It was a huge morale boost for the Turians with Kysar and squad being ordered to return to orbit and link up with 6th Fleet. There they’d assault the Cerberus held world of Aephus, infiltrating and downing several anti-air batteries, allowing the fleet to take back the surface and send the human terrorist organisation packing.

A final order was given for the Turians dwindling squad to meet up for a final assault on Earth. Linking up with an armada of galactic forces, Kysar’s mission was to assist the human’s in a direct assault on London. They were to reach a forward base in the capital before participating in a final attack on a heavily fortified Reaper position. Saddled up, the crew made it far enough to be dropped from orbit in one of many Kodiaks. Reaper resistance was fierce as the crew approached the FOB, with flak from AA darkening the sky. Just as their target crested the horizon, the crew were winged by shrapnel, sending the carrier careening towards the ground. Crash-landing in the desolate city, they were quickly engaged by Reaper ground forces, pushing the five survivors of Kysar’s squad into a nearby office building. Doing what they could, the Turian’s barricaded the door. Attempting to establish communication with command, all they were met with was the static of white noise.

Stranded on a foreign world in the middle of a warzone, the squad began to panic. Kysar tempered their fear by suggesting that they head to the roof. The building was effectively a maze, the Reapers could lose track of them and a visible line of sight would help them reconnect with their main objective. With everyone in agreement, the crew made their way up a single floor, only to bump into a small family of surviving humans. Two children, a boy and a girl, a young woman and a man begged Kysar’s squad for help. The husband was in a bad way, bleeding heavily from a gunshot to the gut, they had been caught in the commotion caused by the Turians crash landing. The others in the squad were quick to dismiss them, there was little hope for them as things were without the anchoring of civilians.

Kysar, on the other hand, couldn’t help but draw a parallel between the humans. It was something about the way the wife dragged her husband along, something in her eyes that screamed determination. She wasn’t going to give up on him, just like his mother refused to give up on his father. Kysar ordered the others to go on ahead, picking up the husband and slinging him over his shoulder. He would be right behind them.

Scrambling up the stairwell, everyone moved as quickly as they could. The squad had long moved ahead when Kysar began to hear shooting. Reapers had dropped in from above, with dozens upon dozens of husks scaling the side of the building and scouring it for survivors. Ducking onto the 33rd floor, Kysar burst through the door, barricading them all in an office, preparing to make a final stand. Deciding to radio into command one final time, he received word that Shepard was aboard the Citadel and was trying to activate the Conduit. His final orders were to survive and pray to the Spirits that the human could end this. With his rifle empty, Kyser made his final stand, unleashing his biotics as husks began to break through the barrier. As hopelessness closed in around them, a blinding red light rushed from on high, blanketing the city.

The husks fell dead as Kysar, wounded but alive, returned to the office to celebrate. Sadly for the family, the Turian was only able to share in a bittersweet moment, finding the husband dead in his wife’s arms. Leaving them to their moment, Kysar climbed the stairwell to find the body of three of his comrades. Removing their dog tags, he pocketed them and returned once more to wrap the body of the man. Spotting the FOB, the survivors make their way across, meeting up and being processed with the few that remained.

Reconnecting with what was left of High Command, Kysar came to learn that their forces had committed to the restoration of the relay. Dextro rations were finite and the stranded Turian population numbers in the millions. Without possibility of resupply on Earth, returning back to their own system was their only hope. Brought before General Invectus, Kysar was told he is one of the last biotic soldiers that remained. The Cabals were all but wiped out during their high-risk missions and the Turian is needed now more than ever. Admiral Nitesh, leader of the human forces, had been making moves that left the non-human forces wary. As such Kysar’s orders were to infiltrate the ranks of the Earth forces and report back on their movements. Finding the irony hilarious, he reluctantly agrees on the written promise that if he does it, he’ll be free from prison. Accepting their arrangement, the General detailed his mission as two-fold. Several downed Turian ships had been raided by human survivors, rations had been taken and were now being sold in a black-market rings. Kysar is to do his part in dismantling this network or expose it to the correct authorities. His other mission is to keep an eye on Admiral Nitesh Singh as the Hierarchy doesn’t trust him. He’s to report anything that is ordered of him as a part of this new group that has arisen.

Other Snippets

Opinions

Zenn | Shadow
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Kysar doubts Zenn would punch him.

_{↳Hmmm. Zenn is short and so thin. Sometimes the little guy just blends into the background. Though I suppose what else are you supposed to do when your callsign is Shadow. He's also got a bit of pep to him in a firefight, so what should I call him? Maybe.. firework? Spark plug? Sparky? Eh, it'll come to me.}

_{↳Zenn. Not too long ago I was wondering what name to call him, didn't expect it to be friend. Now we're close, the do anything for each other type close. Spirits. I do wish he'd stop saying nice things about me and maybe say some more about himself. He deserves it. A good soldier, a better friend, the best man.}

Amina | Rogue
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Kysar thinks Amina will punch him at some point.

