Rising Action: Old Enemies

[Damien Kantrael]

Livien Magnus, Ord Radama - Alliance Space

"Why Ord Radama, Decimator? There is nothing on this wet rock but mosquitoes and people."

"Yes, Lieutenant. Our people. This world was once an Imperial Stronghold; a staging point for the pacification of the Outer-Rim. While it rests in the Alliance's hands now, you cannot stomp out the hearts of patriots so easily. They are waiting for the Empire to come for them. Pity their faith is misplaced. Our new Empire will have them, if they will have us. Come."

The two armored figured advanced through the town. Stone pathways winded between stone buildings. It felt so primitive, like something out of an historic holo-documentary. Behind them marched a column of Stormtroopers; their armor colored gray with the emblem of a rising fist adorning their shoulders. A matching flag was carried at the head of the progression. No expense had been spared for this grand reintroduction. Many fled the streets ahead of the progression. However, more than a few stopped in their tracks and watched. A few humans, here and there, even saluted. Old spirits rekindled within the breasts of once loyal Imperial citizens and soldiers, forced to hide when their planet fell to the enemy.

Decimator Ghant headed the procession, his massive body and striking armor made him stand out, as did the warp sword at his side and the large blaster rifle in his hands. A cape hung from the paldrons of his armor. The procession continued through the heart of Livien Magnus, Ord Radama's capital city. The town square loomed before them, and even from here Ghant could see it was packed. Word had been sent out ahead of them, to the pockets of resistance and secret societies of Imperial loyalists. Men filled the space, many wearing their uniforms and service blasters with pride again while others brought only what they had; the clothes on their backs and whatever weapons they could lay hand upon. It was an army. A sea of soldiers.

The sea opened before Ghant, allowing him passage to the front, to the very steps to the Palace. There waited the Governor, bloodied and bruised, upon his knees. Drawing the sword from it's place at his side was a careful motion to not sever the cord that connected it to his armor. An activation plate was slid into place and the edges of the weapon lit up with a pale green-blue; an energy shield forced into an edge. The governor was forcibly bend forward and with one motion his head was removed from his shoulders. The gaping head was then kicked into the crowd. Shouts and cries of approval filled the air; a deafening noise so loud it forced Ghant's helmet to adjust it's intake volume to compensate.

"My people! We have returned! No, we are not the Empire. That which calls itself by that name is not what we remember, what we served and promised ourselves to. It has become a ghost of itself, a placating dog that bows and cowers when it should fight and conquer. It has forgotten it's power and it's code. We are the Sons of Coruscant, and we are forging a new Empire. One that does not heel in the face of it's enemies, but fights back until every last man is exhausted. THAT is the Empire I remember, the one you all remember. Let us return to that Empire as we defend ourselves against the false Empress and continue the war against the Rebel Alliance. The War is not over. We will continue to fight. The next battle starts here, now, on Ord Ramama. Let us take back our stronghold. Destroy the Rebel Scum that has infected this world, and then we will march on the rest. My brothers are on their way, we have only to pave the path for them. Are you with me?"

[Zwane Nkosi]

Jovan Station

The sudden klaxon ripped through the small apartment, causing it's only occupant to startle horribly and shake so hard that the chair beneath him broke into splinters, depositing the heavy equine pilot straight to the floor. Swearing loudly and continuously, he pulled himself back up to his feet and looked around for the source of the noise. The klaxon disappeared as fast as it came and in it's place filtered through a calm female voice; "Titan Squadron report for duty. Titan Squadron report for duty."

"Goddamn it. What did Mags do this time." Zane yelled at the sky as he pulled himself the rest of the way to his feet, pulled his pants up, grabbed the cleanest dirty shirt available, and stomped out the door. The hallway was a buzz of Alliance personnel looking to see what was going on, and his fellow pilots emerging from their rooms. Zane followed after them for a moment before stopping outside a particular door and pounding against it's durasteel face with a brown, velvety fist. "Hey Joey!? You hear the call? We gotta go. I bet Mags decked someone again. Better lube up, it's gonna be a chew out for sure."

