Post by Mara on Mar 9, 2009 19:56:46 GMT -5
Name: Pak Har'endanno [pron.: PACK har'EN'dawn'no]
Nicknames: Danno, Palpy or Palps, which was sometimes his callsign
Race: Balosar
Age: 27
Height: 5'7"
Weight: 135 pounds
Appearance: As a Balosar, the first thing you notice about Pak are his antennapalps, which help him hear in the subsonic range and also give him a danger sense/emotional sense of others. A fairly short being (for a male) with a thin but toned body, he doesn't let that get in the way of his personality, which he uses to overly compensate for his height. He has light blue eyes that peek out underneath his shaggy light brown hair. In his casual civilian attire, Pak will wear whatever is comfortable (and whatever may attract beings of the female persuasion). [But when he was on-duty, he would wear his flightsuit or his dress uniform complete with his new shiny rank insignia. Now his dressuniform just sits in a box in his ship, unused].
Personality: Originally Pak was a very outgoing and easygoing being, friendly to everyone and eager to join a good conversation. But now he has gotten a little turned in on himself, no longer the friendly Balosar he used to be, tending to be more cynical about life. However, when alcohol gets introduced to his system, which seems to be almost constant in his life now, some vestiges of his old life and personality will peek out. This gives him a bit of a bipolar personality: manic and extroverted while intoxicated, depressed and introverted while sober.
Birth place: in the slums of an unknown city, Balosar
Previous profession: Republic Navy fighter pilot, First Lieutenant
Current profession: Freelance pilot and amateur smuggler
Skills: An expert pilot, especially in fighters but not limited to; Fast runner but generally not long-distance; A good shot with a pistol
Attributes:
Physical Strength: 5
Intelligence: 6
Speed: 8
Leadership: 3
Unarmed: 2
Melee Weapons: 2
Ranged Weapons: 7
Alignment: 0
Ship:Crimson Requiem
[link to ship app. thread]
Bio:
Pak Har'endanno grew up in the streets of one of Balosar's cities, a city populated mostly with factories and slums. The time he spent with his mother as a baby and young child was mostly a mystery to him. But when he was older he was able to piece together much of it from asking others that lived in and around the streets.
His mother had been a Balosar of less reputable taste, to put it mildly. Meaning that she made her meager living bringing pleasure to males, usually those from the factories or the rare upper class male. It was from one such meeting that Rydia, his mother, conceived and later gave birth to Pak. Despite all the information he had gathered, he was never able to figure out if his surname came from his father or his mother, but he assumed his mother because her job didn't necessarily go beyond that of a first-name basis. Suddenly a single mother in the slums of the polluted planet, Rydia was left with two choices--raise her son and give up her job and lifestyle, thus making them even poorer, or to give him up to someone who could take better care of him, being able to pay for herself again. Unfortunately, or fortunately sometimes Pak thought, his mother chose the latter option.
So young Pak was then bounced around and between foster home and orphanages in the city, never staying long because he was a fussy child with early problems due to his mother's intake of less nutritious items, mainly drugs. Though these were issues that would be easily fixed with a doctor's attention, his foster parents could not afford it on top of paying for all the other children, so he went without care. Most of these issues were also not unusual for orphans of the slums, since many of them had a similar upbringing to Pak's own. And generally their malnutrition made it all worse.
However, besides his small medical issues, he also had problems with his personality even as a baby, and this was the main reason that he couldn't stay in one home for very long. Pak was a very needy baby, demanding attention more than usual for one his age, getting upset whenever he was left alone for more than a couple minutes. This led him to cry a lot and disturb the other children and family members within the home he was currently staying in. This condition only worsened as he aged closer to a year old and above because he could now crawl around to gain the attention of adults and older children in the same building.
Around two years of age, his current foster mother was so sick of his pleading and whining that she picked him and headed for the door. Feeling that he had finally got his way, young Pak stopped crying and giggled at the female Balosar. But playing with him was not what she had in mind. In fact, he was so demanding on her that she was beginning to neglect her own children, and in fear of having them taken away, she needed to correct the problem and fast. So carrying two-year-old Pak out of the house, she walked the street, not letting him walk beside her. After she had gone a few blocks, she set him down in an alley, thankful that there was some bright-colored trash for him to look at while she made her getaway. Without a second glance, she turned around and ran back home, hoping that he wouldn't be able to follow her. The trash had only held Pak's attention for about ten seconds, but that was enough for his foster mother to disappear back home. Thinking it was a game, he clapped his hands and slowly walked around the alley looking for her. Not finding her, he left the alley and stood there alone. The realization that she wasn't nearby began to slowly dawn on him, and he began to cry. It began slowly at first, but then the waterworks really poured out as Pak bawled his eyes out, wandering around in the streets.
The next few years of his life were a lot more clear to Pak since he was old enough now to remember most of it. However, he wished he wasn't able to remember it. Life on the streets at such a young age could never be pleasant no matter your planet or your species.
Starting at the age of two, he had to learn quicker to survive or he would probably never see the age of three. One of the first things he learned was how to sneak food away from street vendors, just a couple blocks from where the slums started. At his age, no one ever suspected him, though there were quite a few young orphans on the streets. Another skill he harnessed was the ability to be outgoing, hoping for handouts from any passers-by and shunning timidity. Whether they felt sorry for him or just liked his cute face, sometimes adults would slip Pak a few pieces of bread or fruit or even a couple credits. He didn't know what to do with this but kept them all the same.
His life went this way more or less for the next few years (through his early teenage years). He had established a pretty fine routine by the time he was getting close to his fourth birthday, something he had refined to almost an art by age 6. Pak would wake up early as the sunlight tried to filter down through the polluted air of his planet, leaving whatever corner he would crawl into for some sleep. Then he would patter around the streets out of the slums into some higher class areas. Not high class, but just higher than his current living situation. They were probably mostly lower middle class, the ones who would give him handouts as he wandered by looking cute and sad. This was another of his tricks. Being outgoing only got you so far; you had to act like you deserved something or that you really were starving for food or attention. Which wasn't hard, because he really was. After he had begged himself a meager breakfast, he would head back to the slums or sometimes just keep wandering, hoping for more gifts of sympathy from adults walking by. Usually after he had had his fill of this, sometimes finding other children to play with, it was time for him to scrounge up some lunch. And then he would repeat his day again until it was time for his evening meal. When he was finally full, or at least full enough to quiet his stomach, he ended up back in the slums to find somewhere to sleep. He hardly ever ended back up in the same place twice each night.