_{↳Aha man, what to call this one? So spoilt for choice here. Cerberus dog, space racist, reaper lacky, reaper lover, Illusive loyalty? I guess these are supposed to be shorter and catchy. Reapy? Ha! Cerberus was a funny group though, thinking aliens are assholes only out for themselves, only to become the biggest group of assholes out for themselves. But eh, what do I know, I'm also an asshole out for myself, so maybe she's not half wrong.}

_{↳I didn't expect Cerbs to be the wildcard. Zenobia had that crown fair and square. But Amina surprised me. Seems obvious the more I think about it. Our conversation has left me wanting more, to unravel the enigma. I think there's a lot we can learn from each other.}

Zenobia | Lunatic
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Kysar thinks Zenobia might karate chop a butterfly? (He doesn't know what crazy people will do)

_{↳This chick is bonkers (heh that's the name right there). Reading her dossier was creeeeepy. Me in another life shit. Ugh, gives me the shivers. Bonkers is alright though, just don't know why you'd want to be a part of the Eclipse aka the galaxy's cannon fodder but hey, maybe that's one reason why she's called Lunatic.}

_{↳Bonkers is still cool. I didn't know anyone was capable of wolfing down food like that. I knew Turian's couldn't sing, maybe that's why we're so serious. I think I saw her disappear with the Pinball towards the end of things. Ha! Classic Z.}

Solveig | Wraith
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Kysar would love to see Solveigs arm punch through someone (Not him though).

_{↳Gotta love Awks, she's got perseverance I'll give her that. Doing her best to connect with others in the group through awkward conversation. Maybe she feels bad for not reaching out more with our last team? I.. er.. guess I still don't know how I feel about her leaving. I, um, well? Ah shit, I think her foot in mouth syndrome is contagious.}

_{↳Awks is quite the woman. I've enjoyed watching her open up; her jokes, her awkward smiles, her efforts to talk even though she hates it. I admire her. I'm happy she's got someone like Zenn and Zenn has someone like her. It would be too obvious to talk about her as a soldier, it's the person underneath all that, she's the one worth applauding.}

Nadara | Sunset
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Kysar thinks Nadara might punch him if her eyes don't stop rolling at him.

_{↳This one is easy. Heels. The way she spends her time clomping around on those bad boys, I'm surprised the enemy don't hear her coming from a mile away. Such a picturesque portrait of an Asari. She's endlessly fun to annoy. I suppose I did let her down, though I heard her father was a Krogan. They dig scars right?}

_{↳If you'd asked me about Heels yesterday, my opinion would've been day and night to how I feel now. Can't say it's the opposite but it's good to know there's something rolling around up there. Seems like life might be a bit of a burden to her, so she tries to shrug the whole thing off. As long as she doesn't hand another one of us over to her mother we'll be ok. Although, word around base is that she's got that Matriarch charm. So maybe I wouldn't mind being handed off...}

Rebirth

Six years ago…

“He’s a slow eater.” Kysar sat, hunched over the table, looming over a book he had open on the desk. Sat opposite the Turian was a skinny human, his face long and bony as if he was sorely underfed. Also reading a book, the man brushed his long straight black hair behind his ear, using a finger to run along the page sentence by sentence.

“This is what you called me into the library for? To tell me Voeus has trouble with mastication?”

Kysar rolled his eyes at the unnecessary wording. “Kerry, c’mo- Ugh, no. It’s because he eats slowly. It means he's the last one out of the mess hall almost every time. The other guards get so sick of waiting for him that they all leave bar one.”

Kerry flipped the page of the book, raising an eyebrow as he did so. “So, what, you mean to tell me you’re planning on taking out one of Augutius’ top enforcers and a guard? That’s vacuous, even for you.”

The Turian growled, if only he could huff red hot steam out of his nose like a dragon. “Will you just shut up and listen?” The human held up his hands, gesturing he’d let it go. “The guards take turns on whoever stays behind in the mess to look after Voeus. Every second week of the month, on a Tuesday, it’s the Batarian, Krarvan.” Kysar flipped a page of his book, refusing to look anywhere else. “The guy’s got a bladder the size of a peanut and can’t hold in anything. I’ve got us kitchen duty, so you offer all the guards a nice big drink about 20 minutes before everyone starts to clear out and then we wait.”

The Turian cleared his throat, quickly looking around to make sure no one could hear them. The coast was clear. “He’ll radio someone to replace him but won’t be able to hang around long enough to do a proper switch. I test ran this last week. When he leaves the room, I’ll strike hard and fast. Voeus won’t know what hit him.”

Kerry smiled. “Venator.”

“What?” Kysar replied, his face screwing up with confusion.

“Venator. It was a position in the Roman army, an ancient human civilisation that conquered a decent chunk of the known world. These guys were expert hunters and trackers, had a natural gift for it as well as a lifetime of training. A very honourable job. It’s what you are, in fact, you’d be interested to know that it’s born of the latin word-”

“Kerry,” Kysar grabbed the edge of the human's book, making sure his pronged fingers were in view of the human’s peripherals. “Don’t do the encyclopaedia thing, we don’t have time.”