[Mags Sondeeta]

It was late. Not that the chrono meant a damn for Mags. She delayed, put-off, and bargained with sleep. Not out of disdain, but because she knew that some days, she wanted nothing more than to sleep and do nothing at all.

No, Mags knew it was late because she was smoking her nineteenth cigarette of the day. Twenty was her cut-off. A pack a day was control. Two packs a day was self destruction. She didn't count the cups of caf. Those always blended one into the other.

She'd found herself sitting on the floor with the ashtray moved from the bedstand to a comfortable distance. Her footlocker was open. The contents of her meager life scattered all around. Pictures of her parents. The beaten old DL-44 blaster she'd always kept under her pillow when she was young. The Sondeeta Kalikori.

Mags pursed her lips, anchoring the cigarette between them as her calloused fingers traced the wooden blocks tethered to her family tree. Wood clinked against wood with a comforting sound. She strained to listen to it, hoping to hear something in her past that wasn't just a salve or a bauble, but something that might give her more than that. She had no time for painkillers. She'd learned as a girl that pain was a lesson. If you didn't learn from it, you could die. And wouldn't that be so easy? How many Twi'leks had died during the first occupation? During the second occupation? During the intifada?

It was easy to sleep. It was easy to die. It was hard to take a beating and to get back up. She'd been beaten over and over and over and over again. More than enough to know how to survive.

Another object in the footlocker caught Mags attention, and for a moment, she was vulnerable. It was a shabby thing. A knitted and stuffed tooka. A child's plaything. The feline had long-ago lost one of it's button eyes. It was threadbare in a few places, and the colorful yarn had faded in the sun, and was soiled from dirt. It, like her, had survived. It survived love, because that too was violent in it's own way. The way a child held on to their toy could inflict the sweetest injuries.

Mags held the tooka with reverent hands. She felt the slack in it's body where the stuffing had compacted unevenly or the knitted cover had stretched. The tooka flopped like a true ragdoll. Mags plucked the cigarette from her lips, perching it on the rim of the ashtray. She held the stuffed animal against her face, feeling the itchy wool against her cheek. She smelled it, searching for a memory. There was something that was lost. In it's place was a musty smell, and then the smell of her own cigarettes.

Something had been lost. Somewhere. And in that loss, Mags endured another beating.


Titan Squadron, report for duty! Titan Squadron, report for duty!

Mags looked up to the intercom, breaking her communion with the past. She rose to her feet, and began the ritual of slipping into her pilot coveralls.



* * *



Ten minutes later, Mags was suited up for duty in her orange flight suit. With a last minute glance at her mess of an apartment, she made for the door. She only got as far as the threshold. Turning back, Mags glanced at the forsaken tooka on the floor. Without a word, she doubled back, snatching the stuffed animal and stuffing it deep into her satchel. Without another moment of hesitation, she headed for the ready room.

[Joey Rabeak]

The klaxon caught Joey in the midst of a wonderful nap filled with all manner of delectable eye-candy, and the rude awakening to his stark, plain white quarters brought nearly as great a wince to his face as the blaring sound in his sensitive ears did. Throwing back his sheets, the brown-furred Nehantite scrambled to his feet, only to be startled by Zane's less-than-subtle banging on his door. Bare footpaws stumbled over each other, sending him face-first into the closet door in surprise. Compounded with his dream, the comment about lube did not help his situation, either.

"Be right there!" he shouted back, clawing up to a stand.

No time to be picky with the klaxon sounding, but at least Joey had the good sense to sort his undershirts by color, snagging a clean white one before tugging on the snug garment. While he clearly should be wearing a large, Joey insisted in requisitioning mediums, to better show off his physique. Underwear was a different story, sorted more by style than color, and it was an intensely-colored pair of sports briefs that came out of the drawer first, patterned with explosions of pink and teal. Half a second was debated over whether or not he should get something more understated before he realized it'd all be under his flightsuit anyway, and so they were yanked on as well, cramming his thankfully-relaxing self into them before slipping into his flightsuit and boots.

