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One HyperHuman Monk/Mad Scientist Doctor coming up.
I know OOC is still in the works (no rush), but I think I've settle on writing Doctor HyperHuman Monk, master of medical science and augmentations.
All the interest on my part.

I'll begin contemplating what or rather who I want to write, ASAP.

---

Probs going for a character tied to the The HyperHuman Party (woman, machine, total party).
Lieutenant Satra Maral

975th Special Duties




Dropping down through the unremarkable maintenance hatch, Maral found herself in momentary darkness before her vision-enchantment flickered on and turned the world a subtle green.

Sergeant Foss had cut off power to the compartment the second they had latched onto the Republic cruiser. The Imperial pilot had been as good as promised. Better even. He had to be to be able to crash the boarding shuttle into a maneuvering enemy ship in a controlled manner. He had to be better than good to hit the bullseye and smash the reinforced boarding shuttle into the maintenance hatch that was located conveniently close to the bridge. The shuddering impact as they rammed into the Hammerhead and the timing of their approach made it unlikely that Republic spacers would suspect anything other than a downed boarding shuttle. Not that it mattered, they only needed a bit of time. Time that the mercenaries and the Sith warriors were buying them. Ship mounted plasma torches had made short work of the airlock and before the Republic soldiers knew what hit them, the 975th were on board.

The 975th were quiet ghosts that swept along the ship in unison. No pauses. No hesitation. No wasted movement. Each member of the unit knew when to move and what angles to cover as they bounded down the corridors, jumping from cover to cover. Their blackened heavy battle armor melted into the pitch black of the metal corridor. They wore no unit markings, no rank insignias, and no Imperial flags. Everything that they carried was common, high quality and expensive but not uncommonly rare. Operating on a tight deadline, the quartermasters had used all of their back channel contacts to ensure that the serial numbers of the fresh gear that the 975th sported could be easily traced back to a number of less than reputable weapon smugglers and mercenary outfits. The 975th looked like mercs, they looked like a kill squad. Exactly the sort of mercs that would be making some extra credits by running pirate jobs. Just the right type of psychopaths that would ever consider targeting a Repbulic Navy ship.

Maral didn't need to waste time on orders. They had drilled attacks like this a thousand times. They had died hundreds of times in the simulators. They had felt the painful electrical current of simulated injury and death as they made mistakes. But they had learned. They had perfected their movements. They no longer needed to think. They existed only in the moment. They reacted with the unthinking perfection of a killing machine. It bought them seconds, it bought them lives, and it kept the Jedi or Sith guessing. The mind without mind. The body without the emotion. Adrenaline and carefully curated reflexes acting in perfect harmony.

When words might have been needed, quick hand signals were flashed and tense moments passed in complete silence. Shouting across the corridor of a spaceship was a fast way to reveal your position and to swallow a grenade seasoned with blaster fire. Comms were an option, but comms could be intercepted, comms could be jammed, and comms could break down.

Contact with the enemy was inevitable and from the middle of the unit, Maral could see as the leading elements of the 975th rocketed to a halt. Through smoke she could see Repbulic personnel shouting as they rushed to set up a perimeter. They were combat troops. They were Republic Navy Marines. They were the real deal. But they hadn't seen them. They didn't know which direction they were being attacked from. They were searching for ghosts in the darkness.

Maral drew a long steadying breath and then the 975th opened up, unleashing a hail of accurate blaster fire at their unsuspecting foes. Blaster bolts cut through Transparisteel armor and the Republic Marines fell amid desperate shouts for back-up. The 975th didn't stop, but kept moving. One team of Imperial commandos suppressing the Republic marines, while another bounded forward. They had to be aggressive. They had to keep moving. To hesitate and to stop, was to die. If they were pinned down by the defenders it would only be a matter of time before they were overwhelmed by enemy numbers. They had to get close and they had to stay close. They were ready and the Republic Marines were not. They would not hesitate. They would not falter. They served the Empire. They served the Emperor. They were the spooks that did what had to be done without flash and without reward. They had a ship to cripple.

50 meters forward. Left turn.

As they closed in on the embattled Republic Marines, the teams of Imperial commandos fluidly broke into pairs, finding new angles as they heaped intensifying fire onto the the Republic Marines. Burning flesh welcomed Maral as she followed the tide of advancing Imperial commandos. The welcome heavy thud of her disruptor rifle accompanied Maral with each leap forward. Aiming down the holographic targeting cross-hair projected across the inside of her combat helmet Maral took aim at the first officer that she could spot. His personal shield had kept him alive, but it gave him away. She aimed center mass, it was pointless to be fancy when you carried a disruptor rifle. Thunder raced down the corridor as she braced herself against a wall and fired. The arc of plasma smashed through the military shield and through the grayish Repbulic armor. Maral heard only a brief, maddened scream before the man disintegrated within his armor.

Stepping over the smouldering pile of armor, Maral kept pace with the rest of the 975th. They had no time to admire their handiwork as they finished off the last of the Republic Marines. They had to keep moving.

20 Meters. Hard right.

50 meters forward. Left turn. 20 Meters. Hard right. 34 meters forward. A final right. 45 meters to the blast doors. 20 more to the bridge.

