Log:Sith Empire: Black in Word

Sith Empire: Black in Word

OOC Date: February 15, 2022
Location: Spearhead Base
Participants: Sith Empire: Syrus, Tamsin Cas, Tarq Najjic, Xavier Harcourt, and Darth Ferren

The JAS assault lander stolen from Carkanis, callsign Besh Seven, aligns itself for the final approach to Spearhead Base. In the space behind hangs Solominus, the multicolored star a miasma of shifting hues. Within the ship, a beetle-helmeted pilot jockeys the yoke, leaving the Councillors free to their pre-invasion machinations.

A flickering, staticky blue image of Ferren appears in the air of the passenger compartment, the Sith Lord making one last contact for the sake of briefing. "Get in and get as quickly as you can to the holocrons. They're the only reason we're not attacking the station directly. The bulk of the fleet is engaged in a different exercise, we don't have the firepower to knock that destroyer out rapidly enough to get in before the holocrons could be evacuated." The image sputters and stabilizes again. "Once they're in hand, get them off the station however you can."

The image cuts out, just in time for a transmission from Spearhead to blare over the comms. "Incoming assault lander, please identify yourself, you're not on the flight list and you're not one of ours."

Guess what, boys and girls; Syrus is here again.

The tall, be-scarred Kiffar is near the ramp where he's been for most of the flight; doing his best to avoid contact with the other members of the group. Something's distinctly off about him. More off, at least. He was never the social type, after all.

His hand clicks and whirs as it reaches down to clink softly against his lightsaber, sliding the weapon from his belt. Diplomacy never lasts overly long in situations like this. His eyes cut to the comms panel as it crackles to life, the poor sap on the other end demanding to know their intent.

Tamsin, robed, and masked, looking exactly as she had when she had been among the Knights, and as she had looked last when she was aboard the station, waited in silence for the shuttle to make it's approach. her weapons were ready, and she had her medical supplies tucked away as she always did. She was neither pilot nor communicator on this mission, but had found a place in the cockpit, in case she was needed. For now, she would allow those on the team better suited to duplicity to do what they could to board the station.

Behind the pilot's chair and to one side, looking out the tinted glass of the cockpit, stands Tarq Najjic. Resplendent in black, red, and purple, split cape hanging behind him, boots polished, he is dressed to impress. Black-gloved thumbs rest beneath his belt, the image of sassy Sith authority.

What he says does not match his appearance or traditional speech pattern at all. "Spearhead Base, Forn Three on approach. Please double check flight list. Transmitting manifest and authorization code, over."

He waits about thirty seconds, then adds, "Experiencing data transmitter malfunctions Please stand by, Spearhead Control." He waves a hand and the mic switch flips off. "Stay on course," he orders the pilot.

He doesn't look back at anyone else. He's given Syrus enough looks already, and he knows everyone else's rituals.

There is a distinct smell of cigarette smoke in the Grimoire and its source is not terribly difficult to suss out. Xavier is leaning against the bulkhead of the cockpit staring out at the familiar star and an even more familiar star destroyer. Though he didn't spend much time there before plans took a sudden divergent path, seeing Spearhead again does dredge up quite a few memories. Recent ones: a rarity for the old man so often lost in the haze of a distant past.

He takes a drag and blows a cloud of smoke around his head and listens to Tarq dealing with the peon on the other end of the transmission. He waits and listens, mostly to Tarq's little fib. A smirk of amusement and Xavier drops his cig to the ground and steps on it on his way towards the hangar bay, drawing out a whappin' stick from the folds of his robes.. "I'm sure that didn't raise any alarms," he comments. Whether he's being serious or not is anyone's guess.

There is a long pause as the traffic controller goes silent, presumably doing exactly as Tarq suggests. When the voice comes back over, it sounds somewhat confused. "Your IFF is reporting Besh Seven. Maybe that's why we're not seeing you on the flight list." There's silence again, but then the comms spit some static and finally the voice announces in somewhat blase tones, "Come in for landing. We'll service the computer once you've powered down."

The station's hangar bay shield lowers, allowing the assault lander to swoop in, hover through, and finally turn gently into a bay, settling on its landing gear.

