deegee

The Golden age of Piracy

Any chance y'all are looking for a Carpenter / Cooper or Carpenter / Striker?

Not an Arena, exactly...

I'm happiest in the Imperial Remnant Era. (Mando era.) But Anything is ok really.

✨Beyond The Veil✨

Kessler

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Location: Church • Time: After everyone leaves

Interactions: Dom, Lucian • Mentions: @Oso, @Infinite Cosmos

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As before, Kessler sat at the table against the wall, behind the ring of chairs surrounding the table at the inner sanctum of the Iron Fangs' court, altar, temple, arena. Listened while Dom laid the ace on the line. Listened while Lucian gave his report, and deflected the decision back to Dom, while simultaneously turning the discussion over to him. Lucian looked away from the table, away from his Alpha, and both he and Dom looked to the big man in the corner, to see if he had any wordstuff worthy of their ears.

Kessler continued listening, to his own breathing, to the silence of the room. He looked from Dom, to the eyes of Lucian, then to the floor. There was no great deal of love lost between he and the other man in the room, and Kessler was pretty certain he knew what Lucian thought of him. Too quick to act. Too much the good soldier, not enough of a thinker. But that merely spoke to how well Lucian knew him, which was to say, not at all. Kessler did not often disobey, but that was not due to a lack of care, or a lack of intellect. Dom (and Logan in his stead, in the past) had merely never given him cause to doubt an order. Because they were usually tactically sound decisions.

What did Lucian know of Kessler's anger, and where that was most often directed? (inward.) What did Lucian know of Kessler's rage? The only rage the big man had ever displayed had been orders passed down to him. Kess kept his own rage in reserve, under lock and key. There was a time and a place for that to be let out, to breathe. But he was pretty sure Lucian hadn't ever seen it -- though he knew that's what Shelby saw when he looked Kess' way: the big, broad, turned-blood soldier, good enough to do the dirty work.

He finally spoke, and when the words were uttered, it was low, a rumbling baritone that the pack would've had to go quiet to hear. "Yeah -- I tend to agree with you, Lucian. I don't question our abilities. I don't question our loyalty. I don't even question our methods -- different though they may be." He looked into the other pack-member's eyes. "But I think it's me, Lucian. Why? Two reasons. First... I'm a turned-blood. You may not think that means much of anything, but I've known a human existence. And with what's to come, I think that knowledge will serve the pack. And second... I don't think you're a war-time Beta."

He stood, not to punctuate the moment, but because he'd said his piece. There was nothing more to be said about it. Unless Lucian wanted to fight. In which case, Kessler would oblige the man. But he had no interest in it, personally. He approached the central table, resting his knuckles on the tabletop. "That's how I see it," he sighed. "...but we have work to do."

'Floating' (Star Wars 2 BBY)

Fel was alone on the Unfair Advantage. It didn’t happen often, anymore. Lots, in those early days, before Jet. Long before any of the current ‘crew.’ He still wasn’t sure how many of them were in for the long haul. He would’ve guessed most would head for greener pastures if they pulled off the heist. …If. He didn’t have much to do aboard-ship. He wandered. Engine room, mostly squared away. Galley, well-enough stocked, and not like ‘Shaddaa was home to such unimaginable delicacies that a shopping trip was on his to-do list. Hardly. The flight deck was, in a word, perfect. Just as he wanted it. Worn parts, paint rubbed off panels and items that were regularly handled. Modifications that made the ship a virtual extension of himself. The bunks… sure, they were a part of ‘his ship.’ But they weren’t his anymore, strictly speaking. So he steered clear of them. Even his own. It would have been an invasion of privacy.

In the back of his mind, he knew what he had to do. Didn’t want to. So he continued wandering. Checked the hold, grabbed a few tools off Jet’s workbench, and ascended to the dorsal hatch, stepped out onto the superstructure. Not something he got a chance to do very often. It was dirty, from a thousand re-entries and more than a few scars of laser-fire damage. The port Borstel cannon had been a degree or two out of alignment for better than a month, and he hadn’t had a chance to do anything about it. So for the next couple hours he sat, dismantling its focussing matrix. Sure enough, a servo was on its way out, and by the time Fel had replaced it, the brighter gloom was being replaced by a darker one. By the time he had put Jet’s tools back (they were in better shape than any of his own…) it was what passed for night, on the Smuggler’s moon. Time to do what he had to do.

Wrench was a creature of habit. Which was both good, and bad. But if the little droid, Fel’s oldest companion, followed his usual routine, he’d be powering down to plug in and charge up shortly. Sure enough, Fel found the little Astro droid on the flight deck, plugged into its custom-made astromech socket, on a soft power-down. Making the power-down, a hard ‘off’ was no simple feat, but it was made easier by the fact that Wrench was ‘sleeping.’ After that was done, Fel accessed the droid’s memory banks with an external terminal.

How long had it been? Fel had never wiped the droid’s memory. Not once. He believed, as many did, that the Astro droids developed a personality over the months and years of experience they gathered. He had been content to let go all the oddities and the headstrong streak that Wrench had cultivated. He had even leaned into it on many occasions. The short cuts, the jump memory, the secrets that little droid held, had saved him on more than one occasion.

But. What had happened with Eryn had been borderline dangerous. He’d let it go at the time, because what was the other option? There was a time and a place. And now was the time. Wrench was becoming a loose cannon. Of all the things aboard the UA that could, and did, act in an unpredictable manner, Fel needed Wrench to be rock-solid. Didn’t he? His finger hovered over the ‘execute’ button which would wipe R2-P47’s memory and reset it to factory standards. He looked over the dented and carbon-scored radome of the little droid, oblivious to his companion’s actions.