Another aspect that helped him survive was the simple fact of his species. Being a Balosar he could use his antennapalps to gain a better sensory perception of others. His innate danger sense helped him out of more than one scrape in his younger years, especially. There was no lack of danger living in the streets, and these only increased if you were an orphan and had no security of a family to reky on at these times. One such time was when he was around the age of 8 and had gotten greedy at a fruit stand in the middle class area of the city. When the conveyor wasn't looking, he had taken the moment to pocket as many fruits as he could. Though a short-statured being as a Balosar, he still wasn't all that short due to a small growth spurt he had recently had. And he probably came up to about the waist of the vendor, who had spied Pak with his own antennapalps before he had a chance to run away. The plan was to just grab a couple of the luscious fruit but seeing how lush they were, he couldn't help but load up his pockets. Spying the thief, the seller turned on Pak. Luckily, he was quicker than the fruit stand vendor and got out of his grasp, his 'palps warning him of the incoming attack in time. However, the vendor decided to call the local police and so Pak had a chase on his fruit-laden hands. He ducked into alleyways and around corners, knowing that he knew the slums and poorer areas of the city better than most. And most definitely better than the police force who rarely ventured in these neighborhoods. Soon he had lost his would-be captors but not without personal loss: he had dropped half of his fruit in the rush to leave the fruit stand. However, he still had enough to satisfy his hunger for the rest of the day and even perhaps the next day.
With all his various street skills blending into to each, Pak had become one of the faster urchins in his particular ghetto at the age of 11. Such was his quickness that a few of his friends (well, other kids who would tolerate him and each other for brief amounts of time) would get him to steal food and other things for them. If they had tried themselves, they would have had a lesser chance of success. Besides the fact that he just enjoyed messing with the city vendors and evading the police force, Pak's friends would also make the errands worth his while. They couldn't pay him in credits, obviously, but they had something just as good if not better--death sticks.
[The hallucinogenic drug was prevalent throughout the Outer Rim, but had also found its way to Coruscant and, subsequently, Balosar. The drug would induce a sense of euphoria before diving down and giver the user a twisted sense of reality enhanced with bright colors. Unfortunately, the heavy pollution of their homeworld of Balosar allowed them to be easily addicted to the drug, though, their natural body immunity because of the pollution allowed them to resist the other side effects of the drug (besides the addictive qualities). While other beings would gradually be killing themselves with the death sticks, Balosars just got more addicted with each subsequent dose. Beings could not recover from death-stick addiction without medical assistance.]
At first, Pak disregarded the death sticks because he was mainly robbing the vendors for his friends and because he enjoyed it. It was entirely a game to him: how far he could get and how much he could pocket before the seller noticed and called the authorities. He would gradually increase the risk and take greater chances, always relying on his speed to get him out of the way in time. He first just started with food and other necessary slum survival items for himself and his friends. But after he got better at it and his confidence swelled, he began going after bigger prey--used datapads, commlinks and other small electronic equipment. Pak had quite the racket going by the time he was 13.
However one day he did decide to take up the offer of one of his buddy's to try out the death sticks, adding the liquid drug to a beverage he had taken, ingesting it the way the rest of the group had. After the effects took hold of Pak, he felt extremely... good. Life was never better for him. His glass was always half full. A bright rainbow of colors surrounded him as he laughed and joked around with his friends. But the rainbow of colors started getting to much for him and he came down hard as the drug began to wear off. His friends immediately dosed up again and offered Pak some more with another can to immerse it in. Pak briefly thought about it, about how horrible he felt. But then he remember how awesome he had felt just an hour before after taking the death stick. He consented and poured the death stick's contents into his drink himself.
By day he would do his normal survival tricks: stealing food and other items from vendors and speeding around the city on his fleet feet before finally heading back to his "home" in the slums to bring his prizes to his friends. Then at night, in exchange for what he got them, his friends would share their deathsticks with Pak. Pak never thought to ask or wonder where they got them from. He merely need to have more of the beautiful drug to make himself feel better. As the weeks and months went by, Pak would take in more and more of the drug as his addiction gradually grew. No other side effects appeared except for this because he was a Balosar and naturally immune to its other effects, an immunity grown from his planet's harsh and polluted air.
His life had now taken on a new routine, now reaching the age of 15. Pak would gather anything for his friends, taking whatever chances and risks he had to, not thinking about any consequences except for the death sticks that would be his reward. He no longer just poured the liquid of the death sticks into a drink to enjoy the effects of the drug. In addition to that (now he would pour it into something alcoholic like beer or ale, whatever he could scavenge on the streets), sometimes he would just directly inject the vial into his arm for a quicker fix. Instead of waiting for the drug to digest with the rest of his drink and food, it would enter his bloodstream, giving him all the wonderful bright colors and rainbows immediately. He and his friends would gather around a fire built of scrap wood and pass around the vials, giggling and stoned out of their minds. Still having some small presence of mind left, this was as far as he would go, though his friends had obtained a much harder form of the drug in solid form and would either smoke the granules or inhale them. The smoking too much time, and Pak preferred the more rapid injection method. After a couple of years of taking the drug, he had had to move to pushing it through his thighs, as his arms were pretty sore with track marks by now.
Pak's life probably would have continued in this same fashion for the rest of his life if not for another stupid decision on his part. Lately (around the age of 16), the Balosar had taken to staying a bit high as he went on his treks into the higher class parts of the city to do his "shopping." Mostly due to the fact that he was taking so many the night before. The drug would be beginning to wear off, and he was mostly functional, though a bit zonked out of his mind and quite paranoid. His speed helped him more than ever now because otherwise his actions were a bit sloppy whenever he tried to snatch something and pocket it.
On one such day, he was still half high and a bit drunk, since he had drunk a few ales along with injecting himself with some of the death stick vials. Pak was scoping out some of the shops as he wandered through the much cleaner streets of the better part of the city when he came across an office that looked unfamiliar to him; he knew this city backwards and forwards, and he knew this part almost as well as he knew the slums by now. Curious, he ambled closer, trying to read the sign through his death-stick haze. Pak steadied himself and and squinted, finally rearranging the letters into a proper order. His eyes widened as he realized what the sign read. A military recruitment office? Why in all the moons would the Republic want to recruit Balosars to its cause? They were generally thought of by the rest of the galaxy as weak and spineless, due to the effects of the planet's pollution.
Thoroughly confused but still curious, he wandered into the office to check things out for himself. At the very least, maybe he could lift a couple weapons for his gang of friends before the human soldier within saw it coming. Upon entering, he was surprised to see that there were a couple other of his species within the office, deep in conversation with the soldier who seemed in charge. Trying to feign nonchalance, Pak moved off to the side off the room, reading various propaganda posters. One caught his eye, reading "Join the Republic Armed Forces: Change your Life." Coming farther down from his dosage the night before and more aware of his surroundings and own mind, he had to roll his eyes. There was no way someone like him could change his or her life. He was an orphan, a street kid. The streets were where he was born and where he would die. Nothing could ever change that. Especially now that he was a druggie and on his way to being an alcoholic as well, all at the age of 17. Before the guy in charge could see him and try his mumbo-jumbo on him, Pak left the office and headed back slowly towards the slums, making sure his path was untraceable.