When the boarding ramp lowers, a pair of First Order officials, dressed in sharp charcoal uniforms, are waiting. "Forn Three." The lieutenant peers inside with a growing sense of perturbance evidenced by the slow furrow digging steadily deeper between her eyebrows. "...The Knights of Ren? Where have you been? We've not seen any sign of you for months."

Syrus marches down the ramp of the shuttle and waves a hand in the direction of the two officials. "Otherwise occupied. You will lead us to the Holocrons," he says, in a very compelling tone of voice.

He hasn't returned to Spearhead since Malik's death, and there's something welling up inside of him. His grip tightens on the lightsaber as he drinks in the feel of the place. It's nauseating.

Tamsin, stepping down from the ramp, showed no reaction to the men who came to meet them as the ship landed. Why should she? They were clearly functionaries. She neither held a weapon not made any move towards the men, though her helm turned its faceless mask in Syrus' direction. Rather than add anything to the Kiffar's words, she looked back, instead, to the two knights still inside the shuttle. When she spoke, it was only in the internal comms to those who had them. "I sense at least 20 in the hangar alone, but these two do not seem ant threat to us at the moment."

"Prepare to take off immediately upon our return." Tarq heads for the ramp with those parting instructions to the pilot. He descends at an unhurried pace. <<"Good. If they have no standing orders against us, Tarq Najjic hopes we will have clean insertion.">> He wears no hood - his identity is not being kept secret here. He doesn't reach for his weapon, but follows to stand at Syrus's shoulder, content to keep the nature of their visit hidden as long as possible. His thumbs are still behind his belt, and his cape, which billowed out with his movement, falls to drape against his back and legs again as they wait for the officers to follow the Kiffar's instructions.

In the cargo bay, Xavier has taken a position near the bay doors where Syrrus is looming. Quite frankly, he doesn't know the man and Xavier has taken it upon himself to watch the unknown curiously. If a bit suspiciously. Healthily so. The silver cyllinder held in his hand remains unactivated and concealed in such a way that the bulk of it rests against his wrist; hidden under the large cuff of his robe.

Xavier makes his way down the ramp, wordless and uninterrupting of Syrrus' attempts to forcibly sway the members of the welcome wagon. He is unmasked -- the common way he would roam the corridors of Spearhead just as he roams the Harbinger. Only the cowl pulled up over his head to darken the upper half of his face but doing nothing to hide the slight, bearded grin of the lower.

"I will lead you to the holocrons," the female lieutenant agrees with Syrus, nodding almost reluctantly, like her body can't quite believe what her brain is so readily spitting right back out. The other officer gives a confused nod of acquiescence as well.

The issuance of the (former) Knights of Ren draws some curious glances, but no one makes any outright moves to stop them. The Night Buzzard still sits quietly parked in one of the landing berths. The First Order has rolled on in their absence, not bothering to decommission or redeploy the Knights' explicit assets. A strange, tense calm holds sway as the pair lead them out into the corridors that connect the hangar to the rest of the base, on their way to the Knights' Wing. Before they get there, however, one of the two slows, blinking for a moment, looking out at the viewport into space. "What am I doing? We haven't completed our inspection."

A pair of stormtroopers in black armor are headed down from the observation level, on a routine patrol and an intercept course towards the little escort group.

With one cybernetic leg, Syrus didn't move quickly at the best of times, but his near year-long exile on Jedha has taken its toll on the limb, so he's limping along behind the duo, the limb digging into his flesh and souring his mood even more.

It's like because of this that when the officer stops and seems to be breaking free from his clutches, Syrus' hand is extended towards her with fingers clenched tightly into his palm. "The will of the /Knights/ supercedes your inspection. You will lead us to the Holocrons, and you will not forget your place again," he hisses sharply at her.

Still silent, Tamsin continued along with the group, though the cant of her mask made it clear that she did not miss the difficulty with which Syrus was walking. No help, though, came from the doctor. It was, clearly, neither the time nor the place. She was content, to all outward appearances, to continue along the way, moving as she always had, as though she owned the palce. Which, well, they did. had, would. Whatever. It was a messy business.

