Sir Lurksalot

Fallout: Land of the Sky

I'm in.

Star Wars(AU) - After Knightfall

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Bay 1-B
On the Liberator

With a slight rocking, a pair of curt chirps and a low whistle from the cockpit, the Dog came to an easy landing on board the Liberator... Well... mostly, anyway. As subtly, almost deliberately, the starboard landing strut hit the deck juuuuust a little bit sooner than the others, causing the whole ship to recoil just enough to throw Toryn off mid-step and have to catch himself on the wall on the way out.

The extremely sarcastic series of chirps to the tune of "You're welcome." the Jedi received when he cast a glare down the hallway back at his trusty droidcore— who was already ignoring him and booting up a game of Mando Kart on one of the free monitors in the cockpit— did little to allay his suspicions.

"Thanks, Teeth." He ground out, shaking his head a little before turning away and carrying on.

Not like he was going to be long anyhow; snatching up a few fuel and power cells from his kitchen table and sliding them into his bracers as he went, eliciting a slight chirp in his ear as a few green notices appeared on his helmet's HUD to let him know the replenished state of his wrist-mounted blasters and flamethrower as he force-pulled his lightsaber off the coffee table and into his hand. Latching it to his belt as he made his way toward the boarding ramp.

...Pausing only for a second as he heard a loud, droidish screech from the cockpit. But carrying on soon afterward with what must have been a shit-eating grin beneath that helmet of his as he heard the long-series of sweeping chirps and beeps that followed immediately afterward and put two and two together—

"Yeah, you can just suck on that blue torpedo, you little shit..."

...Which, he realized, may have been an awkward thing to say out loud as his eyes turned forward again and found Talik waiting for him at the bottom of the ramp. Arms crossed and giving him a particularly sour expression... though he didn't let that bother him too much as he put his looped his thumbs into his belt and approached at a casual gait— the subtle twitching of her lekku telling him more of about what was going inside her head than her face ever would anyhow.

Coming to a stop in front of her, juuuust at the part of the ramp that would leave them at roughly the same height (the twi'lek having a few inches on him most of the time, as she was oh-so-fond of reminding him), the Mandalorian finally spoke.

"Kept ya waiting, huh?"

Legacy of Heroes: The New Age

A Diamond in the Rough

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Malcolm MacAodhan

| {Full Name} |

Malcolm Alasdair MacAodhan

| {Age} |

19

| {Species} |

He's... not entirely sure anymore.

| {Gender} |

Male

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| {Appearance} |

Standing at a (just slightly) below average height of about 5'8"... Mal has never really been one to stand out in a crowd, at least at first glance. Not to say he's hard to look at, mind you— Hell, the kid actually strikes a surprisingly good-looking figure, what with those clever grey eyes he got from his dad framed by the handsome face they both got from his dad topped off with that knack for warm (if a bit cheeky) little grins he most definitely got from his mum.

...And these days, a body covered in compact, lean and almost inhumanly dense musculature. Perhaps the most visible result of his life's sudden, drastic turn for the weird.

But, never one to really flaunt what he's (emphatically) got, Malcolm's always erred on the more modest side of fashion; preferring bog-standard jeans and t-shirts to anything truly extravagant and usually finding some ball-cap or another to tuck over his short brown hair. Though he does have a particular fondness for a pair of old combat boots he inherited from his late father and has a habit of throwing on an old B-3 bomber's jacket his grandpa gave him when the weather starts to get cold, giving him a bit of a 'vintage' look at times. But honestly, the kid wears it pretty well.

Though that probably runs in the family, too.

| {Equipment and Personal Belongings} |

• A cellphone
• Wallet
• Usually a pack of gum or two. Often cherry flavoured.
• Wristwatch
• An electric guitar he never actually learned to play in the corner of his room.
• His dad's old zippo, usually kept in a pocket over his heart.
• Tri-City Transit Metropass (driver's licenses tend to expire when you're legally dead, after all).
• A few empty shellcasings in the corner of his desk from the first time a family friend, Marianna, took him to the range when he was nine.
• The trophy he earned from a marksmanship contest two years later, right beside them.
• Official 'THE JUDGE' action-figure with 'REAL GUILLOTINE ACTION' and the words "NUT UP OR SHUT UP!" scribbled across it's chest in permanent marker in the opposite corner.
• His mom's old badge and his dad's medals, kept in the desk cupboard above his computer. Out of sight, but not out of mind.
• Said computer, an absolute unit of a gaming PC Vee helped him build a few years back.

| {Physical Abilities} |

Of the Blud— Not to ride that old stereotype of everyone that's ever come out of Bludhaven being of the 'Scrappy, rough hooligan' sort too hard, buuuuuut... Our boy Malcolm spent a good most of his youth getting into fistfights and all other kinds of trouble with his friends (much to the outward-chagrin, inward-almost-pride of his dad and the dismay of his mum, who usually had to pick his ass up at the station afterward) ranging from the odd tussle at school to the occasional back-alley brawl with the kids from the next school over.

It did pay off, though; to this day, Mal's pretty handy in a scrap. Though his skill comes more from experience and tenacity than any actual formal training— barring the little bits and tricks Mari imparted unto him when he was a youngster and his folks weren't looking.

Secretly a Nerd— Even before his existence took a turn in a direction that was decidedly tits-up, Mal was always a bright kid; always getting the top marks (or close to) in his classes, despite all his hooliganery, and even being able to talk shop and keep up with his cousin Zoey Kasimir— who he still regards as the brainiest person he's ever goddamn met. Though you wouldn't think it to actually look at him, plainspoken as he is and very rarely ever going out of his way show off his intelligence— Partly because it hasn't mattered much since his schoolboy days came to an abrupt end, and partly because his inner troll gets a good laugh out of the look on most people's faces when he does.

Mechanically Gifted— Having always been the type to take things apart to see how they work as a kid and having spent a good part of his youth (when he wasn't being a little shit) working on high-tech gizmos with Zoey, house renovations and vintage doodads with his Grandpa and eventually cars as a summer job during highschool for his then-boss, Arty, Mal grew pretty handy at using that big brain of his to solving practical problems; Whether by wrench, hammer, soldering iron or pen and paper. So much so that he was well on his way to earning a scholarship to MIT... though any aspirations of that have now been thoroughly shelved.

Uncanny Aim/Hand-Eye Coordination— Starting out as a kid playing ballgames at arcades with Zoey, Mal has always had a certain talent for lobbing things into very specific places from very far way. Something that became only more prominent over the years as, under the guidance and gentle nudging of a few people in his life, that talent for skee-ball evolved into winning every game of darts he ever played with his Uncle Paul. And then knives with Marianna just for shits and giggles in her backyard a few times followed by a slightly more serious instruction of the ins and outs of Lee-Enfield that actually earned him a shiny trophy at a competition a few years later.

Polyglot— Also not too surprising, knowing where Mal grew up and the people that raised him, but Malcolm has picked up a few languages over the years. Namely English (obviously), Canadian French, a bit of Russian and German... that last one, specifically because Grandma Maddie made it her mission in life to make for damned sure that the boy'd always be able to insult a German.

| {Superpowers} |

Enhanced Senses— In the two months since the lad's return to the normal world, Mal's noticed some... changes. One of which being that the longer he spent doing nothing but soaking up some sun while laying in bed and recovering from his ordeal, he became more and more aware of just how sharp his hearing had become, able to hear pretty much the entire street beneath his window in the first week his entire city block the day after, and at least a mile out in any direction a few days after that... which, of course led him to discover how good his eyes had become— Namely when he woke up one morning with a start to a bunch of noise his sleepy brain couldn't quite identify, looked out his window and caught sight of some guy watching what looked like an interesting little picture featuring Barney the Dinosaur in a gimp suit and a donkey.

Which he saw with perfect clarity. Because the guy's window was open. In his penthouse.

Three miles away.

Across the river. In Central.

...On the bright side, however, his sense of taste has also been cranked up to eleven. And Grandma Maddie's cooking has never been better. Which may, in fact, be the only thing that's kept him sane upon realizing he can hear the goings-on, whether he wants to or not, of everyone around him and that said goings-on are often pretty fucking weird.


Enhanced Physiology— Though the lad doesn't quite know the extent of it yet, Mal's body has gone through some changes of it's own; leaving him able to leap most of the way up a twenty-story apartment building, easily one-hand lift and throw a Bugatti Chiron and run about as fast as one, too, with the agility to keep up with it. On top of that, the kid is obscenely tough as well— able to tank things that should rightly turn him into red paste and most small arms fire save for things getting in the range of .50-cal and above or dedicated armour-piercing munitions. Though, the only real hint he's gotten about any of this was when he woke up one morning and realized that at some point throughout the night, he'd rolled over and put his head through the wall without even realizing it.

He also seems to have developed some sort of accelerated healing, something he is actually aware of, having been stuck in bed for so long with nothing to do but watch his wounds heal with increasing speed (especially when the Sun was out, for some reason). Potent enough that injuries that should have by rights, kept him on the mend for the better part of a year and possibly crippled for life vanished over the span of two weeks, not even leaving any scars, new or old.

Enhanced Brain Function— While he was always a bit of nerd in disguise, Mal's brain has recently been been kicked into overdrive. Processing information at speeds several times faster than a normal human being and granting him almost perfect recall... though the only clue he's gotten about this particular number is that he's gotten pretty damned good at the sudoku puzzles in the newspaper and guessing the answers on daytime Jeopardy reruns.

Slumbering Giant— Perhaps most concerning of all, is the fact that whatever is causing all these changes in Malcolm's body seems to be growing more and more pronounced by the day, though he's only dimly aware of it. Where this is leading, none can really say. But it doesn't seem to be slowing down any time soon, and each day, little by little, he wakes up in the morning stronger than the last.

| {Limitations} |

Not Invulnerable— As previously stated, there is an upper limit to Mal's durability; and hitting him often enough or hard enough will hurt him. On top of that, the guy still needs to breathe— making attacks via poison gas just as effective on him as it is anybody else, and meaning he can also be drowned or suffocated.

Not Wolverine, Either— While Mal may heal faster than most, it isn't exactly instantaneous nor something that'd really help him him out in the middle of a fight— Sure, the odd bruise or little scrape will be gone in a minute or two, with minor cuts or gashes taking a little longer than that... but more severe injuries and broken bones can take days depending on severity.

Frequent Headaches/Hallucinations— Seemingly a side-effect of whatever's going on with his body, Mal's recently had a few problems with his head... in the form of random, headaches that range in strength from mildly irritating to downright agonizing in intensity and arrive without warning, turning his world into a distorted mish-mash of pastel colours at best and at worst, causing him to hallucinate things like seeing through walls, what he can only surmise to be thermal radiation and even electrical currents. Needless to say, just a wee bit distressing. Both in the pain it causes and the implication that he just might be going a little crazy, so he's kept mum about the whole thing to his family.

Which of course means he's unaware of the faint orange glow radiating from behind his eyes when it occurs.

Inexperience— As good in a scrap as Mal is, when it comes to the whole 'hero' business, he... well... He has no idea what the fuck he's doing.

So a few months of trial, error and smacking facefirst into the side of a few buildings is probably going to follow while he figures it out.

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| {Personality} |

Malcolm is, for lack of a better way of putting it, a walking, talking paradox of a young man— Indomitably stubborn, possessing no small reserve of that potent mixture of grit, wit and pluck his hometown's known for and an apparent talent for dropping devastating one-liners with ruthless efficiency if some poor fool ever gives him the chance... Yet, also honest by nature. Surprisingly patient— far moreso than you'd ever associate with the hardnosed Bludhaven stereotype—, warm, welcoming and caring not just to those he holds dear, but... damn near everybody he meets (traits he's made less and less effort to hide in the five years of introspection he's had since moving west) and far more intuitive and intelligent than he ever really cares to let on.

The kind of guy that does his grandma's groceries and mows her lawn without complaint. Who'd step in the way of a mugging just as readily as he'd change a stranger's tire. Who'd do the drywall in Mari's house for no more than a few slices of pizza and maybe an affectionate little tousling of the hair.