But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Fel had been made to kill before. Had willingly killed before. But had never killed a friend. There would be some other work-around for it. There would have to be. Wrench wouldn’t abide a restraining bolt, but Fel couldn’t kill his oldest friend. He unplugged the terminal and closed up Wrench’s access ports, thinking once more whether he was making the right choice. Exited Wrench’s diagnostic mode, letting him go back to ‘sleep.’ He’d have to answer for it at some point, because Wrench would know that he had been offline for nearly three minutes. But not now.

Fel walked back to the dorsal hatch ladder, ascended, and sat on the edge of the UA’s cargo mandible, looking out into the night. Once again, he wasn’t sure he had done the right thing. There was a lot more of that these past few weeks than he was comfortable with. He didn’t usually second-guess himself, good or bad. Maybe he was losing it. Whatever ‘it’ was.

Dee's NSFW prompt

Buump

'Floating' (Star Wars 2 BBY)

The approach to Nar Shaddaa was ‘easy’ enough. Nobody to hail, nothing to clear with orbital control or a defense fleet… nobody gave a shit. So on that score, approaching ‘Shaddaa was simple enough. And nobody was watching. I mean – loads of people were watching, but that was the good thing. There was SO much coming and going, and all of it (to one extent or another) illicit, that you had to do something pretty spectacularly stupid to stand out in the Black around Nar Shaddaa. Sure, there were larger factions, and folks to be paid off to stay in the Hutts’ good graces, but on the whole, approaching the Smuggler’s Moon was as simple as crashing. No, the trouble was not getting killed while doing it.

Because the place was a lawless shavitt-hole, there were no agreed-upon shipping lanes, no approach vectors, barely any sensor buoys to dictate where the hell you should be going on approach. You had to have your wits around you while descending to planetside, and even that was no guarantee you wouldn’t get broad-sided by some ancient scow or hotrodded snubbie. Fel was on his game though, and maneuvered easily enough (though there were a few choice words aimed at one of the Hutts’ blockade runners and a couple of nameless ‘ugly’ sec patrol boats) to the outskirts of the Refugee sector.

Another good thing about ‘Shaddaa, if there was an empty landing pad, it was “free for the taking.” That’s not to say there weren’t fees. There were. And depending on where you landed, you ran the very real risk of having your ship blown to bits if you had ‘taken someone’s spot.’ Which was why Fel landed in no-man’s land, outside the Refugee Sector, near enough to the Red Light district, and the Upper Industrial zones. They were nowhere. Which was just fine by Fel. Touching down on a nameless landing pad, with nothing but trash blowing about under his repulsors, Fel shut down all but the essentials. He wouldn’t be going anywhere until he knew who would be squeezing them for credits. It wasn’t a question of ‘if.’ Someone would. But there were as many flavours of scumbag on Nar Shaddaa as there were grains of sand on a beach, the question was, how dangerous was the scum who laid claim to this sector?

He didn’t strictly need to tell anyone aboard the UA to play it safe. They all knew well enough that this place could swallow you whole, a little tenderizin’, a little seasonin’ and down you went. But he planned on saying it anyhow, as he closed the shutters along the flight deck viewports, and moved aft, adjusting the weight of the blaster at his hip…

Aellyn grabbed her gear and stepped into the main room. She pulled the collar of her coat up around her neck as she saw the pilot emerge from the cockpit. “I’ll be out for a few days. I’ll give you a check in within twenty-four hours. It will give me time to find what I need for this Helix job.” She pulled the strap of her bag over her shoulder, keeping it close. She hit the button near the ramp as it lowered. She didn’t wait for an answer or acknowledgement from him or anyone. She headed down the ramp and onto the platform, where she headed toward the nearest taxi station.

He didn’t stop her. What right did he have to do so? She was halfway down the ramp and out into the gloom of Nar Shaddaa’s mid-level semi-permanent twilight before Fel had even engaged his mouth. And so, he simply didn’t. He raised a hand, and simply waved as her back descended, turned and disappeared from view. “Good luck.”

The door to Jet’s quarters hissed open, and the man who stepped out looked markedly different from the tired mechanic who’d vanished into the ship hours earlier. He’d shed the sleeveless tank and workbelt, now wrapped in a fitted coat that hit mid-thigh, worn durafiber fabric reinforced at the shoulders and collar. The kind of gear that let you vanish in a Nar Shaddaa crowd, plain enough to forget, tough enough to bleed in. A wide-strap satchel rode diagonally across his torso, tucked snug beneath the opposite arm. His boots thudded with more purpose than his usual drag.

More telling than the gear was the prosthetic. It was whole again, still scratched, still war-weathered, but moving smooth, the internal motor whir barely audible. Jet flexed the fingers absently as he passed the galley, rotating the wrist once before letting it hang at his side.

He caught up to Fel near the ramp, “Gotta check on something,” Jet said, his voice low but steady. “Won’t be far and I’ll stay on comms in case anything breaks.”

The kid was walking out of the extra quarters he’d taken to fixing up over the last few days. He seemed a lot more well-rested - his eyes weren’t ringed with dark circles and seemed far less sunken, and the complexion of his skin had started to clear up. He had pulled the jumpsuit’s sleeves back over his arms and zipped it up - from what he had gathered from the rest of the crew, the place was seeming like it might be kind of cold out. The jumpsuit looked as nondescript as possible. As much as Zane wanted to stylize the bland uniform, he knew it would help him blend into a more-populated landscape. Parlo had taught him that, once upon a time.