The Imperial commandos raced down the corridors at a breakneck pace. The Imperial commandos of the 975th overwhelmed the confused units of Repbulic Navy specialists and technicians that they encountered as they advanced. Distracted by the mercenaries and Sith warriors, the Republic troopers had put up a pitiful fight against the unexpected foes. Maral didn't care. She wasn't adding notches to her weapon. She was winning a war. There was no time for mercy. The barrel of her disruptor rifle had begun to smoulder and she popped the red-orange barrel off with a deft movement of a hand. Ducking behind a metal column, she replaced it with a fresh barrel. She wouldn't need the rifle for much longer.

34 meters forward. A final right.

Taking the corner in pairs, Maral and the Imperial commandos of the 975th found themselves facing a heavy repeating blaster emplacement hastily assembled from metal crates and sheet metal. The fire that greeted them should have been overwhelming. It should have cost them a commando or perhaps even two. The Republic troopers should have made them pay for each step forward. But they didn't. They shot wide. They were slow. They were gasping for air. They were panicking. Taking cover, the Imperial commandos returned fire as they shifted closer. They were already dead. They all knew it. Anything they did would buy them time. Aggression was the only option. Maral watched with satisfaction as the closet Imperial commando lobbed a stun grenade over the makeshift barricade. Surging forward even before the grenade exploded, the 975th leaped over the piles of debris with salvo of blaster fire that cut into the writhing defenders.

Officers. Engineers. Technicians. They weren't combat soldiers. They had never been. The survivors dropped their weapons. Maral counted three of them. Survivors were unexpected, but they were useful. Especially the two officers.

45 meters to the blast doors. 5 more meters to the bridge.

"Password," Maral said nodding to one of the Imperial commandos who pressed the blade of his knife against the neck of the Republic naval officer.

"I don't know any passwords. I don't have the security clearance!"

"Last chance," Maral whispered as her sergeant drew blood. "You're the officer in charge of this section. You know the password."

"You can't expect me to divulge information that put Republic lives in danger-"

"Sergeant."

The Junior Lieutenant fell to the floor with a silent thud, drowning in her own blood. Maral turned to the warrant officer cowering next to her. "One chance, Senior Warrant Officer, you have one chance to live. You tell us the password, we bring you with us. You refuse, you die here. Drowning in your own blood, like the Junior Lieutenant."

The woman flinched as the Imperial commando guarding her stepped closer. Maral could see the panic in her eyes. The rapid breathing. The shudder that moved through her body. The commando kept her quiet with a simple gesture of his knife. Squeezing her eyes shut, the young specialist spoke just barely above a whisper, "Esk 7 7 9 2. That's the password. Please-"

Maral didn't need to give the order. Her soldiers knew. They were only leaving the ship with one prisoner. Stacking up on either sides of the blast door, the 975th wordlessly set up a perimeter as Sergeant Foss plugged into a nearby access panel.

Contact, a commando signaled as a squads worth of weapons pointed towards a new set of figures that moved down one of the adjoining corridors leading to the bridge.

SW PW Character: The Plant Bounty Hunter






Walmageddon: Shopping Spree



-

Teg (Cora)




Teg felt the heat of the explosion as it rocked the ship. She heard Maria's shouts over the ship comms. She had no time to react when fire from the enemy ship smashed into the turret she was manning. Paneling shattered from the force of the blow and glass rained over her. Her hands were fast enough. They always were. She'd covered her eyes. She needed to be able to see. She needed to be able to fight.

"Fuck," Teg groaned, pushing off a loose panel of sheet metal that had fallen against her. She shifted her fingers. Her hands still worked. Sighting the enemy ship and placing it in her sights she squeezed again. Nothing. The gun was silent. The gun remained silent even when she hit it with an angry fist.

"Fuck," Teg swore once more, before centering herself. She could still fight. She keyed the intercom.

"Turret is damaged. It's done for. Enemy ship is closing fast. Preparing for boarding action." Teg said. Her voice had shifted, gone serious in a fleeting moment. She was focused. She was ready. She was serious. Old memories, old habits had taken hold. She didn't feel panic. There was no point in panicking. She was the muscle. She was the guns. She had a job to do. She'd make them pay for every step they took into the ship. Uninvited guests were rude. Very rude. And bullets were the cure for rudeness.

She needed guns. Firepower. She need firepower. Sliding a hand over the pistol she kept on her hip, Teg considered that she needed a bigger gun. Kicking her way out of the shattered cockpit, Teg sent glass and scraps of plastic flying in her wake. She felt a trail of blood slowly rolling down the side of her face. Brushing her hand over the wound, she felt a sudden needling burst of pain. It hurt, but she was alive. The cut wasn't deep and it wouldn't slow her down. Steadying herself, the mercenary bolted down the corridor, practically crashing into the door of her quarters.

Throwing open the metal door to her quarters with a stiff shoulder, Teg pushed over several boxes that had been stacked atop of a another larger box. Sprawled across the large case, she took a moment to breath before flipping open the heavy latches. Grunting she retrieved a large, brutal firearm. Metallic chitin had been shaped into a jagged weapon that spoke only of grim efficiency and killing power. Stamped with an impressive array of alien symbols and handles where there should have been none, it was clear at a quick glance that the weapon had not been designed by or for any humans. A Glaos special, Teg had no idea what it was called. But she understood it. She knew what it was capable of. She knew how to use it. Loading a heavy drum of ammunition into the weapon, Teg couldn't help but smile.

She'd have another dance, one way or another, she'd have another dance.
Will start scheming on a character post-haste.
While we are working on collabs, I stumbled upon an applicable motto for this fine RP:

Walmageddon:



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