Because beneath all that pluck, grit and wit his hometown's known for, there's been a good man hiding in plain sight the entire time. One it's entirely likely Mal himself knows little about.

| {Place of Origin} |

Born in Bludhaven, New Jersey to a green beret for a dad and a local cop for a mom. Malcolm's youth was... actually pretty normal, all things considered. Sure, he had an amazing talent for getting into trouble (pranks and the occasional schoolyard scrap, mostly) but that never really stopped his folks, his cousin Zoey (whom he was damn-near attached to by the hip throughout his childhood), her parents and all his family out west from loving him all the the same. And so, when he wasn't giving his mum all kinds of headaches with his usual antics, he spent his days taking the train to Gotham to goof off with Zo, going on the odd fishing trip with his granddad and, on some rare occasions, visiting the Valinovas on whatever new posting they found themselves in.

There were, it should be noted, some little oddities here and there. One of the most glaring examples being how odd it was that the grandpa he loved so very much never really looked as old as he should. And never seemed to age, for that matter.

Even more suspicious was the fact that when he was old enough to be aware of and ask about it, the only answer he ever got was just a quick "I'll tell you when you're older."

Though truth be told, he'd soon have other things to worry about.

| {Background} |

Life Finds a Way (To Kick you in the Balls)

Malcolm's happy life would start to take a downward turn sometime shortly after his eleventh birthday. When, beaming and brimming with pride while clutching a shiny new trophy he'd earned in a Range Competition while visiting with his Grandpa and the Valinovas for a weekend, he came home to find his mother hunched over at the kitchen table, face in her hands, and breathing laboured by the effort of trying not to break there on the spot as one of his father's friends from work sat across from her, fully dressed in his formal greens.

A tri-folded flag on the table between them.

A few days later, Captain Andrew MacAodhan of the United States Army was brought home in a wooden box and laid to his final rest in Section 60 of Arlington National Cemetery. Watched over by all those who loved him as he was lowered into the ground as the somber tunes of amazing grace rang out from the pipes; the Kasimirs, the Valinovas, Grandma Maddie, his father, wife and young son... who to his credit, managed to keep it mostly together— aided mostly by a warm hand holding his, though he doesn't remember whose— and only flinched once during the three-volley salute.

But life was never the same again.

In the years that followed, Mal would see the Valinovas, his grandpa and even the Kasimirs less and less as his mother became more withdrawn from her dead husband's family (though Zo usually found a way to get a hold of him, despite his mother's efforts), only ever really allowing Maddie to visit as often and as unannounced as she always had, finding it a little hard to say no to her own grandmother. Between the mother and son themselves, things became much more strained; though life could never break the love they had for one another, there was not much laughter or smiles to go around in their house— And the more Abigail tried to rein in her son and keep him out of trouble and from his family, the harder he pushed back— those rare schoolyard scraps of his becoming more and more frequent and serious as the boy began to lash out at the world around him, increasingly isolated from those he cared for. Including his mother, who buried her feelings into her job and, increasingly, into the drink.

This state of affairs would worsen over the course of three years, with the son descending further and further into a pattern of hooliganism, the mother falling further into the drink, the two coming to verbal blows with increasing severity more often than not and their house becoming less of a home and more of a space they just so happened to cohabitate.

And it would only end when young Malcolm eventually picked a fight he really shouldn't have, a brief little scuffle with some gang-leader's little cousin that would see him ripped off the sidewalk and into an alley on the way home from school, beaten within an inch of his life, then tossed in the trunk of a car, presumably to be taken down to the pier and thrown into the river. Sitting in that metal box, with nothing but the the cold, the grinding of his broken ribs, and the dark to keep him company, Mal was... understandably scared shitless. But then, after a time, almost calm. Growing more an more aware that this was, pretty inevitably, going to be his end.

But the moment his thoughts fully began to turn in that direction, things outside his little box of pain suddenly got very loud with gunfire and screaming, before it suddenly got quiet again. Right before his mother ripped open the trunk, and hauled her boy out of there and into a hug, despite her wounds.

And three days after that, Abigail MacAodhan passed away from her wounds. Going quietly in her sleep, and, by some mixture of cruel irony and great kindness, spending more time with her son in those precious 78 hours than she had in the past three years.

And despite all the words and anger and strife that had been between them since the better part of a half-decade since that day in Arlington, she did not go unloved.

Starting Anew

It was not long after his mother's funeral that Mal found himself in the care of his grandfather out in Keystone.

Though starting a new life in a new town was a bit of a daunting prospect, at the very least the boy was reunited with his family and even Mari and her daughter, Verra, again. The latter of which took him under her wing in a way as he was enrolled into the prestigous Isaiah Morgan Academy with her— both to make sure he was alright, and to keep him from falling into his old ways. And to her credit, she was pretty damned successful in that regard; Mal's grades actually began to improve again, he began to smile and laugh again, both at school, at home and when he was over at the Valinova's helping out around the house or working part-time out of a little garage out in Kansas City.

...Well, there was an altercation or two with a boy named Reginald de Souza, who had a thing or two to say about both Mal's accent and less-than-regal mannerisms as well as the size of Vee's chest; Needless to say, the girl made a point of looking the other way whenever Mal chose to deal with that particular problem the traditional Bludhaven fashion. Occasionally even giving him a quiet little grin, one-armed hug or squeeze on the shoulder in approval on the way to their study group later— Which is also around the same time that the boy encountered one Kara Davis. And a bunch of teenage hormones abruptly hit him like a fucking truck.

She was smart, crazy smart, sassy, witty and to top it all off, drop-dead gorgeous.

And three years his senior.

And way the hell out of his league.

To his unrelenting horror, Malcolm suddenly realized that he'd just met his first crush. Something his life, for all of its ups and downs, had left him woefully unprepared for... so, being a kid with a head full of puberty-stuff and panic, he eventually (after about three years of fidgeting uncomfortably in his seat at study group and getting distracted when Vee had her over while he was working on Mari's car or doing the drywall) did the obvious thing that a kid with a head full of puberty-stuff and panic would do— Something stupid.

He flunked three tests in a row. Something that confused the hell out of his teachers, who'd been thus far impressed with his grades, and made Vee give him a loud "What the heck, Mal?"— you'd have to know the girl to understand just how damning that statement was— before she pushed him towards finding a tutor.

Namely, Kara. Just as planned.

...Much to Mal's horror, who quickly realized he had no idea what the hell he was doing, or where to go from here.

Still, the two were spending time together now. Talking more than they did during Vee's study group and actually getting along on top of that, occasionally taking breaks between studying to play a round of Smash Bros. or ordering take-out for study-fuel. Sure, the boy kinda felt kinda like a bag of shit all while keeping up the act, but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't absolutely over the moon they were spending so much time together.

Still though, he knew for a fact that he couldn't keep this up forever— Vee was starting to give him a wry side-eye about it once in a while, as good a sign as any that the jig was pretty close to being up— and the boy began to fall into a mild bout of melancholy about the hole he'd dug himself into.

That is, until he happened to go to a convention one weekend, and found inspiration from perhaps the weirdest place imaginable.

The Judge, signing autographs and posing for pictures with fans.

In a spur of the moment, Malcolm actually asked the wrestling phenom for advice. And was more than a little surprised when instead of shrugging him off said font of gains lowered his sunglasses, looked him dead in the eye and and told him—

"Kid, sometimes ya just gotta know when to nut up or shut up."

And then he wrote a reminder down on his action figure, signed it, and sent the boy on his way with a little clap on his shoulder.

And the next day, Malcolm did just that— He nutted up. And to his astonishment to this day, she actually said yes.

If Mal was 'Over the moon' before, he was screaming right the hell out of the Solar System by now. Absolutely bouncing in his seat as he rode the subway home that day, and only barely able to keep from screaming with joy the whole ride back.

Right up until his train came off the track. On a bridge.

Over the river.

Because every happy moment in Mal's life had to come at a price.

*WARNING: FILE NOT FOUND*

Third Time's a Charm

Two years after the train crash, Malcolm woke up one morning in his bed. Groggy, sore and covered head to toe in bandages and stitching— probably on account of all the gashes, cuts and broken bones. But in spite of all of that, he was relieved.

His ordeal was over. He was home.

He was free.

It didn't take much longer, especially with the combination of crying and laughter that followed that escaped his throat at that realization, for his grandpa to jolt awake from where he slept, in a chair beside his bed and immediately pull him into a hug.

For the first few days, the lad was unable to do anything but lay in bed, healing and staring out the window at the world he'd missed for the past two years. His only company being a rotating shift of grandpa Duncan, grandma Maddie and of course, Mari, who'd been there with Duncan to retrieve him from the side of a mountain outside of Central in the first place. They would've taken him to a hospital, but the manner in which they'd found him and the fact that he'd been legally dead for two years now put a slight dampener on that.

Instead, they got front row seats to something they really weren't expecting— Mal began to heal. Way faster than he should have, recovering in a week what should have taken him years, and only doing it faster as the days went on as his bones slowly mended themselves together and his wounds sealed shut, not even leaving a scar. He also began to bulk up, exponentially so, as a lean, ludicrously dense musculature began to form and harden around his body. Something that confused the hell out of all of them as the only thing he had to do all day was just lay there and soak up some sun.

By day eight, he confused them them all even further by showing up in the kitchen and making himself a sandwich.

They were happy to have him back— Even if, being legally dead, his prospects for a normal life have gone directly down the shitter and where he'd been for the past two years made them all hesitate to let anyone else know that he was in fact still alive. Whatever was and was still going on with his body was just a wee bit concerning, but probably not all that weird, considering the events of the past few months after that whole shitshow with the particle accelerator in STAR Labs.

Still, they felt it best that the lad keep a low profile for the forseeable future. Something he readily agreed to, flying in the face of all that youthful rebellion he was so fond of in his youth and has generally kept at home in the two months since, though the leash has slowly started to loosen in the past few days and he's been allowed more and more freedom to head out of the house on his own.

And so, slowly, steadily, Mal has begun to reclaim control of his own life.

But if history is anything to go by, fate has a few more curveballs to throw at him yet.

Legacy of Heroes: The New Age

Not my greatest work, but here he is.

Might have to make some edits here and there, was kinda half-asleep by the end.

A Diamond in the Rough

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Malcolm MacAodhan

| {Full Name} |

Malcolm Alasdair MacAodhan

| {Age} |

19

| {Species} |

He's... not entirely sure anymore.

| {Gender} |

Male

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| {Appearance} |

Standing at a (just slightly) below average height of about 5'8"... Mal has never really been one to stand out in a crowd, at least at first glance. Not to say he's hard to look at, mind you— Hell, the kid actually strikes a surprisingly good-looking figure, what with those clever grey eyes he got from his dad framed by the handsome face they both got from his dad topped off with that knack for warm (if a bit cheeky) little grins he most definitely got from his mum.

...And these days, a body covered in compact, lean and almost inhumanly dense musculature. Perhaps the most visible result of his life's sudden, drastic turn for the weird.

But, never one to really flaunt what he's (emphatically) got, Malcolm's always erred on the more modest side of fashion; preferring bog-standard jeans and t-shirts to anything truly extravagant and usually finding some ball-cap or another to tuck over his short brown hair. Though he does have a particular fondness for a pair of old combat boots he inherited from his late father and has a habit of throwing on an old B-3 bomber's jacket his grandpa gave him when the weather starts to get cold, giving him a bit of a 'vintage' look at times. But honestly, the kid wears it pretty well.

Though that probably runs in the family, too.

| {Equipment and Personal Belongings} |

• A cellphone
• Wallet
• Usually a pack of gum or two. Often cherry flavoured.
• Wristwatch
• An electric guitar he never actually learned to play in the corner of his room.
• His dad's old zippo, usually kept in a pocket over his heart.
• Tri-City Transit Metropass (driver's licenses tend to expire when you're legally dead, after all).
• A few empty shellcasings in the corner of his desk from the first time a family friend, Marianna, took him to the range when he was nine.
• The trophy he earned from a marksmanship contest two years later, right beside them.
• Official 'THE JUDGE' action-figure with 'REAL GUILLOTINE ACTION' and the words "NUT UP OR SHUT UP!" scribbled across it's chest in permanent marker in the opposite corner.
• His mom's old badge and his dad's medals, kept in the desk cupboard above his computer. Out of sight, but not out of mind.
• Said computer, an absolute unit of a gaming PC Vee helped him build a few years back.

| {Physical Abilities} |

Of the Blud— Not to ride that old stereotype of everyone that's ever come out of Bludhaven being of the 'Scrappy, rough hooligan' sort too hard, buuuuuut... Our boy Malcolm spent a good most of his youth getting into fistfights and all other kinds of trouble with his friends (much to the outward-chagrin, inward-almost-pride of his dad and the dismay of his mum, who usually had to pick his ass up at the station afterward) ranging from the odd tussle at school to the occasional back-alley brawl with the kids from the next school over.