Though normally impressed, on the inside at least, the Turian was trying to be somewhat subtle and didn’t need Kerry getting locked on, spouting things he’d seen with his perfect photographic memory. Kysar had chosen the library especially, so as not to over stimulate his neuro-divergent friend with the overwhelming noise of the prison but he also did not want the man to draw any attention.

“Right, sorry Kysar.” Kerry turned another page with a sheepish look on his face. “I do have one question though, why do this? Why risk starting something with Augutius? I know he controls the next few blocks over but the guy is well connected. He also has a small army at his beckon, even you can’t kill them all. Something like that would take like a decade.”

“I reckon I could do it in five.” Kysar chuckled, smiling. “But er, um no, it’s not because of that. It’s because…” The Turian looked up from the book at Kerry. Life in Purgatory had been hell but both had landed on the inside at about the same time, sharing the cells next to each other. They’d decided to watch each other's back and as such had become almost friends. Well, as close to it as you could become in a place like that anyway. Kysar couldn’t be around Kerry 24/7 though and lately Voeus had taken issue with the human. Their last interaction in the shower room had left Kerry in a semi-serious condition in the med-bay.

The Turian felt his knuckles tighten as his mouth remained open, barely able to croak. The human looked up, catching Kysar’s straining hands. “Oh don’t tell me, it’s because he called you Bareface?”

There was a violent snap inside the Turian’s chest as his anger bubbled up. “Don’t.” He warned.

“C’mon Kysar, you’ve really got to do something about that temper. You’re a smart guy but that anger just steamrolls over everything. You can’t go starting a war all becau-”

The Turian stood, resisting the urge to pound his fist into the table, or the human’s face. “Kerry, shut the fuck up.” He hissed through gritted teeth. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The man watched as Kysar left the room, shaking his head. “And they tell me I’ve got issues processing emotion.”

---

Two Weeks Later…

The heavily mechanised door whirred, springing to life as a series of encryptions connected to its locking mechanics were solved and opened. The door smoothly and slowly opened to a cramped, dingy cell with no windows and a single bright light. Slumped in a corner with an empty look in his eyes sat Kysar. The plan had gone off without a hitch, Voeus was dead and the Turian had been thrown into solitary confinement. Unlocking the shackles from around his feet, the guards grabbed Kysar from under his arms and began dragging him back to his cell.

As with most fresh out of isolation, it would take tens of metres before the Turian could walk on his own two feet. He had been starved, beaten and mentally tortured. The light in his cell never shut off and the room was too small to lie down completely flat in. With no furniture or any level of stimulation, two weeks felt like two years.

Almost back at his cell, Kysar found his feet and tried shrugging off the guards grip to walk on his own. The Turian was too weak though and the two men threw him down, back into his cell. Coughing, Kysar sat up as the doors closed and put his back against the bars, calling out for Kerry.

“Hey! Ker-” The Turian was interrupted by a round of coughing, quickly remembering he hadn’t spoken to another soul in two weeks. Slowly making his way over to the sink, he cupped some water in his hand and began to gently drink. After finishing, Kysar approached the bars again, standing and leaning on them. “Kerry? Spirits; you there? Have you had too good a week without me?”

“Shut the fuck up!” A fearsome growl came deep from within the cell next door. Way too deep for Kerry or any other human for that matter. What? A Batarian?

“Where’s the human? Did they transfer him after the incident two weeks ago?”

The Batarian chuckled, a long and slimy whine from the back of his throat. “Your human friend is dead. Word is that Augutius saw to it personally. I heard they did him nice and slow, slit his cheeks open, pulled out an eye, took fingernails and teeth.” The creature stopped, his laugh interrupting him. “Ohhh that boy suffered. Augutius wanted to send a message…”

Suddenly the bars began to move, disappearing into the walls as both cells opened. Kysar backed away, moving further into his cell, his face expressionless. Deep within his mind the words of the Batarian replayed over and over. His friend was dead. His friend had been brutally tortured to death. His friend was dead and it was his fault.

A wound began to open up deep inside. As if someone had pulled the plug from a drain and now everything that had made the Turian who he was, was now circling it. One by one pieces of him fell away as an icy grip breezed over him like a dry ice mist.

Standing in the doorway, the Batarian snarled, closing in on Kysar with a makeshift shiv in his hand. Flourishing back and forth, he flipped the knife in a threatening motion. And yet, the Turian stood still, his face giving away no expression, just frozen like a statue. The stranger closed the gap between them and with a vicious thrust, the knife slipped into Kysar like butter, stabbing him in the side of the abdomen.

