Jora is blasting music in her helmet and singing. But the external speakers on her helmet are turned on.

Jora snickers audibly as Nine-Eight refers to the General as a nerf herder. The pun doesn’t go unnoticed, either. I like this one.

Jora’s ship is a modestly armed small freighter--borrowed from a friend--and she leads the ARC trooper aboard and into the cockpit. A message waits for them on the dash.

“Huh,” Jora hums and opens the message. “Oooo. Nine-Eight, look.” She points to the message and grins. “Possible link to the Seps. How about that.”

She supposes Jedi knew what they were doing. Sometimes. Perhaps as far as shab’la jetii went, the Huge Bearded One wasn’t so bad. “Speaking of Seps, you’re not going to want to waltz around Lower City in that rig. I brought some options for your wardrobe change.”

“You flatter me, ma'am.”

The tone in Alpha-98’s words do speak with a tone of humility. Although Jora can’t see it, Alpha-98 blushes under his helmet.

While Alpha-98 didn’t quite know the emotional thresholds for his fellow ARC troopers, he knew for himself that a good smile was a rare thing. But the fact that this little Mandolorian woman was able to coax not only a smile, but a short chuckle? While he also doesn’t know too much about her, Alpha-98 come to the quick realization that he and Jora will make a good team. Realizing that Jora has extended her hand in a gesture of greeting, Alpha-98 extends his own. Gripping Jora’s hand in a firm grip, he nods.

“I won’t call you Shabuir, so I hope you’ll put up with Jora. As for my name, I don’ have one, so you’ll have to call me by my designation; Alpha-98. If that’s too much of a tongue twister, simply 98 will do.”

Pulling his hand after giving a firm shake Alpha-98 retracts his hand, placing it at his side. Thats when he addresses Jora’s lack of mission knowledge. It’s not entirely unknown for the brass to keep their operators in the dark, and while Alpha-98 is aware of this, he’s not entirely sure if the contractor is aware. Shrugging shortly, Alpha-98 speaks.

“General Zey often keeps mission info on a need-to-know basis. It’s nothing personal, only war. To be entirely honest with you, all I know is probably all you know, and I’m the sorry Nerf Herder running this op.”

Gesturing to the direction of the hangar, Alpha-98 gestures to the direction of the hangar deck with his helmet .

“Come on,” he says, “we can talk more on our way to the insertion zone.”

Nothin’. Jora noted the Senator’s lack of response with a private smile behind her helmet. That was okay. All of those political types had secrets. Jora liked talking about herself, anyway.

“I live about 100 klicks outside of Mandalore’s capital city Keldabe. My parents have a ranch property out there. When I was young, they... had to leave for a job that kept them for a while.” Ten years, to be exact. “So mom’s sister raised me. Anyway, the ranch is nothing special, but it’s ours.”

A blip on her HUD caused her to push off from the wall she was leaning against. She tensed for a moment before remembering who she was with. “Hey, Senator. Wanna get out of here?”

“Not giant reptilian beasts, no.” She paused, sipping her caf. It was actually civil war– and a system full of Shaanites that hated her enough to put her head on a pike. She felt for their plight and she wanted to help them, but she couldn’t– not publicly, anyway. 

It was a dangerous road to walk alone. And tiring, too.

“Where do you come from?” She changed the subject before the conversation could delve any deeper. Jora didn’t need to know about it. “This small town, I mean. Where is it?”

clone troopers + taking off their helmets

[Kicks the thing because it is not working.]

“’Ma’am’?” Jora laughs and stops herself after half a beat, resuming the usual half-smirk that usually graced her features. “I’m Jora. I also answer to hey, you and shabuir. Well met, Corporal.” She holds out a gloved hand to him.

Aunt Verda’s hesitance to allow Jora to have a working relationship with the GAR had not gone unnoticed by Jora, or her parents. It was rare for the small Mandalorian to be concerned for anyone, or anything, but herself. They were never given a choice, Verda insisted about the clones. Everyone should have a choice.

