Black Iron Symphony

[Mars]

Rhen Var.

The planet was a good example of what hell would look like if frozen over. It was nigh uninhabitable for most of the galaxies species and a brutal world for those who had chosen to set up shop here. Imperial soldiers were sent here to train in the specifics of winter warfare and long ago the Ubiqtorate agent Pontius had seen the value in setting up a small fortress here. Over a hundred and fifty of the galaxies finest soldiers staffed the rock structure built into a mountainside. Curiously enough they were quite clearly Mandalorian soldiers. Black armor bore a half-maroon, half-white mythosaur emblazoned on the front of their chestplate, SOCR-2 rifles slung across their backs and customized DL-44 blaster pistols sat on their hips.

They were the the Ironfists. The handpicked legion of Clan Ordo Aliit'alor Apollo. Capable of storming a world and laying utter waste to it regardless of the defensive effort. The bane of the Loyalists and Deathwatch. Millions strong, they are the finest shocktroopers in the galaxy. Such a fearsome reputation is not gained with weak leadership and the strongest among the Mandos is the one who leads. The man at the helm of the Ironfists has garnered galactic fame for his abilities in warfare. Far and wide he is known as one of the most capable men in combat to live today.

War Leader Apollo Ordo.

He wore the same blackened armor as the men he commanded but his was made of pure Beskar as opposed to a more diluted alloy that included the rare material. The helm he wore was noticeably different from the status quo T-visor. Lengthy blades lay dormant in the forearm plates of his armor as did the railgun. His feet sunk into the snow, leaving a trail as he strode to the speeder that would take him to a massive forest some thirty kilometers from the base itself. Scaling the tree with ease, Apollo relayed a message to an old...friend. His SOCR-2 rifle lay across his lap where he sat on the massive branch seven meters in the air. A low whine from the trees around him brought a grin to his face before it fell silent.

Before long the young Echani would have some company.

 

[Denzein]

The Hag Fell out of hyperspace above the icy ball that was Rhen Var, and dipped towards the surface at a leisurely pace. Behind it came a large freighter, materialising and following the lead ship's descent pattern - on the first sat ten individuals, the other played host to twenty three and a significant armoury including six speeder bikes and several concussion rifles. The ships themselves oozed menace, bristling with guns - their intent was clear, as was their destination.

The lead ship received the specific coordinates of the meeting, and its pilot smiled.

Haran, Formerly of Clan Vau, was a snake. Ever since he had been born Haran had never truly known what honour meant, or seen the point in serving anyone bar himself. He had grown up to be a backstabber, a man at odds with Mandalorian society... Until he had eventually killed who he could and left. Not even his father had managed to find mercy at the end of Haran's Beskad, for all that did not serve the Snake were consumed. It was simply his nature to betray, to harm whoever he could in whatever imaginative means he could come up with. He was a creative, at heart - some might have called him an artist... An artist that knows only red.

Now he returned to their embrace at the mocking challenge of his one time friend Apollo Ordo, and he had no doubts about where this confrontation was heading. His eyes, however, betrayed nothing of his motives, glittering in front of the various screens and dials that made up The Hag's cockpit. His whipcord body was coiled, and he kept flexing his fingers on the control sticks. His eagerness was clear, made uncontrollable by the fact that he thought he had the upper hand. The freighter that followed him contained a collection of the hardest, most grizzled and deadly mercenaries, murderers and bounty hunters Jack and he could press-gang or coerce into joining their venture. A thin smile played about his lips as he thought of Apollo below, awaiting his opponents. He wondered if Apollo was hoping Haran would relent at last, and do him the honour of fighting like a Mandalorian - he would be bitterly disappointed if that was the case. Haran had brought enough men to make a good fight out of anything Apollo brought; he expected Apollo to try something, really. While the Mandalorian way was primarily that of honour, it never paid to be stupid.

Haran brought The Hag down in a small clearing of the forest indicated by Apollo's curt transmission. It was big enough for the pair of ships, but not much else. The freighter landed to the left, almost the moment it was down the hatch opened and six speeder bikes zoomed out in a two by two file. They sped off into the forest, performing reconnaissance runs before angling back to circle around the main party. The two-dozen other mercenaries, five of which held heavy concussion rifles capable of pulping a man inside his armour with ease, disembarked with military precision. They knew their lives depended upon one another, and they covered themselves accordingly. Forming a perimeter, several spotted Apollo on his branch. They aimed at him with a collection of powerful, deadly and no doubt illegal weapons. The others concentrated on making sure nothing jumped them from any direction.