His tech belt was the only thing that seemed to have any difference - well, that and the tac-sling that was holding his E-11 blaster rifle. The tech belt had all of the identifying markings ground out of the leather, as well as a few other scuff marks to make it look legit. The toolkits’ serial numbers - if they had any - were all filed off, save for the model numbers. Same with his E-11. It was an old scrapper trick he’d picked up during one of their swap meets. No serial number meant no way to track it, which also meant there was no way of knowing who the previous owner might have been. It may have been unscrupulous, but it was necessary. At least for now.

He’d fashioned one of the spare pouches into a temporary holster for the hold out pistol Fel had given him. He needed to see about getting that back to the old spacer, but he hadn’t found the right time in their travels to get that taken care of. Holding the small blaster in his hands with the safety on, he approached Fel as he saw Jet heading for the ramp.

”Hey boss? Wanted to say ‘thanks’ for letting me hang onto this for ya.” Holding the small blaster on the palms of his spindly hands, he offered it to the seasoned captain with a half grin on his features. Looking over his shoulder at Jet, his eyes flashed wide with realization, ”Ooh! Mr. Jet! You mind if I tag along with ya? My first time out an’ about on a new planet - I’d rather not go off half-cocked an’ lose my choobs on some place known as the ‘Smuggler’s Moon’, y’know?” The kid gave him his best grin, although it was also a fairly-nervous one.

The odd duo couldn’t have looked more dissimilar if they had coordinated outfits. Not that Fel felt the need to speak to everyone who left the ship, but Jet, and the Kid? Yeah. He faced his old partner, taking hold of his shoulder. “Take all the time you need. But don’t go looking too deep, if you aren’t ready to learn the truth.” He left it vague, but there was no chance Jet wouldn’t know what he was talking about. Turning to Zane, he looked at the holdout pistol, held out to him in the young man’s hand. “Keep it, kid. Just watch who you flash it to. Some folks here don’t take kindly to that. Step easy, and come back in one piece, you two.” He stepped aside, letting them step out and away.

Zane’s expression was an amalgam of surprise and confusion - furrowed brow, slightly-widened eyes, mouth slightly agape.

”Y-...You serious, Cap’n? I mean, if ya ever need it back, just lemme know. I’ll take good care of it, promise!” The kid holstered the holdout blaster back in the pouch on his belt, letting the mag-latch on the flap snap shut before wandering off with Jet, eager to see what Nar Shaddaa had in store for him.

Empty boat, except for Wrench, and the Baggage…

The Baggage had spent the rest of the flight sitting in silent shock on the captain’s bunk, staring wide eyed at the opposite bulkhead, flicking the twin blades in the toes of her boots in and out as she mindlessly mashed her toes on the trigger points.

It wasn’t often that people surprised her. When it did happen, it was rarely a good thing for her, and the evidence was scarred all up and down her body to prove that. It took many gentle years and a lot of luck to trust that the ‘verse wasn’t just full of horrors and shitstains, and only minutes to unlearn how (and why) to see the good. So when Eryn was left alone, unscathed and still breathing in the bunk after the med scan, something in her brain short-circuited.
Or, maybe it was in her soul.
If she still had one of those.
Whatever, the fact that this captain ‘Fel’ (as she’d heard the others call him) and his crew hadn’t done her any evils so far was taking her dark expectations for a joyride and she wasn’t enjoying any of it. His last words bounced around through her mind over and over again at high-speed, too quick and slippery for her to catch. ‘The bunk is yours. Get comfy. Have some food. Help yourself. Take a sonic shower. Free to go when we get there.’

Like………… the actual karkin’ kark? Not a hint of malice anywhere, no obvious ulterior motives?
How dare he. After she stole from him, hitched a ride without payment, caused property damage, how dare he just be a decent human being.
What the hell.

Eryn got up abruptly, palming the door with annoyance as she marched out into the hallway. It was time to go. For so many reasons, it was time to go. She couldn’t be around this kind of thing. It wasn’t good for her focused goals.
And she wasn’t good for decent folk.
The non-wicked ‘niceness’ of this spacer had upset her chaotically constructed house of cards, balancing on the foundational belief that everyone was trash and ‘good’ was just a manipulation tactic.
A fact the ‘verse had beat into her time and time again.

She tried hard to reassure herself on the walk to the ramp that it was all just a show to bring her guard down and then cut her open for black market parts, or sell her into slavery, or keep her aboard for abuse and use her meat for meals afterwards, or maybe he’d already learned of her bounty and meant to collect on the Smuggler’s Moon…
Maybe he was one of those people who lived by ‘favors’. He hadn’t mentioned it, but maybe now he thinks she owes him for not killing her, something he’d hold over her for power later on…

None of it stuck with the narrative she’d been shown, though. Her musings slid away as she approached the ramp, that overly familiar rusty, bloody, muddy, boozy, staticky, oily Nar Shaddaa air enveloping her with its rotten, gnarly arms. She could already smell the cheap perfume on sweaty skin from the Red Light Sector, and she was pretty sure they were nowhere near it.

She stood like a shadow, watching Fel give warm parting words to his crew as they all dispersed.
Her annoyance somehow skyrocketed and diminished all at the same time.

As their backs faded into the dark grime of the Smuggler’s Moon, Eryn pulled the dark scarf tucked into the collar of her jacket across the lower half of her face and came forward, arriving silent as a ghost at Fel’s side, watching as he did.

Truth be told, she had absolutely no desire to be back on Shaddaa. There was truth to the saying that you could disappear easily here, a haven for those wanting to fly under the radar. Usually, that appealed to her. But it was also the place everyone looked first when they were hunting a bounty or looking for a lost soul. It was hard to go a block without running into at least one being on the hunt, and even the fetid metal maze of the urban underside got crowded real fast when listings were hot on the holo-net.

