Rising Sun, Burning Fields, Nazzri, attn: Goner

[Robert Dorn]

Civil War
Working for: Nazri Peoples Liberation Front
Goal: Things are hotting up on Nazri again. Hostilities between the Nazri Peoples Liberation Front (NPLF) and the Peoples Liberation Army of Nazri (PLAN) have increased in the face of galactic condemnation. It's a mercenary paradise. The NPLF needs a few brave or stupid men to travel into the heart of the PLAN and disable their sense-net before the crushing blow.



Sweeping over the non-conflict zone of Nazzri proved to be breathtaking, in a ‘this may be my grave’ sort of way. Rolling plains blanketed in amber from the setting sun made a planet, prone to violence, seem almost peaceful. The Overball cast a tiny shadow that skimmed and bobbed happily over the hills as her pilot plotted a course. Far bellow farms could be discerned, sitting in square plots of land, thin rows of crops ready to be harvested. A village would periodically pop up on the horizon, white smoke curling from the strange rounded chimneys of the creatures living there. In the time that passed during the Overball’s quick journey to the field of battle a large city sprung up far off in the east, backlit by a setting sun.

Robert remained sullen as he settled his elegant craft down, three miles from the Nazzri Peoples Liberation Front base of operations. To him it was a stone throw, being the runner that he was. To his amazement the scanners picked up a great number of metal objects, cropping up hotly despite the dense foliage below. Robert peered out of the forward window, drawing his eyes away from the controls for a moment, below was something he had not seen the likes of in many years. Dozens of ship, sitting in a makeshift starport cut out of the forest below. Squatting like sleeping durasteel devils. Mercenary ships, their antennae breaking the tree tops likes limbs reaching to the heavens. A mercenary paradise.

Getting to the actual area of the fighting proved significantly easier than expected. There was a waiting truck, patiently two guards stood to either side of the door. One Nazzra soldier smoked quietly, neither spoke. The truck was sitting on a slight rise that Robert wasn’t able to see past. Quietly he approached the truck, one hand holding the strap of the rifle slung over his shoulder and another keeping his balance as he climbed. To either side of him, other guns for hire were breaking the tree line. All nature of creatures armed with weapons alien to Robert. He had never seen such a thing, so many guns for hire brought to the front by another military force. Robert was the only human present on the approach.

It was a rough road to the camp. Rolling green fields were replaced with shell hole peppered mud, a crisp night air grew hot with weapon discharge, and a purple bruise night sky was marred with smoke. Robert addressed these with the same familiarity a chef would approach a range, a potential danger but something required for the job.

Across from Robert was a man in a ragged shawl, a visored helmet and a full suit of armour. Robert took in such details lightly, noting that many of them carried automatic weapons, full battle plate and many gadgets. He shook his head slightly at the madness of it all. These boys were set to raid an outpost, not do destroy a communications tower. Robert supposed his mission was a unique contract, a one shot deal using a strike force during a larger attack. The people around him were throwaways.

Upon reaching the encampment Robert stepped off the truck calmly and looked about. As he expected; concrete bunkers pocketed with shrapnel holes, personnel milling around, wounded bunched up around fires, and crates and supplies strewn about. Robert had been informed where he was to meet, as did the others as they made off the moment they touched soil. Without glancing back at them he made off for the command tent. A rickety old thing with a number of antennae sticking off, reading whatever signals sent from whomever. Without another work Robert walked across the open parade ground and into the dingy post.

[Agragon Nexu]

Wanderlust entered atmosphere over the non-combat zone of Nazzri, a world currently embroiled in a massive civil war. Goner was never one for causes, but a call had gone out for mercenaries to fight for the organization known as the Nazzri People's Liberation Front, or NPLF. Thing was, even if he was a Mandalorian in training, the Devaronian couldn't pass up the chance to make some extra spending money. After all, beskar wasn't cheap.

Farmland was the sight that greeted the newbie Mandalorian as he tore through the Nazzar skies. Very little of note along this path, other than the fact that he seemed to be following someone else's vapor trail. Curious, but nothing to be worried about. His friend or foe designator wasn't showing any ships in the sky around him, and the chances that the people of this backwater planet having stealth technology was slim to none. Goner only hoped that the same could be said of their tech levels. It would make his job so much easier.

Finally Goner reached the place where he had been instructed to put his ship down, lest he find it filled full of plasma from anti-aircraft fire from the People's Liberation Army of Nazzri, or PLAN. Much as he figured that he could vape any potential threats long before they affected him, he didn't know the PLAN's offensive capabilities, and underestimating them could mean the loss of his ship, if not his life. Last thing he wanted in the galaxy was the ability to move about it as he pleased. That was, until Mandalore called him home to fight. Or his Clan called him back for training... Hell, until the Mandalorians needed him to splice something, even. How the hell had he managed to get tied down like this, he'd never really understood. Much less the fact that he allowed it to happen. ALLOWED IT.

