Open Never Say Die

[Corran Velt]

Theme
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Sunlight drifted through the leaves on the pleasantly warm afternoon. Manicured trees stood tall and proud with grass as lush as fine carpet growing about their roots. Chandrila was often like this. A paradise world that was practically comforting down to its molten core. Lieutenant Velt had a fleeting smirk at a funny thought. The soil where Vera Coulter would be buried juxtaposed against her demeanor. This planet was sweet, soft, and pleasant. She might've found it annoying in her rough-and-tough way. That smirk drifted back to a stoic frown. She had to be buried here because her Tionese space was occupied by the Sith Empire. Here she would be laid to rest until her remains could be rightfully returned to her people. Whenever that was. History had a long arc and Corran hoped it arced towards justice.

Lieutenant Velt himself was dressed in his best uniform - the one he wore for his induction into the Sector Rangers. Not everyone had one or even kept theirs, but he did. It was finely pressed with dress pants tucked into finely polished boots. A jacket with squared shoulders made him even seem more rigid than normal. A cap with a visor provided shade over his eyes as he watched over Vera's casket. There was no lectern or elevated platform. They were all equals here. Mortals mourning the loss of a comrade.

"Thank you all for coming," Corran began, nodding to the assembled crowd, "It is today that we lay Ranger Vera Coulter to her eternal rest." He gulped dryly before continuing. "I don't... have any prepared remarks, but I want to share something. Vera was a good ranger. Tougher than Rancor leather and the temperament of a living one. Hero doesn't quite do her justice. In my personal life, she gave me my first flying lessons in a starfighter. Live fire included." He chuckled weakly, visibly remorseful over an old memory before gathering himself. "She never shirked her duty and stood by her comrades always. At the battle of Byblos. Even at the very end. Bravery is too weak of word to ascribe to her. She'd brook no tears among us and I hope we can take her spirit of courage and resilience with us all."

Corran turned on his heel, took a step backwards off to the left and stared at the casket now. "Her final oath was Defend and Protect. We, as the living, now have the duty to carry on this last wish. Her legacy binds us and for that, we are grateful. Your watch has ended, Ranger Coulter. There is rest." The blond ranger stiffly saluted and remained in that position as the honor guard raised their ceremonial blaster rifles equipped with blanks. Twenty one shots in a steady cadence provided the final farewell to one of the most hard-bitten people Corran had ever met. The galaxy would surely miss one of its most stalwart defenders. Her casket was lowered into the ground and her memory passed into legend.

A large white tent had been set-up on the grounds for after the ceremony. Some refreshments were available and tables for those who wished to talk or grieve together. Corran took off his cap and tucked it under his arm. He stood off to the corner, his gaze holding onto the marble tombstone that bore record of one that was now gone. The blond ranger wouldn't linger long here. There were so many other funerals he needed to attend. So many had died at the Byblos prison. Some with large families and some with only him to see them off into the next life. But for now he would grapple with the loss of a friend.

Spoiler

OOC: Feel free to post a final farewell and/or mingle. The thread is yours.

 

[Draco Salem Virtus]

Draco Virtus wore his Tombstone duster attire, not one for wearing suits and all that fancy crap. The brown cowboy hat tilted to keep the sun from his eyes as he watched quietly with a grim look on his face from pain. He was still bandaged up and had a crutch under his right shoulder to keep weight off his leg from the shrapnel. The grenade he took from the prison was going to leave him scars but none of this mattered as a great Ranger was taken from the Sector Rangers.

He quietly listened to Corran sharing fond memories of the older ranger. Draco never knew Vera but knew her reputation. Through it his hazel eyes stared ahead while he stood back from the crowd and watched from a small distance behind them. "What if?" the question pinged in his head like a small ping-pong ball getting tossed down a long empty hallway. The echoes coming off the walls and back to him. "What if?" his eyes looking over at the gasket.

"What if you were there Draco." the question finally coming to mind as he hated seeing Rangers go. It was apart of their world but it sure as hell never made anything easier. He caught himself in a trance as his eyes could've burned holes in that casket. The different situations playing out in his head if he would've made a dash inside the prison further and not choose to go to the hangar to try to stop the assault.