But she couldn’t stay. She couldn’t stay with these people, not for much longer, it would interfere with her plans and heighten the risk of exposure to entities she’d rather not tangle with… and it’d endanger them.
But she knew she really couldn’t stay, because a tiny part of her wanted to stay, and that scared her.

“You’re really just gonna let me go?” She didn’t look at Fel, already mapping out where she’d go from the landing. “No strings? Just ‘bye, good luck’?”

He had been watching the two men depart, looking anywhere but back inside his ship. Hand on one of the hydraulic rams that supported the planetfall ramp. So it made sense that her voice arrived, behind him. She would have been listening for them, landing, discussing, departing. It’s what Fel would have done. So when she spoke, it wasn’t entirely a surprise. “That’s the notion,” he replied, to nobody in particular. The pilot glanced back for just the briefest of moments, over his shoulder at her. She did not meet his gaze.

“Here…” he said, slipping a small satchel off his shoulder and setting the bag on the ramp, stepping back, leaning against the support strut. There was plenty of space for her to pass by. “Ain’t much, but can’t have you walking out of here with your ass in the breeze.”

Inside were a hundred credits, some dried rations, and an old BR-14 blaster and a fresh charge. Not that she could see any of it from atop the ramp. He stood, arms crossed over his chest, looking out into the murk of Shaddaa’s gloom.

He was giving her…stuff?

Eryn approached the bag like a jumpy feral cat, suspicious but curious as she crept around Fel, taking full advantage of that space. Upon opening the sack and cautiously withdrawing some of the contents, she froze, fixing the captain with the most bombastic side eye she’d managed to date.

She opened her mouth but found she had no words.

There was something tiny but familiar, soft and mushy and poignant blooming in her chest atop the cold, deep acid scars of abuse. She spent a moment metaphorically stomping on it, desperately, running dark thoughts through her mind to counteract the discomfort. It helped, a little.

In the end, she slung the pack on her back and gave Fel a nod in thanks, which was all she could manage before slinking away into the Nar Shaddaa scenery. Eryn looked back once before disappearing into the urban sprawl, something she’d never done before. Hadn’t been a reason to do it until now. And for the first time since her life had been upended… she was questioning her mission.

✨Beyond The Veil✨

KESSLER

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Location: Cracked Fang, the Den • Time: Night

Interactions: Logan's old Gibson • Mentions: Nah

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He watched with a level of disinterest usually reserved for acceptance speeches, business-folk selling shit to folks that didn't need it, sermons, ideologues spouting their clap-trap, or 'righteous' Wardens. Watched as the pack filed out, or said their piece. Pups and Vets, and those Kessler had labelled long ago. Stooges. Muscle. Cheats. Enforcers. Thugs. Some were truly dangerous men and women. Some were merely numbers. Filling ranks, doing the jobs they were born for. Some were properly interesting individuals, others didn't have two wits to rub together. But tonight, none of that mattered. Only their presence. Some would be grist for the mill in the fight to come. Some were too damn stubborn and tough to lay down when the fight was upon them. Those were the ones that would let every other son of a bitch in Halcyon know the Lycans were here to stay, and definitely not to be fucked with.

The man had spoken. Dom had instructed he and Lucian to stay, and while Kess wasn't the biggest fan of Lucian -- too much talk, fancied himself a tactician -- if Dom said jump, Kess found a pogo stick. In the meantime, he got up, off the table he'd been perched on at the back of their inner sanctum, and walked over to a shelf that contained photos, mementos, books, pieces of their shared past. He felt for the broken tooth, felt that it had begun healing in earnest, and felt for the bruising under his left eye, feeling that too, had gone down. The pain was gone. Back to feeling a dull ache, and not much else. Nothing was informing his existence right now. He just... was. He wanted to respond the way the young girl -- was it Tessa? -- had. He wanted to feel something other than dead inside.

Taking a glance over his broad, beastly shoulders. There were still folks paying their respects, having a word with Dom, and as per usual, he wanted next-to-fuck-all to do with any of them. Beneath the shelf was Logan's old ES125. He could never make out the year, it was a single pickup model, early 50's, but it had been modded sometime in the past sixty-odd years, replacing the single-coil with an old humbucker that made every run sound like honey. He picked it up, turning the scratched, faded finish over in his bruised hands, split, crimson knuckles in stark contrast to the crazed yellow-ochre and black finish of the maple top. He put a foot up on the footstool there, where Logan had done so many times, and tried to remember the opening lines of a blues the old Wolf had shown him once, long ago. When Dom needed him, he'd say as much.

'Floating' (Star Wars 2 BBY)

Fel took a step back, turning slightly to open a slim passage to the common area in the UA, enough room to step past him, and Aellyn, pointing the barrel of his Power5 at the door to his bunk. “Step into my office, Stow.” He did not elaborate on which quarters were his. He knew very well that if she’d been aboard since Abilene, she knew damn well. It was said conversationally, but make no mistake: it was not a request. It was an order.

‘Stow’. Cute.

Eryn did her best to look bored and annoyed as she stepped past him, taking her time, holding his gaze the whole way like she was challenging an animal, but inside she was coiling like a cornered viper ready to strike. Nothing good ever came of a one-on-one in a captain’s ‘office’.

For them, at least.

This spacer’s dirtbag meter seemed pretty low, all things considered. Eryn cast a look back at the red-haired woman as she entered his quarters (he’d assumed correctly, she’d mapped the whole place and knew where they all slept), noting she didn’t look particularly mistreated or exploited, which was a good sign. Maybe. Probably?