Less than thirty seconds after being roused, Joey's door slid open and the rookie pilot dashed out, still zipping up his flight suit as his boots pounded away at the thin, industrial carpeting underfoot. By the time he arrived at their hangar bay, he realized a bit more time could have been spent, as he'd apparently beaten several members of the squadron. That meant he could still get away with quickly raking his pocket brush through his headfur, working out any remaining bed-head as he waited for the briefing to begin.

[Norio Itzalizar]

Norio Itzalizar spared himself a momentary glance in the reflective panel affixed haphazardly to the inside of his locker. Everything was as it should be, everything perfectly calibrated to convey a certain vibe. His hair was tamed just enough to conform with regulations; jaw shaved just enough to seem as if it hadn't. It was a far cry from the reflection he'd seen in his Imperial days, but then the Empire and Alliance were like fire and water. This was how an Alliance pilot looked, and so this was how Norio looked.

Not that he made any effort to hide who he was, or what he'd been. An Alliance phoenix may have been affixed in place of the Imperial roundel on his shoulders, and the life support unit and G-webbing were standard issue for a Slayn & Korpil B-Wing, but there was no mistaking the flight suit of a TIE Pilot. Norio claimed that it was personal preference, that the Empire's design was rated for harsher conditions than the Alliance equivalent, but it was a symbol as much as anything else. Up until the Treaty of Ktil, back before the military of the Elrood Sector had aligned itself with the Free Planets en masse, he had been an Imperial. His new comrades in the Alliance weren't ready to let him forget that, so why shouldn't he provide them with the same kind of uncomfortable reminder?

Tearing his eyes away from the mirror, he tugged the padded coif over his head, carefully adjusting it into position. A pair of flight gloves were retrieved, and draped casually over the rim of the helmet as he tucked it under his arm. One last glance was permitted before he swung the locker door closed with a creak and a clunk, drew in a breath to steel himself, and strode out into the hanger.

The mismatched cluster of Titan starfighters was easy to find. The lack of internal consistency grated against his Imperial sensibilities, but the Alliance had their reasons. While the Empire relied on numbers and structure, the Alliance had thrived through customisation and adaptability. Were this an Imperial unit, he'd be seeing a full squadron of bombers, and another squadron or two of escorts; and they'd be standing in the landing bay of an escort carrier if not something larger. The Alliance achieved the same capabilities with a mere handful of starfighters that could deploy through hyperspace on their own. It was a strategy born of necessity, limited numbers, and limited resources; but they'd made it a strength. Perhaps many of his peers, both those formerly Imperial and those still in the Empire's service, might have looked down upon the Alliance for that, but Norio respected the resourcefulness for what it was. That so few had taken on the Empire and succeeded in fighting it to a stalemate was no small achievement, and now that he was one of them, he was eager for the opportunity to witness that dynamic strategy in action.

Even so, the assemblage of pilots was more sparse than even a Rebel unit should be. He ducked and evaded his way past starfighters, technicians, and scattered equipment, gravitating towards one of the more recognisable of his fellow pilots. He couldn't quite recall what species Rabeak belonged to; it wasn't a Bothan, he knew that much, but that hardly narrowed the vast pantheon of non-human races into something his mind was inclined to retain. A frown formed on his brow, and he kept his voice low, offering Joey a sidelong glance.

"Is the squadron always this... leisurely when it comes to a scramble call?"

[Joey Rabeak]

The question caught Joey by surprise. Being one of the greenest rookies in the squadron, he typically took orders instead of answering questions. He was also still getting used to taking orders from someone in a TIE flight suit, but he couldn't complain much as his own X-Wing was only on the very edge of regulation, being painted black, with tinted windscreens.

And what a question it was. Designed to make the squadron look bad, Joey nearly fell into its trap, saving himself only at the very last minute. No, he wouldn't blame or berate any of his wingmates. Better to turn the question back on its head.

Standing straight, chin up, the Nehantite replied, "I think it's just that some of us are speedy, sir."

There. No one could find fault with that, and he hadn't actually said anyone was slow. Score one for CYA.

[Norio Itzalizar]

Norio let out a single breathy note of a chuckle.