That night, after he had snagged a couple datapads and some food for his buddies and himself, he sat around the fire with the rest of the guys. Feeling a bit retrospective, he shared a death-stick smoke with them as they passed it around. For once, he didn't want the quick up and down of the injected liquid. For some reason, he was pondering the poster he had seen in the military recruitment office. In the few hours since, and after he had come fully to his senses, he was actually thinking about whether his life could be changed. And now, passing the smoked death stick around, Pak was thinking about it again. Perhaps he could change his life. He obviously wasn't doing anything in that direction with his current life, he thought as he sipped a beer, waiting for his turn to inhale. It wouldn't hurt anything if he just asked a few questions the next morning. No commitment, just juvenile curiosity. Yes, he would just wander in all arrogant-like and go off at the mouth about how stupid the whole idea was--recruiting on Balosar.
And, after he had slept off his alcohol and his high, he did just that, easily finding the office again. Pak walked in jauntily, ready to give the officer a piece of his mind. Instead, when he walked out, he found himself a newly recruited member of the Republic armed forces, to ship out the next week. Stunned, he found a nearby bench to reflect on what happened inside the office. He had gone in and found the office empty except for the recruiter. But what had happened after was entirely all wrong. Instead of asking the guy what he was doing on Balosar, he found himself blurting out his life story (a fairly abridged version anyway) and talking about how he did want to change his life. How if he didn't do something now, he would just end up a 50-year-old addicted and drunk Balosar and still living on the streets, same as his group of friends. Pak pinched the bridge of his nose; maybe those drugs really were doing something to him. Or the alcohol. He wasn't thinking straight. Either way, he would probably have to report the next week. Otherwise the MPs would probably burn the city looking for him. Or at least that's what he imagined. Pak got up off the bench and headed back to tell his friends about his new life. They were high in the clouds and barely registered anything about what he said. That night Pak passed on a death stick, despite his shaking and the way the vial was calling to him. He shoved the thoughts away with extra ale and beer, drowning his sorrows in a different way.
Pak barely slept that night and the whole rest of the week; his body in a complete realm of withdrawal symptons. He was beginning to wonder if he really would be changing his life, or merely just replacing death sticks with military life. Either way, the next week he met the recruitment officer, along with three other Balosars, to travel to the nearest spaceport and go off to Coruscant for initiation classes and then boot camp.
Coruscant was a far cry from his home of Balosar. Pak was amazed at how huge the planet seemed. Though it was only of average size, the sheer mass of buildings made it look larger than it was. And the air! It was so clear here on the capital planet, though his fellow squadmates would later disagree with him. With all the industry and traffic and etc. making pollution, Coruscant was a dirty planet as well, but not as polluted as Balosar. That, Pak would agree to.
But he didn't get to see much of the planet when he first arrived. He and the other recruits were shuttled right to a base and entered into a training program (especially since he was only 17), a sort of initiation that they had to pass before being allowed to enter boot camp and basic training. It consisted of a series of aptitude tests and health exams. Without a need to study for these exams, Pak went into them without much sense of worry. After all, he hadn't really meant to sign up anyway. If he failed, he would just go back to his life on the streets. If he passed, hooray, he would go into basic training and forward onto his path to "change his life."
After about a year of this initiation and passing most of his tests with flying colors, Pak had only one obstacle to pass--his physical exam. Upon his entrance exam, the doctor had been a bit concerned about his past drug abuse; he had seen all the old and not so old track marks in his arms and on his thighs. Pak convinced the doctor that he had been clean for a year now, since he hadn't taken any death sticks since leaving Balosar. Not completely satisfied, the doctor said he would only let him through if he promised he would stay clean and also lay off on the alcohol: his liver was concerning the doctor as well. Pak grinned and agreed, assuming he would be must too busy to get flat-drunk out of his mind again.
So Pak was cleared for boot camp, just a month after his 18th birthday. Most of this time for him went fairly smoothly except for some of the physical challenges. Yes, he was quick and could run fast, but that was about it. With all his time spent on the streets doing mostly nothing except for sitting around and the occasional venture into the city, his body had mellowed out a bit. It took Pak a few months to even get close to the same physical shape that most of the guys in his barracks were at. And even so, he just couldn't develop huge muscles. Not that he wasn't in shape; he was, but in a more toned and subtle way. He was sometimes jealous of the other's bulging muscles which seemed to attract the ladies of multiple species. But knowing he would never get to their level of fitness, he focused on other things.
He poured all his frustration into running, especially sprints. Pak's ability was so much so that his commander signed him up for the annual competition between the platoons at the boot camp. His drill Sergeant had lost the previous five years and now he finally saw a chance to beat his friends. Besides Plak, he also had a decent shockball team. The day finally came for the boot camp-wide competitions. Pak's team ended up coming up short in the shockball finals, but when it came time for his 100m race, he blazed through the finish line a few paces ahead of the rest. Though his team eventually didn't win in the overall scoring, Pak's sergeant was glowing after Pak's race win. Pak was able to avoid KP duty for the whole next month because of it.
Besides his running, Pak devoted a lot of his free time to practicing on the shooting range. For some reason, a part of him enjoyed shooting off the various blasters at the faraway targets. The longer and heavier rifles were harder for him with his shorter height, but the smaller pistols were perfect for him. With not much free time to actually practice, he was by no means an expert, but he was a fair shot and in the top percent of his camp platoon.
Time finally came a couple years later for he and his platoons, and the rest at the barracks, to graduate. Pak's sarge was happy. Despite his tough routine and exams, all of his soldiers completed boot camp with satisfactory scores, and Pak was in the top 20 of them. The barracks held a brief ceremony for the soldiers to show off for the rest of the forces and afterwards family members and friend showed up to congratulate their little heroes. Pak stayed off to the side, alone, without anyone there to greet him. He just merely said farewell to the few friends he had made and headed off to what was next for him. Now that he had passed the first step, it was time for him to choose the next step--whether he would stay in the army or choose another branch. After giving it much thought, he decided he wanted to get into the Navy and try his hand at starfighters. One time when he had had a leave for a day, he had met a couple of pilots at a bar, who had regaled them with tales of their many battle adventures. It all seemed so exciting to Pak. More exciting than just being a simple infantry soldier. So he packed up his bags and transferred to the Navy barracks on Coruscant at the age of 20.
Right away, he got himself enrolled in the starfighter division of the navy and set up in a new barracks with a new group of beings. Wanting to make a good impression, he didn't get too friendly with them at the beginning. Pak really wanted to make something of his "change his life" duty to himself. So he engrossed himself in his lessons and later in his simulations. The sims were what Pak enjoyed the most because this was as close as he had gotten so far to flying a real starfighter. After six months of training with a couple different fighters, Pak was placed in a new squadron that was forming up. He was overjoyed to learn that the Blackholes would be using the new A-12 Star Hawk from Incom.