Eryn had learned the hard way never to trust appearances.

Aellyn locked eyes with the stow. In a brief second, she knew that look.

Eryn turned back to face the door after just a few steps, standing in the middle of the room, one foot planted slightly behind her, both arms by her side with shoulders back and jaw set. “Now what, ‘Cap’?” It was a point for her that there hadn’t been time yet to run her face through the database, though she bet the droid outside had it on its schedule. “Talk more? Throw hands? Play sabacc for my freedom?”

Aellyn stuck her arm out, holding Fel back as she looked at him. A look that he all too recently gave her for breaking protocols.. “Give her a chance, she might surprise you. Like me…” She wasn’t sure the last bit was any good advice, having two of her on the ship might mean an early death to the captain. The stow seemed a bit like her.

It wasn’t much of a room. Certainly not enough room to swing a cat by the tail. Most surfaces were cluttered, some precious items, mostly just bits and pieces of stuff that was in the midst of being taken apart, or put back together. He stood there, let the door shut behind him, arms crossed over his chest, and just let her be uncomfortable for far longer than she would have preferred, silently evaluating.

Finally, he pointed at the bunk without uncrossing his arms. “…pull the mattress off my bed.” Her face and her eyes asked a silent question, since the bed was likewise covered in bits and pieces. He answered it before she had a chance to ask. “Let the shit fall on the floor.”

He waited for her to comply. Only after she had begun, would she understand. His bunk was actually a medscanner, repurposed due to lack of space. “In.” …it might have sounded like an order, but his voice was soft.

Eryn stared at him for a long minute, fighting the urge to attempt to gut him right there and try that slightly loose panel in the corner as an escape route. Make it to the bridge, flush out the crew, take the ship, find herself the new owner.

Except it was never that simple, never that easy, and to be perfectly honest with herself, she wasn’t capable of it right now. Not enough sleep, not enough knowledge, and given how the crew had handled themselves on the ramp with Abilene, she wouldn’t make it even halfway through her shoddy plan.

Seemed her only option was to do the scan.

Except then he’d probably see everything. Every identifying marker authorities and ‘others’ had plugged into her ‘Wanted’ page on the holo-network to help them track her, every facial recognition flag to trigger– …she was overthinking it. She doubted a spacer would have his stuff hooked up that deeply to the database. Tracking went both ways… Right?

“I’m not sick and I don’t have fleas,” Eryn commented flatly, stepping into the scanner. She laid flat on her back, feeling horribly exposed in more than one way as the lights began and the beams passed over her.

Honestly? There wasn’t much to see.

The most abnormal thing that flashed in the information update was that she wasn’t entirely human. Her bones, while normal in appearance, were far lighter and exceptionally elastic, capable of enduring great pressure without breaking and compacting in ways the human skeleton could not. It certainly explained how she got around in tighter spaces, and why there were no healing marks from past broken bones.

Nothing else particularly out of the ordinary. No sign of medical issues save some basic malnutrition and dehydration from her lifestyle. There was a significant amount of scar tissue across her body in what almost looked like patterns, like someone had just taken a paint brush dripping of blaster bolt wounds and burn scars and just flicked it in her general direction. They’d healed remarkably well, and some of the tribal tattoos decorating her shoulders and torso hid a good amount from sight.

The thick burn scars on her palms were another story. They ran in single raised dark lines across her flesh, ending in melty dots, as if whatever had done the damage had paused and lingered too long. But there was no sign of what had caused it, no residual metals or elements to give clues. They were just…there. And clearly very old.

There was a small metallic wrench tattoo on her right hip, probably would’ve lit up the scanner with impurities. It looked homegrown and amateurly etched, probably using cheap inks and slightly dirty tools.

And, to everyone’s surprise, actually no fleas.

Fel looked at the scan. Made mental notes. Mostly the scarring. Maybe the tattoo. He was quiet awhile, simply taking in what the scans said, which was more than she was letting on. It told him how hard she had lived. Where she had come from, if not verbally, telling him what planetoid or moon she hailed from, or what vertical level of some stacked megalopolois she was from, it at least spoke to her shared experience. The kind of sabacc hand life had dealt her. He wouldn’t ask about the scars. Not now. Not likely ever.

“You know I ought to vent you for pulling a stunt like that.” It wasn’t a question. He shut off the medscanner, stepped away, toward the door. Kark it, he was getting soft. And letting her away with it would tell her everything she needed to know about the kind of pushover he was. Not just her, but Aellyn, and Zane too. If he couldn’t maintain order on his ship, if there were no consequences, then what kind of a boat was he running? He remembered a squad leader sending a new pilot to the brig for three days for coming in to dock too fast. Recalled witnessing the public whipping of a stormtrooper for desertion. Remembered being ordered to dish out “discipline in line with Imperial doctrine” in the 181st, and how it turned out when he refused, watching as one of his squad-mates was tortured for what they called ‘gross insubordination.’ He let out a sigh.

“Tell me what you’re doing when you aren’t sneaking aboard other peoples’ ships.” She looked at him with that same flat, barely-concealed ‘FU’ look. “I mean, you aren’t a professional piece of ballast. What are you, when you’re at your best?” The look continued, punctuated by a blink or two. He sighed again, rolling his eyes slightly. “Pilot? Gunfighter? Thief? Slicer? …Smartass?”

Someone you don’t want in your orbit, she thought with equal parts hard-shell venom and quiet shame.