The Turian made no noise, only looking down to see the shiv stuck inside of him before meeting the eyes of the Batarian. The stranger smiled, his needlepoint teeth salivating. Kysar felt… nothing. No hate, no anger, there was nothing left, except death. In a flash, the Turian’s hand shot from his side, grabbing the intruder’s hand and the handle of the shiv in one swift movement. With an iron-like grip, he held both in place as he snatched the creature by the scruff of his top. Pulling the Batarian in, Kysar met his nose with his own forehead, causing a sickening crunch.

Falling to the floor, the intruder wailed out in pain. Kysar, without a word or an expression, removed the knife from his side and in one fell swoop, slashed the bastard's throat. Removing his bedsheet, he cut a small bandage for himself and twisted the rest into a kind of rope. Tying it around the Batarians ankle, the Turian went out to the balcony and tied the other end to the railing. His row of cells overlooked their wings’ yard, everybody in the whole block could see what Kysar was doing. Flinging the body over the edge, prisoners began to whoop as Batarian hung there, being bled dry.

With a message of his own, Kysar had begun a crusade of vengeance.

---

Five years later…

Warden Kuril sat high above his subordinates in the prison's control room. His chair resembled more of a throne with plush, comfortable leather, adorned with silk capes that draped from its armrests and back. The space itself was laid out in a stair-like formation, with each level down deemed less and less important. No one sat at the top level with the Warden. To even approach the Turian meant you were met with daggering eyes and a great big sneer.

Hanlen Kibbolt, the Warden’s Second in command, could never bring herself to look up as she climbed to his side. A nervous mess of a woman, she had permanent beads of sweat on her forehead. Kuril enjoyed watching her squirm and grovel at his side. “Er.. Sir, we have an issue with one of the inmates.”

The Warden snorted a laugh. “All of these beasts have issues Hanlen, it’s why they’re here.”

The woman shifted, what had begun as beads of sweat had now turned into a river. “Yes, of course Sir, sorry, Sir. It’s just that, well,” she paused, placing a datapad on the armrest of the Warden. Hanlen was never allowed to hand him something directly. “This one is causing us extra issues.”

Lazily, Kuril picked up the pad, flicking through the personnel file of inmate 14677. “Hanlen, I’m running an entire prison of these primitive animals. Why are you talking to me about one single inmate?” The Warden sighed, tossing the datapad on the ground for his Second to retrieve.

“Well, Sir,” she said, as she bent down. “His name is Kysar Proctus and he’s taken out several high profile inmates. Totally wiped out the block king, Augutius and his gang. It’s cost us quite a large chunk of investment.”

The Warden gripped the arms of his chair tightly, grumbling as he swung around to face his Second. “So?! Just bill the Hierarchy to make up the difference? Do you really need me to tell you how to do your job?”

The Second gulped, using her sleeve to wipe away the now ocean of sweat on her forehead. “Um, well, Sir, that’s the issue. The Hierarchy won’t pay up anymore for the inmate and he’s not exactly a threat to civilians like some of our other inmates are, so we’re unable to cajole them.”

The Warden roared, standing to his feet and grabbing the rail in front of him. “These disgusting creatures, can’t they see what I’m trying to do here? What I’m trying to build? They’re lucky they’re little cash cows or so help me I’d just space all of them.”

Kuril’s eyebrows raised as the Turian had an ‘aha!’ moment. Turning back to his Second, he hissed. “There’s your answer Hanlen, we simply cut our losses with the inmate. Have them tossed into the void.”

Suddenly an alert sounded off in the room as a yellow warning light flashed.

“Cerberus ship on approach, Sir.” One of the subordinates stationed near the bottom called out.

The Warden stopped, sitting back down in his chair. “Belay that request Hanlen, we can see to it after. I need to focus all our resources on this next guest. This Cerberus operative is worth more than every inmate in here combined, we need to be ready to take him by surprise.” The Second nodded, opening her omni-tool and sending out a command for the crew to be on standby.

Below the Warden, a traffic control officer radioed in. “Normandy SR-2, you’re all clear to dock.”

Mass Effect: Second Vigil

Part 2: Old friends, new enemies

Invectus marched down the hallway. The clomp of his heavily armoured boots announced his movement across the ship with each step. Any soldier in the vicinity with ears would stop whatever they were doing to report to the corridor, offering a salute to their commander-in-chief. Passing a window, the Turian caught a glimpse of Earth in the corner of his eye. Despite the outer beauty of planets such as the humans, Invectus never felt at ease dirt side. The man had spent most of his time on ships of varying size, off in some distant quadrant of the galaxy. Before the war, he'd rarely even thought of Palaven, viewing any posting there as the end of any prominent career.

Now? Well now the sight of Earth drew his gaze. Even in his peripherals he could feel the planet pulling him in, channelling his thoughts to ones of home. Not only had the war changed so much but their victory had turned the galaxy on its head. The natural order of the past had been shattered and in its wake, uncertainty grew.

Stopped in his tracks, the Primarch wondered how everyone outside of the Sol system fared. What systems still stood? Would they be able to survive long enough for them to rebuild? Connect up once more? Would other, more unseemly races, seize the opportunity before them? He would, as would any Turian in their right mind. It's why this is needed.