Jora is young for a human, but as a Mandalorian, she is expected to be a skilled fighter and leader. She feels like only one of those things. She tilts her head to Xiphos, inviting him to walk with her. “Yeah, the General passed along what intel he had. Which is not a lot. You’d think the man would know more about what’s going on in the Republic’s front yard.”

Jora found out rather quickly that the clones were more than just fully trained soldiers. Perhaps it should not have surprised her that these men would present the way they did--polite, often curt, at first, but full of personality. She had to chastise herself for even thinking they would be anything but.

She angles a smile up at the Corporal. “Not to say your command staff is useless, but they are Jedi. They’re lucky to have you.”  

​                    Triple Zero, 0400 hours.                                                                      

                                                                             Alpha(ARC Trooper)-98 is awake before the summoning chime blips. Awake before the automated shutters whir open, taking in the fullness of Coruscant’s endless neon signs. Pulling himself up, Alpha-98 lays his head into his hands and rubs away the tired from his eyes. It’s clear that Alpha-98 is bothered, a concept as new to him as rain on Tatooine. He’s not sure what aspect of the mission that bothers him, but as he pulls himself  he realizes that this unease serves as little more than a distraction, and as Jango Fett himself taught, “Distractions earn you a body bag.” Needless to say, Alpha-98 didn’t have much of a desire to earn himself a body bag, so he does what he can to push the hindering thoughts, if even for a moment. Moving to the other side of his quarters, Alpha-98 opens his footlocker, and dons his under-armor body glove. Recollecting himself a final time, Alpha-98 leaves the comfort of his quarters.                                            

                                                             Walking down the various corridors to the base’s armory, Alpha-98 recalls the mission objectives in his mind. The plan itself was simple enough, get into the underworld, report to the Parade Ground at 0500, go Coruscant’s underworld, wipe out some spice dealers and call it a day. But what was the need to send Special Ops into the underworld? Wasn’t there the police or regular clones for this brand of operation? Why waste a high level asset such as an ARC? Though the point had been argued in the briefing, (much to the chagrin of master Zey) higher brass had seen this deployment as a ‘scare tactic’ to any criminals or cartels that would ‘dare sully the Republic’s capital’. Was this what lead to the disease in Alpha-98′s mind? The simple fact it returns is enough for him to shake his head, physically whisking away the unease in his mind. Turning down another hallway, Alpha-98 reads a chronometer as he nears the entrance to the armory.      

                                                0415 hours.                                

                                     Seeing how his flawed mindset already lowers his efficiency, Alpha-98 enters the armory with all due haste. Moving to his locker, Alpha-98 begins to don his orange trimmed armor. Piece by piece, Alpha-98′s black form becomes encompassed in white and orange. What is once a man becomes a symbol; one of hope and justice for the people of the Republic, and a symbol of retribution and righteous vengeance for those who would do the Republic and it’s citizens harm. Synchronizing and starting up his armor’s computer, he takes another check at the chronometer.   

                                0430 hours.               

                    While Alpha-98 may have his armor on and ready, he is only missing one piece of equipment- his modified Westar M5 Blaster Rifle. Fine tuned to meet Alpha-98′s exact standards, the most evident being the replacement of standard under barrel grenade launcher being replaced by a much more practical (at least to Alpha-98) flame thrower. Due to his rifle’s high maintenance, it was often held at the R&D complex on base. While it was on the way to the Parade Ground, it’s still a detour nonetheless. Double timing his pace, Alpha-98 begins the short hike to R&D.0445 hours.At least, that’s what the time reads as he enters the R&D building. After some small banter with the technician in charge of his weapon, Alpha-98 has regained possession of his his treasured weapon. (Or pieces, as safety protocol dictated.) Making all due haste to the Parade Ground, Alpha-98 realizes the banter wasn’t as small as he took it to be, as the chronometer reads

                 0455 hours.