It did pay off, though; to this day, Mal's pretty handy in a scrap. Though his skill comes more from experience and tenacity than any actual formal training— barring the little bits and tricks Mari imparted unto him when he was a youngster and his folks weren't looking.

Secretly a Nerd— Even before his existence took a turn in a direction that was decidedly tits-up, Mal was always a bright kid; always getting the top marks (or close to) in his classes, despite all his hooliganery, and even being able to talk shop and keep up with his cousin Zoey Kasimir— who he still regards as the brainiest person he's ever goddamn met. Though you wouldn't think it to actually look at him, plainspoken as he is and very rarely ever going out of his way show off his intelligence— Partly because it hasn't mattered much since his schoolboy days came to an abrupt end, and partly because his inner troll gets a good laugh out of the look on most people's faces when he does.

Mechanically Gifted— Having always been the type to take things apart to see how they work as a kid and having spent a good part of his youth (when he wasn't being a little shit) working on high-tech gizmos with Zoey, house renovations and vintage doodads with his Grandpa and eventually cars as a summer job during highschool for his then-boss, Arty, Mal grew pretty handy at using that big brain of his to solving practical problems; Whether by wrench, hammer, soldering iron or pen and paper. So much so that he was well on his way to earning a scholarship to MIT... though any aspirations of that have now been thoroughly shelved.

Uncanny Aim/Hand-Eye Coordination— Starting out as a kid playing ballgames at arcades with Zoey, Mal has always had a certain talent for lobbing things into very specific places from very far way. Something that became only more prominent over the years as, under the guidance and gentle nudging of a few people in his life, that talent for skee-ball evolved into winning every game of darts he ever played with his Uncle Paul. And then knives with Marianna just for shits and giggles in her backyard a few times followed by a slightly more serious instruction of the ins and outs of Lee-Enfield that actually earned him a shiny trophy at a competition a few years later.

Polyglot— Also not too surprising, knowing where Mal grew up and the people that raised him, but Malcolm has picked up a few languages over the years. Namely English (obviously), Canadian French, a bit of Russian and German... that last one, specifically because Grandma Maddie made it her mission in life to make for damned sure that the boy'd always be able to insult a German.

| {Superpowers} |

Enhanced Senses— In the two months since the lad's return to the normal world, Mal's noticed some... changes. One of which being that the longer he spent doing nothing but soaking up some sun while laying in bed and recovering from his ordeal, he became more and more aware of just how sharp his hearing had become, able to hear pretty much the entire street beneath his window in the first week his entire city block the day after, and at least a mile out in any direction a few days after that... which, of course led him to discover how good his eyes had become— Namely when he woke up one morning with a start to a bunch of noise his sleepy brain couldn't quite identify, looked out his window and caught sight of some guy watching what looked like an interesting little picture featuring Barney the Dinosaur in a gimp suit and a donkey.

Which he saw with perfect clarity. Because the guy's window was open. In his penthouse.

Three miles away.

Across the river. In Central.

...On the bright side, however, his sense of taste has also been cranked up to eleven. And Grandma Maddie's cooking has never been better. Which may, in fact, be the only thing that's kept him sane upon realizing he can hear the goings-on, whether he wants to or not, of everyone around him and that said goings-on are often pretty fucking weird.


Enhanced Physiology— Though the lad doesn't quite know the extent of it yet, Mal's body has gone through some changes of it's own; leaving him able to leap most of the way up a twenty-story apartment building, easily one-hand lift and throw a Bugatti Chiron and run about as fast as one, too, with the agility to keep up with it. On top of that, the kid is obscenely tough as well— able to tank things that should rightly turn him into red paste and most small arms fire save for things getting in the range of .50-cal and above or dedicated armour-piercing munitions. Though, the only real hint he's gotten about any of this was when he woke up one morning and realized that at some point throughout the night, he'd rolled over and put his head through the wall without even realizing it.

He also seems to have developed some sort of accelerated healing, something he is actually aware of, having been stuck in bed for so long with nothing to do but watch his wounds heal with increasing speed (especially when the Sun was out, for some reason). Potent enough that injuries that should have by rights, kept him on the mend for the better part of a year and possibly crippled for life vanished over the span of two weeks, not even leaving any scars, new or old.

Enhanced Brain Function— While he was always a bit of nerd in disguise, Mal's brain has recently been been kicked into overdrive. Processing information at speeds several times faster than a normal human being and granting him almost perfect recall... though the only clue he's gotten about this particular number is that he's gotten pretty damned good at the sudoku puzzles in the newspaper and guessing the answers on daytime Jeopardy reruns.

Slumbering Giant— Perhaps most concerning of all, is the fact that whatever is causing all these changes in Malcolm's body seems to be growing more and more pronounced by the day, though he's only dimly aware of it. Where this is leading, none can really say. But it doesn't seem to be slowing down any time soon, and each day, little by little, he wakes up in the morning stronger than the last.

| {Limitations} |

Not Invulnerable— As previously stated, there is an upper limit to Mal's durability; and hitting him often enough or hard enough will hurt him. On top of that, the guy still needs to breathe— making attacks via poison gas just as effective on him as it is anybody else, and meaning he can also be drowned or suffocated.

Not Wolverine, Either— While Mal may heal faster than most, it isn't exactly instantaneous nor something that'd really help him him out in the middle of a fight— Sure, the odd bruise or little scrape will be gone in a minute or two, with minor cuts or gashes taking a little longer than that... but more severe injuries and broken bones can take days depending on severity.

Frequent Headaches/Hallucinations— Seemingly a side-effect of whatever's going on with his body, Mal's recently had a few problems with his head... in the form of random, headaches that range in strength from mildly irritating to downright agonizing in intensity and arrive without warning, turning his world into a distorted mish-mash of pastel colours at best and at worst, causing him to hallucinate things like seeing through walls, what he can only surmise to be thermal radiation and even electrical currents. Needless to say, just a wee bit distressing. Both in the pain it causes and the implication that he just might be going a little crazy, so he's kept mum about the whole thing to his family.

Which of course means he's unaware of the faint orange glow radiating from behind his eyes when it occurs.

Inexperience— As good in a scrap as Mal is, when it comes to the whole 'hero' business, he... well... He has no idea what the fuck he's doing.

So a few months of trial, error and smacking facefirst into the side of a few buildings is probably going to follow while he figures it out.

---

| {Personality} |

Malcolm is, for lack of a better way of putting it, a walking, talking paradox of a young man— Indomitably stubborn, possessing no small reserve of that potent mixture of grit, wit and pluck his hometown's known for and an apparent talent for dropping devastating one-liners with ruthless efficiency if some poor fool ever gives him the chance... Yet, also honest by nature. Surprisingly patient— far moreso than you'd ever associate with the hardnosed Bludhaven stereotype—, warm, welcoming and caring not just to those he holds dear, but... damn near everybody he meets (traits he's made less and less effort to hide in the five years of introspection he's had since moving west) and far more intuitive and intelligent than he ever really cares to let on.

The kind of guy that does his grandma's groceries and mows her lawn without complaint. Who'd step in the way of a mugging just as readily as he'd change a stranger's tire. Who'd do the drywall in Mari's house for no more than a few slices of pizza and maybe an affectionate little tousling of the hair.

Because beneath all that pluck, grit and wit his hometown's known for, there's been a good man hiding in plain sight the entire time. One it's entirely likely Mal himself knows little about.

| {Place of Origin} |

Born in Bludhaven, New Jersey to a green beret for a dad and a local cop for a mom. Malcolm's youth was... actually pretty normal, all things considered. Sure, he had an amazing talent for getting into trouble (pranks and the occasional schoolyard scrap, mostly) but that never really stopped his folks, his cousin Zoey (whom he was damn-near attached to by the hip throughout his childhood), her parents and all his family out west from loving him all the the same. And so, when he wasn't giving his mum all kinds of headaches with his usual antics, he spent his days taking the train to Gotham to goof off with Zo, going on the odd fishing trip with his granddad and, on some rare occasions, visiting the Valinovas on whatever new posting they found themselves in.

There were, it should be noted, some little oddities here and there. One of the most glaring examples being how odd it was that the grandpa he loved so very much never really looked as old as he should. And never seemed to age, for that matter.

Even more suspicious was the fact that when he was old enough to be aware of and ask about it, the only answer he ever got was just a quick "I'll tell you when you're older."

Though truth be told, he'd soon have other things to worry about.

| {Background} |

Life Finds a Way (To Kick you in the Balls)

Malcolm's happy life would start to take a downward turn sometime shortly after his eleventh birthday. When, beaming and brimming with pride while clutching a shiny new trophy he'd earned in a Range Competition while visiting with his Grandpa and the Valinovas for a weekend, he came home to find his mother hunched over at the kitchen table, face in her hands, and breathing laboured by the effort of trying not to break there on the spot as one of his father's friends from work sat across from her, fully dressed in his formal greens.

A tri-folded flag on the table between them.

A few days later, Captain Andrew MacAodhan of the United States Army was brought home in a wooden box and laid to his final rest in Section 60 of Arlington National Cemetery. Watched over by all those who loved him as he was lowered into the ground as the somber tunes of amazing grace rang out from the pipes; the Kasimirs, the Valinovas, Grandma Maddie, his father, wife and young son... who to his credit, managed to keep it mostly together— aided mostly by a warm hand holding his, though he doesn't remember whose— and only flinched once during the three-volley salute.

But life was never the same again.

In the years that followed, Mal would see the Valinovas, his grandpa and even the Kasimirs less and less as his mother became more withdrawn from her dead husband's family (though Zo usually found a way to get a hold of him, despite his mother's efforts), only ever really allowing Maddie to visit as often and as unannounced as she always had, finding it a little hard to say no to her own grandmother. Between the mother and son themselves, things became much more strained; though life could never break the love they had for one another, there was not much laughter or smiles to go around in their house— And the more Abigail tried to rein in her son and keep him out of trouble and from his family, the harder he pushed back— those rare schoolyard scraps of his becoming more and more frequent and serious as the boy began to lash out at the world around him, increasingly isolated from those he cared for. Including his mother, who buried her feelings into her job and, increasingly, into the drink.

This state of affairs would worsen over the course of three years, with the son descending further and further into a pattern of hooliganism, the mother falling further into the drink, the two coming to verbal blows with increasing severity more often than not and their house becoming less of a home and more of a space they just so happened to cohabitate.

And it would only end when young Malcolm eventually picked a fight he really shouldn't have, a brief little scuffle with some gang-leader's little cousin that would see him ripped off the sidewalk and into an alley on the way home from school, beaten within an inch of his life, then tossed in the trunk of a car, presumably to be taken down to the pier and thrown into the river. Sitting in that metal box, with nothing but the the cold, the grinding of his broken ribs, and the dark to keep him company, Mal was... understandably scared shitless. But then, after a time, almost calm. Growing more an more aware that this was, pretty inevitably, going to be his end.

But the moment his thoughts fully began to turn in that direction, things outside his little box of pain suddenly got very loud with gunfire and screaming, before it suddenly got quiet again. Right before his mother ripped open the trunk, and hauled her boy out of there and into a hug, despite her wounds.

And three days after that, Abigail MacAodhan passed away from her wounds. Going quietly in her sleep, and, by some mixture of cruel irony and great kindness, spending more time with her son in those precious 78 hours than she had in the past three years.

And despite all the words and anger and strife that had been between them since the better part of a half-decade since that day in Arlington, she did not go unloved.

Starting Anew

It was not long after his mother's funeral that Mal found himself in the care of his grandfather out in Keystone.

Though starting a new life in a new town was a bit of a daunting prospect, at the very least the boy was reunited with his family and even Mari and her daughter, Verra, again. The latter of which took him under her wing in a way as he was enrolled into the prestigous Isaiah Morgan Academy with her— both to make sure he was alright, and to keep him from falling into his old ways. And to her credit, she was pretty damned successful in that regard; Mal's grades actually began to improve again, he began to smile and laugh again, both at school, at home and when he was over at the Valinova's helping out around the house or working part-time out of a little garage out in Kansas City.