"Good answer, rookie."

He liked interacting with the more junior pilots. The newer members of the Alliance hadn't fought the Empire long enough to evolve the kind of deep-rooted prejudices against someone like Norio that their veteran peers had, and they were still fresh enough from training that proper respect and protocol came as an instinctive reflex. That would scuff away soon enough, most likely, and so Norio embraced the opportunity to make the most of it while he could.

"I guess I'm just used to a little more urgency in response to an urgent instruction. In the Empire, we would have been flayed alive if we weren't ready to jump down into the cockpit the instant the ground crew had our plane cleared for launch."

There was a whistful, nostalgic hint of a sigh that trailed after Norio's words. It mutated quickly, a rueful smile taking it's place.

"You think maybe we could ask the techs to fit the rest of the squadron with those SLAM overdrives that Mags brags about? Not sure about anyone else, but I'm pretty sure she's packing enough ass to mount one effectively."

[Joey Rabeak]

Joey bit his lip, mulling over the decision to call out his commanding officer on breach of decorum. On one paw, it was clearly said in jest, but on the other, such jokes could be taken the wrong way, and there literally was a paragraph in the Alliance manual on expected etiquette detailing just why such jokes weren't allowed.

But it was more than that. Norio just din't seem to get that the Empire was the enemy now, and to flaunt it in the faces of people and races who fought hard against Imperial oppression was not just callous, it was just plain stupid. Joey's tailtip flicked in anger, though he fought back the flecks of red he could feel forming in his eyes. The Alliance did not function on the same level as the Empire. The Alliance operated out of duty and respect instead of fear and domination, and physical torture as punishment was not only expressly forbidden in the Alliance conduct manual, it also conjured up memories of such actions being inflicted upon innocents during the reign of the Empire. Not to mention it simply wouldn't be possible to mount a SLAM overdrive on a living being, as it relied on an ion induction system to boost the output of an existing thruster set, and no matter how big you might think you could light a fart, it simply wouldn't be enough to count as a thruster. Joey Rabeak didn't have two degrees in propulsion systems and design for nothing, after all.

In the end, though, it was best to remain silent for the time being. It was true, the Squadron needed to be more prompt in such an emergency. Joey had skipped putting on proper trousers beneath his flight suit for the sake of expediency, after all.

Though he didn't so much as crack a smile at Norio's "joke" at Mags's expense. It would be better for the arrogant, semi-Imperial prick to learn the hard way why you don't make fun of Ms. Sondeeta, and that the hard way involved teeth.

[Mags Sondeeta]

"Ze next time you speak about my ass, Norio..."

A shoulder checked roughly into the human's in passing as Mags Sondeeta joined the huddle. She remained with her back and derriere to the ex-Imperial as she worked the fastenings on her soft leather helmet in place.

"...it 'ad better be good, because zat weell be your epitaph."

Three other crew soon drifted into the Twi'lek's orbit, each tending to their own kit and helping their peers. The crew of Sondeeta's bomber, the Fat Bottomed Girl, were a tight-knit group. The lanky Cizerack Su'taun'rrou Keellarroa tucked her helmet under the crook of her arm, letting her voluminous mane of permed auburn hair defy gravity for a few more minutes as she checked her ordnance manifest. The human gunner, Ensign Passun, folded a comic book into his back pocket as he found a bench. His gun-mate, the Sullustan Tan Rukk, stepped up to face the much-taller Norio. His jowled face cracked in a smirk, and he talked with a heavy-lipped gruff.

"That's good and all, all that stuff about how things went in the Empire. How about we don't do things the Empire did them, and in return, your wingmates don't go back to old habits we picked up whenever we found unescorted Imperials where they shouldn't be, eh?"

Ensign Passun breathed a laugh, leaning back on the bench.

"Leave it alone, Tan."

"I'm leavin' it," the Sullustan glanced back, pantomiming innocence. "I'm just saying that some of us might have a fucking crazy gene that ain't gone back all the way dormant. Don't poke the rancor."

By now, Mags had turned around, turning her frowning blue countenance in Tan's direction.