Pak got to put his new skills to use right away when his squadron was called up to join a battle in a system in the Outer Rim just days after he had joined up with them. In the squad of twelve, Pak was the wingman for the leader of the third flight. The battle was a fairly straightforward and easy one, just some backup for a cruiser debarked to settle down an uprising against the Republic, but Pak still showed off what he could do and his squad leader was impressed. Next, the Blackholes got assigned singly to a simple cleanup mission that turned out to be more: they were ambushed by a group of miscreant rebels. Two 'holes lost their lives in the mission, but Pak fought bravely, taking down three enemy fighters, tying his squad leader for the most. Taking this and his prior history with the squad into consideration, Pak's CO recommended him to take over the vacant spot of the leader of second flight along with a rank increase.
Now at the age of 22, Pak was overjoyed with this commendation. He knew he was a fair pilot but he wasn't into thinking he was an ace or anything; he left to that to the big-headed beings the made up the majority of his squad. Having a couple weeks off, due rest from their mission and loss of two friends, Pak joined some of the others at a bar nearby their base. The other pilot who had died had been a part of his flight group, a beautiful Chalactan woman who Pak had had a couple dates with. Now she was gone, and he ordered more ales than he had any right to be consuming as a respectable member of the Navy's starfighter division. But to him, it didn't even seen enough to get over the loss of her.
Over the next few years, Pak and the Blackholes continued to be involved in missions, including a few battles in the Outer Rim and closer to home, suppressing the Mandalorians and other rebel groups, like the so-called Sith. He also continued to get high praise from his commanders, moving up slowly through the ranks, his latest promotion being to that of second lieutenant.
When he wasn't on-duty or training in simulations or out at the shooting range (he knew it was good to keep up his skills, just in case), Pak could be found in various bars and clubs nearby the base in his off hours. He had an obvious knack for chatting up the ladies. Now that he wasn't on the bottom rung of the ranks, and he had a little more leeway, he had the time finally to make friends and lovers, something he never had the chance to on Balosar, since all the females he had known at home were either stoned like he was or didn't know he existed. But here, as a fighter pilot, he was just like the pair he had met earlier during boot camp. He went on and on about his amazing feats, with slight exaggeration, and the ladies went crazy for him. Pak wasn't necessarily promiscuous, but he did have his fair share of nighttime company when he went on leave.
When he reached the rank of full lieutenant, he, along with a couple of his superiors, recommended that his skills would be well-received at a new squadron that was being formed on the Navy base on Kuat. And what was better, they would be using the Venom strikefighter. Pak had almost salivated at the thought of it. He had never flown one but had seen early plans of one once and thought it the most beautiful in the world, next to a consenting female, of course. Once again, the Balosar packed up his things and was on his way to Kuat, leaving Coruscant after spending 8 years on the planet.
[See Pak's Databank thread for more of his continued adventures.]
RP Sample:
"It's a trap!" Pak Har'endanno heard yelled through the inter-squadron comm. He couldn't tell who had said because immediately afterwards there was flurry of cussing and other outcries from all twelve of the pilots. And the Balosar was one of them and the most colorfully gifted when it came to swearing. He wished again that he had ordered a special helmet to allow him full use of his antennapalps. With them retracted, they weren't quite as useful in sensing danger.
It was supposed to be a simple cleanup mission; go in and get out. Simple. But it seemed the same rebels they were there to disarm had called in reinforcements before Blackhole squadron had even come out of hyperspace. Someone had to have warned them ahead of time. But now was not a time to think of the details. This was the time to make sure no one died, and that everyone got back to their transport cruiser safely and could zip back out to their base. If they only had a few bumps and bruises, it would be a good day.
But it wasn't a good day. Far from it. Pak barrelrolled his A-12 Star Hawk, following his wingman, the leader of the third flight of Blackholes. He kept his VRF cannon firing almost constantly, warding off any threats that came their way. Most shots went wide, but a couple hit the power structure of one of the enemy fighters, a make he didn't recognize. It didn't matter; now it was completely unrecognizable and in too many pieces to bother counting.
Without missing a beat, Pak swung his fighter around to follow after his wingman. Before he found him, he saw the leader of the second flight overrun, trying to take on two enemies at once. He took his Star Hawk full speed ahead--alerting his wingmate what he was doing--but was too late: before he got there, his light winked off his display screen. Gone. One of his fellow Blackholes was gone. Whoever the enemy was, they had training, too. And they outnumbered the Blackholes 2:1.
Pak grit his teeth and turned his ship around to get back to the fray. He rejoined his wingmate and together they took down two of the enemy fighters. That was two for Pak. Gradually, he and the Blackholes were evening the odds. In his peripheral, he saw another pair of the strange enemy fighters explode. Even better odds...
Despite their bettering fortune, Pak's commander was busily getting in contact with their support ship. They needed to get out of there. There was no telling how many more traps were set down on the planet among the (mostly) innocent farms in the rural communities. The farmers were known to harbor traitors, but their intel hadn't mentioned anything about military-grade fighters on the opposite side. So it was best to just run, gather intel and go back later with reinforcements, possible a battlecruiser or two.
The Starhopper winked into existence, and one by one the Blackholes zipped inside, letting loose a few more slugs. And Pak released a missile, just for one last effect before he departed space, and got a third mark for the day for his efforts. Within the safety of their transport and hyperspace, the Blackholes could finally take a tally of the last hours. Two dead: besides the captain, another had lost her life. A Chalactan woman who had been in Pak's flight, someone he had been close to. Had to, to trust her in space. One of the few females he actually had respected because she resisted his charming advances.
It was not a good day...
***
Later that evening Pak found himself in a bar a few blocks down from their temporary base near Yaga Minor. A spot he had frequented before when he had some leave. The Blackholes were supposed to still be on duty, but with the recent deaths in their squadron, they had been given the night off.
The Balosar was drowning his sorrows deep into a mug of Corellian ale, his favorite poison as of late. It didn't quite make him feel better like death sticks used to, but alcohol didn't make him feel horrible afterwards, either. Most of the time. He sighed before gulping down the rest of the ale.
He was about to order another when he noticed someone sit down at the bar next to him. A beautiful blonde. Pak easily slid on his charming nature, easily done with a few mugs of ale in his system. And coupled with the fact that he really just needed to forget all his troubles, he started flirting with the human. And to his delight, she came back with innuendos of her own.
After buying her a drink and talking some more, she invited him back to her place. During some passion-filled hours in the woman's hotel suite, all over the suite, Pak forgot entirely about the somewhat failed mission and the losses the Blackholes had taken.