...Well, there was an altercation or two with a boy named Reginald de Souza, who had a thing or two to say about both Mal's accent and less-than-regal mannerisms as well as the size of Vee's chest; Needless to say, the girl made a point of looking the other way whenever Mal chose to deal with that particular problem the traditional Bludhaven fashion. Occasionally even giving him a quiet little grin, one-armed hug or squeeze on the shoulder in approval on the way to their study group later— Which is also around the same time that the boy encountered one Kara Davis. And a bunch of teenage hormones abruptly hit him like a fucking truck.

She was smart, crazy smart, sassy, witty and to top it all off, drop-dead gorgeous.

And three years his senior.

And way the hell out of his league.

To his unrelenting horror, Malcolm suddenly realized that he'd just met his first crush. Something his life, for all of its ups and downs, had left him woefully unprepared for... so, being a kid with a head full of puberty-stuff and panic, he eventually (after about three years of fidgeting uncomfortably in his seat at study group and getting distracted when Vee had her over while he was working on Mari's car or doing the drywall) did the obvious thing that a kid with a head full of puberty-stuff and panic would do— Something stupid.

He flunked three tests in a row. Something that confused the hell out of his teachers, who'd been thus far impressed with his grades, and made Vee give him a loud "What the heck, Mal?"— you'd have to know the girl to understand just how damning that statement was— before she pushed him towards finding a tutor.

Namely, Kara. Just as planned.

...Much to Mal's horror, who quickly realized he had no idea what the hell he was doing, or where to go from here.

Still, the two were spending time together now. Talking more than they did during Vee's study group and actually getting along on top of that, occasionally taking breaks between studying to play a round of Smash Bros. or ordering take-out for study-fuel. Sure, the boy kinda felt kinda like a bag of shit all while keeping up the act, but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't absolutely over the moon they were spending so much time together.

Still though, he knew for a fact that he couldn't keep this up forever— Vee was starting to give him a wry side-eye about it once in a while, as good a sign as any that the jig was pretty close to being up— and the boy began to fall into a mild bout of melancholy about the hole he'd dug himself into.

That is, until he happened to go to a convention one weekend, and found inspiration from perhaps the weirdest place imaginable.

The Judge, signing autographs and posing for pictures with fans.

In a spur of the moment, Malcolm actually asked the wrestling phenom for advice. And was more than a little surprised when instead of shrugging him off said font of gains lowered his sunglasses, looked him dead in the eye and and told him—

"Kid, sometimes ya just gotta know when to nut up or shut up."

And then he wrote a reminder down on his action figure, signed it, and sent the boy on his way with a little clap on his shoulder.

And the next day, Malcolm did just that— He nutted up. And to his astonishment to this day, she actually said yes.

If Mal was 'Over the moon' before, he was screaming right the hell out of the Solar System by now. Absolutely bouncing in his seat as he rode the subway home that day, and only barely able to keep from screaming with joy the whole ride back.

Right up until his train came off the track. On a bridge.

Over the river.

Because every happy moment in Mal's life had to come at a price.

*WARNING: FILE NOT FOUND*

Third Time's a Charm

Two years after the train crash, Malcolm woke up one morning in his bed. Groggy, sore and covered head to toe in bandages and stitching— probably on account of all the gashes, cuts and broken bones. But in spite of all of that, he was relieved.

His ordeal was over. He was home.

He was free.

It didn't take much longer, especially with the combination of crying and laughter that followed that escaped his throat at that realization, for his grandpa to jolt awake from where he slept, in a chair beside his bed and immediately pull him into a hug.

For the first few days, the lad was unable to do anything but lay in bed, healing and staring out the window at the world he'd missed for the past two years. His only company being a rotating shift of grandpa Duncan, grandma Maddie and of course, Mari, who'd been there with Duncan to retrieve him from the side of a mountain outside of Central in the first place. They would've taken him to a hospital, but the manner in which they'd found him and the fact that he'd been legally dead for two years now put a slight dampener on that.

Instead, they got front row seats to something they really weren't expecting— Mal began to heal. Way faster than he should have, recovering in a week what should have taken him years, and only doing it faster as the days went on as his bones slowly mended themselves together and his wounds sealed shut, not even leaving a scar. He also began to bulk up, exponentially so, as a lean, ludicrously dense musculature began to form and harden around his body. Something that confused the hell out of all of them as the only thing he had to do all day was just lay there and soak up some sun.

By day eight, he confused them them all even further by showing up in the kitchen and making himself a sandwich.

They were happy to have him back— Even if, being legally dead, his prospects for a normal life have gone directly down the shitter and where he'd been for the past two years made them all hesitate to let anyone else know that he was in fact still alive. Whatever was and was still going on with his body was just a wee bit concerning, but probably not all that weird, considering the events of the past few months after that whole shitshow with the particle accelerator in STAR Labs.

Still, they felt it best that the lad keep a low profile for the forseeable future. Something he readily agreed to, flying in the face of all that youthful rebellion he was so fond of in his youth and has generally kept at home in the two months since, though the leash has slowly started to loosen in the past few days and he's been allowed more and more freedom to head out of the house on his own.

And so, slowly, steadily, Mal has begun to reclaim control of his own life.

But if history is anything to go by, fate has a few more curveballs to throw at him yet.

Star Wars(AU) - After Knightfall

---

---

Nau'ur kad be Dral
Isle of Kad Ha'rangir, Mandalore

”Son of a- Toryn, I’ll meet you when you get here. I’ve got another call coming in.”

And then the line went dead, leaving Toryn to just pause and stare at his inactive comm link in silence for a solid few seconds before his arm flopped back down to his side and he carried on.

"Well, that kinda figures..."

The Mando grumbled and shook his head ruefully— not out of any offense, mind; Talik was a busy lady these days what with that whole 'Rebellion spanning a good chunk of the galaxy'. Life was like that, he got it, and he'd never be so petty as to hold that against his old friend, even if that five minute call was the most he'd spoken to the twi'lek in a year or two now.

Rather, it was her timing—

Juhn, bubbly lil' blue-skinned bundle of hugs that she was, might forgive him for running off again less than two hours into his Founding Week holiday (Not even long enough to remember to take off his armour, in fact), even after he'd been off-world for a solid three months... but that didn't necessarily mean he was going to be forgiving himself so easily; Though he'd never say it out loud— least of all to a friend in need— this neglect of that most curious of Mandalorian traits, the innate need to be at home with clan and kin, well, it was really to starting to nag at him, truth be told.

"Heya, Toryn!"

Wearily, the Mandalorian's head rose and came crashing back to reality, catching perhaps the least helpful sight for those heavy thoughts in his head; Juhn's mother, Tanis, with the sleeves on her mechanic's coverall rolled and a bit of grease smudging her cheek as she waved him down with a warm smile and Rhea, grinning like she hadn't a care in the world. Or at the very least, for any of that dirt and grime she got on her while helping her mom pull the repulsor out of that old work-speeder she'd had up on blocks behind the house since he got back.

The smile on the Chiss woman's face noticeably fell slightly and whatever she was about to say died on her lips as she got a better look at him and realized what he was up to, a conclusion his niece seemed to come to as well as her grin outright melted her eyes cast down and she just walked right past him to meet her twin by the lake.

If Toryn felt bad before, he felt like an outright bag of shit right now.

"...'Nother assignment, Kiddo?" Tanis stated more than asked, crossing her arms and raising a brow.

His shoulders slumped a little as he cast a glance Rhea's way.

"That obvious?"

"Well, you're all geared up, spacing out and heading for The Dog like my foot's already been up your ass, sooo..." She replied with that cutting precision her people were known for... but also just a bit of her own trademarked smirk and humour. "Like a whore on 'Shaddaa, Tor."

Toryn ducked his head a little and scratched the back of his neck through the armourweave, though he couldn't help but let out a bit of a rueful laugh, something she joined in on with her own snicker.

He'd taught her that one, after all.

"So I take it there's no way to pass this one on to someone else?" Tanis finally spoke as the moment of mirth passed. "You really gotta go?"

"A friend of mine's in trouble, Tanis." Toryn said, shaking his head but at least sounding a little less down about it now as his visor rose to meet her eyes. "Can't turn my back on that."

The Chiss just sighed in response and lowered her head in thought for a quick second, taking a two toward as she did.

"Alright, alright... you do what you gotta do, I'll talk to Ruusad and the girls. Maybe butter 'em up with Founding Feast desserts or something." She said, opening her arms wide with false exasperation, dramatic flair and a sarcastic smirk. "Now get over here and pay your toll, you little shit."

A modulated little chuckle escaped Toryn as he stepped forward into woman's hug and wraped his arms around her in kind, something that had remained unchanged since he was a boy.

"Thanks, Tani." The Jedi said with a squeeze. "I shouldn't be gone long."

"See that you aren't— between you leaving and Dad being late, I'm not gonna have enough room in my fridge for all the leftovers." She replied with a snort and mock-annoyance. "But with any luck, you'll still beat the old man back here and he won't be all grumpy that his Verdika's missing."

Now it was Toryn's turn to snort, but he said nothing more as he squeezed a few extra seconds outta that hug to make up for lost time..

...Well, that is, until something suddenly occurred to him.

"Tani... aren't you covered in grease right now?"

He felt the near-human squeeze him tighter at that. And the impish grin form on her face through the armourweave on his collar.

"Yup."

---

On Approach to the Liberator
High Orbit, Mandalore

A short trip, a change of robes and a quick scrub of degreaser on his armour later and Toryn was in the hot-seat of that space-capable relic of a ship he called home.

And, as per usual, was currently arguing with it.

"No, I don't care what you say, Teeth. Keldabe's got it this year."

No sooner had the words left his mouth did the disc-shaped head-unit of an old T3-Series droid whirl around on it's roost atop the central console that divided pilot and copilot seats to fix him with some fascimile of a glare through it's optic sensor. Letting out a short series suspiciously sarcastic sounding chirps and beeps as it went.

Something that seemed only to annoy Toryn further.

"Oh, fer... Two Words— Canderous Fett. He's been kicking all kinds of ass since we got him back from Taris!"

This was followed by a few more agitated beeps and whistles. And Toryn actually taking his eyes off the control yoke to glare daggers through his helmet.

"The fuck do you mean 'Too old'? Guy's barely thirty!" He replied, the quick few chirps he got in response before he was even done talking doing nothing to improve his mood as he raised a hand at the increasingly irate droid's optic. "Okay then, wiseass who do you have for the cup?"

A short pause followed. Then two beeps, a whistle and a decidedly defiant doot.

"Concordia?"

The saucer-like head of his ship's droidcore nodded excitedly.

"...I oughtta melt ya down for that kinda talk."

Before the Mando Jedi and the droid that was hooked into his ship's hyperdrive, lifesupport and damn near everything else could get any further into it, however, there was a slight flicker on Toryn's console as the somewhat familiar voice of Talik's Comms Officer filled the ship's cockpit.

"Lucky Dog, this is Liberator, over."

Casting one final glare that screamed 'This isn't over.' even through his helmet at the synthetic (which responded with a sarcastic bobble of it's head), Toryn flicked a few switches on his console to open the audio channel as the distinctive shape of the Lucrehulk docked with Mandalore's new orbital ring steadily came into view.

"Liberator, Lucky Dog. Go ahead, over."

"Ah, there you are. Lucky Dog, we've got you on an approach vector and have been advised you'll be looking to dock. Is that correct, over?"

Flicking a few more switches on his console and stretching himself out slightly in his seat in preparation for the whole pre-dock rigmarole, Toryn replied;

"That is correct. Waiting for instructions, over."

"Alrighty then... Permission granted for Lucky Dog to approach and dock at bay One, O-N-E, B. Slow to twenty, two-naught within five hundred, five-naught-naught of the doors and five, F-I-V-E when past. Channel open, landing lights will be on. Good for readback, over." Talik's radio guy rattled off, quick and machine-like as if he'd been doing this all day, every day for years.

The Jedi just throttled down slightly and adjusted his roll a bit clockwise.