Eryn hoisted herself out of the scanner and fought the overwhelming urge to go squat in the farthest corner and assume gargoyle status in the shadows, complete with glaring black eyes and threatening lip-curling. She settled for a softly offensive stance as far away from him as she could get without looking like she was trying to be far away, head tipped slightly down and jaw set as she peered up at him with eyes only.

Part of her wanted to just not answer him at all, see how far she could push the limit of his patience, but she also liked breathing and didn’t trust he wouldn’t change his mind and ‘vent’ her immediately. She took a short breath…

“I don’t like people.” Off to a great start, wow. She blinked, regaining control of her words. “I’m not used to them anymore. But I’ll deal with them, if it’s necessary, or if there’s credits involved. Seems you’ve got everything you just asked me about already covered with your crew, though. You pilot. Old Juggernaut is the muscle. Tin Can slices. Red probably covers smartass and I bet all of you do your fair share of stealing with zero problems.”

She straightened. Was that pride in her shoulders? Or just an attempt to look squared up and confident when she felt neither? “Seeing as I was lurking in your rafters for quite some time before your shit broke and I fell outta the damn vent, and no one caught on? I’m sure you can guess at my skills. On top of stealth, we’ve got ace runner, accomplished climber, handy in tight places. Done work, uh…’helping’ people expire faster. Not clean or neat at it, but I get the job done.”

Eryn paused, already feeling like she’d just given away far too much.

“At the end of the day, though…” She shrugged a little. “I’m just a dirty prison shiv with no direction but revenge, lookin’ after my own ass.”

He nodded, turning away from her and opening the door. “The bunk is yours. You’d be surprised how much more comfortable it is than sleeping on top of a bunch of cable and conduit. Help yourself to food, and the 'fresher. We’re heading for Nar Shaddaa. You can do what you want when we get there. And do me a favor… try not to disappear into the walls. This place is haunted enough.”

✨Beyond The Veil✨

Kessler

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Location: Cracked Fang, hidden room behind the bar, "Church" for the 'Fangs • Time: Church + 2 minutes

Interactions: None. • Mentions: @Infinite Cosmos @Oso @Potter @Amatiramisu

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So, there he sat. Listening to Dom. Listening to some outpouring of emotion, of plotting, of grief. Meanwhile, he still had dirt from the two graves he'd dug under his fingernails. One of which was Logan's. The other, some dumb motherfucker who made the mistake of getting too close to Kessler at the wrong time. He hadn't done anything wrong, not in any sense of the word that Kessler could put sense to. Yeah, some were sad. All wanted blood. Some wanted to do it smart-like. Others wanted to kick ass and take names.

There were times that the imposing, turned-blood had taken a seat at the table for 'Church.' Not always. And certainly not tonight. No, he sat at the back of the room, letting the natural born Lycans have their say, while he let the blood of their enemies drip from his knuckles. He listened while Dom laid it all on the line for the Pack. Listened while Lucian added his bit. His words cut like a shiv, designed to get the most from the young pups and elicit a rise out of the gathered masses. He'd be the new Beta soon enough, Kessler would have bet his last breath on it. It would be a change from Logan. There was no doubt. Good, or bad though? Kessler's mind wasn't made up yet. Listened while Tessa broke down over the loss so deep. He wished he had that in him. Wished he had it in him to feel empathy for her, too. Listened while Alicia told it like it was. Or more accurately, how she hoped it would be. As she scanned the room, her eyes would meet his, cold as ice and just as unforgiving, one of them still bloodshot and damaged from his tussle at the Rusty Halo.

He said nothing. Not to any of them. Spat blood on the floor. He'd take his orders from Dom. And in the absence of anything from his Alpha, well, he'd just have to see where the scent pulled him. For now, he waited. Church wasn't over, and there was still time for this divine script to turn blasphemous.

✨Beyond The Veil✨

KESSLER

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Location: Kessler's place, The Rusty Halo, The Cracked Fang • Time: Nightfall

Interactions: Collab with @AuthenticTomb • Mentions: None.

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Kessler went home, which was a little hole in the wall above and behind a noodle house, deep in the weeds. The place wasn't much more than four walls, a hot plate, a bed and a small bathroom, but it had a rooftop patio twice the size of the indoor living space, and what used to be a disused storage room for the noodle shop had been turned into a shop for Kessler's bikes. He changed, and popped open a beer. Finished the beer. Popped another. Sat with it, sat with his thoughts for more than a minute, but his head wouldn't shut the hell up, reminding him what a worthless cur he was, and he threw the beer against the wall the bottle exploding like a WP gren. He wandered down to his shop, ran his hands over the 1938 Chief oil / gas tank, pulled the sheet off the frame, which was 3/4 through being hard-tailed. He fired up the welder, and ran a bead. Another. Packed head tube bearings. Repacked them. He wasn't really accomplishing anything. He was just spinning his wheels, and the more he spun, the more he wanted to hurt something. He was too worked up to relax. Too angry to work. Too pent-up to leave well-enough alone. There was really only one thing for it.

He kicked his daily ride to life - a lightly customized 2020 Harley Fat Bob with the 'Milwaukee Eight' 114 engine, and twisted a better-than-healthy dose of throttle to shoot out into the night, picking a route that showed him the bare minimum of traffic lights, pedestrians, and other annoyances that would serve only to endanger them, not him. It took him the better part of fifteen minutes -- an eternity in urban backstreet thundering -- to reach Sundown Row, and he pulled the big bike to a halt against the curb a block from his destination of choice. The 'Rusty Halo' stood out on the strip as one of the only punk clubs in the district ('less you wanted to head underground.) 'The Underground' would have served him well too, but he wanted to make a quick exit when the time came.