Password: Vornskr (not sure if I need it or not, but, oh well)
Nicknames: Danno, Palpy or Palps, which was sometimes his callsign
Race: Balosar
Age: 27
Height: 5'7"
Weight: 135 pounds
Appearance: As a Balosar, the first thing you notice about Pak are his antennapalps, which help him hear in the subsonic range and also give him a danger sense/emotional sense of others. A fairly short being (for a male) with a thin but toned body, he doesn't let that get in the way of his personality, which he uses to overly compensate for his height. He has light blue eyes that peek out underneath his shaggy light brown hair. In his casual civilian attire, Pak will wear whatever is comfortable (and whatever may attract beings of the female persuasion). [But when he was on-duty, he would wear his flightsuit or his dress uniform complete with his new shiny rank insignia. Now his dressuniform just sits in a box in his ship, unused].
Personality: Originally Pak was a very outgoing and easygoing being, friendly to everyone and eager to join a good conversation. But now he has gotten a little turned in on himself, no longer the friendly Balosar he used to be, tending to be more cynical about life. However, when alcohol gets introduced to his system, which seems to be almost constant in his life now, some vestiges of his old life and personality will peek out. This gives him a bit of a bipolar personality: manic and extroverted while intoxicated, depressed and introverted while sober.
Birth place: in the slums of an unknown city, Balosar
Previous profession: Republic Navy fighter pilot, First Lieutenant
Current profession: Freelance pilot and amateur smuggler
Skills: An expert pilot, especially in fighters but not limited to; Fast runner but generally not long-distance; A good shot with a pistol
Attributes:
Physical Strength: 5
Intelligence: 6
Speed: 8
Leadership: 3
Unarmed: 2
Melee Weapons: 2
Ranged Weapons: 7
Alignment: 0
Ship:Crimson Requiem
[link to ship app. thread]
Bio:
Pak Har'endanno grew up in the streets of one of Balosar's cities, a city populated mostly with factories and slums. The time he spent with his mother as a baby and young child was mostly a mystery to him. But when he was older he was able to piece together much of it from asking others that lived in and around the streets.
His mother had been a Balosar of less reputable taste, to put it mildly. Meaning that she made her meager living bringing pleasure to males, usually those from the factories or the rare upper class male. It was from one such meeting that Rydia, his mother, conceived and later gave birth to Pak. Despite all the information he had gathered, he was never able to figure out if his surname came from his father or his mother, but he assumed his mother because her job didn't necessarily go beyond that of a first-name basis. Suddenly a single mother in the slums of the polluted planet, Rydia was left with two choices--raise her son and give up her job and lifestyle, thus making them even poorer, or to give him up to someone who could take better care of him, being able to pay for herself again. Unfortunately, or fortunately sometimes Pak thought, his mother chose the latter option.
So young Pak was then bounced around and between foster home and orphanages in the city, never staying long because he was a fussy child with early problems due to his mother's intake of less nutritious items, mainly drugs. Though these were issues that would be easily fixed with a doctor's attention, his foster parents could not afford it on top of paying for all the other children, so he went without care. Most of these issues were also not unusual for orphans of the slums, since many of them had a similar upbringing to Pak's own. And generally their malnutrition made it all worse.
However, besides his small medical issues, he also had problems with his personality even as a baby, and this was the main reason that he couldn't stay in one home for very long. Pak was a very needy baby, demanding attention more than usual for one his age, getting upset whenever he was left alone for more than a couple minutes. This led him to cry a lot and disturb the other children and family members within the home he was currently staying in. This condition only worsened as he aged closer to a year old and above because he could now crawl around to gain the attention of adults and older children in the same building.
Around two years of age, his current foster mother was so sick of his pleading and whining that she picked him and headed for the door. Feeling that he had finally got his way, young Pak stopped crying and giggled at the female Balosar. But playing with him was not what she had in mind. In fact, he was so demanding on her that she was beginning to neglect her own children, and in fear of having them taken away, she needed to correct the problem and fast. So carrying two-year-old Pak out of the house, she walked the street, not letting him walk beside her. After she had gone a few blocks, she set him down in an alley, thankful that there was some bright-colored trash for him to look at while she made her getaway. Without a second glance, she turned around and ran back home, hoping that he wouldn't be able to follow her. The trash had only held Pak's attention for about ten seconds, but that was enough for his foster mother to disappear back home. Thinking it was a game, he clapped his hands and slowly walked around the alley looking for her. Not finding her, he left the alley and stood there alone. The realization that she wasn't nearby began to slowly dawn on him, and he began to cry. It began slowly at first, but then the waterworks really poured out as Pak bawled his eyes out, wandering around in the streets.
The next few years of his life were a lot more clear to Pak since he was old enough now to remember most of it. However, he wished he wasn't able to remember it. Life on the streets at such a young age could never be pleasant no matter your planet or your species.
Starting at the age of two, he had to learn quicker to survive or he would probably never see the age of three. One of the first things he learned was how to sneak food away from street vendors, just a couple blocks from where the slums started. At his age, no one ever suspected him, though there were quite a few young orphans on the streets. Another skill he harnessed was the ability to be outgoing, hoping for handouts from any passers-by and shunning timidity. Whether they felt sorry for him or just liked his cute face, sometimes adults would slip Pak a few pieces of bread or fruit or even a couple credits. He didn't know what to do with this but kept them all the same.
His life went this way more or less for the next few years (through his early teenage years). He had established a pretty fine routine by the time he was getting close to his fourth birthday, something he had refined to almost an art by age 6. Pak would wake up early as the sunlight tried to filter down through the polluted air of his planet, leaving whatever corner he would crawl into for some sleep. Then he would patter around the streets out of the slums into some higher class areas. Not high class, but just higher than his current living situation. They were probably mostly lower middle class, the ones who would give him handouts as he wandered by looking cute and sad. This was another of his tricks. Being outgoing only got you so far; you had to act like you deserved something or that you really were starving for food or attention. Which wasn't hard, because he really was. After he had begged himself a meager breakfast, he would head back to the slums or sometimes just keep wandering, hoping for more gifts of sympathy from adults walking by. Usually after he had had his fill of this, sometimes finding other children to play with, it was time for him to scrounge up some lunch. And then he would repeat his day again until it was time for his evening meal. When he was finally full, or at least full enough to quiet his stomach, he ended up back in the slums to find somewhere to sleep. He hardly ever ended back up in the same place twice each night.