"That's permission for Lucky Dog to approach and dock at bay One, O-N-E, B. Slow to twenty, two-naught within five hundred, five-naught-naught of the doors and five, F-I-V-E when past. Channel open, follow the lights." Toryn said back in a tone that suggested he'd done this too many times to really give it much thought at this point. "Good copy, over?"

"Solid." The comms officer said in a suddenly less robot-y tone. "...And it's good to have you back, Toryn. Liberator out."

"Good to be back, Dex. I'll see you inside. Lucky Dog out."

All that done, the man visibly relaxed a bit as he started guiding his ship the rest of the way to Talik's gargantuan murder-donut.

"...But seriously, Concordia?"

Aaaaand the droid started chirping again, and back to square one they went.

Legacy of Heroes: The New Age

I'm in.

Star Wars(AU) - After Knightfall

Toryn Dral

Toryn Dral | Jetii'ramikad

"And this is why we don't 'Pull the lever just to see what happens', Airus."

| {Full Name} |

Toryn Dral

| {Age} |

25

| {Species} |

Human

| {Gender} |

Male

---

| {Force Sensitive/Alignment} |

Yes - Light

| {Appearance} |

Truth be told, among the small, loose fraternity of those armoured knights that have been slowly popping up in the ranks of the Enclaves over the course of the past decade and a bit, Toryn... doesn't stick out that much at a glance, honestly. Standing at a not-so-extravagant, but not particularly offensive height of 5'8" and garbing himself in much the usual fashion of the so-called 'Jetii'ramikad'— That is, a Jedi robe underneath his bronze-coloured beskar'gam and over a black armourweave bodyglove, with an old red scarf hung around his shoulders.

And as for the man underneath all that beskar and armourweave? Well, there isn't much to tell— Namely because very few outside of his immediate family have ever actually seen what he looks like under there. Though if what can be seen from a more thorough look at the Mando Jedi is any indication, he is, despite lacking the massive body-builder-esque bulk of someone like Airus the Swolbrarian or The Paladin, Supreme Ruler of Mandalore and King of Gains, seemingly straight-up carved out of Mandalorian Iron; with broad shoulders and tightly packed, almost inhumanly dense musculature more befiiting his more versatile role within the Enclaves and the GRM as a whole than just being buff would.

And if that still ain't enough for ya, you could always just ask a certain Jedi Druid about it— but all you'd probably get is a wry little smirk and three words:

"He's a cutie."

...Though, whether this is too little or way too much information is entirely up to you.

| {Equipment and Personal Belongings} |

On his Person

• His signature bronze-coloured beskar'gam of an older pattern, picked up at some point during his boyhood adventures in the Unknown Regions, resized to fit him as he grew and updated here and there over the years to suit his needs— Namely, the software in his helmet, which has been upgraded to include various display modes for his visor to help him with his job, a modernized comms suite, an onboard IFF suite linking directly back to the droid core on his ship and even a built-in vocabulator to help him with those oral gymnastic bits of alien language that would normally be beyond his human physiology.
• A vibrokal hidden in his right boot.
• A pair of Mandalorian vambraces
• A DE-10 Blaster Pistol
• An orange-bladed lightsaber with a bronze-coloured, beskar hilt.

The Lucky Dog

A downright ancient Dynamic-class freighter hauled out of a scrapyard on Terminus by Toryn's family when he was a boy, with most of the holes hastily patched up, an oversized powerplant aggressively rammed into place and a... creatively acquired Class 0.5 hyperdrive slapped in for good measure. The old girl has served as both his means of getting around and his home in the two decades or so since and has seen it's fair share of misadventures, tough scrapes and a whole helluva lot more close calls than it's designers had probably ever really intended it for, but it has always faithfully failed to let the Drals down even in their darkest of hours.

Probably why Toryn still refuses to part with it in favour of a more modern vessel to this day.

...And kept up the family tradition of adding new shiny bits to it.

Basic Specifications

• Length: 27.24 Meters
• Width: 25.94 Meters
• Maximum Atmospheric Speed: 1300 Km/h
• Hyperdrive Rating: Class 0.5
• Navigation: Droidcore-Assisted Navicomputer

Armaments

• 2x revolving laser cannon turrets, mounted dorsal and ventral.
• 4x forward-facing laser cannon turrets, mounted on the starboard and port sides of the hull and on either side of the cockpit.
• 2x 24-shot concussion missile racks, mounted on the starbord and port sections of the front of the hull.
• 4x Forward-facing deployable laser cannon hard points, one mounted above and below both missile racks.

Facilities

• Cockpit, equipped with a quartet of stupidly comfortable reclining chairs, comms and navigation suites, a droidcore mainframe populated by a very old, very cheerful and very talkative T-series astromech and all the other bells and whistles you'd expect to find there. And a Mandalore the Paladin bobblehead. Plus a pair of fuzzy dice Solace hung off the ceiling one year that Toryn decided he kinda liked.
• Garage/Workshop/Forge, in the starboard-aft section of the ship.
• Medical Bay aft of the ship.
• Cargo Hold/Brig, port-aft of the ship.
• Magnetically-sealable, beskar-plated storage compartment, center-port of ship.

Amenities

• Captain's Quarters, just aft of the cockpit. Formerly the comms room.
• Guest quarters, port and starboard of the ship.
• Common Area, equipped with kitchen, secured dining table with magnetically-anchorable chairs, holo-entertainment suite in the center of the room and a very comfortable couch. Located centrally in the ship.
• Washroom with dual-function ablution system; working as both a sonic shower for those times when Toryn's on those long treks that require some measure of water conservation (or if he's just running late for work) and an old-fashioned H2O bath/shower, for when he's planetside and just wants to relax. Mandalorian-helmeted rubber duckie included.

Stored on the Dog

• An old BARC speeder with detachable sidecar; Useful for getting around on planetside missions. And groceries.
• A Z-6 Rotary Blaster.
• A JT-12 Jetpack equipped with an MM9 Missile Launcher
• An Amban Sniper rifle.
• An old Pazaak deck Toryn found under his bed when his family first acquired the ship.
• The Thumper MK I— A pneumatically-powered, breech-loaded projectile launcher, built by Toryn when he was a boy. Heavy, a little underpowered, yet surprisingly versatile, it operates on a simple concept; There's a hole in the back. If you can fit it in there, you can fire it accurately up to fifty meters away. Mostly just used to annoy Airus these days.
• The Thumper MK II— A more serious attempt at the original concept Toryn took on in his teenage years; a light weight, breech-loaded, break-action coilgun designed to launch grenades (or anything metal that will fit in the breech) up to seven hundred meters away with impressive accuracy.
• The Alleron Rifle— The result of that time Solace commissioned Toryn to construct a pair of wheellock, revolver blasters for her. Namely, when he cast his gaze down upon the finished product, extremely potent, but extremely fragile and decided one thing— "It's not finished.". This led to a solid month of gathering materials for a far more rugged adaptation The Diplomat's of a crystal primed blaster utilizing individual cartridges of tibanna gas for every shot. The end result? A straight pull bolt-action rifle fed via en bloc into a ten-round internal magazine, with a barrel made of beskar to keep the damned thing from melting and furniture made of wroshyr wood incase it feels the sudden urge to explode in his face.
  
  On squeezing the trigger, a firing pin made of sharpened kyber crystal passes through a small cylinder of coolant mounted on the back of the en bloc behind each tibanna gas cartridge in almost the exact same moment as it hits the payload itself, firing off a blaster bolt powerful enough to punch a hole clean through a mudhorn six inches wide from it's ass to it's mouth from nearly two-and-a-half kilometers away. Pulling the bolt back ejects the now-spent gas cartridge and vents any remaining heat, while racking it forward again chambers another round and gets the whole process ready to start again.
  
  It should be noted, that though he's gotten more than his money's worth out of this particular fruit of Solace-given inspiration in the years since and even named the bloody thing after her... he hasn't actually told her about it. Partly because he's not sure if she'd be offended by his misgivings about her original design and partly because one way or another, he'd never hear the end of it.
• Various other, more standard arms and munitions

| {Physical Abilities} |

Jetii'ramikad
An unusual, and rather informal colloquialism used to describe people like Toryn, roughly translated from Mando'a as "Jedi Commando", it means... well, almost exactly what it says on the tin— What happens when you mix a Jedi Knight with a Mandalorian Supercommando.

Immersed in both cultures from a young age and enduring two solid decades of brutal training and even harsher experiences, it is no exaggeration to call our boy Toryn a living weapon of war (though the guy himself would probably tell you you're laying it on a little heavy). As lethal with a blaster, kal or even his bare hands as he is with a lightsaber and the force and being extremely (some would say freakishly) physically and mentally tough to boot, it's no small wonder that the council usually reserves the armoured Jedi and those like him for the kind of work that involves big damned piles of danger pay and circumstances to warrant it.

Accomplished Pilot
While nowhere near the level of a dedicated Jedi Ace, Toryn is as a consequence of having spent more of his life in space than not, pretty damned handy at the helm of a ship, easily able to make his archaic freighter dance in ways that'd earn a few approving nods from more seasoned pilots.

Master Smith
Starting as just a way to bond with his 'aunt' when he was still knee-high to a womprat— taking apart her blasters, scrubbing the scoring out of the chambers, realigning the focusing lenses and the like— the events of the next two decades of being on the run from the CIS and the Corellians, voyaging through the Unknown Regions and then becoming a Jedi Knight would only mould the boy's talent with his hands into a force all of it's own as he became a man. Becoming the irrefutable first stop his friends, family and even much of his clan go to when they need a really big gun, something to protect them from a really big gun and anything else in between.

"Tor-Torism"
A phrase coined by a certain diplomat— often accompanied by a little snort— to describe her Mandalorian companion's unique gift for ad-hoc diplomacy... which he barely even recognizes he actually possesses. Being surprisingly affable, plain-spoken and honest, especially for what amounts to a glorified bounty-hunter on the Council's payroll, Toryn has a singular talent for getting people to laugh and making fast friends of complete strangers, despite his reputation. Though he falls far, ludicrously short of knowing (or really caring) about all the nuances, subtleties and hyperdimensional brain-chess of actual diplomacy and is prone to the odd cultural faux-pas here and there; that one time he had a burrito before Solace dragged him to a tense meeting with a member of the Argent Council comes to mind, though to this day he swears the Arkanian planned it like that.

As an aside, it should be noted that the man is also quite blessed with that most sacred but oft forgotten about of Mandalorian virtues— Being good with kids.

Son of a Taung
Being raised by a legendary Taung General who made life particularly difficult for both the Old Republic and Jedi several thousand years ago has had it's subtle effects here and there on the man. Namely in his possession of a much sharper intellect than he ever really lets on in and an immense talent for strategy and tactics that only ever really bubbles up to the surface while on the job and fades back into obscurity the moment it's done.

| {Force Abilities} |

The Basics

• Force Speed
• Force Jump
• Telekinesis (Force Push, Pull, etc...)
• Force Sense
  
  More Advanced
• Force Body
• Clear Mind
• Force Valor

Electric Judgement
Once considered a forbidden force power in the Old Jedi Order known by only a select few, in the years since The Shattering, Electric Judgement (occasionally refferred to as the 'Emerald Lightning') has become noticeably more prevalent among the more pragmatic sections of the various successor orders that spawned from the ashes of the old. And Toryn is clearly no exception, possessing an almost natural affinity for the ability and, through years of careful practice, making it his own— being able to not only project bolts of yellow lightning from his hands and fingers but being able to wreathe it around his own body and even his lightsaber for an extra edge in combat.

Form VI Variant: Ramikad Niman
Toryn's own, nigh-heretical take on the so-called 'Diplomat's Form', fomented by his decade of hard experiences in the Unknown Regions with the input of not only from his adoptive sister who first taught him the form, but his adoptive brother, a former Death Watch trooper and his adoptive father, a Taung General and then further honed by a decade in service to Mandalore. The end result? A versatile and incredibly lethal mixture of traditional saber combat, Mandalorian swordplay and opportunistic attacks with the force, blended together seamlessly through a lifetime of fighting and made all the more terrifying by Toryn's proclivity for Electric Judgement.