"Sir! Sergeant Basilic reporting. Our mission was successful."

The Primarch sighed. For the most part, their convict rehabilitation program had worked wonders. Leashing the worst of the worst and sending them into hell had appeared to set most of them straight, Sergeant Atticus Basilic included. That was not why he sighed, no, it was the remaining few who had survived without a lesson who stuck out. If Invectus thought Garrus Vakarian was a thorn in his side, then Kysar Proctus was a nail in the foot. "Any issues Sergeant?"

Atticus paused, hesitating for just a moment. "No, sir. No issues."

The Primarch frowned, pulling up his omnitool and a report from their spy network. "Care to explain why I have two marines in the hospital then Sergeant?"

Atticus winced, a flash of anger appearing and disappearing quicker than a strike of lightning. "Nothing permanent, sir. Proctus barely scratched them, I did not think such a thing was worth your time, sir."

Invectus nodded, offering a very mild grunt of approval in response. "To be frank with you Sergeant, given Proctus's history, I was expecting worse. I know your interaction was brief but what did you observe?"

Atticus's fists balled, his knuckles tightening at the thought of his former commander's face. "I.." the Turian fought to unclench his jaw, composing himself with a clearing of the throat. "In all honesty, sir, I expected to be returning a few men lighter. I know the report detailed he was injured in the SRN's latest mission but there was something more. The Kysar I knew from the war would've taken out several men. I don't know that we would've been able to take him alive."

"Hmm." Invectus nodded as his hand stroked his mandibles. "Very well Sergeant. Take me to him."

---

Kysar stirred, rolling over and off the steel framed bed in the corner of his cell. Pain ebbed from his jaw, throbbing back and forth as he rubbed it. Groggily, the Turian wobbled his way up and onto his feet. Not only had they knocked him unconscious but clearly he'd been given a sedative for the journey. Smart. he thought, shuffling his way over to the bars.

He'd been here before, a few too many times to count. The cell was small, cramped and only just big enough for the Turian, a bed and a hole in the ground. Outside was a room with 4 other cells inside and one door out. A brig, a military one at that, definitely a ship given the lack of space and interior. The absence of engine sound meant they were stationary, Kysar doubted they had even left Earth's orbit.

The bars weren't spaced far apart. They barely have enough room to have his hands fit through, let alone his forearms. Standing guard, a lone soldier stood to the side just outside of the cell. "So," Kysar said, leaning against the bar, facing towards the Turian. "When are they due to arrive?"

"Stand back inmate! No one is coming for you." The soldier barely moved, standing steadfast in his spot.

Kysar laughed. "Man, I forgot how stiff you guys were. Go on. You can tell me. I know someone is coming otherwise we'd be heading somewhere. Just tell me who."

Without another word, the soldier stood in place.

"C'monnn. I won't tell anyone, oh," Kysar grinned, leaning in towards the Turian, "and I promise that when I do escape, I won't kill you."

Swivelling on his toes, the guard turned, grabbing the bars of his cell and sneering back at Ky. "No one is coming. Not for a bareface like you!"

Latching onto the man's hands, Venator dug his claws in hard. The soldier cried out in pain. "And if you ever want to be of use to your precious Hierarchy, you'll do as I say. Now where a-"

Suddenly, the door outside the cell whooshed open. Several guards entered with their weapons drawn. In the centre of the group stood both Atticus and the Primarch.

"Inmate!" Atticus barked. "Unhand that soldier at once!"

Kysar broke eye contact with the guard, looking over towards the Primarch. "Aha! Wow, this is going to be good."

Drawing his rifle, Atticus stepped forward, his chest puffing with air, ready to unleash a verbal tirade onto Kysar when a hand stopped him. The Primarch pulled back on the Sargeants proverbial leash with just his talon on the mans shoulder.

"Kysar," his voice drew the word out, as if exacerbated by a child's petulance, "let this man go or so help me, I'll open this door and we'll remove your hands and toss the rest of you out the airlock."

Venator relented, letting the guard go and leaving him to wallow quietly in the corner. The Primarch nodded, about facing to address his men. "You are all to wait outside while I talk to the inmate." Atticus stepped forward, looking as if he was a puppy who had been scorned. "Everyone." Invectus repeated, shutting the door as all left the room. Turning to Kysar, the man stood in front with his hands behind his back. "So, how much do you know?"

Kysar smiled, spitting on the floor to his right before answering. "The mission you gave was bullshit, wasn't it? You needed a reason to get me here. Telling SRN that I failed an op, even a classified one, would be enough to pull me out. Shit, I bet you even had people in orbit, in case I ran."

The Primarch smiled, turning to pace slowly across the room. "According to our people, you almost did run. You're an interesting one Kysar, I'll give you that. I expected you to fail the task, of course, your 'anti-authority' streak has made you mostly predictable, but.." Spinning, Invectus headed back towards the door. "You have surprised me. The last thing I expected from you was any form of loyalty. According to our reports, not only have you displayed loyalty to the SRN but members of your squad have also expressed such sentiment towards you."