Another aspect that helped him survive was the simple fact of his species. Being a Balosar he could use his antennapalps to gain a better sensory perception of others. His innate danger sense helped him out of more than one scrape in his younger years, especially. There was no lack of danger living in the streets, and these only increased if you were an orphan and had no security of a family to reky on at these times. One such time was when he was around the age of 8 and had gotten greedy at a fruit stand in the middle class area of the city. When the conveyor wasn't looking, he had taken the moment to pocket as many fruits as he could. Though a short-statured being as a Balosar, he still wasn't all that short due to a small growth spurt he had recently had. And he probably came up to about the waist of the vendor, who had spied Pak with his own antennapalps before he had a chance to run away. The plan was to just grab a couple of the luscious fruit but seeing how lush they were, he couldn't help but load up his pockets. Spying the thief, the seller turned on Pak. Luckily, he was quicker than the fruit stand vendor and got out of his grasp, his 'palps warning him of the incoming attack in time. However, the vendor decided to call the local police and so Pak had a chase on his fruit-laden hands. He ducked into alleyways and around corners, knowing that he knew the slums and poorer areas of the city better than most. And most definitely better than the police force who rarely ventured in these neighborhoods. Soon he had lost his would-be captors but not without personal loss: he had dropped half of his fruit in the rush to leave the fruit stand. However, he still had enough to satisfy his hunger for the rest of the day and even perhaps the next day.
With all his various street skills blending into to each, Pak had become one of the faster urchins in his particular ghetto at the age of 11. Such was his quickness that a few of his friends (well, other kids who would tolerate him and each other for brief amounts of time) would get him to steal food and other things for them. If they had tried themselves, they would have had a lesser chance of success. Besides the fact that he just enjoyed messing with the city vendors and evading the police force, Pak's friends would also make the errands worth his while. They couldn't pay him in credits, obviously, but they had something just as good if not better--death sticks.
[The hallucinogenic drug was prevalent throughout the Outer Rim, but had also found its way to Coruscant and, subsequently, Balosar. The drug would induce a sense of euphoria before diving down and giver the user a twisted sense of reality enhanced with bright colors. Unfortunately, the heavy pollution of their homeworld of Balosar allowed them to be easily addicted to the drug, though, their natural body immunity because of the pollution allowed them to resist the other side effects of the drug (besides the addictive qualities). While other beings would gradually be killing themselves with the death sticks, Balosars just got more addicted with each subsequent dose. Beings could not recover from death-stick addiction without medical assistance.]
At first, Pak disregarded the death sticks because he was mainly robbing the vendors for his friends and because he enjoyed it. It was entirely a game to him: how far he could get and how much he could pocket before the seller noticed and called the authorities. He would gradually increase the risk and take greater chances, always relying on his speed to get him out of the way in time. He first just started with food and other necessary slum survival items for himself and his friends. But after he got better at it and his confidence swelled, he began going after bigger prey--used datapads, commlinks and other small electronic equipment. Pak had quite the racket going by the time he was 13.
However one day he did decide to take up the offer of one of his buddy's to try out the death sticks, adding the liquid drug to a beverage he had taken, ingesting it the way the rest of the group had. After the effects took hold of Pak, he felt extremely... good. Life was never better for him. His glass was always half full. A bright rainbow of colors surrounded him as he laughed and joked around with his friends. But the rainbow of colors started getting to much for him and he came down hard as the drug began to wear off. His friends immediately dosed up again and offered Pak some more with another can to immerse it in. Pak briefly thought about it, about how horrible he felt. But then he remember how awesome he had felt just an hour before after taking the death stick. He consented and poured the death stick's contents into his drink himself.
By day he would do his normal survival tricks: stealing food and other items from vendors and speeding around the city on his fleet feet before finally heading back to his "home" in the slums to bring his prizes to his friends. Then at night, in exchange for what he got them, his friends would share their deathsticks with Pak. Pak never thought to ask or wonder where they got them from. He merely need to have more of the beautiful drug to make himself feel better. As the weeks and months went by, Pak would take in more and more of the drug as his addiction gradually grew. No other side effects appeared except for this because he was a Balosar and naturally immune to its other effects, an immunity grown from his planet's harsh and polluted air.
His life had now taken on a new routine, now reaching the age of 15. Pak would gather anything for his friends, taking whatever chances and risks he had to, not thinking about any consequences except for the death sticks that would be his reward. He no longer just poured the liquid of the death sticks into a drink to enjoy the effects of the drug. In addition to that (now he would pour it into something alcoholic like beer or ale, whatever he could scavenge on the streets), sometimes he would just directly inject the vial into his arm for a quicker fix. Instead of waiting for the drug to digest with the rest of his drink and food, it would enter his bloodstream, giving him all the wonderful bright colors and rainbows immediately. He and his friends would gather around a fire built of scrap wood and pass around the vials, giggling and stoned out of their minds. Still having some small presence of mind left, this was as far as he would go, though his friends had obtained a much harder form of the drug in solid form and would either smoke the granules or inhale them. The smoking too much time, and Pak preferred the more rapid injection method. After a couple of years of taking the drug, he had had to move to pushing it through his thighs, as his arms were pretty sore with track marks by now.
Pak's life probably would have continued in this same fashion for the rest of his life if not for another stupid decision on his part. Lately (around the age of 16), the Balosar had taken to staying a bit high as he went on his treks into the higher class parts of the city to do his "shopping." Mostly due to the fact that he was taking so many the night before. The drug would be beginning to wear off, and he was mostly functional, though a bit zonked out of his mind and quite paranoid. His speed helped him more than ever now because otherwise his actions were a bit sloppy whenever he tried to snatch something and pocket it.
On one such day, he was still half high and a bit drunk, since he had drunk a few ales along with injecting himself with some of the death stick vials. Pak was scoping out some of the shops as he wandered through the much cleaner streets of the better part of the city when he came across an office that looked unfamiliar to him; he knew this city backwards and forwards, and he knew this part almost as well as he knew the slums by now. Curious, he ambled closer, trying to read the sign through his death-stick haze. Pak steadied himself and and squinted, finally rearranging the letters into a proper order. His eyes widened as he realized what the sign read. A military recruitment office? Why in all the moons would the Republic want to recruit Balosars to its cause? They were generally thought of by the rest of the galaxy as weak and spineless, due to the effects of the planet's pollution.
Thoroughly confused but still curious, he wandered into the office to check things out for himself. At the very least, maybe he could lift a couple weapons for his gang of friends before the human soldier within saw it coming. Upon entering, he was surprised to see that there were a couple other of his species within the office, deep in conversation with the soldier who seemed in charge. Trying to feign nonchalance, Pak moved off to the side off the room, reading various propaganda posters. One caught his eye, reading "Join the Republic Armed Forces: Change your Life." Coming farther down from his dosage the night before and more aware of his surroundings and own mind, he had to roll his eyes. There was no way someone like him could change his or her life. He was an orphan, a street kid. The streets were where he was born and where he would die. Nothing could ever change that. Especially now that he was a druggie and on his way to being an alcoholic as well, all at the age of 17. Before the guy in charge could see him and try his mumbo-jumbo on him, Pak left the office and headed back slowly towards the slums, making sure his path was untraceable.
