Life sucked.
Sure it always did, but it sucked even more with the ever growing threat of the Killik. This new threat had almost succeeded in making him forget political debates regarding the Sector Rangers. The half-Morellian found no joy in serving the organization any longer, and while he had made friends with some of his fellow Rangers they still proved to be one of the reasons why he mustered the courage to one day go to work but only to return his badge and flip the bird to colleagues who hated his guts.
He looked up to Captain Corran Velt. Looked up to Lieutenant Trys Aran. Captain Roland Rook. Captain Bast Emblai. Ranger Zad Ruzed. Poet could have listed a few more names, but recent events on Corellia and Thyferra only served to strengthen the half-Morellian's resolve to truly leave the Sector Rangers. Though it remained unconfirmed, news of Bast's fall reached Poet nonetheless. He might not have been on the main battlefield and instead acting as support, but the young man grew angry at himself for not being there for her. Bast was a friend, and now she joined the halls of the dead like Rook and Vera Coulter.
Life sucked. But Poet knew that he had to move forward. Mum had been worried when he told her he'd quit and surrendered his badge. With Dad off to places doing Jedi stuff and helping people, Poet wanted to do keep doing things that aligned to what his old man taught him and Muse: helping people no matter their way of life. For years he'd served the Sector Rangers, bringing justice and solving crimes. His hard work was rewarded with being shackled to desk duty after an accident that led to his temporary incapacity, an experience Poet loathed yet swallowed to keep the job he'd dreamed about as a child – or so he'd been told after the amnesia.
Life sucked and working as a Sector Ranger brought him no joy any longer. Now former Ranger Poet Severino was on the hunt for a new job that required the skills that matched his. He was a trained combatant who knew a thing or two about first aid.
He disliked bodyguard duties, more so being given the responsibility to keep some rich bastard's child safe from kidnappers. Spoiled brats annoyed Poet, even more so simpering politicians. Applying as a New Republic Ranger was out of the picture, given how the current Chancellor elected to have the Jedi locked out of NR territories. It stung seeing how sad it made Dad, so naturally serving the NR was a no-go.
Not one to give up because fuck it, he really needed a job, Poet scoured the holonet for anything that might catch his fancy and came across a promising one. The Star Guardians Project sounded promising, offering state of the art medical help to those who needed it. Delving deeper to research, he'd been surprised that the Project lead's – one Clove Vanhoop aka Hell on (W)heels – offer of aid extended even to the Sith. Though it gave him second thoughts about reaching out and apply for a position that might fit him, Poet swallowed his pride and bias against the Sith and sent Miss Vanhoop a DM on Switter. Attached was his resume, detailing his former work as a Sector Ranger.
Days later Poet received a reply, a schedule for an interview and the coordinates for where to meet the Star Guardian's head. The half-Morellian wasted no time in preparing for the meeting, ranging from his attire down to any possible question that might come up in the interview. The coordinates led to to Yavin 8. Prepared as he was Poet still felt a wave of nervousness crash over him. One hand rose to try and flatten his usually tousled hair, grunting in annoyance as the dark curls remained untamed. Wearing casual yet smart clothing consisting of a blue blazer, his signatory checked plaid, and the best pants/boots combo his closet could provide, the man wandered off towards the meeting place and was met by the sight of a small, quaint cottage ahead, surrounded by lush trees.
Partially heterochromatic eyes took in the sight of Miss Vanhoop's residence, a confused frown crossing Poet's face as he stopped by the front door. His knuckles met wood as he rapped on the door, and a thought came unbidden to the half-Morellian.
Man... must be nice living in a cottage in the woods. Place looks like it's straight out of a fantasy book or holomovie.
@LilyNion
Sure it always did, but it sucked even more with the ever growing threat of the Killik. This new threat had almost succeeded in making him forget political debates regarding the Sector Rangers. The half-Morellian found no joy in serving the organization any longer, and while he had made friends with some of his fellow Rangers they still proved to be one of the reasons why he mustered the courage to one day go to work but only to return his badge and flip the bird to colleagues who hated his guts.
He looked up to Captain Corran Velt. Looked up to Lieutenant Trys Aran. Captain Roland Rook. Captain Bast Emblai. Ranger Zad Ruzed. Poet could have listed a few more names, but recent events on Corellia and Thyferra only served to strengthen the half-Morellian's resolve to truly leave the Sector Rangers. Though it remained unconfirmed, news of Bast's fall reached Poet nonetheless. He might not have been on the main battlefield and instead acting as support, but the young man grew angry at himself for not being there for her. Bast was a friend, and now she joined the halls of the dead like Rook and Vera Coulter.
Life sucked. But Poet knew that he had to move forward. Mum had been worried when he told her he'd quit and surrendered his badge. With Dad off to places doing Jedi stuff and helping people, Poet wanted to do keep doing things that aligned to what his old man taught him and Muse: helping people no matter their way of life. For years he'd served the Sector Rangers, bringing justice and solving crimes. His hard work was rewarded with being shackled to desk duty after an accident that led to his temporary incapacity, an experience Poet loathed yet swallowed to keep the job he'd dreamed about as a child – or so he'd been told after the amnesia.
Life sucked and working as a Sector Ranger brought him no joy any longer. Now former Ranger Poet Severino was on the hunt for a new job that required the skills that matched his. He was a trained combatant who knew a thing or two about first aid.
He disliked bodyguard duties, more so being given the responsibility to keep some rich bastard's child safe from kidnappers. Spoiled brats annoyed Poet, even more so simpering politicians. Applying as a New Republic Ranger was out of the picture, given how the current Chancellor elected to have the Jedi locked out of NR territories. It stung seeing how sad it made Dad, so naturally serving the NR was a no-go.
Not one to give up because fuck it, he really needed a job, Poet scoured the holonet for anything that might catch his fancy and came across a promising one. The Star Guardians Project sounded promising, offering state of the art medical help to those who needed it. Delving deeper to research, he'd been surprised that the Project lead's – one Clove Vanhoop aka Hell on (W)heels – offer of aid extended even to the Sith. Though it gave him second thoughts about reaching out and apply for a position that might fit him, Poet swallowed his pride and bias against the Sith and sent Miss Vanhoop a DM on Switter. Attached was his resume, detailing his former work as a Sector Ranger.
Days later Poet received a reply, a schedule for an interview and the coordinates for where to meet the Star Guardian's head. The half-Morellian wasted no time in preparing for the meeting, ranging from his attire down to any possible question that might come up in the interview. The coordinates led to to Yavin 8. Prepared as he was Poet still felt a wave of nervousness crash over him. One hand rose to try and flatten his usually tousled hair, grunting in annoyance as the dark curls remained untamed. Wearing casual yet smart clothing consisting of a blue blazer, his signatory checked plaid, and the best pants/boots combo his closet could provide, the man wandered off towards the meeting place and was met by the sight of a small, quaint cottage ahead, surrounded by lush trees.
Partially heterochromatic eyes took in the sight of Miss Vanhoop's residence, a confused frown crossing Poet's face as he stopped by the front door. His knuckles met wood as he rapped on the door, and a thought came unbidden to the half-Morellian.
Man... must be nice living in a cottage in the woods. Place looks like it's straight out of a fantasy book or holomovie.
@LilyNion
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