As they approach the passing stormtroopers, Tarq makes a small, dainty wave with his left hand. "Troopers," he says gravely. "Are very tired, yes? Return to bunks and take naps." There's a soft authority to his words, more hypnotic than anything else, like a highly reasonable suggestion. And he stays behind Syrus as he shepherds the inspection team back to the holocrons. He very visibly avoids any signs of aggression, like reaching for weapons.

We're fine here. How are you? Tired, I bet.

It was only a short period of time that Xavier spent as a Knight of Ren. A glorious period of time, mind, but short all the same. He wasn't as cemented into the rank as the others and thus has no problem at all letting them lead the way. He makes note of the path they are walking. Of the glances their way and the fact that little has changed since they departed. Did the interlopers truly not know what became of the ruling organization of this star destroyer? That, too, is suspicious.

Regardless, the tall, robed man remains statuesque in his demeanor; his senses open to the reactions of both their escort as well as the approaching pair that Tarq has intercepted.

"Naps...?" The word is repeated by the stormtrooper on the right in a long question, with the other giving them a glance behind the mask of the black helmet he's wearing. "Very tired. We should head back to the bunks, take a break."

"A break."

"Yeah, a nap."

"Take a nap."

"Napping is /good./"

Anyone watching this exchange on the station's internal security feeds is likely to be highly triggered by everything that is happening in this corridor. Nevertheless, the Sith councilors' escort carries on, freshly invigorated with borrowed purpose. "We will take you to the holocrons and we will not forget our place again," the lieutenant complies, heels snapping together before she opens the door to the Knights' Wing.

It is empty and silent inside. The garden remains much as it was left, and the absence of the Knights themselves seems more keen than ever now that they have returned as something else. This is the same place they've spent many formative moments together, and now they do not belong in it.

It's clear that Syrus hates being here, and that every ounce of that hatred is being poured into the minds of his two escorts. An appraising look is offered to to Tarq as he pulls the same trick, but no words are spoken. He doesn't have any kind words left in him right now.

As they're led into the Knights Wing, Syrus' attention lingers on the garden for a time. He should be happy that someone has been tending it in his absence, but instead he's just angry that he hasn't been here to do it himself. Madder still that that opportunity was taken from him.

"The Library," he says, continuing on.

As Tamsin followed on with the Knights and their escort, she continued on in the direction of the library. The garden, as they passed, she gave only a passing glance. She had spent so much of her time tending that garden. Perhaps she would again. A tap of her tongue switched to the pilot's frequency, as she called to check in on them. He reported that all well But...back on the group comms, "We are running out of time. I can feel the danger gathering. We need to get the holocrons and get back to the ship."

Tarq's stormtroopers? Maybe we can call them Tarq Troopers.

His lips are pursed as he follows Syrus's sentinels onward and listens to Tamsin's warnings. <<"As long as we reach holocrons with subtlety, Tarq Najjic cares not if we carve way out as fast as possible.">> His shoulders rise and fall. <<"Killing now will get us there no faster.">> He pats the folded up haversack behind his belt, that his thumb has kept rubbing. It's like the kind a generous, mysterious solstice benefactor might have, but it is instead for keeping looted treasures.

There is no doubt that tension is building and it is only a matter of time before that bubble pops. For his part, Xavier follows along until it seems they are starting to slow once again. They're in the section they need to be in and if they can get to that destination before the alarms sound, all the better. Seems Tamsin has the same idea.

"We know the way," Xavier finally says aloud, opting to move ahead towards the library; neverminding the escorts.

Breathing an exhale of relief as the escort are sent away, Syrus takes a moment to draw himself back to center and takes a look around. There's a heavy burden on him at it's plain to see. Even more plain when he breaks off from the group and heads towards the Private Quarters. Towards his old friend's room, more specifically.

"I'll return," he offers to his compatriots.

Tamsin, frowning as the escort was dismissed, and Syrus did, well, what Syrus always did, eyes lingering on the garden, a long moment, before she shook her head, "Let us get what we came for and get out of here as quickly as we can." Again, that was on the internal comms, as she continued on towards the library, "We will either have time to come back for trinkets or we won't. But we can't afford to risk the chance to get what we came for."

