OOC:

Please bear with me as I knock off some rust and sand off some of the young angsty edge this character had from my teenage years. Mostly the same character, but in a human package, and without the Batman levels of brooding.

Terre had made him promise to retire. Promise to leave the life of fighting and constant worry behind. But then she ended up leaving and he found himself adrift. No direction. No real purpose. Trying everything from the smuggling operations his friend Faska offered, to honest manual labor working the docks of many Outer Rim worlds where his past associations didn't get him in as much trouble. Every time he would come home, slump into a chair, put something on the holonet, and heat up something for both him and his pet Katarn, pass out, and wake up in that same spot. It held no challenge, no interest, no drive. Something had to be done, and damned be his promises to specters of his past.

Rummaging through some old boxes he had forgotten to the back of his closet, he found the old coat he had worn for so many years. It's surface still darkened and worn, the nice brown fading to black in several spots. His hands ran over the cloth as the memories came back to him, slowly at first, but quickly becoming a deluge of images and feelings, looking to drown him in his past. Taking a deep breath, he cleared his head and refocused. The small pocket on the inner breast held what looked like a communicator. Cylindrical and tapered to one end, however, lacking any sort of input end, just a domed light. Pulling it out, Therex studied the port at the bottom of the device, outdated, but with good reason. This ancient Clone Wars tech was perfect for hiding communications, cause who really cared about encrypted information from so long ago? It could be dismissed as simply ancient droid orders wandering the cosmos, never fulfilling it's purpose. In this instance however, he needed to send a specific message to anyone who knew how to receive it.

Digging through a couple other boxes, Therex soon had a pile of cables and datapads that looked like a jumbled mess, but he was sure was set up correctly. Finding the cable end he was looking for, he held his breath, and slotted it into the communicator.

Please work, someone has got to be out there listening.

There were small beeps coming from one of the pads, and lights flickered all over, but nothing to indicate any change. It wasn't going to happen immediately, he knew. The signal was slow, and had to be decrypted on the other side, if anyone even got it. Sighing, he returned to his chair, scooped up the small plasticast tray where his gravy soaked, ground bantha steak sat cooling. He scooped a bite or two into his mouth, gave the machine one last look, and eased back into his chair. As his evening wound down and he was beginning to doze off, his mind turned back to the past. The countless battles fought, the things he'd seen and done, the people he had spent those times with, and those he had saved. Those he had lost. Just as his last conscious thoughts floated through his head, a loud beeping roused him. Turning, he saw the bright blue light on his communicator flashing in rhythm with the beeps. Therex leapt from his chair, nearly knocking over the side table, startling his katarn, and nearly allowing his face and the permacrete floor to become acquainted. His fingers wrapped around the little device and he shook slightly, anxious, before connecting the signal.

"Therex Whitestone, callsign Rex, your communique has been received. Please prepare for a response in the next 24 hours, and transportation arranged for immediate departure."

The voice was mechanical and obviously part of the automatic system in place, but it meant someone was still getting them. Someone had heard him. The Vast Empire was still out there.

Therex was going home.

OOC:

WC: 642
A far cry from my past, but I haven't written for a couple years. I'll take it. Changes will still be made as I revamp Therex further, until things really get rolling around here.

== Salvaged GAR Acclamator-class Assault Ship "Resurgence", Mandalore system ==

Mandalore. Home.

Grent hadn't been back to Mandalore since he had joined the Empire, but when he had needed a home he hadn't known where else to turn. It was safety, and whilst his fellow Mandalorians held no love over any sort of Empire, Vast or Dominion, they equally held no love for any Republic, and welcomed him home with open arms. His beskar'gam had been blown to smithereens still stored in a locker on a now destroyed ship, but to his kin he was still vod: still a Mandalorian.

He'd gathered who he could to join him, but looking for those who are trying to hide is difficult at the best of times, but especially when those same men and women are also trying to hide from the entirety of the New Republic.

Pirates. Outlaws. Scum.

His crew were none of those things.

They were what few remnants of the Vast Empire that he had found or made to the Mandalore sector - around 450 souls or so - mixed with a few Mandalorians seeking adventure and glory, and all living together on-board an old Republic Navy Acclamator that had been left to rust when the Empire had decided she was no longer needed. It had taken them a long while to get her operational again: parts needed replacing that were no longer made, circuits had burned out in places that were impossible to access, and anything useful not sealed behind blast doors and bulkheads had been stolen by junkers years ago. Still, it was a task to perform, and the former VE crew were happy to perform it, even going so far as to take pride in their work.