Other Lightsaber Forms

• Form VII: Vaapad
• Form III: Soresu

| {Limitations} |

Krell's Revenge
A condition that most doctors viewed as an obscure medical anomaly during the Great Galactic Peace, 'Krell's Revenge', as it has come to be known in the decades since the end of the war and the Umbaran Campaign in particular, is a disorder resulting from repetitive instances of extreme physical trauma followed by excessive injection of medicinal bacta wherein the cells of the body begin to recognize and resist the reparative effects of the compound, dividing at a much slower rate than would be the norm under a bacta infusion.

Stretched over a whole lifetime, some degree of bacta-resistance is common in most sentients and is usually countered by administrating a more concentrated dose. Krell's Revenge, however, results when this cycle of trauma and repair takes place over a relatively short period of time, especially in adolescents. Limiting their options for serious medical care down to a medically-induced coma and long-term stay in a bacta tank, rare or obscure alternatives their bodies won't resist like kolto or, if they're lucky enough, force healing from a Jedi.

How Toryn came to have this condition, he'll never say.

But it does put his reluctance to be seen outside of his armour in a whole new light.

---

| {Personality} |

| {Place of Origin} |

Nar Shaddaa— As the ward of a Tionese mercenary and her crew under the payroll of one Narkuul the Hutt, an information broker operating out of a bar in the moon's Red Light Sector. In retrospect... probably not the best place to raise a kid, but Daesha managed to pull it off just fine with no small amount of help from her merry band of misfits and even her big slug boss.

...Well for five years, anyway.

Then everything went tits-up.

| {Background} |

Chapter I: "Daesha's Boy"

Toryn's origins, to milk that tired old cliche, are shrouded in mystery... and that's not him just trying to sound cool, enigmatic or anything remotely interesting, the guy honestly has no idea just where the hell he came from. What he does know, however, is that he was barely dry from the womb before he was handed off to a mercenary named Daesha Vao and her outfit working out of the Red Light Sector on Nar Shaddaa for safe keeping. Which admittedly, does kinda sound like a terrible idea at first, if you didn't know one tiny little detail—

That Daesha Vao was considered one of, if not the most lethal merc on that whole damned moon.

An absolute mountain of a twi'lek, and the daughter of both an infamous Tionese pirate and a slave-turned-assassin that could've built a bridge from the Smuggler's Moon straight down to the surface of Nal Hutta with all the bodies she'd left in her wake, Toryn's 'Auntie Daesha' had lived up to her pedigree long before she was changing the boy's diapers or tucking him into bed with a Ryl lullaby and a little kiss goodnight. Having earned her epithet as 'The Reaver' (though she never really cared for the name) via an absolutely jaw-dropping bodycount tallied up over a decade-long career throughout Hutt Space and the Outer Rim— Something she rarely brought up in casual conversation, as she'd always fancied herself to be something of a people person and folks tended to become... a whole lot less talkative the moment they figured out exactly who it was they were talking to. And that's not even getting into the company she kept—

Jarohn Dax (affectionately called 'The Brute' by Daesha), a giant, even among his fellow Devaronians; Built like a brick goddamn wall and about as clever as one, too. A nice guy, all things considered— Strong enough to rip a man limb from limb like a wet tissue, but a nice guy.

Zara Tuul ('The Brat'), a Falleen slicer and pilot with brains and sass in equal measure. An adept at getting whatever the hell she wanted from anyone, droid or organic and absolute master of the pithy one-liner... and kicking Toryn's ass in old holo-games if he remembers right.

Ruusad Vass ('The Kid'), a lad barely old enough to shave and certainly not old enough to buy a drink in most places outside of Hutt Space. Born and raised to live and breathe all things 'Deathwatch', but had a... slight falling out with his clan and glorified death cult over the whole 'Killing other Mandalorians' thing and was very likely considered dead or Dar'Manda (possibly both) to his entire family. Daesha never once doubted the boy's loyalty though— she had always had a soft spot for strays, especially ones that could peg a fly off a piece of bantha shit from a mile away without disturbing the pile.

And then there was Narkuul ('Pops'), a Hutt information broker and Daesha's boss and Tavor, his Muun bookkeeper. The former keeping her and her mercenary pseudo-family on the payroll partly because he'd employed both of Daesha's parents in the past and even officiated at their wedding, partly because as a slug in his particular trade, he often came across the odd lead he felt too juicy not to cash in on himself and partly because of the old trope that a Hutt wasn't really a Hutt until they had their own personal death squad. And the latter? well, the less said about him the better— Daesha had always made a point of avoiding that creepy little gangly fuck.

And so it was that, against any and all convention, our boy Toryn was raised in perhaps the safest, out-of-the-way place imaginable— amongst a happy family of some of the galaxy's most notorious killers.

Ever the precocious little shit, the kid picked up on Ryl, Huttese and even some Mando'a alongside Basic via sheer osmosis from being exposed to so many languages at such a young age. And from the time he could walk, talk and be relied upon not to put shiny things in his mouth, Daesha had him sat down learning how to pull apart and maintain damn near any blaster in her considerable arsenal and how to get a vibroknife so sharp you could drop it on a bantha steak and watch it fall through the table before you even heard a sound— Something the boy seemed to have a natural gift for.

Another thing the kid had a gift for? Counting cards, shell games, magic tricks and all the other basic scams, shams and hustles Pops could cram into his puny little head ('Investing in a future employee', the Hutt would always reason it if asked), being good enough to set up his own stand on the main strip of the Red Light with a fold-out table work with and a little plasteel crate on which to stand and make a killing absolutely robbing naive and/or drunk tourists from the Inner Rim blind with a little slight of hand and a beaming smile. And a fully armed and armoured Mandalorian leaning on the wall behind him and watching at all times, mind you, but that was more for the off-worlders than any of the local scum and villainy in all honesty, as they were all rather well versed in one particular unspoken, but universally understood rule:

"You do not fuck with Daesha's boy."

And Toryn's life probably would've just kept on going like that; learning to work all the angles of the Smuggler's Moon to his and his family's gain, chatting up off-duty dancers with all his precocious little charm to give 'em a much-needed laugh and to get the occasional fat tip when Narkuul had him tending bar and generally being on the fast track to becoming just another scoundrel from Nar Shaddaa while waiting on a mother he'd never met to come pick him up, but never seemed to get around to it.

Until one day, when he was just around five years old two hooded figures in robes made their way up to his stand while he was running a shell-game; one shorter, younger and with a blue-skinned face fixing him with a mix of confusion, disdain and no small amount of stink-eye and an older, taller human who looked more amused than anything as he spoke, something he somehow registered with absolute clarity even as the quiet 'Click!' of Ruusad's blaster leaving it's holster hammered in his ears.

"Ah, there you are."

And it was shortly after that, that things went tits-up.

Chapter II: "The Part Where Everything Goes Tits-Up"

Now, Toryn's memory of the latter half of that encounter is a little hazy— Mostly because it wasn't two seconds after Ruusad pulled out his blaster that the smaller one of the robed weirdos was jumping over the boy's little table, swinging a big damned glowstick at the Mando before her apparent senior could even begin to form the words to stop her. To which she received Ruusad's boot to the face', while Toryn got yanked backward by his belt, hefted up under an arm and got very vertical very quickly as the armoured teen jetpacked the both of them out of there.

...Well, after accidentally smacking the back of the boy's head off his durasteel breastplate and knocking him right the hell out, that is.

Waking up some time later, head in Daesha's lap and on the couch in Narkuul's breakroom, Toryn finally learned what the hell all that was about— Well, after his auntie Daesh had stopped fussing over him long enough that he could ask— That he'd just had his first encounter with the hutt-damned Jedi.

Specifically, a pair of sentinels, Zara explained from the other side of the couch while aggressively clacking away at her holonet console for any dirt she could get her little reptilian hands on and downing another bottle of energy drink to add to the growing pile of empties on the floor next to her; One, a jumpy Pantoran Padawan by the name of Arlia Vohn, a five-year veteran of the Clone Wars, despite being even younger than Ruusad and the other, Marko Doren being her recently assigned Master after her last one ate a blaster bolt or twelve on Umbara. Someone who had apparently in the doghouse with the order before the war for his less than orthodox methods.

Seemed like a nice enough guy though, the Falleen admitted out loud, he had, after all, come by while Toryn was out cold to drop off those earnings he forgot to grab during his hasty exit... and even used his funky space magic to cure that small concussion Ruusad had given him during the affair.

As for why he'd been looking for him in the first place, though, Zara couldn't say; Tovar, being left in charge of the bar while Narkuul was over on Nar Kaaga for his nephew's birth, had apparently shooed him off before he could explain, screaming and shouting at everyone present that 'Jedi were bad for business' and showing an uncharacteristic amount of gall around an already-incensed Daesha and her irate band of killers. Though the Jedi did offer to meet them later at the spaceport, once everyone had calmed down... which is where Ruusad and Jarohn were now, staking out the Alsakani's ship from afar and ready to demo the thing at even the slightest hint of provocation.

...Of course, this was a lot to cram into a recently-concussed, still kinda drowsy kid's head. So, upon seeing the incredulous look of 'What?' on Toryn's little face, she chuckled, told him not to worry about it and gave him a little peck on the forehead before picking him up and transplating him down into Zara's lap (who instinctively wrapped an arm around the boy's waist to pull him close) and heading out to grab some dinner down the street.

Still, worry Toryn did; Fidgeting a little where he sat... or that might've just been the headache he'd had since waking, he really can't remember— though in retrospect, it probably doesn't matter— But it did elicit her to give him a gentle squeeze and rest her chin on his head, as she always did. That's something Toryn will always remember to the day he dies.

"Don't worry about it Kid, Mom's got'cha covered." she said, giving the kid a little affectionate nuzzle as she did.

"...Ya know she hates it when you call her that."

The immediate indignant snort he got in response was typical, and he didn't even need to look up to see that same old cheeky grin he knew was playing across her face as she switched tabs on her holo console to some poorly dubbed Mandalorian cartoon and wrapped her other arm around him to complete the hug.

"I do."

It was the last thing his elder sister in all but name ever said to him.

Or at the very least the last thing he heard— The ringing the explosion that followed immediately afterward and sent the both of them careening across the room had left in his ears had made it a bit hard to tell. The last he saw of her, however, she was crawling on her belly to get to him through the flaming wreckage Narkuul's bar. Teeth barred from the strain of her effort, hair matted with blood and several gnarled pieces of steel sticking out of her back and side. Before an armour-plated boot came down between her shoulder blades and three red bolts from a blaster pistol went into the back of her skull.

What he didn't see, however, was the boot of the other assailant that slammed into his side while he was still down, broke a few of his ribs and rolled him onto his back. Though he did get a nice look at the figure's unmistakably Mandalorian armour.

And the stun-blaster pointed directly at his face.

Then, for the second time that night, Toryn was knocked the fuck out.

---

Several hours... or maybe even days later— he still isn't sure about it— Toryn woke up again. Groggy, sore and as miserable as he was the last time he was awake like this... though his now very foggy head was having a bit of trouble remembering when the hell that was. Then, heaving himself up, his eyes drifted from the off-white sheets of the plain, but comfy bed he now found himself in and across the somewhat spartan accomadations of his quarters before finally coming to rest on the beskar'gam-clad figure hunched over in a chair to his left.

To his credit, Ruusad was quick to realize his mistake when he woke up to all the screaming. Still, took him a good half-hour to calm the boy down. Longer to tell him what happened, and much longer still for the young lad to fully wrap his head around it.

A very long story short; While Narkuul was away on Nar Kaaga, Tavor had been given temporary control of his information network, where he stumbled upon a particularly juicy bit of intel— Just whose kid Toryn was, all the enemies they had made over the years and perhaps more importantly, just how much of a sheer profit he could make by selling the boy off to them.

And boy, do Muun do some crazy things when they smell a profit. Like arranging for the ambush and kidnapping of a child on the way home of swindling tourists out of their money, with the brutal assassination of his armoured protector for good measure. A tragedy that, though regrettable, would've gone largely unnoticed in the day to day chaos that was Nar Shadda... but then the Jedi showed up, his clients got jumpy and, well...

Jarohn and Zara were dead, Toryn and Ruusad were here, on this little corvette headed for Coruscant and more specifically, the Jedi Temple. And Daesha? Well, someone had to get to the console in the now-hijacked Portmaster's office and open the hangar bay doors for them to escape, and Daesha volunteered without a second thought; both to get her boys to safety and to get even. It took a lot of hugging to get the boy calm again after that last one. But calm he did... eventually.