The sounds of 21 blasters began to rang out as Draco raised his left hand since his right was holding the crutch. The commands barking loud could've sliced the quiet in half with such a thunderous voice. "READY, AIM, FIRE" The shots would fire off as once completed Draco would lower his hand but his gaze was still fixiated on the casket and his thoughts remaining the same on how things could've been different.

He could've kept going but snapped out of his trance as he slowly pushed his crutch forward and made his way down to the tents. His eyes burrowed with the look of revenge,resolve and exhaustion. Finally approaching the tents Draco would ask for a water from the server behind the table and began to make his way back up to his old spot and eventually try to leave as these things were never one for him.

@TerranSteel

 

[Poet Severino]

Shoganai, Dad's former Padawan once told Poet when the latter was recovering from the accident that stripped him of most of his memories. Shoganai.

It is what it is.

It was an expression the half-Morellian once used carelessly when news of a colleague's death reached him. Death was simply one of the hazards of their job, and harboring a fear towards one's end was something they couldn't afford to possess if they aimed to keep doing what they had to do. Defend and protect. The core of being a Sector Ranger, the spirit that tied each and everyone who displayed the badge proudly for anyone to see.

Shoganai.

Except Poet did not want it to simply be this way. An esteemed colleague in a casket that was being lowered six feet underground. The half-Morellian never had the chance to work with Ranger Vera Coulter but he'd heard about her. Heard she was tough as nails and had a badass reputation even among the veteran Rangers. He'd seen her during Ranger Uktik and Rylee's induction to the SR, and let a small ounce of hope that he could one day learn under Ranger Coulter's tutelage. Help her work on a case or two in the hopes of improving himself – to be even half of what she had been, what she had achieved.

He hadn't been there during the Sith's attempt to invade Byblos. He wasn't even there during that godsawful prison break where so many lives were lost. What Poet expected was for Vera Coulter to be one of the statistics. A number amongst the lost.

Maybe if he had been in that outpost, maybe... what? Maybe he could have done something? Contributed to the fight? Died in someone else's stead?

Poet never thought he'd wear his uniform to attend a funeral. Much like his colleagues he gave Ranger Coulter one final salute, gaze following her casket as she was laid to her final resting place. So much for hoping that he could somehow learn from the battle-hardened woman. So much for hoping when the Sith barged in just to rip that hope from his grasp.

Was it really worth fighting this battle? Was it worth staying, keep being a part of the Sector Rangers, when death by the enemy's hand was a certainty and a twisted reward they would reap?

Mom (and Dad) already lost Muse. Poet knew they would break if they lost him as well. And yet...

...that was not good enough of a reason to let go and give up. He was a Ranger through and through, and not even death would rip it from his cold, dead hands.

Defend and protect. Those were Ranger Coulter's final words, and Poet would do everything in his power to uphold it.

He let his mind – and his feet – wander once the ceremony ended. Perhaps he had been too lost in his own thoughts that he hadn't realized he'd bumped into Lieutenant Velt only when he walked past the blond Ranger. Poet turned back, settling to stand beside the Lieutenant silently. A comforting presence – was that the half-Morellian was trying to achieve, despite the fact that he wasn't very good at it?

"Someone–" Poet cleared his throat, already stumbling in an attempt at a quiet conversation. His gaze remained locked at their fellow Rangers as they mingled, but his attention was focused on the lieutenant beside him. "Someone once told me that no one ever truly dies. I never really got the chance to know her, and I–"

Never wanted for her to die?

"Mind telling me your favorite memory you have of Ranger Coulter, please?" he finally asked after a few moments of silence, of thinking. Then, a considerate, "It's fine if you don't want to. Not like I'm forcing you or anything."

Ranger Coulter was gone, but maybe this was something he could do to keep her alive. Small things, for now, to celebrate her life. Her memory. Because Poet believed that no one was ever truly gone unless they were forgotten.