Heaving a sigh, Goner set Wanderlust down in the open area with all the other mercenary ships and looked around for his ride to the battlefield. His gear strapped to him, all save his slicing gear, which he kept in a pack slung over his shoulder. Chances were that he wouldn't really need it. They were taking a sense-net permanently. On the other hand, Goner could always slice it and turn it against the PLAN. He did like having options.

Goner probably resembled every bit the Mandalorian he was, minus the famed armor. Weapons strapped all over his body, a cocky grin on his face and a swagger to his walk. Of course, the last two were traits he'd always carried with him. Part of the job when you're boasting yourself to be the best slicer outside the Inner Rim, and perhaps even further Coreward. He ignored the various disparaging looks he got from other, more heavily armored mercenaries. What did he care if they could take more damage? The fact that his only armor was a blast vest spoke to his confidence in his capabilities. Obviously these guys were expecting to stand in the open shouting "COME GET SOME!" as they blasted their enemies with all they had to offer rather than playing it smart.

Climbing aboard a hover truck with a group of other mercenaries, he quietly took his seat and looked around. So many aliens and only a single human. Looked about his late twenties, maybe early thirties. But, then, what did Goner know of human physiology? Not that he cared either way how old the guy was, so long as he knew how to use the rifle he had slung over his shoulder. Goner clenched his hands, testing the crushgaunts he wore. A present from the former Clan leader of the Nexu before he died. Supposedly he had been presented them from a fallen friend or something. He never did bother prying into that story any further than Get was willing to divulge.

Not long into their trip, it got bumpy. The verdant fields had been replaced by obvious signs of war. Suddenly the air grew hot and the sounds of battle carried over the purple twilight that had settled over the world. Lines of smoke rose here and there, marking either fires or smoldering equipment destroyed in the heat of battle. Goner noted that the others in the group were heavily armed, as he was, though they boasted armor that he did not own. The only other person that seemed to think traveling lightly was a good idea was the human, who carried - at least openly - a single rifle.

When the truck stopped, everyone disembarked, making their way almost mindlessly to the post where they were to meet up and get their instructions. The human man stopped and took in the scene first, and being the last off the truck, Goner noted what it was that he was taking in.

The camp was a poor sight. Signs of battle were everywhere. Carbon scoring, shrapnel holes, wounded men grouped around campfires and supply crates strewn about seemingly at random. Goner watched as the human man made his way toward the post. Trotting along to catch up, Goner continued to face forward, but turned his gaze towards the other man.

"Kind of disappointing, isn't it? Looks like we may be on the wrong side of this one."

[Robert Dorn]

Robert’s set of jungle combats made scrapping sounds against the badly maintained concrete. Craters marred the cool grey surface like zits on a teenagers already craggy face. Rain water had gathered at the bottom of the pools and the mercenary could see the heads of Nazzri squatting in them, bobbing about and muttering amongst one another in their lower, sombre tones. The water systems must have been damaged in the fighting, determined from toothbrushes and the flash of razors as men shaved inside the holes. It was a strange duality, the farmers turned soldiers, grunting like a trained warrior but still carrying on the idle chit-chat of village people.

"Kind of disappointing, isn't it? Looks like we may be on the wrong side of this one."

Without a sidewards glance the veteran replied, “it appears so.” The educated clipping in his voice sounding brassy against the low concussion of Nazzri speech permeating the air. Continuing the overture, “most of it is trench warfare out there. Nazzri don’t know how to make war. Put a weapon in the hands of a farmer and he’ll dig a hole in the ground to hide in. Nobody wants to go far from home else they’ll miss the harvests. Neither can win but neither wants to lose.” Robert shot a knowing glance at his comrade in arms. He noted that the Devaronian was lightly armoured like himself, and had not followed the heavily armoured troopers. It was safe to assume this man was along for the specialist mission.

Together they reached the command structure. It was meagre in supply and military organisation. Off to one side was a communications radio that appeared that it hadn’t been used since the Hyperspace War. A table dominated the centre of the room, various figures were arranged on the desk, symbolising various regiments deployed. Robert noted that the items weren’t wedges, tanks or airships, instead they were kids toys, old discarded trooper figures and cars. It would have been sad if it weren’t so pathetic, an entire galaxy at war and here the Nazzri were squabbling with their brothers.

There were a number of Nazzri shuffling about, one sat at the radio, another was leaning over the table, who Robert determined to be the commander was sitting in a flimsy chair face in hand. The alien wore no insignia denoting his in charge, it was the air that the Nazri put off, a creature fighting a fierce uphill battle. Robert whispered to his compatriot, “maybe you’re right.”