"Zere ees no rancor. Tan, shut zees fooleeshness. You 'ave work. Do eet."

With no backtalk whatsoever, the Sullustan stepped away softly.

"Yes ma'am, yes ma'am."

[Zwane Nkosi]

"I'll catch you in the bay."

Zane had yelled through the door before leaving Joey to his own preparations. After all, he did not have time to wait. His own flight suit was a special thing, tailored to his size, and was kept in the locker room. He'd put a hoof through a wall trying to get into it in his small room. A casual jog toward the hanger, as was customary during these drills, quickened to a race when he noticed more and more pilots from the Squadron in the halls. They did not look so casual. That's when it finally settled in, at the same moment he felt his hoofbeats picking up.

This was the real thing. Oh no.

He could feel it, the icy cold trickling into his brain. He fought it, just like he always did, but there was no winning. He was only battling himself. All his fears, his uncertainties and fatigue, and his self hatred all faded away as something calm and collected took control.

Sticks slipped through the locker room door, a careful swing of his shoulders making the motion as smooth as possible for his size. The suit was ready, waiting for him. Boots built for hooves and enough material to build an atmospheric thermal balloon. There were many buckles and seals to clinch and pressurize, and finally the helmet; a massive object that was more glass than protective shield. The last thing he wanted was his eyesight obstructed. In the middle of a fight, being able to see sideways was the difference between seeing an incoming bogey before the alarm sounds.

Before your reduced to dust.

Sticks reached the docking bay along with the last of the pilots. He walked tall and proud, helmet under his arm, towering above the smaller species. It was clear that there was more than just Titan Squadron present. Jovan's resident hotheads Atlas Squadron could be spotted grouped together.

The lieutenant approached and called for attention.

"Titan Squadron. Atlas Squadron. We have a situation on Ord Radama. It's a former Imperial Planet. Multiple distress signals have gone out from the planet, indicating that the Sons of Coruscant, a violent terrorist organization, has seized control of the capital. We are the closest significant naval force and have been tasked with responding to the threat. The Sons' usual strategy is to slip troops to the surface of a planet to secure landing zones before they warp in their starships and deploy landing craft. Our mission is to go ahead of the fleet and keep those landing craft from reaching the surface by any means necessary. You will be going in blind with no intel as to how many ships they have. If we move fast enough we might just beat them there.

We are deploying both Titan and Atlas together. Titan will be leading the OP and Atlas stacking on our numbers. Standard four squadron spread. Red, Blue, Green, Gold. Sticks will be leading Red Wing. They will be the vanguard engaging enemy starfighters. Blue is with me, our focus is those landing craft only. Mags will be leading Gold Squadron. Your objective is to get those landing crafts, offer support, and be there to destroy any medium support craft that get in our way. Nario, Green Squadron. Run interference for Mags' bombers."

He gave a quick list of designations to each squadron. Joey was assigned to Red Squadron. Reskor to green. Each roster was rounded out. Red and Green running X-Wings, with the exception of Nario's B-Wing. K-Wings and Y-Wings in Gold, A-Wings in Blue.

"I'm not going to sugar coat it, ladies. You will be flying straight into the fire against unknown odds. I would never send a squadron out like this except for Titan. You are all here because you are the very best..." He jokingly nodded his head toward Mags, "... or the right kind of crazy. Sometimes both. The fleet will be right behind you, so stay alive. Atlas, follow Titan's lead and they will get you through this just fine. Get to your fighters. We launch ASAP."

Nodding his head as the groups broke apart, Sticks summoned the rest of Red to himself, forming a circle of faces that he had to bend down to be a part of. "You heard the Lieutenant. We are hitting them fast and hard. We are going to be on the front line. Watch out for each other and we will get through this together. Don't get all shaky on me, rookie. Follow my lead." With that he stuck his hand out. "On three. Red Squadron. One. Two. RED SQUADRON!"