"Be swift, Syrus. We have better odds getting - out - /together/." Tarq doesn't break his stride. The garden was nice, but he never took care of it. Before they had escorts, now they don't. What doesn't change is that the Kuati looks like he has somewhere to be but isn't in a hurry to get there. That's how you avoid sticking out, usually, or conform to traditional expectations.

Even on Spearhead, Knight base, there were norms. There had been, anyway.

He follows Tamsin towards the library.

Not exactly nostalgic for the place, Xavier remains on course and heads for the library. If he's going to have to fight his way out of her, he is damn-well going to make sure he is doing it for a reason. So no diversion from him, either. Where would he go, anyways? None of this holds much significance to him aside from a dream that died before it could truly begin. No, the only thing worth being here for was in the library and he intended to get it.

Syrus splits off from the group, leaving the others to head for the library and the main objective. Surely there is someting important weighing on Syrus's mind to cause him to divert like this.

Upon entering the library, the group is greeted by the shiny black protocol droid. "Oh! My bolts and transistors! The masters have returned! Why, I told them there was absolutely no way those people who attacked Coruscant could have anything to do with you all! After all, there have been countless users of red-bladed lightsabers throughout the millennia, as the archives within this very installation can well attest! How may I assist you?"

The holocrons are still in their places, seemingly ornamental and insignificant but each holding a vast trove of forbidden knowledge, knowledge only accessible by a Force user.

Tamsin, as she swept into the library, cast her eyes towards the droid, "Our own battles against this so-called Sith Empire have kept us away. I do thank you for the work you've done to preserve the library and the knowledge here. It is our belief that the base is no longer as safe as we believe it to be, and we've come to secure the most valuable of our stores of knowledge." She glanced towards Tarq, nodding curtly. "If you could begin to gather the most valuable texts it would be appreciated."

Tarq moves to each holocron in sequence, picking it up and setting it into his duffel bag. "You are one such valuable resource," he tells the droid. "We are taking /you/ with us. Is only right, yes? Most important archives will be gone. Still need you to oversee it." Like a more dignified version of someone stealing jewelry from a shop, he opens protective cases, slipping the contents away. It starts with just the holocrons, but then there are actual /text/ texts, and he pauses, instead looking for some kind of backup of the digital archives here that he could take away with them.

Within the library, Xavier draws in a breath through his nose and looks around. Now this room... he spent some time in this room. Listening to the teachings of Sith long past. Many of those teachings he could only vaguely remember. Others... still lost to the shadows of time and the ravages of the torture that shattered his mind. But it is here, in this place specifically, that focus comes to Xavier.

He looks from one holocron to the other as if he can see the threads reverberating out of them; forming a web that connects one to the next to the next to the next. A tapestry that they have come to unravel and reassemble elsewhere.

Xavier rubs the back of his head. "It's true," he says with a casual, if sad shrug. "The archives must be moved and we need help not just moving them but maintaining them. It would do us a great service if you came with us to help in the battles to come."

The doors of Malik Ren's private quarters hiss open and Syrus steps inside, his breath already shaky at the prospect.

"You...you selfish bastard," he begins, limping towards the center. The room is spartan and utilitarian, but with something resembling a touch of flare. It was all intentional and specifically arranged with purpose; deeply reminiscent of the man himself.

"You self-righteous, arrogant fool. You got yourself in over your head and I'm left to pay the price," Syrus says. "Thrown to these...Sith. These traitorous wolves. Sycophants who kneel and scrape and who beg for scraps from their new master's table." His voice is wavering and deeply emotional. He can't help it. His mind is reaching out into the room and memories and feelings are crashing back in. Tears begin to well in his one good eye.

The lightsaber held in his hand is ignited, the red blade leaping to life. It's held aloft, but there's a momentary consideration; a hitch. It's gone nigh-instantaenously. The blade comes crashing down on Malik's bed, cutting straight through to the floor and singing a hissing orange groove into it. The sheets on the bed begin smoking and eventually ignite in a small flame. Blade yanked back up, the Kiffar swings it wildly into the nearby wall, cleaving through some ostentatious art piece that Oran was no doubt responsible for.