There was a drunk downsider passed out on the bench outside the club, and a band playing inside that hadn't tuned their instruments, or changed their strings in months, by the sounds of it. They were doing a passable cover of Fugazi. Any other night, Kessler would just grab a beer and listen. But tonight, he wanted someone to hurt him. It wouldn't take long. It never did. All he had to do in this place was act the Alpha. Chest out. Back down from nothing. Apologize to nobody. If a drink happened to fall, so be it. Fuck 'em. If somebody got bumped into - hard? Their problem, not his. There was enough manufactured testosterone and ego in here. He knew it was right around the corner...

Luck was on Kessler's side as tonight as group of six young pups sat a booth inside the Rusty Halo. Smug. Obnoxious. Green. The signs of those yet to be knocked on their ass and taught a lesson about true power. That would change tonight. They wore their own kuttes with the embroidery that minted them as new members of the Steel Claws. A upstart Lycan pack with a hothead of a leader that had just enough muscle to keep his dogs on their leash. Logan had hated them nearly as much as the Coldfangs.

The biggest of the six stood up, his seat facing the entrance. "The fuck is one of you doing here?" He growled as his stance made the others rise as well to look at Kessler. Their leader barely had a stubble on his chin as his lisp curled into a snide smile "Shouldn't ya be crying in a ditch with your old pal?" He had stated with bravado, the other five laughing along unaware of what they were being pulled into.

It could have been taken so many ways. They might have been talking about Joaquin, who often talked guitar with Kessler on a patio in the 'Row' and who was, compared to these suckling pups, 'old.' They could have been talking about the drunk outside, who had been the butt of everyone's jokes for months, and who would likely die soon enough. He was probably only in his late 30's, but looked every bit of 65. Hell, they might have been talking about raising a glass to Joe Strummer -- in Kessler's eyes the last punk worthy of a capital-P. But no, tonight of all nights, these motherfuckers meant Logan. Even if they didn't. Even if they hadn't heard the news yet, and the comment wasn't a not-so-subtle jab at the Fangs' all-too-recent loss.

Kessler stopped, and turned to face the youth, full of piss and vinegar. "you're gonna look awful funny, apologizing for your callous insolence with no teeth and a mouth full of blood, pup..."

The leader with the stubble was the first to approach, followed shortly by the rest of his posse. His hazel eyes shifted to those of a wolf "The fuck you say to me, Iron Fanger? Must be going blind in your age or ya just too stupid to count." He stepped up to Kessler as the other five circled the pair. His stance tried to exude confidence, but it spoke of one expecting to get his way. The space around them grew quieter as others tuned in for the show.

Kessler took a deep breath, the calm of knowing he was going to get the fight he wanted washed over him. He flexed his fists, knuckles cracking. He could feel the change, just under his skin, like an itch he couldn't scratch. He knew these pups would smell it, but they were already starved for action, blinded by territoriality, as if pissing drunkenly in the corner of a punk bar made it 'yours.'

"I know the music's a little loud, but did I stutter, meat-bag? What -- you got your buddy's dick in your ear? I said, you're going to be spitting chicklets in a few minutes." Kessler had a lot on his side. Size, strength, experience... but he knew damn well these puppies were going to give him a run for his money, and that's exactly what he wanted. He needed to hurt. He needed to be driven to the edge. Past it.

Kessler revelled in the fact that sometimes that change took him in a different way. A lot of mythstorians believed that Lycans ("Werewolves" in the boogeyman tales humankind told their children) changed the same way every time. But it wasn't true. Sometimes the change hit the spine first. Sometimes the hands. Sometimes it was centred in the head, a piercing, blinding pain that threatened to render you helpless. (Those were the worst.) Usually, Kessler got the claws. His nails becoming vicious rending weapons of bone and steel. But this time, the claws started at his metacarpophalangeal joint, his hands burning, shaking from the bone protrusions. One orbital bone shifted, a cheekbone popping, reforming, but he held it off, because he wanted to.

"Make your move, motherfuckers... I shit on all you, and your worthless kuttes." He spat, the thick, frothy spittle sailing toward the leader of the young toughs.

A wide grin flashed growing canines at Kessler's retort as the youngblood glanced to their sides where his fellow pack members had finished taking positions. The scent of change from there mixed with Kessler's and those in attendance didn't need a strong nose to know it was about to begin. "Ya hear that boys? This dumbfuck here thinks himself a comedian. You're going to be shitting blood if ya don't crawl on out of here." The subtle pops and grinding of teeth were enough signs that the Steel Claw goons were beginning their own partial shifts, still waiting on their leader's initiative.

The glob of warm spit splattered on the right cheek of the leader, flowing down along the angle of his jaw. His eyes burned with a rage that his cold expression couldn't hide as he wiped it off with his hand. He stared at the mess on his palm before curling it into a fist and firing it towards Kessler's face with newly knitted muscle powering the thrust. Two of the Steel Claws in the outer circle moved in after the punch was thrown throwing their own jabs.

He could have moved. Could have side-stepped the way Dom had showed him decades ago. Could have stepped away and let the blow from the side connect with the tough's comrade instead. But he didn't. He let it all connect. A stout shot to the ribs, and the leader's strike to his face, caught him on the cheek. He could feel bone crack, and he acknowledged this pain. Sensed injury. Ignored it. Smiled a bloody smile as his own fangs made themselves known. His voice was thick with the change, part growl, all monster, for so he was.