When the ship had finally left the ground, the crew cheered and she was rechristened the "Resurgence": the newest, albeit likely oldest, ship for the Vast Imperial Navy, and the start of a new beginning for all on board.

Designed to carry 16,000 troops, their equipment, a multitude of vehicles and ships, and all be operated by 700 crew, the small contingent of former stormtroopers, starfighter pilots, marines, technicians, bridge officers, administrators, and more from all over the VE's military branches found that they had plenty of room. Military regulations, such as rank, faded as the crew adopted a more relaxed approach to life, though strict military discipline was still the norm: none of them wanted civilian life, and there was only so much relaxing the crew could do before they began to yearn for the rigid military programme.

Grent was proud of his crew. As the one who had gathered them all, organised the retrofit, and even led the charge against a group of criminals who had caught wind of what they were doing and wanted to steal the ship for themselves, Grent had gradually found himself being looked to for leadership, and was given virtually no choice by the crew when the question of who the captain would be: as far as they were concerned, he had been their captain for quite some time already. Still, it was a new experience for him, being more familiar with starfighters than he was a heavy cruiser, and he gladly accepted the help of several bridge officers who became his core staff.

The crew of the "Resurgence" found work hauling cargo and assisting in patrolling the Mandalore system for the Mandalorians, who paid in credits or supplies, which kept the ship running. The New Republic had no reason to entire the Mandalore sector, so the only skirmishes Grent and his crew had with them were when they left the sector to hunt down rumours of VE ships. Most of the time, the only combat experience they received were from actual pirates who stood no chance against the "Resurgence" and her cannons. Shuttles had been bought, stolen, or claimed from battles to give the "Resurgence" a decent compliment of boarding craft.

Finally they had tracked down other VE ships ... or, rather, what was left of them ...

It was a harrowing sight to see ships many on-board had served on drifting in space, broken apart and left for the mynocks. The crew salvaged what they could from the wreckages, including sensitive communication equipment that still responded to their access codes. For some of the crew, that was a victory in itself, as a sign that the Vast Empire still endured and that they were part of it. For others, their former homes being destroyed and knowing that they had lost good friends without being able to do anything to save them added to the struggle.

Today was looking to be one of those days, as the "Resurgence" was following a two week old report about a skirmish between the Vast Empire and the New Republic where a VE ship had sustained damage. They had the co-ordinates of the battle, but had only found debris: no sign of the rumoured damaged ship itself.

Grent looked out of the viewport, wearing his new beskar'gam his aliit had gifted him to replace the set he had lost. The deep green with gold trim T-visor helmet sat on the Captain's chair behind him.

"Anything on scanners?" he asked hopefully, without turning.
"No, Captain. Nothing," came the reply.
Grent turned and looked towards his communications officer, "Any signals?"
"Only static," replied the former Ensign.
"Have you tried the old VE frequencies?"
"I've got them all on, boss."
"Alright, keep me posted ... and try sending out a few messages. Nothing specific, but something our friends would recognise - we're not in a VE ship, so they'd likely be wary."
"Aye aye, Captain."

Grent strode back to his chair, picking up his helmet and sitting down. He gazed into the visor, and silently prayed that the ships they were looking for were ok ...

OOC:

WC: 978
AR: Grent makes his return with a number of former VE crew on-board a salvaged Acclamator. Will anyone respond to his messages? Will he find the rest of the fleet before the New Republic find him? Only time will tell ...

Therex felt... How would he describe it?

Anxious?, he thought, Nervous?

Kicking gently at the edge of one of the durasteel crates around the docks, he pondered his next few moves. The Vast Empire, or rather, what was left of it, was coming to get him. Therex had heard the news stories about them being run aground, reduced to nothing, merely a whisper of their original pride and power. Now, what was left was taking him in, so either they were desperate for a doctor or two, or just needed some fresh cannon fodder. That didn't sound like the calculated Vast Empire he knew. Not like the group of men and women he served with who would evacuate a bad situation before losing a man to an unwinnable fight. It was a big part of why he had enlisted all those years ago. It felt right, and it still did now.