That night, after he had snagged a couple datapads and some food for his buddies and himself, he sat around the fire with the rest of the guys. Feeling a bit retrospective, he shared a death-stick smoke with them as they passed it around. For once, he didn't want the quick up and down of the injected liquid. For some reason, he was pondering the poster he had seen in the military recruitment office. In the few hours since, and after he had come fully to his senses, he was actually thinking about whether his life could be changed. And now, passing the smoked death stick around, Pak was thinking about it again. Perhaps he could change his life. He obviously wasn't doing anything in that direction with his current life, he thought as he sipped a beer, waiting for his turn to inhale. It wouldn't hurt anything if he just asked a few questions the next morning. No commitment, just juvenile curiosity. Yes, he would just wander in all arrogant-like and go off at the mouth about how stupid the whole idea was--recruiting on Balosar.
And, after he had slept off his alcohol and his high, he did just that, easily finding the office again. Pak walked in jauntily, ready to give the officer a piece of his mind. Instead, when he walked out, he found himself a newly recruited member of the Republic armed forces, to ship out the next week. Stunned, he found a nearby bench to reflect on what happened inside the office. He had gone in and found the office empty except for the recruiter. But what had happened after was entirely all wrong. Instead of asking the guy what he was doing on Balosar, he found himself blurting out his life story (a fairly abridged version anyway) and talking about how he did want to change his life. How if he didn't do something now, he would just end up a 50-year-old addicted and drunk Balosar and still living on the streets, same as his group of friends. Pak pinched the bridge of his nose; maybe those drugs really were doing something to him. Or the alcohol. He wasn't thinking straight. Either way, he would probably have to report the next week. Otherwise the MPs would probably burn the city looking for him. Or at least that's what he imagined. Pak got up off the bench and headed back to tell his friends about his new life. They were high in the clouds and barely registered anything about what he said. That night Pak passed on a death stick, despite his shaking and the way the vial was calling to him. He shoved the thoughts away with extra ale and beer, drowning his sorrows in a different way.
Pak barely slept that night and the whole rest of the week; his body in a complete realm of withdrawal symptons. He was beginning to wonder if he really would be changing his life, or merely just replacing death sticks with military life. Either way, the next week he met the recruitment officer, along with three other Balosars, to travel to the nearest spaceport and go off to Coruscant for initiation classes and then boot camp.
Coruscant was a far cry from his home of Balosar. Pak was amazed at how huge the planet seemed. Though it was only of average size, the sheer mass of buildings made it look larger than it was. And the air! It was so clear here on the capital planet, though his fellow squadmates would later disagree with him. With all the industry and traffic and etc. making pollution, Coruscant was a dirty planet as well, but not as polluted as Balosar. That, Pak would agree to.
But he didn't get to see much of the planet when he first arrived. He and the other recruits were shuttled right to a base and entered into a training program (especially since he was only 17), a sort of initiation that they had to pass before being allowed to enter boot camp and basic training. It consisted of a series of aptitude tests and health exams. Without a need to study for these exams, Pak went into them without much sense of worry. After all, he hadn't really meant to sign up anyway. If he failed, he would just go back to his life on the streets. If he passed, hooray, he would go into basic training and forward onto his path to "change his life."
After about a year of this initiation and passing most of his tests with flying colors, Pak had only one obstacle to pass--his physical exam. Upon his entrance exam, the doctor had been a bit concerned about his past drug abuse; he had seen all the old and not so old track marks in his arms and on his thighs. Pak convinced the doctor that he had been clean for a year now, since he hadn't taken any death sticks since leaving Balosar. Not completely satisfied, the doctor said he would only let him through if he promised he would stay clean and also lay off on the alcohol: his liver was concerning the doctor as well. Pak grinned and agreed, assuming he would be must too busy to get flat-drunk out of his mind again.
So Pak was cleared for boot camp, just a month after his 18th birthday. Most of this time for him went fairly smoothly except for some of the physical challenges. Yes, he was quick and could run fast, but that was about it. With all his time spent on the streets doing mostly nothing except for sitting around and the occasional venture into the city, his body had mellowed out a bit. It took Pak a few months to even get close to the same physical shape that most of the guys in his barracks were at. And even so, he just couldn't develop huge muscles. Not that he wasn't in shape; he was, but in a more toned and subtle way. He was sometimes jealous of the other's bulging muscles which seemed to attract the ladies of multiple species. But knowing he would never get to their level of fitness, he focused on other things.
He poured all his frustration into running, especially sprints. Pak's ability was so much so that his commander signed him up for the annual competition between the platoons at the boot camp. His drill Sergeant had lost the previous five years and now he finally saw a chance to beat his friends. Besides Plak, he also had a decent shockball team. The day finally came for the boot camp-wide competitions. Pak's team ended up coming up short in the shockball finals, but when it came time for his 100m race, he blazed through the finish line a few paces ahead of the rest. Though his team eventually didn't win in the overall scoring, Pak's sergeant was glowing after Pak's race win. Pak was able to avoid KP duty for the whole next month because of it.
Besides his running, Pak devoted a lot of his free time to practicing on the shooting range. For some reason, a part of him enjoyed shooting off the various blasters at the faraway targets. The longer and heavier rifles were harder for him with his shorter height, but the smaller pistols were perfect for him. With not much free time to actually practice, he was by no means an expert, but he was a fair shot and in the top percent of his camp platoon.
Time finally came a couple years later for he and his platoons, and the rest at the barracks, to graduate. Pak's sarge was happy. Despite his tough routine and exams, all of his soldiers completed boot camp with satisfactory scores, and Pak was in the top 20 of them. The barracks held a brief ceremony for the soldiers to show off for the rest of the forces and afterwards family members and friend showed up to congratulate their little heroes. Pak stayed off to the side, alone, without anyone there to greet him. He just merely said farewell to the few friends he had made and headed off to what was next for him. Now that he had passed the first step, it was time for him to choose the next step--whether he would stay in the army or choose another branch. After giving it much thought, he decided he wanted to get into the Navy and try his hand at starfighters. One time when he had had a leave for a day, he had met a couple of pilots at a bar, who had regaled them with tales of their many battle adventures. It all seemed so exciting to Pak. More exciting than just being a simple infantry soldier. So he packed up his bags and transferred to the Navy barracks on Coruscant at the age of 20.
Right away, he got himself enrolled in the starfighter division of the navy and set up in a new barracks with a new group of beings. Wanting to make a good impression, he didn't get too friendly with them at the beginning. Pak really wanted to make something of his "change his life" duty to himself. So he engrossed himself in his lessons and later in his simulations. The sims were what Pak enjoyed the most because this was as close as he had gotten so far to flying a real starfighter. After six months of training with a couple different fighters, Pak was placed in a new squadron that was forming up. He was overjoyed to learn that the Blackholes would be using the new A-12 Star Hawk from Incom.