@TerranSteel

 

[Klepti Uutkik]

A sad day for the rangers as they say their farewells to Ranger Vera Coulter. Klepti may not have had actually met her in person. Though he did hear the stories of how heroic she truly was. She was one of the few that Klepti had looked up to. Had he been given the chance he would have told her such. He heard how she went out, like a champion. There was no better way to sacrifice yourself than that.

The little ranger hadn't sat in the front row. No, he wasn't worthy of it. He would look at the casket from the back on top of the stool he was given so could see over everyone. Not much really bothered Klepti, especially when it came to death, but this had really worked up the water works. He wasn't crying aloud just tears ran down his face. He held himself up on his crutches. His leg still recovering. The Jawa simply wanted to trade places with her. The rangers needed her. Though now she's gone.

"Ut gokonika luffa Ikee Wuawd Uiuokka takti Huiwiee"
(In another life I would have been there.)

Funerals were not a strength for the Jawa ranger, he had lost loved ones before and losing a sister in arms hurts just the same. Especially when he knows he could have went down another hall and made it to her location instead. There were many ifs and buts that he could have kept thinking to himself but the fact is she's gone now. They have to learn to live with that...

Rest in Peace Ranger Vera Coulter.. You will be missed..

 

[Trys Aran]

Trys had been operating offworld on her own. She had made a career taking on insane and dangerous missions. She had made herself a target by going on Holo so others didn’t have to, by wading into Sith territory and to the Eternal. Yet she still stood when veterans like Coulter and Rook fell around her. The guilt was ugly as it clawed and twisted her insides. It made her sick. Vera had been just like her - always tossing herself into danger and taking the reins of her own career instead of waiting for direction. And yet she was gone all the same while Trys lingered as a haunted shadow. Her existence was at the cost and ultimate sacrifices of others.

She stood almost as a ghost, positioned slightly back from the others. Trys was adorned in a black suit, all of her tattoos out of view and her numerous piercings removed. Her hair was neatly styled and cropped, her face devoid of any real expression.

Trys thought back to the times when they had just begun to unearth details about the red sabers. She thought about when the worst they ever had to do was investigate some warehouses or suspicious activities. Now they were thrown into an all out war. There was no mercy, there was no margin for error, there were no do overs.

She didn’t even realize she took a shuddered breath. She didn’t even realize her eyes began to sting. Her fingers curled into his fists and she squeezed her eyes shut, feeling the burn. She felt the moisture rapidly gathering there. It was from pain, sorrow, but most of all, it was from rage. It was from rage she couldn’t channel or focus on any one thing. It was from feeling as if she had been left behind in hell while Rook, Coulter, Talak and others had ascended to peace.

She was jolted out of her thoughts by the sounds of the blasters. Trys opened her eyes after a moment and exhaled slowly, reaching a hand up to brush the corner of an eye.

“Goodbye, Vera,” Trys uttered quietly to herself, her gaze trained ahead.

 

[Zad Ruzed]

Spoiler: Music IC

Zad Ruzed had never gotten the opportunity to really get to know Vera Coulter. He had only properly met her back in the Lighthouse, a name that was more fitting now than ever. A lighthouse was there to light the way, to serve as a beacon for those ships out at sea, to guide in the captains and the crew, to keep order and control. Were the Sector Rangers any different?

Vera Coulter was not. Zad had heard more about her than he had heard from her, a missed opportunity perhaps, but back in that Lighthouse, back in that party and in that ship on its induction day, he had bought the woman a drink. She had given him a wink and a toast.

“To those who we defend and protect,” Zad had begun. “To those who defend and protect,” Vera had followed up as smooth as whiskey. And so we drank. To hope. To defying those who try to crush that hope.

There she was, Vera Coulter, in a casket that bore her body even while her memories mingled among all those who had come to see her off today. The woman had been killed but not crushed; the Ranger lived on. If the Force was so great a thing—and Zad generally tried to not entertain the notion—then maybe it was here even now, lifting the spirits of the Sector Rangers so that they may not be crushed. And maybe one day we will drink again…

Corran Velt gave a speech that only Corran Velt could give. It was short and sweet and the Lieutenant had this Ranger’s every ounce of attention. It was no black leather duster that Zad Ruzed had entertained today. There was no cigarette between his lips, no rim of a whiskey flask; his lips were sealed and his body garbed in a uniform of pressed pants and polished boots.