A small intercom voice crackles alive, shaking him from his daydreams. The static and rattling, paired with an ancient speaker made it near impossible to understand the whole message, but he heard the number his transport was supposed to be using to get access. heaving out one last sigh to prepare himself, he hefted the two bags, one over his shoulder, and the other under the same arm. His free hand fumbled in his pocket, gently tapping the identification, reassuring himself of it's presence, but also giving his actions one last bit of finality. He might not be back here for a long time, and he honestly was okay with that. Faska already had instructions to pack up his remaining belongings and bring them, along with his pets, to the mobile base of operations that served the Velkyries. There is would wait for Therex's next retirement, alongside his slowly growing collection of exotic weapons, outdated droids he promised to one day fix, and his Basilisk.

The Corellian freighter transport darkened the sky above as it came in for final approach. Simple in design, easily sneaking around customs and those sniffing out the last of the VE. Therex walked to the bay he was meeting them at, flashing his ID appropriately at the bored guards at the two checkpoints between him and his destination. He stood and waited as the ship lowered onto the ground, switching off repulsors and sinking into it's landing struts. Almost immediately, a ramp extended down, a feminine figure standing on the ship side. Adjusting the luggage he was carrying, Therex approached the ramp, his head coming close to the underbelly of the access.

"Therex Whitestone," the stranger asked, "Rex?"

"That'd be me," Therex stammered out, before remembering how military etiquette worked.

"Ma'am," he added, throwing a half assed left handed salute, shrugging and motioning with his luggage. "Sorry."

Her demeanor didn't falter even slightly, but he could read that she was visibly upset by his behavior. Then again his appearance may have played a part. He had barely pulled on his old armor, or what was left of it, comb through his hair, and pack his stuff, when the final travel notes came through. The armor was concealed by his oversized coat, but was very obviously missing the regulation chest piece, cod piece, and one leg. Cobbled together, it was filled in with light pieces of armor from a couple other sets he had collected over the years. They hadn't been damaged, he just always seemed to lose pieces when he moved. On one hip sat an older model slugthrower in a ratty looking holster, and the strap for a slung rifle could be seen, pinning the coat to him, showing how out of shape he had let himself get over the past couple years.

"Umm..." he stammered out, looking up the ramp behind her, "Permission to come aboard?"

Without a word, she stepped aside and nodded into the ship.

Throwing another awkward salute for good measure, Therex stumbled up the ramp, feeling the edge of the port brushing his hair slightly.

Had the Empire gotten shorter since he had been enlisted?

Remembering the bruises he had developed, he decided he had just forgotten that not everything in the military accommodated a 6'4" person, and he would just have to work around it. Smiling to himself, he looked around the cargo hold before clearing his throat and moving to catch up with the woman who had walked past towards the interior.

"Where is my room," he asked, trying to put some more confidence behind his voice than he actually had at the moment.

"You're standing in it," she said, gesturing to the bay without stopping, "we're not a pleasure yacht, we're a freight transport. You're freight, find a spot. We'll be leaving soon."

OOC:

794 Words

“We’re receiving an encrypted transmission, sir.  It’s coded for your secure channel.”  The lieutenant’s voice was clipped and professional.  It betrayed neither surprise nor undue curiosity.
      “Good,” the admiral said.  “The operation is proceeding nicely.”  Good, the admiral thought.  The officer corps is training up nicely.  He gave the woman a curt nod, and turned on his heel.
      As he strode to the blast doors at the aft of the bridge he noted with approval that all the technicians and supervisors in the crew pits to either side were going about their tasks with quiet, efficient intensity.  An increasingly-familiar sensation of pride welled up.  When the doors closed behind him and he was momentarily unobserved, he allowed himself to smile.  Just a little.
      The ship’s conference room had been converted into his own, multipurpose space.  A study, for private contemplation.  An office, for overawing subordinates and impressing guests.  And a fully-functional command chamber, equipped to relay orders remotely to his crew, his taskforce, his entire fleet, and to every part of his government.
      His fingers danced across a control panel, and the lights dimmed.  Simultaneously, a hologram flickered into being in the center of the room.
      “My Lord Regent.”
      “Oh stand up,” Admiral Trikarian said.  “The most annoying part of insisting that I don’t like it when you use formal titles to address me is that, well… I can’t order you not to!”
      The holographic figure pushed himself up from kneeling.  “Try it,” the man said.  The sparkle in his eyes was apparent, despite the holographic transmission's distortions.  “It could be fun.”
      “Report!” Trikarian barked, unsuccessfully suppressing a smirk.
      The other man’s tone changed immediately.  “You were right,” he said earnestly.  There’s some activity here.”
      Trikarian felt an eyebrow twitch upward.  “‘Activity?’” he echoed.
      “Specifics are in the report I just transmitted.  Suffice it to say that more of the Vast Empire’s senior and veteran personnel survived than we thought.  And they’re coming out of the Laroon woodwork.”
      The admiral was lost in thought for a moment.  If the Vast Empire was trying to reconstitute itself - again - a whole host of possibilities opened up in front of him.  They would be weak.  In need of support.  Politically, he could see the upside of cultivating another allied buffer state between his people and the rest of the Galaxy.  Personally, he yearned to aid his old comrades.  But Trikarian knew the group of beings well: they were undisciplined, factious, contentious.  They might be an asset to the Ejj Sector, but they could just as easily be a liability.  Even a threat.  They might regard the former executive officer of their Navy as a wildly successful torchbearer of Imperial ideals, but they could just as easily brand Trikarian a deserter and traitor.  The last time he’d run into survivors of the VE’s collapse, they’d done the latter.
      A gentle question broke his reverie.  “Zev?”
      Trikarian forced himself to smile.  “You’re doing well Raqra,” he said.  “Stay on station.  Your mission remains the same.  Keep me apprised.”
      “Of course, Zev.” The man’s features displayed his obvious concern.  He opened his mouth to say something, but thought better of it.  He shrugged with exaggerated nonchalance, mischievous smile back in place.  “I’ll see you later.  My Lord Regent.”
      His visage faded, leaving Zev Trikarian alone in his darkened lair.
      The admiral pulled up a strategic plot of the fleet’s current deployment, and studied it for a moment.  Well, he thought.  Fine, then.
      He pushed a specific button on the console, and held it down.  “Mr. Hague?”
      The Conqueror’s captain responded immediately: “Aye sir?”
      “There is a system called Vectra.  I want us positioned at the far periphery as soon as possible.  Enough distance to guarantee we’re well out of detection range of anything lurking in or around the system itself.”
      “Aye sir.”
      “Notify me when we’re a standard hour away from reversion to realspace.”
      “Aye sir.”
      “That is all.”  He removed his finger from the button.  The deck plates shuddered ever so subtly beneath his feet.  His flagship had leapt into hyperspace.
      For a long time afterwards, Admiral Zev Trikarian stood motionless in the dark, his fingers steepled.
      What would he find, on the other side of the journey?
      Time would tell.

OOC:

717 words.  Hello again, all.

“Welcome back, to the Empire previously known as Vast.”

The slightly filtered voice of his old CO, Mox was a comfort. When he had been waiting, a big concern was who would he talk to? He didn’t get along with everyone before, and the people he did were few and far between. He gave a small salute and nod, “Mox.”

As the officer turned to walk away, Mox exchanged some words with another officer, before she introduced herself as well.

“I’m Kasakaia. If you’re into ranks it’s Sergeant, otherwise Kasakaia or just Kas is fine.”

Therex went to put another salute up, and his hand stopped, and tried to remember all the little nuances in military tradition and stiffness. Deciding that it wasn’t necessary, he dropped the hand and merely nodded again.

“Therex,” he said, letting his posture slacken a bit, “Corporal Whitestone, but most people just call me Rex, but I’ll come running if anyone yells medic.”

Laughing a little to forcibly, he looked around the hold, trying to avoid eye contact.

“So, just set up anywhere, yeah,” he asked, awkwardly shifting the bags around, trying to hide his discomfort in her silence. “That’s what your welcoming wagon said.”

With a slight roll of her eyes, she gave him a look of almost pity, before handing him a small card with a locker number written on it.

“You’re got quarters,” she said, sounding like she was addressing some child who had just found out the the Tooth Fairy didn’t exist. “It’s cramped, but you have a bed, a place to stash your gear, and a couple refreshers if you want to clean yourself up. I’d recommend getting some sleep first though, a several year debrief is gonna take a while once we land.”