Pak got to put his new skills to use right away when his squadron was called up to join a battle in a system in the Outer Rim just days after he had joined up with them. In the squad of twelve, Pak was the wingman for the leader of the third flight. The battle was a fairly straightforward and easy one, just some backup for a cruiser debarked to settle down an uprising against the Republic, but Pak still showed off what he could do and his squad leader was impressed. Next, the Blackholes got assigned singly to a simple cleanup mission that turned out to be more: they were ambushed by a group of miscreant rebels. Two 'holes lost their lives in the mission, but Pak fought bravely, taking down three enemy fighters, tying his squad leader for the most. Taking this and his prior history with the squad into consideration, Pak's CO recommended him to take over the vacant spot of the leader of second flight along with a rank increase.
Now at the age of 22, Pak was overjoyed with this commendation. He knew he was a fair pilot but he wasn't into thinking he was an ace or anything; he left to that to the big-headed beings the made up the majority of his squad. Having a couple weeks off, due rest from their mission and loss of two friends, Pak joined some of the others at a bar nearby their base. The other pilot who had died had been a part of his flight group, a beautiful Chalactan woman who Pak had had a couple dates with. Now she was gone, and he ordered more ales than he had any right to be consuming as a respectable member of the Navy's starfighter division. But to him, it didn't even seen enough to get over the loss of her.
Over the next few years, Pak and the Blackholes continued to be involved in missions, including a few battles in the Outer Rim and closer to home, suppressing the Mandalorians and other rebel groups, like the so-called Sith. He also continued to get high praise from his commanders, moving up slowly through the ranks, his latest promotion being to that of second lieutenant.
When he wasn't on-duty or training in simulations or out at the shooting range (he knew it was good to keep up his skills, just in case), Pak could be found in various bars and clubs nearby the base in his off hours. He had an obvious knack for chatting up the ladies. Now that he wasn't on the bottom rung of the ranks, and he had a little more leeway, he had the time finally to make friends and lovers, something he never had the chance to on Balosar, since all the females he had known at home were either stoned like he was or didn't know he existed. But here, as a fighter pilot, he was just like the pair he had met earlier during boot camp. He went on and on about his amazing feats, with slight exaggeration, and the ladies went crazy for him. Pak wasn't necessarily promiscuous, but he did have his fair share of nighttime company when he went on leave.
When he reached the rank of full lieutenant, he, along with a couple of his superiors, recommended that his skills would be well-received at a new squadron that was being formed on the Navy base on Kuat. And what was better, they would be using the Venom strikefighter. Pak had almost salivated at the thought of it. He had never flown one but had seen early plans of one once and thought it the most beautiful in the world, next to a consenting female, of course. Once again, the Balosar packed up his things and was on his way to Kuat, leaving Coruscant after spending 8 years on the planet.
[See Pak's Databank thread for more of his continued adventures.]
RP Sample:
"It's a trap!" Pak Har'endanno heard yelled through the inter-squadron comm. He couldn't tell who had said because immediately afterwards there was flurry of cussing and other outcries from all twelve of the pilots. And the Balosar was one of them and the most colorfully gifted when it came to swearing. He wished again that he had ordered a special helmet to allow him full use of his antennapalps. With them retracted, they weren't quite as useful in sensing danger.
It was supposed to be a simple cleanup mission; go in and get out. Simple. But it seemed the same rebels they were there to disarm had called in reinforcements before Blackhole squadron had even come out of hyperspace. Someone had to have warned them ahead of time. But now was not a time to think of the details. This was the time to make sure no one died, and that everyone got back to their transport cruiser safely and could zip back out to their base. If they only had a few bumps and bruises, it would be a good day.
But it wasn't a good day. Far from it. Pak barrelrolled his A-12 Star Hawk, following his wingman, the leader of the third flight of Blackholes. He kept his VRF cannon firing almost constantly, warding off any threats that came their way. Most shots went wide, but a couple hit the power structure of one of the enemy fighters, a make he didn't recognize. It didn't matter; now it was completely unrecognizable and in too many pieces to bother counting.
Without missing a beat, Pak swung his fighter around to follow after his wingman. Before he found him, he saw the leader of the second flight overrun, trying to take on two enemies at once. He took his Star Hawk full speed ahead--alerting his wingmate what he was doing--but was too late: before he got there, his light winked off his display screen. Gone. One of his fellow Blackholes was gone. Whoever the enemy was, they had training, too. And they outnumbered the Blackholes 2:1.
Pak grit his teeth and turned his ship around to get back to the fray. He rejoined his wingmate and together they took down two of the enemy fighters. That was two for Pak. Gradually, he and the Blackholes were evening the odds. In his peripheral, he saw another pair of the strange enemy fighters explode. Even better odds...
Despite their bettering fortune, Pak's commander was busily getting in contact with their support ship. They needed to get out of there. There was no telling how many more traps were set down on the planet among the (mostly) innocent farms in the rural communities. The farmers were known to harbor traitors, but their intel hadn't mentioned anything about military-grade fighters on the opposite side. So it was best to just run, gather intel and go back later with reinforcements, possible a battlecruiser or two.
The Starhopper winked into existence, and one by one the Blackholes zipped inside, letting loose a few more slugs. And Pak released a missile, just for one last effect before he departed space, and got a third mark for the day for his efforts. Within the safety of their transport and hyperspace, the Blackholes could finally take a tally of the last hours. Two dead: besides the captain, another had lost her life. A Chalactan woman who had been in Pak's flight, someone he had been close to. Had to, to trust her in space. One of the few females he actually had respected because she resisted his charming advances.
It was not a good day...
***
Later that evening Pak found himself in a bar a few blocks down from their temporary base near Yaga Minor. A spot he had frequented before when he had some leave. The Blackholes were supposed to still be on duty, but with the recent deaths in their squadron, they had been given the night off.
The Balosar was drowning his sorrows deep into a mug of Corellian ale, his favorite poison as of late. It didn't quite make him feel better like death sticks used to, but alcohol didn't make him feel horrible afterwards, either. Most of the time. He sighed before gulping down the rest of the ale.
He was about to order another when he noticed someone sit down at the bar next to him. A beautiful blonde. Pak easily slid on his charming nature, easily done with a few mugs of ale in his system. And coupled with the fact that he really just needed to forget all his troubles, he started flirting with the human. And to his delight, she came back with innuendos of her own.
After buying her a drink and talking some more, she invited him back to her place. During some passion-filled hours in the woman's hotel suite, all over the suite, Pak forgot entirely about the somewhat failed mission and the losses the Blackholes had taken.
Password: Vornskr (not sure if I need it or not, but, oh well)