No Ranger would stand alone, Zad had once declared in a Coruscant starport, and today no Ranger did, whether one was in a casket or a uniform keeping watch over it.

Defend and protect… He took a long, steady breath, letting the scent of a sea of grass drift up his nostrils beside sunlit bark, and breathed out. Vera Coulter had sure as hell defended and protected back in that prison break and had laid down her life for the cause. Now Zad’s hand was up to salute her.

One, two, three—twenty-one shots as rifles barraged the sky, horns blew and the drums beat. Zad counted but it was not the clouds that those imaginary bolts had hit: it was the black void beyond the blue sky, the heart and head of every kriffhead who needed silencing where they would not go quietly; Sith or anyone else. Defend...and protect…

As Vera Coulter was slowly lowered into the ground Zad kept his hand up the whole way down. Part of him wondered why. Why? Why this Ranger? Why this woman? Why should it matter to me as much as it does when so many have been given to the ground just like her? Then he lowered his hand, looked around, spotted familiar faces, foreign faces, and recognized every one. He understood.

“No Ranger stands alone...no Ranger gets left behind…” The Ranger muttered to himself. As others headed toward the tents, Zad found a chair in the open air not far from Vera and took a seat. He rested his elbows on his knees, had no cushion to rest his head, watched the earth and listened to the drums as they beat, beat, beat.

 

[Corran Velt]

Someone passed in front of Lieutenant Velt's eyes but he did not see them. His gaze had been linger on the grave of his fallen comrade so long that everything had blurred. A fuzzy water-color world where shapes blended together and only colors could speak. His senses told him that a being stood at his shoulder. That didn't matter at all. Only the smudged world that seemed free of these cares mesmerized him. Corran would have stared through that looking glass for awhile until a familiar voice filtered through his daze.

The blond ranger blinked a few times before realizing it was Poet Severino who was addressing him. They had only met one another a handful of times, never worked any cases, but the other man got along with Rylee and Bast both. If they deemed him a good fellow, then he truly must be. Lieutenant Velt remained facing forward, his hands clasped together in front of him. A memory to share. On days like today, that was the only currency worth offering.

Corran cleared his throat gently, "We were in the Mirial system. Anti-Slaving operations against a Zygerrian convoy. Another Ranger had gotten cold-feet and out of nowhere, Coulter just..." He jutted a flat hand forward, mimicking a diving fighter, "started taking on all the enemy fighters. All by herself." His hand came to rest overlapping the other once more. "I lost my engine due to a collision. An enemy gunship was going to light me up. She got his attention and peeled off." A small smirk tugged at the corner of the Lieutenant's mouth. "Vera joked the whole time. Called them kitty-cats. Only she could laugh like that in a dogfight."

Quiet settled between the two men. The memory drifted in the air around them, giving a warming presence. A part of Vera that still lingered and buttressed the living. Poet had come across as a shy one from the times Corran had observed him. Shy didn't mean indifferent, it seemed. He'd come to comfort the lieutenant in his own way and for that, Velt was grateful.

@Forsythe Crowholde

 

[Poet Severino]

The only downside to his own request was that he had nothing to give, nothing to offer the grieving lieutenant in return of that memory shared. Poet was torn between two thoughts: should he feel grateful that he had never come to know Ranger Coulter personally, that he possessed no fond memories of the one they'd laid to rest? Or should he feel regret for not knowing her on a personal level, of simply knowing the deeds and persona attached to one name?

Either way he still felt awful. All Poet had been allowed to do was to listen to Lieutenant Velt's recollections, feel the fondness in the blond's voice as he recounted an event long gone. Death was a part of life, and the least it could give anyone out of its own brand of kindness were memories shared between the departed and those they left behind.

The younger Ranger glanced at his superior, brows raising a little at the small smirk on Corran's face. He had expected tears, not... that. Tears were something he had long resigned to see in a funeral such as this – yes, there were people who found no shame in crying for the loss of Ranger Coulter, but a smirk from someone who had just shared one of his favorite memories of the woman?

