[Sagas; IC] PotC - Chapter I [IC]

[MadMaeve]

Chapter I - Defenders of Taris

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away...

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Dawn breaks along the horizon of the coal-colored sphere known as Taris. The corona of its pale mother star gives the atmosphere a twinkling glow. For a moment, she is a diamond, like she used to be. A sparkling city planet. A testament to sentient engineering, she is. Now, she is unrecognizable, chiseled and worn from a long history of being beat-up, blown to ash, and put back together again. Her glory days are long past. You could call her the old crone of the Mid Rim. After living such a long, horrible life, she still holds on, eager to brag how fate's dealt her such a poor hand.

It seems like fate's dealt the worst one yet.

Word came in two weeks ago about Geonosis. Jedi. Separatists. Droids. A Clone army. To people this far away, it was all nonsense. Buzzwords. Folks across the planet treated it like the Stark War - some horrible little thing sectors away that wasn't going to last. Even images of the infamous Count Dooku and his collaborators, plastered across the Holonet like wanted posters, - even multi-page lists of seceding planets- did little to shake faith in a quick, uninvolved war.

Unsurprisingly, the folks who believed that were the first to leave when news of an encroaching Sep fleet reached planetside.


Our story starts on the skyhook The Flying Dug. An old junker of a station. Been in orbit for decades. The janky thing has been taken over and repurposed by the Fourth Republic Fleet as their new base of operations. Whether flown here, dropped off or moved, you have arrived, in the hangar specified by your liason with high command.

You all know what's at stake - a payout for duty for one's Galactic Republic. Or something like that. You have been promised a hefty sum, as high as 200,000 credits per person, for impressment into the Republic Navy against the incoming Separatist fleet. You are expected to stay here for a month at the minimum for your money, though you can back out at any time. Should conditions turn out to be 'unfavorable.'

After taking three, four sectors in a manner of weeks, you could call just cause.

Fighters, freighters and corvettes have been corralled to the south hangar, formerly a loading dock for diplomatic frigates and Dreadnaught-class cruisers. The space feels cavernous. More than three dozen ships occupy the open area, sharing it with piles of Republic ordinance and repulsorsleds loaded with scrap. Torrents, Dianogas, Havocs and YT's of all colors. All of them lay open, waiting for their owners to install weapons onto them, or give them a fresh coat of paint. Their owners, a smattering of aliens from the region (Togorians, Togruta, Selkath, Phindarans, and even a few Wookies and Dosh), are tending to their pressing needs.

Your ship has been assigned a spot in a cordoned-off section towards the north, facing a ray-shielded hangar door. It, and six other similarly tricked out scream-machines. The area has been marked off between staging zones, machine shops, designated fighter space and supply dumps, running in rough concentric circles from the center. Whether you just arrived or have been spending the twilight hours fixing up your hot rod, orders go out through the attending astromechs.

All pilots, assemble in the center. It's time to be briefed.

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What state are you in? How are you adjusting to sudden impressment? Has it been a hassle? What's on your mind?