There comes a point where even a child can recognize that there was no going back, after all— His old life, for all it's ups and downs, was now well and truly over. And the only guarantee he had for the immediate future was a hot date with whoever was in charge of procuring youngn's to train in glowstick choreography and space magic at the Jedi Temple... Though, truth be told, he had mixed feelings about the whole thing from the get-go.

Mainly because he had the sneaking suspicion this meant that life was fixing to take Ruusad from him, too. And shit, his Mandalorian pseudo-brother was pretty much all there was left to take at this point.

Unbeknownst to the boy, 'Life' was apparently paying attention... and took that as a fucking challenge.

For no sooner had they jumped out of hyperspace some time later, and Toryn finally laid eyes upon the world that was supposedly going to be his new home for the forseeable future... did he quickly realize that it was on fire. Most likely because of all the ships hanging over it in orbit shelling the ever-loving shit out of it.

And that's about when the tractor-beam hit them. And if there's one thing Toryn will remember about Marko Doren, it's what came out of his mouth at that exact second.

"...Bollocks."

Chapter III: "The Great Escape(s)"

In hindsight, it was probably a good thing that Grievous was a little preoccupied with suntanning off the glow of the burning city planet below. Because on any other day he was told that one of his ships had picked up two Jedi, a Mandalorian and some fucking kid, he just miiight've boarded a shuttle and gone to see what that was all about. But today was his day, and he was going to take his sweet time relishing it, random stragglers dumb enough to fly blind and face-first into his fleet be damned... 'Sides, he could always throw on his murderin' cape and see to 'em later. So what was the rush?

A few hours late, when the afore-mentioned ship's bridge parted ways from it's conning tower, causing the whole thing to list and slam into the side of the ship in formation next to it, well... he had his answer, and our heroes had their escape. And a massive bounty on each of their heads.

Something that would come back to bite them as they hauled ass down to Corellian space to find rest, shelter and some tiny smidgen of just what the hell was going on. Instead running into CorSec, an emergency coalition of allied PSFs and surviving elements of the Republic Navy locking down what would later become the core worlds of the Hegemony while Grievous was occupied with both a punitive campaign across the sectors adjacent to the now thoroughly ruined galactic capital and against a particularly defiant General to the north. Long story short, it didn't take long for the rear-echelon Captain that picked them up while on patrol to realize what he had, what it potentially meant for his bank account and just how much he could actually get away with while the entire Galaxy was basically collapsing around them. Long story even shorter, this led to a whole lot of violence, a hangar bay on Perma being blown right to shit, even more bounties and now a charge of outright treason as they rocketed right the hell out of Corellian space as fast as the shitty little freighter they'd stolen would take them.

So at the very least the non-stop barrage of fuckery the galaxy was throwing at them appeared to be consistent. And for the next few months the crew of that ludicrously unfortunate ship was forced to keep running to the galactic south, hounded the entire way by bounty hunters, enterprising forces of both the Confederates and all those Corellians they'd pissed off as well as the occasional enterprising pirate until finally, they had been run so far, they could run no more and arrived at the very edge of the known galaxy.

Terminus.

Though it was much less of an 'Arrived' and more of a 'Violently slamming what remained of their crumbling little ship into a junkyard just outside of the main starport'. With the Confederates still hot on their heels. It was here, exhausted, desperate and rapidly running out of options, they were found by a strange red-eyed Pantoran in much the same state who sheltered them in the ancient wreck of a ship she'd converted into a ramshackle home. And it was here, hiding from a killteam of IG-100's sent to finish the job and taking advantage of the rare opprtunity to catch their breath, that Ruusad, Marko and Arlia put their heads together to try and think of a way to both get off this damned rock and find their way back to the (hopeful) safety of the Republic-in-Exile, now situated on Mandalore of all places if the rumours were true.

...Truth be told, they were coming up blank; In their months-long mad dash to the edge of the galaxy, the Confederacy had secured themselves as the undisputed masters of the Galactic South. And between them and this so-called 'Corellian Hegemony' forming in the core that also wanted them dead, thier prospects of making it to Mandalorian space by any conventional route weren't exactly looking that great.

That was until their gracious host they knew simply as 'Tanis', called out from the engine room, where she'd been working with Toryn (who'd incidentally became her new best friend the minute she learned how handy he was with a spanner) on something she'd 'acquired' from one of the locals to make her home spaceworthy again before their arrival.

"You know... you could just go around the other way..."

Then she smacked something back there with a hammer and the circuits of that Old Republic freighter fizzled back to life, perhaps for the first time in centuries and rejoined them on the crewdeck. Toryn in tow and her hand messing up his hair.

"Let's talk."

*-WARNING: FILE CORRUPTED-*

Chapter V: "Toryn Dral"

Ten years after that fateful talk on Terminus, the Open Circle Armada received an encrypted communique from Imperial High Command, asking if they'd be so kind as to send a ship to meet them at the border to, in their own words, 'Pick up something they might want back.'. Vague, and coming from an authoritarian regime filled with the kind of people that chanted their Emperor's name at least half a dozen times before and after bed, meals and coitus... just a little suspect.

Star Wars AU: After Knightfall

Mandoson is in.

Brace for shenanigans.

Heroes Reborn: Prime Earth (Superhero/Urban Fantasy: OPEN)

January 11th, 7:32 PM
Docklands, Bludhaven, NJ.

"Well... that sucked." The Hound said flatly, exhaustion evident even through the mechanical growl of his voice modulator as he unceremoniously dropped the large, rune-inscribed and just slightly gooey magitech apparatus in his hand to the ground with a loud 'clunk!' and flopped down on his ass, resting his back against the shipping container with a long groan. "We've really gotta stop meeting like this, Detective."

Jericho, for her part, just offered her local costumed weirdo something between a chuckle and a sigh as he sat down next to her, pulling a pack of smokes out of her breast pocket.

"Right? Between the magic cannibal, half the police force trying to murder us and now that—" She agreed, pointing toward the colossal frame of the blue oni before them, slumped on the ground in a pile, out cold and oblivious to the world, even as the holes in her skull began mending themselves shut with a rhythmic crunching sound. "Reeeeally starting to think I should'a taken the month off."

A bit of weary laughter escaped the two of them as Sasha lit up her cancer stick. Very nearly dying horribly a couple dozen times in the past week having clearly brought the two past the point of trepidation and straight into a feeling of 'Well, I guess we're doing this now.'.

Constantly dodging death had a funny way of bringing people together, after all.

"So what's with that ugly looking doodad, anyhow?" The cop asked, thumbing toward the contraption her masked compatriot had so tersely plunked on the ground as she took a drag.

"Some kinda scartech; Far as I can tell it bores little holes into it's host's skull and pumps processed red dust directly into their brain. Saw the same thing on the big red fucker from last week..." The hero explained, with a tired wave of his hand. "...Aaaand, apparently if ya rip it out, it puts the big angry oni it's attached too on the ground. Would've liked to have known that last time."

"Yeah, been meaning to ask about that; how did you manage to make that big damned block of modern art that's been thawing out in my station's jail the past week?"

"Magic murder bird."

"What?"

"Nevermind that." The Hound cut her off with a little wave before she could dig too deeply at that particular landmine. "The hell were you doing out here anyway?"

Fixing the shorter figure a suspicious glare that wasn't at all hindered by the fact that she only actually had the one eye to do so with, Sasha nonetheless let the smoke out her lungs and explained.

"Welp, remember what Muller said about The Sardinian showing up in a big damned container ship? I finally had a night where you weren't around and the whole damned universe wasn't trying to fucking kill me, so I thought I'd come down and take a look. See if he left anything behind I could get a lead out of." Said the near-amazon, before pulling the cigarette out of her mouth and waving it in the direction of the massive, blue-skinned woman that had been up until recently trying to murder them. "Instead I found that in a container bound for New Orleans— Because fuck my life— and, well..."

She then motioned to the scene around them, with shipping containers and machinery thrown about the place like children's toys, some of them smashed or in pieces due to the oni's fists. Many of them cut cleanly into halves and thirds due to the pair of massive, magical machetes she'd been swinging around like a fucking lunatic. And a whole lot of them covered in a layer of ice and/or paradoxically also on fire due to... well, a whole bunch of other things that had made their night very exciting.

"...I think ya know the rest."

To that, the Hound could only respond with a quiet nod and leaned his head back against the container behind them; it'd been one hell of a night. But not so much that it'd keep him quiet.

"Speakin' of 'leads', now that we've got a minute alone where we're not about to die, you finally wanna tell me what the Aquila wanted with ya?"

Detective Jericho frowned a little at that, she had promised to fill the little weirdo in a mask in about all that, but she really would've preferred not to, as some part of her took the whole scenario just a little personally. Even after he'd spent the past week on a seemingly endless cycle of saving her ass.

She sighed.

No getting out of it now.

"There's... a P.I. down in the Melville district, a guy named Maxime de Caen. We served together in the marines." She started, just a little hesitantly. "Vanguard hired him to poke around the Aquila's shit. And I guess he must have found something, because not long after that, the Sardinian's goonsquad started trying to get me to put him down. Guess they figured our... history... would make it easy."

"You were close?"

Sasha shot the so-called hero a little glare.

"We were married."

She gave a satisfied little grunt when that shut him up. Or at least stopped him from prying any further into her personal life.

He wasn't the only one allowed to hold secrets after all.

"So... where's this guy now?"

”Well, after you went ahead and saved me and my… our son, I swept by Max’s agency and took him into protective custody— Probably going on remand for that, kicking down my ex’s door and hauling him into the back of my car after the mob tried to get me to kill him and all.” She continued, looking just a tad displeased by the memory of it all. ”...That lasted a good three days before one of Muller’s boys tried to strangle him to death in his cell and wound up on the ground gargling around the remains of his jaw instead. So my bosses—through gritted teeth, mind you— handed him off to the GCPD for better protective custody.”

Tiredly, she rubbed the bridge of her nose. Trying to ignore how the figure seated beside her seemed to stiffen at her words as she carried on.

”And that lasted until this morning, when one of their own dirty cops had the dumb idea to put a knife in his belly instead of his throat. That guy was lucky a less dick-headed cop heard him screaming from the hallway and managed to pull Max off of him.” She continued, having the decency to look away from the hero who had gone dead silent by now. All but glaring a hole through her skull with those glowing eyes of his.

On some level, she did feel a little guilty about waiting until now to tell him all this, and could understand just why he'd be a bit pissed off about the whole deal, but, well... there wasn't any changing it now. So she bit her lip and kept going.

"After that, Commissioner Jasper had him moved to an off-the-books safehouse and around the same time, Vanguard looked in on this immense tapestry of failure that is both our Departments and started petitioning to bring de Caen into their own care." She finished, casting an uncharacteristically timid glance back the vigilante's way. "...Rumour-mill has it that he's to be moved to their HQ within a week, once the paperwork clears."

For his part, said vigilante wasn't screaming or cursing the woman out... just glaring at her in silence.

Though a sudden, sharp inhale from the smaller figure let her know that that was about to change really goddamn fast.

"Itai..."

Ah, but just her luck, there was a big blue oni waking up with a bunch of holes still in her skull to distract the hero from giving the chewing out she was both too tired for and just might have deserved.

...Wait, hold on.

Suddenly realizing what was wrong with that statement, the woman's head snapped right back to her front to lock in on the sight of the not-so-unconscious-anymore killing machine on the ground before them... which suddenly looked a whole lot less like the brutal engine of death and destruction she had seen not too long ago and more like... a kid who just woke up on the cold ground with a bunch of holes in her head as she whimpered, curled up into a ball and began to cry.

"Itai... Itai... Itai..."

Oh, shit. That was a kid, wasn't it?

She felt her face drop to her palm as that one hit her.

"...Christ."

A moment of... almost silence passed between the two erstwhile heroes as the big blue girl just sobbed there on the pavement, until the Hound's shoulders visibly relaxed and he finally spoke.

"Don't suppose you know any Japanese, do ya?"

"I, uhh... a little from my time in Oki, why?"

"Good." The flak-clad hero very nearly growled out as he got to his feet and carefully made his way over to the very scared, and still very large and freakishly strong teenager before him. "Mind saying something to calm down the big blue non-human that could still turn us into hamburger meat by accident?"

"Wait, yer not mad?"