In his own, strange views about life and people, Poet came to realize one thing.

No one in their right mind would laugh at a funeral, but Poet was strange and a bit of a grumpy madman. The laughter that escaped him, however, was soft and kind – sincere and respectful. The half-Morellian looked up at the sky, addressing the one who fought for what was good and right until her last breath.

"It seems you're staying alive forever, Ranger Coulter," Poet said, one hand unconsciously finding Lieutenant Velt's shoulder with a light pat. "You're loved, in all the good ways people know how to love, and that alone immortalizes you."

The hand on Corran's shoulder disappeared as soon as it came. Gaze still upwards as if searching the clouds, the half-Morellian's smile turned wistful, almost bittersweet.

"I wish... I wish I could've known her. Who she really was." A sigh, followed by his gaze lowering to look at the blond lieutenant. "Worked cases with her. Learned what I could from her. But all I can do right now is to talk to people who did in hopes of knowing who Vera Coulter was in their eyes."

"I never got the chance to know her, but I guess that won't stop me from keeping her alive in ways I know how." Poet shuffled his feet, eyes flicking back to where she was laid to rest. "And... And I hope I... managed to comfort you, even just for a moment. You were there, weren't you? You've seen how–"

He cut himself off, anger rising in his chest at the very thought of the Sith. They gave nothing but death and ruin, and for that they deserved to be purged. Permanently wiped from the face of the galaxy.

@TerranSteel

 

[Corran Velt]

Funerals could be many things to many people. Some saw them as final farewells. Sad songs of the departed. Others viewed them as celebrations of life. Farewells, not good byes. Between the two men who stood in profile to one another, it was very much the latter. Poet's laughter started first. Like a contagion, it quickly spread to the lieutenant standing beside him. Corran started with a subdued huff of amusement, then a single chuckle, finally equaling the half-Morellian's. The iron weights that clung to his shoulders felt a little lighter. Like laughing had sent the heaviness into the sky, fluttering away with the calming breeze.

The supportive touch slid from the blond ranger's shoulder and he only nodded sagely in agreement with Poet's words. His name was apt. He knew his way around words. Somber, but with a touch of hope that flavored them. His eulogy was based on remembrance. Keeping Vera alive through thoughts, memories, and deeds. Even if Poet had never met, and Corran had never worked with the younger man on a case before, he was likely already carrying on her legacy more than he realized.

Lieutenant Velt tilted his head to face the man at his shoulder, finally surrendering the profile he'd kept the whole conversation. He kept a small grin on his face. "You've helped me a great deal, Ranger Severino. Comfort is a hard thing to give, but you found a way." Corran was tactful in avoiding the discussion of the event that led them all here. That caused this. It was too soon for him to discuss the grim truth of what he saw there. To face the choices he'd made. "I do believe I owe you an apology, though. I'm sorry for splashing you back on Corsin. I'm a klutz sometimes." For someone as astute as Poet, it would be clear the man beside him was genuine. About everything he had said. There was quite a few folks he had tried to make amends with over an ill-advised cannon ball. Poet just the hardest to have tracked down.

@Forsythe Crowholde

 

[Poet Severino]

Poet tried his absolute best to return that small grin on Corran's face. The half-Morellian knew that it was not his place to ask the lieutenant about Ranger Coulter's final moments in that outpost, but he had allowed his own anger at losing a comrade he should have known get the better of him. He had stood by the blond Ranger's side to offer the latter comfort, and yet he almost managed to wrestle that same comfort out of the lieutenant's hands by asking him something that Poet really shouldn't be asking about. It was only Corran's acknowledgement about what Poet had initially intended to offer that stayed the half-Morellian's urge to apologize for his mistake.

"It's–" Poet cleared his throat, heat rising to his cheeks as he ducked his head to avert his gaze, the tiny grin still plastered on his face. "It's the least I can do."

Given that I was nowhere near that outpost when shite hit the fan.

