Marka noted the blatant change of posture and mannerism of his Jester squad mate when the target was named. Verkur’s shoulders straightened, he sat up straight in his chair, eyes locked on Aeos’. This escaped target seemed to matter a great deal to him, and Marka empathised with what could only be a smouldering want for revenge and satisfaction. It was a feeling the Gunnery Sergeant was all too familiar with, especially in the recent past; the maniacal drive to see someone suffer as they should. Though their reasons seemed entirely different, it was, at its basest level, a feeling in common.

Having little to think about concerning the mission ahead, Marka was quick to his feet once Aeos had departed. Verkur was still sitting, looking a conflicted mix between perplexed and furious; an odd expression resulted on his face. So, deciding the Lance Corporal had enough on his mind, and needed some space, Marka left the room as well, heading off to the armoury.
  He’d already brought with him his essentials; his Coruscant Guard armour that had belonged to his father; deep crimson and black, and battle worn but still entirely capable, and his personal vibrosword; its black, bloodstained blade his ultimate tool. He went to the armoury simply for the ‘just to be safe’ items. Despite his absolute adoration for the sword, being a soldier, Marka realised that having some form of blaster with him would be in his best interests, especially as he had no idea what kind of enemy he was up against, or what form of attack the two troopers would decide on.

After a brisk walk, he came upon the armoury, and ventured inside. Thankfully, the young man sitting behind the enquiry desk was young, and not of remarkable rank, and therefore would not question his order. Marka suppressed a grin as he approached.

“Kylan-3 Heavy Blaster,” Marka began, “and the Whisper Subsonic Slug-thrower rifle. Two lots of extra ammunition for both.”

The young man, scrawny with worn features and a tired expression, gave Marka a once-over, his gaze seemingly magnetised to the tattoos beneath the Gunnery Sergeant’s eyes; ‘LIFE’ under his right, ‘DEATH’ under his left. But Marka was used to such reactions, having many years to accept it. Secretly, he enjoyed the semi-frightened look on their faces. Fear, even in its smallest form, was a useful weapon to have. Fear was infectious.
  Nodding, the clerk brushed the matted ginger fringe out of his eyes and tapped a few times on the touch screen. A small compartment on the back wall clicked and hissed for a moment, and then fell silent. The young man slid it open and retrieved the two weapons and ammo, handing them over to Marka. The Gunnery Sergeant nodded in return and left immediately, holstering the blaster to the left side of his hip and cradling the rifle loosely under his left arm, stuffing the ammo into the compartments of his utility belt. Blade slung in its sheath across his back and helmet clasped in his right hand, Marka made his way to Hangar C to wait for Verkur, the robe of his armour swaying rhythmically behind him.

As he walked, he was soothed by how comforting it was to be back in his father’s armour. The movement was much more precise and flowing than the rad suits he had recently become so acquainted with, and allowed for improved agility and flexibility. The helmet’s HUD was useful too, with full night vision capabilities, among others, which Marka was almost sure would be used on at least one occasion in the mission.

Mission, he thought, if it can be called that.

As he took his first few steps into the hangar, he noticed the bustling liveliness that was spread throughout. People rushed to and fro in desperate attempts to get places on time, to meet appointments, to tell new and exciting rumours. Some moved heavy crates to and from cargo shuttles, others paced back and forth, waiting for whomever they had to.

Marka ambled over to the shuttle he assumed would be taking Verkur and himself on what could only accurately be described as a manhunt. Marka grinned at the thought.

A hunt... Perfect.

Marka simply shook his head, his mind processing the sudden influx of information quickly. There were only a few things he really needed to know; Trandoshan, was known for traps, and had some bodyguards with apparently flimsy loyalties. Other than that, the only info left to gather was location, and even then they had some idea. Once they were on Mangol, the rest would be revealed in due course.

Verkur nodded, and Marka shifted in his seat, bringing his sheathed sword to his lap. He’d not had a chance to use it since his return the Vast Empire Army, having been provided with a standard issue vibroblade for his simulation mission as well as the Cleoggi escapade. It had served him well enough, he thought, but it didn’t have the same feel, the same history about it. It hadn’t been a part of Marka since early adolescence, hadn’t taken the revenge he’d so wildly hunted. Between him and the blade on his lap, there was an immense connection, as a blacksmith and his hammer. The sword was his tool, and he was its master; one was not whole without the other.
  The Gunnery Sergeant ran an armoured finger over the curved black hilt, tracing the indented patterns. Images flashed back through his mind as he slid his hand around the hilt, gripping it loosely. He imagined, he remembered the blood that had washed over his fists, blending with the crimson of his armour. Tilting his head to the side with an audible crack, Marka ran his other hand the length of the blade, letting his eyes close. In a few minutes his consciousness slipped away.

Marka awoke some time later as the shuttle drifted into the Mangol spaceport. It hummed and hissed as the landing gears lowered and the bustle of life was soon heard. Verkur had his helmet tucked under his arm and was attending to his weapons. Deciding he would do the same, Marka shuffled over to the weapon rack, sliding his blade and sheath onto his back as he moved. Verkur moved away, having equipped his belongings, and stood at the back of the shuttle as the ramp lowered into the port. Marka holstered his Kylan-3 to his hip on the left side and shouldered his rifle, following Verk out.

Marka noted the filthy state of Verkur’s armour; the already grey armour scattered with dried bloodstains, dirt, mud, and other forms out things that Marka dared not think about. Looking down at his relatively clean armour, he almost chuckled at the contrast between the two similar soldiers. Almost.
  Sliding his helmet on, he stood next to Verk and looked at the people in the port, busy with their daily duties.

“Right,” Verkur sighed to himself, “where to start...”