"Fucking livid, actually, but we kinda got other things to deal with right now."

---

January 18th, 11:32 PM
Vanguard Plaza, Gotham, NJ.

Gotham was... different, Malcolm had to admit. And he wasn't entirely sure he liked it. Then again, this was the first time he'd ever actually ever set foot outside of his particular 'hub of urban decay', as a certain magic murder bird he knew often called it, so he guessed a bit of culture-shock was inevitable.

It was the little things that got to him the most; Gotham was... a whole lot less grimy than his home on the other side of the Avalon— Not to say it was particularly clean, mind you, but it did remind the boy just how much the roads of his town could use a bit of paving and the buildings some serious rehab.

And on those buildings, the sort of Neo-Gothic style that dominated the local skyline was a far cry from the glowing holosigns and improvised, disorderly urban sprawl he knew and loved, where magitech had been so widely and somewhat forcefully adopted out of necessity that it turned the whole place into something that'd make a cyberpunk enthusiast wet in the pants and a city-planner's eyes bleed just served to further reinforce the notion that this simply was not home.

But that wasn't the weirdest thing.

No, that honour went to the fact that, while you couldn't take a piss on a Bludhaven street without hitting at least three different species and a gaggle of mages, Gotham was... somewhat barren in this regard. Very literally, for the former, simply having less in the way of demons and non-humans as far as he could tell, with those that actually were in town either hiding away in backalleys or dressing themselves to hide their otherworldly features as they ducked their heads and tried to keep a low profile. The latter? Well, he'd been here two days now and hadn't seen a single mage openly walking around in their traditional attire— Though honestly, it was a little harder to tell if that was just a fashion thing or them trying to keep mum about their true nature. Either way, he figured just walking up and asking would be a bad idea.

And only partially because he could be thrown into the back of a squad-car under suspicion of being up to something if the wrong person caught his accent.

The boy sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose a little through his mask, quietly freezing his ass off on a rooftop by his lonesome, as he had done the past two nights, across the plaza from Vanguard Headquarters waiting for... something to happen, before quietly pulling his face-cover up a bit and finally opening the box of pizza sitting beside him that'd been doing nothing but getting as cold as he was the past fifteen minutes to grab a slice.

He got about a bite and three chews in before he had to stop and just stare at the bloody thing between shivering and mentally dunking on this whole city.

"Wait, sherioushly?" The Hound managed, almost sounding pleasantly surprised around a mouthful of Gotham pizza.

He didn't have much time to think on that though, as he caught sight a column a GCPD cruisers pulling into the Vanguard parking lot, evidently unmolested by whatever designs the Aquila might have had for it.

Honestly, it was the only good thing Mal had seen in two days... discounting the slice of pie in his hand that is.

But then the power abruptly went out. For the whole city block. And the back up generators he damn well knew Vanguard had, simply didn't cut in.

And then the ground began to shake.

And there, sitting way up on his rooftop perch, Mal heard something that made him freeze even more than he already was.

"CHUGGA-CHUGGA-CHUGGA-CHUGGA-CHUGGA-CHUGGA..."

"Awww, hell..."

---

Isaac McKinley was... not having a fun time.

Which in itself, was kinda odd. Usually a night out in the marauder with the boys and his boss, Styx, the legendary Arcane Cowboy was a simple little adventure. They did their job, got their take, got their pay from the Don, then maybe had a few beers and went the fuck home. Sometimes with a few laughs along the way, sometimes without, but it was always an easy, efficient operation.

No it was the... extra baggage this time around that was causing him such concern. Well, him and everyone else in that damned armoured truck, if how his boss's hand had been on his revolver as he kept his eye on the extra body in there with them the whole time through the rearview was any indication.

Though between the quadruply-possessed girl in the back who kept rapidly alternating between snickering, muttering curses, crying and just generally foaming at the mouth as the four demons in her head went at eachother like ravenous dogs, and the out-and-out power-armoured monument to derangement that was the big red guy running in front of their vehicle, tearing up the street beneath his heels and screaming train sounds at the top his lungs as her charged toward their destination... he felt just a bit justified in that.

And was really starting to understand why the so-called Fearsome Five always seemed to do their level best to stay as far away from eachother as humanly possible.

Still, unlike the rest of his crew that opted to suffer all this in silence, he, to his own horror felt his mouth beginning to move.

"What the fu-"

And nigh instantly, he felt a hand clap down on his shoulder from the passenger seat.

"Son..." Came the familiar Texan drawl of his boss. "I strongly recommend you do not finish that sentence."

It didn't take Isaac very long to figure out why, as every fibre in his being screamed in protest as the deranged-looking blonde that had been strapped in at the far back of the vehicle was suddenly leaning over his shoulder and breathing into his ear through four mouths that, though they occupied the same place, were not at all synchronized.

"Lllaaaaanguage, Miiister McKiiinleeey...."

And that was about was about when four separate prehensile tongues a varying thickness and texture began snaking their way along his neck.

"Eyes on the road, Son. Eyes on the road."

---

"CHOO-CHOOOOOO!"

And not a second after those words echoed through the Gotham air, did the titanic frame of Bludhaven's Red Terror come slamming through the solid concrete walls of the Vanguard building and into the main lobby, arms behind his head in a classic 'Mr. Universe' pose as he skidded to a stop before all the armed Gotham cops and Vanguard security that'd been hiding in cover, guns drawn when they saw and heard him coming from half a damned mile away.

"DADDY'S HOME, KIDS!" The armoured maniac cried out to absolutely anyone who would listen in a sing-song voice. Either not knowing or just not caring about how much firepower was pointing at him at that moment as he began thrusting his hips in the general direction of everyone involved. "NOW WHO'S READY FOR SOME LOOOOOOVE~?"

In response, he only got three words out of whoever was in charge there.

"Fuck him up."

And enough firepower to damn near evaporate everything around him, though it all merely bounced off his magitech hull as he stood there polishing his armoured fingertips with a silken rag. Clearly not giving a damn about, or even feeling any of it as it failed to even scratch his race-car red shell.

In fact, as the gunfire slowly came to a stop, he opted to laugh instead and wave his now very shiny digit at them chidingly.

"NOW, NOW, NOW, KIDS... IF YOU START ACTING LIKE THAT..." He giggled out, slowly closing his mechanical which began to come apart and change shape. "DADDY'LL HAVE TO SPANK!"

And just as his fist seemingly reached it's final shape, a Vanguard scientist hiding behind one of the lobby's many columns poked his head out and quickly came to a bonechilling conclusion.

"That's a wave-motion gun... that's a fucking wave-motion gun! Everybody! RUN!"

"YEET!"

And that's about all the warning they got before the world became both very bright, and very loud.

---

Styx and his boy's entrance to what was left of the main lobby of Vanguard HQ was a lot less... thematic than the Red Terror's- The whole place now laying abandoned as whatever resistance there was had either been vaporized by the armoured psychopath or had retreated further inside with him hot on their heels, if the distant, but unmistakably familiar maniacal laughter and occasional tremor that rocked the whole place was any indication.

"Well then, can't say this is unexpected." The Arcane Cowboy observed with a low whistle as he adjusted his hat. "Not exactly what we're actually here for, though, ainnit?"

"LaaaaFayette drifts cloooser to perfection by the daaaay..." Came the... also not at all unexpected response from his erstwhile teammate...s "Iiiit is a beautiful thiiiiing..."

Styx just clicked his tongue at this and unholstered his weapon.

"Well, be that as it may, Quartet, Some of us actually have to work for our money." He said, just a bit of an edge working it's way into his voice. "So I don't suppose y'all'd mind fanning out and havin' an eye for anybody not invited to our little party? I'd rather not have to deal with anyone wearing a leather jacket or dog-shaped armour right now."

True to fashion, Quartet was on him in an instant, hovering before him to be just above eye-level and close enough to be nearly nose-to-nose and to push up the brim of his hat slightly. Apparently angry enough that all four instances of her mouth were finally moving in sync... though the four distinct voices that made up her warbling tone remained.

And three more rows of eyes suddenly opened up on her face.

"And just when did we start taking orders from you, mortal?"

"Why, when Firefly said ya did, ladies." Styx responded, not missing a beat. "Now git."

That seemed to do the trick, as the amalgam being known as Quartet snarled and complied; dividing and firing off her essence to the three other cardinal directions of the building in a flash of light.

...And also leaving one remaining blue-skinned demon in that spot their amalgam had been before, floating awkwardly in place while pushing the man's hat up with her now undisguised demonic forehead.

"I, uh... like your hat, Mr. Styx."

"Why thank ya, Darlin'." The masked man chuckled as he took a step back and turned to leave, motioning for Isaac and the rest of his boys to follow behind him. "Don't let yer sisters hear that though, it'd make 'em right angry, right quick."

"I'm really sor-"

"That neither!"

---

The Hound could only grimace as his night went from bad, to worse, to holy fucking wow in absolutely record time. Though he was, in some reptilian part of his brain, just a little astounded by what he was looking at; The Fearsome Five, as individuals, rarely did anything out in the open anymore. And the last any of them actually got together to do something like this, they were conquering Bludhaven.

Yet now, here three of five were, absolutely wrecking Vanguard's shit.

'Just what the hell does de Caen have on these people?'

That thought aside, a long exhale escaped the boy as he shook his head, stood up, pulled down his mask, and at least attempted to psyche himself up for the pure balls-out insanity of what he was about to attempt—

"Fucking hell..." He growled, raising his arm and firing off his grapple line toward the Vanguard complex. "I guess we're doing this now."

Taking on the Fearsome Five. With not much more than a grapple, a few knives and a handgun.

It didn't need to be said that this was probably not going to end well. Hell, he was very likely going to fucking die here. But even in the midst of all that, there was one other prevailing thought in the back of his head that now screamed like a klaxon and just wouldn't shut the hell up until it aggressively forced it's way out of it's mouth the moment where his feet left the rooftop he'd been camping out on.

"...Goddamn, I miss my magic murder bird."

And with those final words, Malcolm Talhaiarn plunged directly into what was most assuredly going to be the toughest fight of his life.

Heroes Reborn: Prime Earth (Superhero/Urban Fantasy: OPEN)

January 2, 12:05 PM
North-East of Atlanta, Georgia - Near US Highway 85

---

To say Duncan was a bit surprised about Verra's guarded reaction would be a bit of a lie; their last meeting hadn't exactly been... a fun occasion, and he'd had the distinct feeling that this whole thing wasn't going to go down with a chorus of sunshine, rainbows and happy funtime music. Still, it did make the man's shoulder's slump a little, as his own somewhat less finessed grasp of speeds approaching ludicrous allowed him the rare privilege of watching the woman plop her little sister's ass down onto the bench seat of a picnic table.

It did bite him a little that the woman's first instinct was that he was jumping her, truth be told.

In retrospect, he probably should've caught Lexi before she had launched herself at the famed Skirted Speedster. That would've been the smart thing to do, and that one was on him. But despite having not seen her in years, Duncan's gut told him she'd never actually hurt the poor girl and the thought that she could have just as easily put the small cyborg through the bench as on it only really occurred to him after the fact.

...And then the young'n in question began to tear up. Quite understandably so.

A little sigh escaped the man as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

This was turning into a very long day.

"That, Vee, is your sister." He finally said, looking the speedster dead in the eye. "She arrived at the crossing at Land's End this morning leading a group of refugees. And the only thing she wanted was to see you again, so I brought her to you."

His arms crossed. A very distinctly Duncan brow was raised.

"Seriously, when have I ever tried to pull a fast one on you?"

Whatever else the Champion could've said to his former teammate died in his throat as Nano abruptly stood up, electricity arcing through her body and asking for help... moments before launching herself at several times the speed of sound into the brick wall of the rest stop. For the briefest of seconds, Duncan just stood there. Almost dumbfounded. Eyes flickering red and homing in on the impact site of the teenager-turned-battering-ram to make sure she was alright.

"...Oh, fuck my mouth."

And in a heartbeat, the only trace the man had ever even been standing there was the divot his foot left in the ground as he all seemingly popped into existence crouching over the unconscious girl with a single step, gently lifting her up slightly to rest against what was left of the wall instead of laying face down in a pile of rubble and brushing some of the dust off with just a hint of a worried expression.

"I swear to God, Kid, you are just one heart-attack after another, aren't ya?"