Fuck. Kysar thought. He'd left a vulnerable chink in his armour loose and exposed. The Primarch, as any Turian would, was about to capitalise on it.

Invectus smiled, catching the momentary lapse in Kysar's face. "Oh yes. We know." Stopping in front of the Turian, the Primarch looked deep into his eyes. "You are right, the mission was bullshit. I couldn't care less about a few plants. What I do care about, is the Quarians."

Ky raised an eyebrow. He'd seen in the news that Quarians command had somewhat fractured with Zenns captain heading off to Titan. Though, with everything that had happened the last few days, he hadn't had the chance to catch up with his Quarian about it.

"More and more ships are leaving everyday. Our official count is a lot higher than the one released to the public. Now, we've got it on high authority, that one of the Liveships plan to depart, heading to Titan."

Kysar's eyes widened. Such a thing was almost impossible to imagine. The Liveships were the bread and butter for the entire Quarian civilisation. Not only that, but since the wars end, they had been the one thing keeping the Turians alive. Even one of the three splitting off and leaving the inner core of Sol would have disastrous consequences.

Setting off, Invectus went back to his pacing. "You may have no love for me Kysar, or for that of our Hierarchy. But, I don't think even you can stand by and let every Turian die. As such, I have one final mission. Succeed, and we will be out of each other's hair. You'll receive a full pardon and be free to travel wherever you wish, including the core."

Ky was stunned. Not at the offer, no, he wasn't even sure how real it was. The magnitude of this mission was something he could never have imagined, let alone comprehend. How was it that this was up to him? Invectus had an entire army of the best trained soldiers in the galaxy at his beck and call. Why would he need him? The Turians mind raced, plunging into scenario after scenario, coming up with only one answer.

A black op. One so dark that not even the top brass of the Hierarchy would be aware of. Maybe even no one aside from the Primarch himself. An assassination of a high ranking official...

"Who is it?"

"Hmm?" Invectus retorted.

Kysar stepped forward, his face creased with seriousness. "Don't play this game. You want me to kill someone, someone of extreme importance. Who is it?"

The Primarch smiled. "You are so close to being a great soldier Kysar. You've got the tactics, you inspire loyalty, you think on your feet. If not for your reprehensible personality, you would be perfect."

Venator grabbed the bars, his knuckles tightening white as he pulled himself right up to them. "Fuck you. Fuck your army, fuck your structure, fuck every piece of bullshit your society spouts. Tell me who the fuck I am killing or I let us all die."

Invectus nodded. "Very well. It's Captain Gahn’Saaris vas Konesh, Ghan’ has to die."

Kysar stepped back. That wasn't just the leader of the fracture, that was Zenn's captain. "No, I.. I can't."

This time it was the Primarch who stepped forward. "You can, you can and you will. Our spy network has already guaranteed a peaceful transition with his second in command, Vice Captain, Venna'Linai vas Konesh. Apparently life under Balak and the other terrorists is not better. Worse by her reports. Plus, she knows what's at stake if a Liveship leaves the core. No one wants our deaths on their conscious."

"But, how? How could I even get close enough?" Kysar sat down, he had to, his head was spinning.

"Gahn’ has a captain's pride. Balak has ordered the Quarians to patrol the edge of their occupied space. He routinely follows this route himself to prove to his soldiers that they’re all equal. Venna'Linai has agreed to sabotage the ship, leaving it adrift. Time enough for you and your team to board by taking out the Captain."

Kysar's head shot up. "My team?"

Invectus smiled. "Rogue SRN agents. You see, right now we've got one of our spies on the way to contact them. Tell them you've been arrested and the only way to save you is if they come here."

Kysar rose, meeting the Primarch at the bars. "No, I'll do this alone. I can do it, no one else has to get involved. Send me. Hell, I'll bring a bomb and just blow the thing."

Invectus tutted. "You're forgetting who runs the show here, Kysar. You can't kill the Vice-Captain as well, we need her to frame Balak and his ilk. There's also no way I'm sending you alone and your team has proved themselves more than capable. They'll be here shortly and you'll all be debriefed. In the meantime, try not to break anymore of the guard's hands."

With that, the Primarch left the room, leaving Kysar to slump down in his chair. He couldn't ask them to do this, especially not for him. This was a suicide run. Besides, they wouldn't do this, they wouldn't assassinate someone, would they?

Mass Effect: Second Vigil

End of the Line

Kysar’s Loyalty

Part 1: Old friends, new enemies

Longyearbyen, Svalbard
Mid-Morning, April 20, 2187
Snowing, -20°C
Two days after the Mars mission

---

“Well, Mr. Proctus, you are one lucky Turian.”

Kysar had been laid up in the infirmary since landing back on Earth. Though his condition hadn’t been critical, getting shot again wasn’t something to be scoffed at. Thankfully, his reception had been warmer this time around, perhaps the staff had forgiven the Turian for his earlier rampage or, and more likely, the team's success on Mars had meant that SRN was beginning to solidify itself as a stand up force in the solar system. His hand in that meant he earned a little respect from those around the joint.