This goes on for quite some time before the big man relents, his saber squealing back into its hilt and those glowing lightsaber divots surrounding him. "I miss you, Malik. I loved you and I miss you," he says, catching his breath and stifling the lump in his throat. It's replaced with another overwhelming sense of anger and Syrus turns to a panel in the wall that didn't cut quite right. He presses against it and it hisses, a pair of hidden doors retreating. Syrus steps through and moves a hand to his chest, an overwhelming sense of weariness setting in to compliment the new-found ferocity. Pushing through however, he approaches a locker and stares at it, lightsaber igniting and digging the tip of the blade into the keypad.

"Go with you? Move the archives?" The black protocol droid stares back at them, his dim reflector-based eyes scattering light from tiny central bulbs. "Whatever for? We are positioned in the optimal location for access to any number of key points of galactic interest!" He swivels his head with a mechanical whirring, looking at each of the councilors in turn. "Good heavens. You're serious."

It toddles out from behind the welcome desk, shuffling on polished feet to the nearest shelf of holobooks, reaching out with stiff fingers to select a volume. "Curating these records has been my life's work. Every day of the three long years of my existence has been spent in this room." He turns to look at them again. "I am not sure if I can leave it behind. But neither can I leave my records." It pulls another book down with its other hand, then spends a moment looking between the two volumes. "...it would seem I have reached my maximum carrying capacity. I suggest we make a second trip. Gather your holocrons and let us be off!"

In the hallway, however, things have finally reached a head, with the security footage having drawn attention and a fireteam of black-armored stormtroopers dispatched to investigate, blocking the way out.

"That is precisely why we've come to remove the things we value, including yourself, Librarian. As useful as this place as been for us, so too for the Sith who have designs on it." But Tamsin said no more, as she moved away from the work being done, and turning her back, made to move her way out of the wing and towards where she could feel the troops gathering. She was the sword and shield. That she worked under a different banner did not change that. Nothing would.

"Glad to hear it. Remember, Librarian: base is compromised. Infiltrated. They may try to stop you. Stop us." Did you never think you'd hear a Kuati Sith give a pep talk to a protocol droid? Cross it off the bucket list. "But stay behind us and we will get you out, yes? There is different library already prepared for you." Meanwhile he's redistributing the weight in the bag so it will rest easily against his back, under his cape. He passes a few holocrons to Xavier, for they are small and fit in belt pouches, while holos do not. He takes the bulkier items into the duffel. Then he tucks another two holocrons into Tamsin's hands as she leaves. She'll recognize them by the feel.

"Tarq Najjic keeps bulky items safe, stays less mobile, okay?"

Time to apply some good, old fashioned muscle. Of which Xavier has an average amount. He attaches his stunsaber back to his belt and takes the two holocrons from Tarq. It's been a while, friends. He feels the weight of them in his hands and pauses a moment in contemplation. Deep, deep contemplation. The sort that might take a few shards of his broken psyche and force them to project outwards.

But no. The pair of precious cargo are slipped into a pouch each safely nestled under folds of black robes and a now empty hand rubs at the short, coarse hair of his beard. "Time to make our way out, mmm?"

The hidden room is an immensely painful place to be. Hatred and torpor are bounding from wall to wall and seemingly draining the very life from the Kiffar. Still, he burns through the keypad and the locker squeaks open, leaving Syrus deeply confused upon discovering its contents. A disruptor pistol of...questionable design, read: bright purple. He leans down and plucks it up, weighing it in his hand for a time before he assures that the safety is on and tucks it into his belt.

Breaking himself free of the whirlwind of echoes present in the hidden room, Syrus steps out of it and comes to a stop at the exit out into the hall, resting his hand on the doorframe. "Goodbye, Malik. I hope peace eludes you for an eternity."

Their objective secure, the former Knights are in the midst of exiting from their past with baggage in tow when they exit the library to find a contingent of stormtroopers waiting for them.

Out in the blackness of space, a black and red wedge rubber-bands into existence as the Harbinger appears. This has the notable effect of plunging the station into high alert to what is going on OUTSIDE, and on the bridge Ferren is already giving orders to attack. Auspicious timing, but Spearhead still holds more for the Sith Council before they are able to make good their escape....