His X-Wing was waiting for him; a reinforced ladder bore him into it's tight confines. The seat was gone, as was some of the instrument panels, all in the name of sacrificing comfort for the space necessary to fit even a runt of a Thakwaash into the confines of a starfighter. A quick stretch of his shoulders was the last comfort he was going to enjoy for the next several hours before the cockpit closed, forcing him to haunch forward, stick in hand, eyes ready, waiting for the signal. His eye caught the only bit of waste in the entire cockpit; a single photo of a squadron wing, wearing green flight suits standing in front of a row of A-Wings.

[Mags Sondeeta]

Su'taun'rrou Keellarroa huddled off to the far edge of the briefing room with Mags and the other pilot and bombardier crews of gold wing. The respective gunners knew their marching orders, and were already on the way to the bombers to begin their prep work. A half dozen ordnance deck crew also waited in the wings for their orders.

"Rrou'a, jI thjink thjiss pajyload jiss jideal forr the mjisssjion."

Mags took the flimsi that Keellarroa handed her, inspecting it briefly. Conner nets, seismic charges, plasma torpedoes, and a double magazine of harpoon missiles. The Twi'lek only had to nod, because the Cizerack bombardier had completely anticipated her own sensibilities in the mission.

"I agree, yes."

The Twi'lek glanced to the other crews.

"Everyone, prepare your loadout in zees way. We 'it zem weeth plasma een ze opening approach to soften up ze shields, zen we cut across zeir vector and catch zem weeth ze Conners. Zat weel give us enough time such zat we tear eento zem as we come about, and finish zem weeth ze 'arpoons. Eef possible, I want our guns overlapping for defensive fire. We do not know ze disposition of ze enemy escort. I want to preserve our options, and SLAM out of engagement as a last resort. Clear?"

Her explanation brokered no questions or requests for elaboration. Mags handed her Su'taun'rrou's ordnance manifest to the deck officer so they could begin loading the K-wings appropriately.

"Everyone get to your ships."

The K-wing crews broke the huddle, thundering across the hangar in a stampede towards their wide-winged mobile fortresses. Mags and Keellarroa quickly found Fat Bottomed Girl where they'd anticipated. Tan and Passun had already curled into their ball turrets, swinging them back and forth in practiced motions as they tested the gimbals and gyros. A fuel team was already topping off the tanks as a ladder wheeled in place to allow the pilot and bombardier access to the double cockpit. Mags climbed in, doing her pre-flight checks. Keellarroa waited a moment behind to make sure that the ordnance crews brought the correct flavor of explosives on their forklifts. A moment later, the Cizerack also climbed into the cockpit, compressing her floofy hair under her helmet somehow.

"We'rre good to go, rrou'a." she glanced over to Mags from the tandem bubble canopy, giving a crisp thumbs up. Mags nodded as she engaged the bomber's power plant.

"Titan command, zees ees Fat Bottomed Girl. Standing by to launch and link weeth carrier."

Unlike the rest of Titan Squadron, the K-Wings in the gold subgroup lacked a hyperdrive. Instead, they relied on a helpful push from a waiting Gozanti cruiser, which would berth all four ships.

[Damien Kantrael]

"Praetor, we have received confirmation from Decimator Ghant. His forces have taken the city. He awaits our reinforcements."

There was no hesitation in his movements as he rose from the commander's chair. Every member of the bridge crew stood ready, fingers already hovering above the keys for the anticipated directions. It was not since the old days, when the Empire stood tall and strong, that Praetor Horace Reshka had felt so proud of his crew. Tarkin's Hammer was as ready as it would ever be, and even the long wait in empty space waiting for Ghant's signal had not blunted their focus. He trusted in his crew to fulfill their duties, and he knew they would execute this operation perfectly without even so much as a word from his mouth; but all the same the command needed to be given.

"Take us to hyperspace. Destination Ord Radama. Signal the Spirit of Fire and the Furious. We depart immediately."

The trio of ships, huddled in the shadow of a shielding nebula, broke free from the electromagnetic interference of the nebula. The Victory-1 Class Star Destroyer was flanked by the pair of Gozanti Cruisers. A large fish with it's feeders in tow in an ocean of stars. Visible for only a moment before they launched into space, with Fire and Fury following in it's wake.