“I don’t know if I’d consider getting shot twice such a thing, doc.” Kysar replied, giving the human a cheeky grin.

Thumbing through files on his omnitool, the doctor didn’t bother acknowledging the Turian’s quip. “Seems the bullet, similar to your first shot, passed through a weakness in your armour, just above your right hip. Nothing vital was damaged and we should have you back in action any day now. You see, lucky.”

Leaning back into the pillow, Kysar sighed in relief.

“Though, as a professional courtesy, I wouldn’t recommend going for a third time.” The doctor chuckled to himself before heading towards the door. “Rest easy Mr. Proctus, you’ll be out i- hey, what is this?”

Sitting back up, Kysar craned his neck, giving himself the angle to peak outside the door. Clad in snazzy armour and sporting assault rifles marched two Turian, one shoving the doctor to the side. “You can’t go in there!” He shouted. “It’s for authorised personnel only!”

Hopping out of the bed, Ky winced in pain as he got to his feet. He cursed the fact that the staff had removed his gear from him as they landed, only managing to find a pair of scissors on a tray table nearby. “So, what did you offer Nadara to give me up this time? I bet she did it for a new pair of shoes.”

Shutting the door behind them, the two Turian stood in front of Kysar, one brandishing their weapon while the other pulled up his omnitool. “By order of Primarch Invectus and the Hierarchy, you, Kysar Proctus, are under arrest. Surrender and you will b-”

Suddenly, a blue hue surrounded the soldier with his rifle drawn. The Turian tried to pull the trigger but biotics held him stuck in place. Kysar, also enveloped in the beautiful blue of biotics, motioned his hand upwards, picking up the soldier and slamming him into the ground. The other soldier fumbled for a moment too long. Putting away his omnitool, he scrambled for the rifle on his back, giving Kysar the time to close the gap between them. Tackling the soldier to the ground, Ky grabbed the rifle of his unconscious comrade and used the butt of it to knock his fellow man out cold.

Ditching the useless pair of scissors, he took the weapon with him. Opening the door he began down the corridor. “Sorry about the mess doc!” He shouted as he ran by. “I guess I’m getting discharged early!”

Reaching a cross section, Kysar saw four more soldiers, split into two down the opposing hallway leading left and right. “Hey you! Stop right there!” Turned out, they spotted him too. Running straight on, the Turian had no wish to turn the hospital into a bitter firefight. No, better to evade and escape. Maybe he could hijack Slim’s car again, it was pretty straightforward the first time. Reaching the front door of the infirmary, Kysar braced himself for the shock of the cold.

Bursting through them, the breath escaped from him as the freezing weather seized his body. But, determined to push on, he’d make it another three whole steps before realising he was completely surrounded.

Fifteen men stood around him, rifles drawn. One in the centre stood out. His armour appeared heavy yet sleek, similar to Kysar’s in design though newer and improved. The soldier took a few steps forward before Ky heard the doors behind him. The other four had caught up and were brandishing their rifles too.

“You know, when they told me it was you we were coming to pick up, I told them they needed more men.” The man’s voice was gruff, yet familiar. Obviously their leader, the Turian walked forward, stopping a few feet short of Kysar. “They wanted to send four men. I mean, they really underestimated you. I guess it’s one of our weaknesses, they look at a file like yours and all they see is a criminal. A worthless piece of nothing who would crumble in the face of authority. Luckily for them, I know better.”

Reaching up, the Turian clicked a button underneath his helmet. The headgear hissed as the man removed it, Kysar’s eyes widening at the sight of the soldier beneath.

“No, how did you? It can’t- Atticus?”

His face was scarred, badly, almost as if something had tried to rip out his right eye along with that whole section of his face. Kysar’s stomach could’ve fallen out through his feet right there and then. “Surprised to see me? You may have left me for dead in London but the Hierarchy didn’t.”

Without warning, one of the guards behind Kysar had snuck up on him, violently hitting him in his wound with the butt of a rifle. Dropping the gun he’d been carrying, Venator fell to his hands and knees, howling in pain.

“The Primarch himself asked me to bring you in alive. Even though I am a loyal soldier, he never did say in what condition.” Moving around Kysar, Atticus kicked his former squadmate square in the ribs. Falling on his back, the Turian cried out in pain as the man continued to kick him. “What is going on? Where is the cold blooded killer I knew, huh?”

Kysar did his best to shield himself, curling up into a foetal position to try to block the blows. “Atticus I-” The butt of a rifle came down on his cheek, hard. Blue blood spattered into the snow as the Turian felt a tooth loosen.

“You shut up! You don’t get to say a damn word. I don’t know what they did to you here but you better hope that you’ve got fire left in you.” Standing straight, the squad leader motioned for others to come over and collect Kysar. “Cause you’re gonna need it. Take him away boys, let's get out of this shithole.”