Once this was all complete, the main hatch of The Hag opened. A figure in Mandalorian armour and a hulking mechanical monstrosity strode into the snow, and peered up at the perched warrior. Were the rogue Mandalorian to be scrutinised, he'd look as if the last few days had been tough in his armour and he hadn't had the time to repair it. It was scratched, weak in places and a stitch of light blaster burns streaked up its chest plate. Despite this, it looked like Haran.

That was the intent. The unfortunate Mandalorian that had donated their Beskar'gam was now quietly rotting in a sewer, many systems away. The armour had been cannibalised and reshaped into an adequate imitation of Haran's own suit, and inside it was placed a decoy. They were the same height, the same build, they even had the same eye colour. The Mercenary in question had been offered double what the rest were getting, and had jumped at the chance to earn so much. The same would have been done for Jack, but his armour was simply too unique to make a passable copy of that wasn't going to cost the earth. He'd have to rely on his guns, as usual.

Of course, Haran had no intention of allowing his decoy to survive this encounter. Haran himself had quietly slipped out of a side hatch when the main one had opened, concealing himself until Apollo's true motives and strengths were known. He didn't want to get cut down because once in his life he'd played fair, after all.

"Don't tell me you're alone, Ordo..." The decoy began, his voice modulated to sound just like Haran's through the comms. He'd been told what to say and do, the better to maintain the illusion for as long as possible.

 

[Toska]

Jack crouched in The Hag's launch bay, prepping a thermal underlay for the firefight to come. The underlay clung to his flesh, minimizing his joint rotation, lined with inductive veins to maintain a safe body temperature in the tundra below. A storm brewed on Rhen Var's horizon, and he was determined to weather it. With a sigh, he finished zipping the sleeves, isolating the majority of his body in the underlay. He needed every last ounce of heat he could glean; his power armor, while indomitable in combat, was a durasteel monstrosity. An icy death awaited him without the underlay.

Half a dozen other men huddled around him in silence, united by an air of animosity. They were a handful of the finest murderers the galaxy had to offer; Jack didn't trust a single one of them. He knew their type all too well. They fought for the credits, nothing more, nothing less. He and Haran had hired them in preparation for this escapade, their final confrontation with Apollo Ordo. The name sent shivers down Jack's spine.

Apollo was a tenacious bastard. The man refused to die. He hounded them for months, walking away no worse for the wear. Regardless of what they threw at him, the man brushed it off, taking their efforts in stride, taunting their inability to kill him. Jack planned on ending it this time around. The constant running wore at his patience; just hearing the man's name frustrated him. Even so, he had a grudging respect for the man. Their matches always ended in a stalemate, but that was enough to impress Jack.

Ever since he paired up with Haran, Jack was hard pressed to find an opponent that could escape death once, let alone repeatedly.

A rictus spread across his lips, drawing him from his introspection. The cutthroats looked at him, eyes flat. They measured him with those glances, weighed his prowess against their own. He turned his grin on them, and they looked away.

"Prepare to drop," he said. They nodded in response, equipping the outer shells of their drop suits, attaching oxygen tanks, and locking their weapons in place. As The Hag rounded a mountain, the bay doors opened. Subzero winds gusted in, chilling Jack through the underlay. The others shared a glance and jumped, engaging jump packs as they plummeted through the atmosphere. The bay doors clamped shut behind them, cutting off the breeze.

Jack returned to his preparation, strapping on the plated overlay and stepping into his armor. Fitting his body into the durasteel mold, he shut the hatch and began the startup sequence. The armor beeped as it synchronized to his neural network via sensors in the helmet. His grin widened at the familiar sensation of durasteel closing in on him, pressing against his flesh through the underlay. Flexing his fingers, he ran a cursory check of the weapon systems, ensuring that the battery was operating at full power, and that the harpoon, mounted rocket launchers, and shock absorbers functioned properly.

Satisfied, he made his way to his locker. Opening it up, he picked out a shotgun, a pair of revolvers, his disruptor carbine, and a belt of grenades. Once he finished, he made his way to the cockpit, confirmed the plan with Haran, and exited the ship on cue.

After the decoy spoke, he added, "'Cause, if you are, this'll be short."

Speeders rustled, the breeze stirred, dozens of hands twitched at their guns.