“Oh,” was all he could say, realizing how he had been played for a dupe. “Thanks.”

Taking the card from her, he wandered the cramped halls and small staircases, working to the upper deck, checking the door numbers against the small digit scrawled on the screen. He pushed the button and breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of a currently empty room. There were two beds and one was clearly being used, made obvious by the state of the sheets and pillows, and some strange holo on repeat on the table between the beds. Dropping his bags on the bed, he unstrapped the gun from his back, dropping the full weight of his A280 Armor-Piercing rifle, a piece of his old history. Once the bed was cleared, he lowered himself onto it and felt all of his muscles complain and groan against the very military, stiff as duracrete mattress. However, something about it felt comforting, and despite the protests running up and down his spine he found his eyes growing heavy enough that he barely even felt the lurch as they took off, and was completely out by the time they jumped to hyperspace.

OOC:

Super short post, but I just wanted to get us moving along.

Slasher walked the hallways of his ship, for the fifth night in a row he had found it difficult to sleep. He was not surprised given the circumstances, but it still was not comforting, and if it continued much longer it would begin to wear away at his fighting edge. As he had for each of the last four nights he eventually wound up in the hanger, once again he walked down the rows of fighters, he had eventually stopped as he always did, at the wing of his own fighter, a custom painted TIE/es escort fighter.

“Getting antsy too sir?” a voice sounded behind Slasher, he turned to see Master Chief Petty Officer Cevdis a Rodian, and one of the officers who had served with him the longest, starting back when Slasher had taken command of the Light Cruiser Onyx a ship which like so many others, was probably space dust at this time.

“A bit Cev,” Slasher gestured at the lines of fighters, “I miss the days where all I had to do was climb in a fighter, fly off, and blast things.”

“And left the strategy to the brass, I know sir, we don't get out nearly as much as we used to, heck you got more flying time as the CO of a training platform than you do now.”

“I know, but unfortunately we do have a shortage of qualified fleet commanders, and I have to fulfill that roll, I just feel bad with this fighter sitting here, when it could be getting used by someone else.”

“Don't worry sir, if push comes to shove I'll find another person to drive for me.”

Slasher smiled halfheartedly and took his leave, his steps took him through the bowels of the Valance, he exchanged nods and words with people throughout the ship, and eventually ended back up on the bridge, where the night watch officer looked extremely uncomfortable with his presence.

“Captain on deck” the call came out, and everyone had jumped up and snapped to attention.

“As you were” Slasher responded, he walked forward past the crew pits to gaze out at the stars, as his mind wandered, it turned to friends and times long gone as he tried to figure a way out of their current predicament.

1 Cruiser, 37 fighters, 5 freighters and support craft, and hopefully, a Bothan Assault Frigate somewhere nearby raced back with the parts that they need, but after that what next?

If only he could talk to StOrMz or Drac, or Trick! They had been so helpful to bounce ideas off of, and they had been great comrades in arms. But he had seen neither hide nor hair of them in years.

It was time to accept that the Halcyon Warrior, and the ships of the others, must have been destroyed, and it had fallen to him to pull together what was left of the Vast Empire.

He turned to the officer of the deck.

“Status report Ensign?”

“All systems combat ready if need be, primary hyperdrive still non-functional, backup hyperdrive nominally operative.”

“Wake the chief engineer, I want all hands in engineering working to get the ship ready for combat, and double our current combat air patrol, I'm about to send out a message which may draw additional attention to us, and I want us to be ready.”

“Aye Aye Captain.”

Slasher turned to the communications officer, “Comms, begin recording a message, to be sent using Vast Empire priority code 7-Alpha, override all lockouts on communications systems. Standard Vast Empire encryption 12-Beta.”

“One moment sir.... Ready to record.”

Slasher crossed his arms behind his back, summoned all his powers of command, and began to speak.

“Attention, all units with prior allegiance to the Vast Empire, this is Captain Rorran Gorma, commanding the [i]Valance[i] Acting Commander of the Vast Imperial 2nd Fleet, return to the Vectra system with all possible speed and numbers. The time has come for us to stop acting like a common pirate group, and start acting like the proud members of the Vast Empire we are.”

He went on for several minutes longer, before he ended the transmission with, “I look forward to speaking with and working with each of you in the near future. For the Empire!.”