"Good, boys. Good. You'll make someone proud one day." Then he struck, driving his knuckle-claws deep into the chest of one of the leader's friends, tearing, rending, not caring about the screams around him. These wouldn't be killing blows to a Lycan, but he needed to send a message. Stepping to one side, he transferred his weight and put every ounce of coiled, tensed muscle tissue into the blow to the pup's knee, which snapped and twisted awkwardly, in a way that no joint was meant to be. "Not today though."

He spun and raked his claws across the leader's face, drawing blood, and feeling awash in power and rage, feeling the blood spatter his own face. "Is that the best you've got?!"

The crowd devolved into a series of whoops and cheers as their entertainment for the night kicked off. There was even a small pool started on who would win the fight. The Steel Claw that had his knee mangled howled in pain and fell to the side to let another take his place. Their punches carried the strength and weight of a Lycan but none of the technique that came with experience. They had fought with other youngblood or harassed weak humans. None of them knew what it meant to face a veteran like Kessler.

The leader grimaced and growled as the claws tore up his skin, claiming one of his eyes in the process, yet he didn't howl like the other in his group. Instead, he brandishing his own sharpened claws and came swinging back at Kessler. "You're gonna pay for that, shithead!" He turned his voice on his brothers. "Will two of you dipshits grab his arms already!"

Two of his fellow goons jumped at Kessler from his sides, hands reach for his arms as the Leader tried to keep his focus.

His phone went off, in his pocket. He couldn't see what it was, but he knew it was important. There were only so many people who even had his number. But for the moment, he was getting his wish. He was grabbed from one side, to which he lashed out, again feeling bone crunch, and blood spatter him. But numbers were on their side. He was grabbed, and though they had real, honest trouble keeping ahold of him, they managed to get their kicks in. And Kessler needed it. He needed to feel his flesh tear, his ribs crack, his eye pulped. He drank it in like it was his sixth shot of Cuervo of the night, feeling every hit, reminding him he was alive.

The crowd whooped and hollered, egging on the young punks, until Kessler's head hung limp, his body held aloft in their grasp.

And then his head raised up, mouth dripping blood, broken tooth spat onto the floor, eye red with a burst blood vessel. "My turn."

The leader-pup's brows scrunched at Kessler's statement and that was all he had time for. He took a step back as his eyes widened from their confusion into shock. Their blood-curdled scream silenced any and all merriment happening in the dive bar...for a whole three seconds as the crowd shifted their cheering from the young punks to Kessler now tearing them a new one.

Despite the madness before him, the leader's expression steeled as Kessler approached. He said nothing as he surged towards Kessler, simply letting out a throaty yell as he swung his fist for his head. The difference was he was now alone facing the beast of a man in front of him. Those with any shreds of consciousness dragging or limping themselves over the dirty floor and towards the exit.

Kessler's arms, 'held at bay' grasped the flesh that held his arms, dug in, dug farther until they weren't holding him, he was holding them. Tore musculature from bone, tossed one man across the room like an empty beer can. Raised the other who had been holding him, raised him up by the latissimus dorsi (lats -- to you heathens,) blood dripping down his flank, and quite literally tore his arm out at the socket, the flesh torn and ragged, blood spraying from severed arteries, beating him with it until his face was a fine red soup.

Turned to face the leader, an angel of death ready to end it all, and make him pay dearly, fangs and jaw covered in the ichor of his enemies, blood dotting his visage and his one, bloodshot eye.

He needed to make this quick.

The group of punks held nothing back at their Lycan muscles set in under their stretched and torn skin. Wicked grins painted their faces as each joined in wearing their own bruises and scrapes. "Not so tough now, huh?" "Gonna bury you old man!" "Hope you got your diaper on gramps cuz' we're kicking the shit out of you!" Each one hollered their own insults as their leader punched Kessler from the front, savoring each strike that landed cleanly. Their leader hunched to looked Kessler in his eyes. "You really must be a pathetic kind of dumbass. How about you tuck your tail between your legs and run home now, huh?" His voice dripped with the preemptive confidence one had before they lost it all at the end.

This time, Kessler did sidestep the attack, ducking under the roundhouse swing and, using the cub's own momentum, levelled two shots to the leader's ribs (and hopefully, lungs) before letting his reckless charge send him careering into the bar.

Straightening up, feeling the painful process of bones in his face knitting, blood running down his arms, and feeling more alive than anytime in the past few hours, Kessler spat blood on the form struggling to get up after flying face-first into a wooden structure.

"Thanks Boys." He checked his phone. Church. He knew it was coming... just hadn't been sure when. He had his answer. "This has been fun. I'm sure we'll do it again sometime. You feel you owe me some, you know where to find me." They'd given as good as they got. (well, a couple of them had.) He was covered in lacerations, and his left orbital bone was definitely broken. Definitely a couple of broken ribs, one of which cracked, popped and shifted back into place as he collected himself, causing the big man to wince.

The band kicked off the next tune, a not-half-bad cover of Rancid's 'Fall Back Down,' as Kessler stepped carefully over the pups dragging themselves to the door. He was in no rush. He was not escaping. Not running away. A few minutes later, the big bike kicked to life and he headed for the Cracked Fang, arriving less than twenty minutes later. He was still a mess, though most of the cuts had stopped bleeding, and a few had closed -- he was still bruised and bloody (and fucking sore.) He walked into the 'Fang, behind the bar, and filled a cloth with ice, washing his face and busted knuckles in the sink, letting fresh blood run. His missing tooth was itching, regrowing, and he worried at it a moment before stepping into the inner sanctum, perching on a table at the back of the room. He spoke to no-one, he made eye contact with no-one. Just let it bleed. Hear the man out. Prep for the Hunt. Fuck 'em all.