        Setting down the hand crate which held his rifle, Alpha-98 pulls his bucket on. Seals click and hiss as his armor equalizes the pressure between the outside. Fully encased within his armor, Alpha-98 recalls exactly whom he’s supposed to meet at the Parade Ground. Not much in the way of a name, Master Zey informed Alpha-98 that he was looking for a colorful Mandalorian. He supposes she shouldn’t be too hard to locate, given the fact she’s one of the few in regulation white or blue. Finally reaching the Parade Ground, Alpha-98 reads his chronometer a final time.0459 hours.A flash of anxiety flashes through Alpha-98 at the thought of being late and compromising the mission, but he notices the colorful form of Mandolorian Armor. Sighing in relief, he notices the chronometer click a final time.0500 hours.As Alpha-98 walks closer to the Mandalorian woman, she addresses him first. Smiling under his helmet, Alpha-98 nods and replies to the pilot.“Yes ma'am. General Zey filled you in on the details, did he not?”

w h y were they banned from the coffee shops….. I MUST KNOW….. UNBELIEVABLE

GOOD MORNING, JORA. ACCORDING TO YOUR SCHEDULE, TODAY IS @#$% YEAH WEEKEND.

nuhhh. shut up, datapad.

YOU KNEW YOU WOULD SAY THAT. PLEASE ENJOY THIS 10 HOUR SOUNDBYTE OF BANTHA LOVE-MAKING.

SHAB. [Jora rolls out of bed and grabs the datapad, frantically tapping the screen until the alarm was turned off.] I am too good at this whole ‘waking up’ thing.

Triple Zero, 0500 Hours It was well before sunrise. Contrary to popular belief, Jora was actually a morning person. With her helmet clipped to her belt and arms folded, she waited idly on the GAR parade grounds as instructed by the Huge Bearded Jedi. He’ll find you was the only advice he gave for finding her passenger.

Jora looked down at her brightly painted kit, then thought about her pink hair and smirked. Oh, yeah. Stuck out like a sore thumb.

An ARC trooper seemed to be walking in her direction. She waved a hand at him. “Heard you needed a ride, soldier.”

ooc

Keep reading

“Uggghhh. What? That was literally the most boring question I’ve ever heard in my entire life. Do your brothers call you the boring one?” Jora throws back the rest of her drink with only a minor wince. “They should.”

“What percentage of your nights would you estimate are spent in jail? Just give me a ballpark figure.” Now she’s got him drinking too. Not because he wants to, per se, but because he feels the need for alcohol in his system with Jora around.

“What’s this? A jetii with a sense of humor? Hold everything. What’s your name, pateesa?”

“Ah, yes, there it is. I feel my life force flowing towards the dark side. I am tainted by this simple conversation forever. What will the Council do with me? Oh no.”

"Hey, does "vod an" apply to ALL Mandalorians or just males? Whats Mando'a for "sister"?"

“Vod is vod is vod. Brother, sister, guy from the service shop who always throws in something extra. I think your aruetii word is ‘mate.’ Clear as mud?”

“I’d fight everybody in the drunk tank.” She pauses before accepting her drink back. “No, I take that back. I’d need at least three more of these,” she raises her glass, “to do that. And anyway, they’d have to catch me first.”

He pauses, takes a sip, and then holds it up for her.

“If I felt like being a good person, I might withhold that alcohol from you. But I’m not really in the mood for public service, so by all means– go get acquainted with the local drunk tank.”

She points a finger at his face, even though he’s not paying attention. “I will fight anybody who pisses me off!” The week had just started and she was probably up to three people so far. When she turned back to confront the offender, he was long gone.

“Aw... shab. Okay, I’ll take my drink back.”

“How many people are you going to fight this week?”

He takes her drink without so much as glancing up from his datapad.

“You know what? That’s it--I’ve had it.                          Hold my drink.”

Eh, I’ll pretend to be anybody to get into a party... C-Sec may or may not know who I am, though.

You’re old enough so sure. 

If C-Sec asks, you’re my niece visiting from the homeworld.