He was glad that Lieutenant Velt chose to avoid the reason why the Sector Rangers have gathered in this peaceful spot of land in a huge planet in the middle of an unforgiving galaxy in the first place, and tactfully at that. The Half-Morellian would never have it in him to carry that same discretion if he didn't put enough effort into doing so, and now he sort of wished that he could easily do the same. At the mention of an apology, however, Poet lifted his head to look at Corran once more, eyes glinting with curiosity then realization when he remembered that one time in Corsin before the lieutenant could even get to that bit. For his part, Poet shot the blond Ranger a mock scowl before awkwardly bumping a fist on Corran's arm.

"Better not catch me with a drink in my hand, L-T," he told the other Ranger, feigning irritation and seriousness. "Might find yourself getting splashed back or something. No guarantees, though."

For someone as open as Lieutenant Velt, it wasn't really difficult to discern the sincerity in his apology. And Poet, his own kindness hidden by his own grief and anger over his own losses, was quick to shed the fake annoyance he put up in an attempt to lighten the mood between them – if only for a fraction.

And besides, it reminded him of Captain Rook. That still stung, to be honest. But he would keep it to himself.

"I'm kidding, er... Corran," the half-Morellian finally said, forgoing his superior's title to show his own sincerity in his own, weirdly-Poet way. "I'm notorious for holding grudges, but it's pretty petty of me to hold on to something you didn't even mean to do. It's all water under the bridge now, and, uh... I'm sorry, too. For holding a petty grudge." Then in a whisper, he added, "I planned on getting back at you for that, but that's not gonna happen anymore."

@TerranSteel

 

[Corran Velt]

Bringing up an older, 'happier' memory hadn't been intentional. It felt natural to pull away from the present. Poet had brought some levity where gravity had grabbled Corran's shoulders and began dragging him into the earth. Back when cannon-balling into a pool and unintentionally splashing bystanders was the worst of all their problems. How small and innocent it seemed compared to the even where both men found themselves.

The mocking, unserious scowl on Poet's face made Lieutenant Velt raise a singular hand in equally mock surrender. That didn't a fist from colliding with his shoulder. A rather casual gesture from someone who often came across reserved and aloof from a distance. The 'aggressive' punch was followed by a threat to douse the blond ranger himself in revenge. Corran chuckled lightly with a closed mouth, suppressing it among the mourners. "As long as it isn't an entire bottle of champagne, I think I'll be able to bear that punishment honorably," he quipped back, sensible amusement in his tone.

Hearing his first name made Corran blink. Few addressed him so casually and even fewer among the Sector Rangers. Here it felt justified, given what the half-Morellian was trying to convey. It was also a somewhat unorthodox discussion and occasion anyway, so the lieutenant made no mention of it. What was more surprising was the admission of one of Poet's vices. Maybe his only. The innocent and totally accidental splash of pool-water had caused the birth of a grudge against Corran. He had no idea. Thankfully, that disgruntlement had come and gone like so much 'water under the bridge.' Was that an intended pun?

Lieutenant Velt leaned slightly closer to Poet and whispered back, "I'm glad to be off your hit-list then. Though, I recall a threat to splash me with your drink not too long ago." He tapped the side of his nose and leaned back to full height. It was an apology hidden in a joke. A lesson had been learned today nonetheless. The quiet ones have much more going on than many suspect. Corran had liked what he discovered and Poet rose in standing in his mind.

Unfortunately, the little slice delight among the shadows of grief could not last forever. Other matters and many funerals needed attending to. Ranger Severino would notice the lieutenant glance over his shoulder briefly before turning to face him. A hand was extended in a clear offer of a hand-shake. "Thank you for coming to the service," Corran said with professionalism before meeting the two-colored eyes of the man opposite, "From me personally, you did more than you could ever know, Poet. Thanks." Truthfulness rung from his every word and gesture. With a grateful nod, the blond ranger excused himself from the presence of the half-Morellian and made one final farewell at the resting place of Vera Coulter. It was her party after all.

Leaving the white tent behind and those few who remained, Corran couldn't look back. He had personal oaths to keep. Others had died at the Byblos Prison and they too could not be bid goodbye without someone there to salute them. It wasn't his job. It was a penance. And one he chose to bear.

/exit thread

@Forsythe Crowholde