Cyberpunk: Rogue

Chapter 2: Foundations

@Shift

The trip from Westbrook had been relatively silent. Livewire hadn’t said anything beyond his vague joke, choosing instead to chat with the other drivers of Night City as they drove along.

“Hey you, you fuckin’ dickhead, where did you learn to drive, ay?”

It was sunset. Though the high rises of the City Centre blocked a complete view, fingers of rays poked through, allowing for pockets of warmth and light to flutter through the vehicles windows. Anyone looking out of them would see the sky had turned a beautiful lobster coloured pinkish-red. They could watch as the tall buildings of the city faded into the residential nightmare of Santo Domingo. The further along they travelled, the more dilapidated the houses became, until finally;

“Welcome home!”

The sliding door of the van rolled aside to reveal a run down construction site. Looming over the group as they stepped out were the skeletal beginnings of a Megabuilding.

“Isn’t she beautiful? I know it’s not quite the castle to bring a princess back to, but everybody knows you need to slay a few dragons first, ay?” Slapping the chest of JV, Livewire laughed. “Big man knows what I’m talking about, right my friend?” Slowly the Haitain’s head moved towards the man, his stone-faced look unflinching. “On second thoughts, maybe not. C’mon, follow me.”

Gravel crunched under the collective boot of the group as they marched inside. The rickety scaffolding groaned and whined as they climbed the staircase up towards the first built floor of the building. As they got higher, some of the group would be able to appreciate a beautiful view of the whole city on one side, while others would notice the stark contrast of the mountain of garbage on the other. The smell of which had also become a lot more potent in their climb upwards. “Don’t mind stench my friends, you’ll get used to it.”

Rodrigo frowned slightly as if contemplating their situation, perhaps debating whether he shouldn’t have taken the blonde’s lead after all and left while he still had the chance. “And what’s the deal here?”

“Don’t worry, it’s abandoned. This was Lucius’s pet project before he kicked the bucket, Jefferson’s anti-homeless policy is shaping up to be a lot more aggressive. There have been a few previous occupants, from Wraiths to the bottom rungs of society but it’s all empty now. Empty and forgotten”

“No, I meant you specifically, how are you involved with this whole… mess,” he continued, waving his hand around at nothing in particular.

“Oh that. Easy my friend, I procure “special”, sometimes off market items.” Livewire giggled as a warm and funny feeling washed over him. He really did enjoy his job. “My shop is in Watson in Megabuilding 11. If you’re from around there you’ve probably heard of me.” The man stopped, placing his hand on his hip bending forwards with heavy breathing. “Fuckin’ stairs, ay?”

Getting his breath back, Livewire continued upwards, “so, I get this call from some shady garbled voice; which isn’t totally abnormal in my line of business, right my friend? Everybody wants to be some mysterious gangsta’ or a big shot fixer like Mr. Hands, fuckin’ gonks. Anyway, they call asking me to drive my van to a spot to pick a bunch of people up and drop them here. I was ready to tell them to get fucked when they also say they will buy some of my lower quality items too and if all went well, they’d keep me around.” The man laughed dismissively.

“By this point, I’m intrigued, ay? Who the fuck talks like this? Normally I would laugh and hang up the call, maybe make a threat but then I see the full amount get deposited right there and then. So,” he shrugged, “here I am.”

Finally, with the last few stairs behind them, the group had reached the first floor. The place was sparsely lit. Flood lights dotted the very wide corridor that ran from one side of the building to the other. A generator to their left coughed and sputtered as tattered wiring spilled out of it in all different directions. On the group's right was what was left of a small tent city. Empty homeless shelters of the previous occupants complete with rubbish and all sat on the edge of a railing that looked into the open centre of the building. There rested a crane that looked as if it would make more money from being scrapped rather than trying to get it operating once more.

“Mumma!”

Whipping around, the group watched as an old woman, covered in tattoos and slightly bent over emerged from a tin shack. “Mumma, what are you doing, ay? I asked you to finish setting up the table.” Gesturing to an empty fold out table in front of where the group had come up the stairs, Livewire groaned. “C’mon Mumma, I’m trying to do business here!”

The old woman hobbled her way over to the group, smiling warmly at all of them. “I’m sorry dear, when you said you had friends staying here I had to do something. I found some cooking utensils and a kind of kitchen in that shanty over there. A pot of stew is almost ready.”

Livewire rolled his eyes, “clients Mumma, I said they’re cli-”

Smacking his shoulder lightly, the woman tsk’ed her son. “Where is my kiss young man?”

Groaning, Livewire bent over and kissed his mother on the forehead. “Fine, finish your stew and I’ll go set up the table. Love you, Mumma.”

As the man left, the old woman turned to the group. “Ah, he’s a good boy. Does a good job for our family and isn’t one to be… messed around.” Her final words were as sharp as her tone was tough. Breaking into another warm smile, she clasped her hands together. “Now, who’s hungry?”