Introductions

Jump to navigationJump to search

Below we have an introduction for each character introduced at the start of our tale. More will no doubt be encountered, but these were the few, the brave, the first (and some might say, the stupid).

Jarn Faron

Major Jarn Faron's career as a starfighter pilot had started off as promising as could be hoped for. He'd finished at the top of his class back in the academy, had a drawer full of commendations and was quickly working his way up the fast track towards his dream job a wing commander aboard a Mon Cal.

Of course, then had come a particular nasty misunderstanding involving a few bottles of Corellian Brandy and a Vice Admiral's youngest daughter. The end result saw him become Lieutenant Jarn Faron for the second time, along with the greatest humiliation a combat pilot can face, being forced to pilot shuttles for a living.

He'd spent much of his new found free time in the intervening three years getting reacquainted with the finer points of binge drinking, and playing a fun game where he'd send up weekly transfer requests and count the number of days it took before they came back denied. Any New Republic military form baring the name of Faron that wasn't a death certificate was going to be summarily ignored by the powers that be and he knew it, but well what else was there to do?

So, when a set of approved transfer orders unexpectedly came down the wire a week ago, it’d be an understatement to say he’d been just a little bit surprised. That surprise grew into genuine excitement when further reading showed that someone somewhere had decided to give him a second chance and put him in charge of a new experimental training unit. He’d boarded a waiting shuttle with a smile, even giving a nod to the poor bastard behind the controls who for once wasn’t him, and looked forward to a fresh start for his floundering career.

---

Approximately one week later, any excitement Jarn Faron might have previous felt about his new position had been in his mind, pretty successfully drowned out by copious amounts of whiskey.

He’d spent almost the entire week locked away in his office, primarily to avoid the baleful glares of one Maryn Nea, ship’s captain and coincidentally the eldest daughter of the same Vice Admiral who’d had such a terrible misunderstanding with him in the past.

Initially, Jarn had tried to focus on the work needed to get his new squadron off the ground, but after thumbing through the personnel files for some of his pilots, he decided they’d look a lot better viewed through the bottom of an empty shot glass or twelve.

Currently he was situated on the Hopewell's flight deck, staggering slightly as he looked for his pilots who supposedly had arrived early that morning while he was passed out under the desk in his office.


Maryn Nea

The Strike Cruiser Hopewell glided silently against the backdrop of stars silhouetting her dark, graceful lines. She was a perfect symbol of New Republic military might…..or rather she would be if not for the fact that her current gliding motion was more akin to being adrift, a situation courtesy of her malfunctioning sublight engines.

The engines, along with pretty much every other remotely significant onboard system had been prone to random failures since the day the ship had launched, leading the beleaguered techs on her maiden voyage to rechristen the ship the Hopeless. Since then the crew of the cruiser had gradually come to accept exploding power conduits and coolant leaks as a normal part of everyday life.

Currently on the ship’s bridge, Colonel Maryn Nea, Commanding Officer was rubbing her eyes to ward off an impending migraine as she struggled to deal with her ship’s newest orders, which were very much not a normal part of everyday life.

“They’ve got to be kidding” she said to no one in particular, considering the bridge crew had long ago learned that the very worst thing to do was actually acknowledge their CO in the midst of a good rant.

“The Outer Rim! I say a prayer in every religion I know every time this tub manages to make a hyperspace jump without falling apart, and now they want us to make it all the way to the flippin Outer Rim?”

A few of the more veteran members of the crew suddenly found reasons to go and check on technical readouts towards the other end of the ship, leaving the poor newly recruited souls to bear the brunt of the verbal outburst.

Colonel Nea abruptly stood up from her command chair, beginning to pace back and forth across the bridge, wildly flailing the datapad in her hand as if the information it contained might up and bite her if she gave it the chance.

“And flight training? Flight?! As in flight deck? AS IN THE FLIGHT DECK NO ONE’S EVER ACTUALLY FINISHED CONSTRUCTING?!”

The formerly clueless recruits suddenly realized it was well past their lunch break, and quietly made their way toward the exit, doing their best to avoid eye contact with the raging Colonel before them.

As the door slid closed behind the last crewman, he was just able to hear the following words before they were cut off by the thick durasteel frame.

“FARON?! THEY’RE PUTTING JARN FARRON ON MY SHIP?! OH SWEET MOTHER OF…..”


Christopher Tharen

Doctor Strangelove couldn't help but stare at the flight cadet sitting in the middle of his medical ward, a bloodied towel pressed against his face. He brings up the cadet's medical records, looking through them at a glance; before pausing and reading more. A minute or so later he raises his head, his brow furrowed heavily. 'You have got to be kidding me.' He thinks to himself before raising one hand and beckoning the young man over. "Mister Tharen?"

The cadet rises to his feet as anyone would, stepping over toward the station that Strangelove was sitting behind. He is silent as any good cadet would be; only raising his unoccupied hand to adjust the jet black helmet that adorns his head.

"What happened, exactly?" The doctor asks, not quite believing the initial report he had received minutes earlier.

"Uh... Well... I was trying to get something off the floor and bumped my face on the nose cone of the Z-95 Headhunter I've been assigned and well..."

"...That's not what I heard." The doctor interrupts, narrowing his eyes slightly at the cadet.

"I ran into my Z-95." The cadet says slowly, slightly embarrassed.

"You RAN into your Z-95?" The doctor repeats in disbelief.

"Yes, sir..." He nods slightly after the affirmation, his embarrassment growing.

"Alright... step over here and take that towel off, Mister Thar... Chris, is it?" The doctor says, knowing he would most likely be seeing this one again... frequently. "Just step over here."

"Yeah, Chris works." He steps toward the doctor, before taking a seat on the examination slab; slowly removing the towel from his face. His nose seems slightly broken, with half of his face swollen and bruised. The doctor is slightly taken aback by the injury, having expected a bloody nose or something simple.

"...Exactly how hard did you hit the ship?"

"I was run..." The cadet stops and suddenly grins from ear to ear, brandishing his teeth. "Haha... run... I like runnnnning." He bounces once in his seat. "I wanna run more! I wanna run more! I wanna run more!" After a few moments of downright staring from the doctor Christopher stops bouncing, his face going stoic again.

"So can you take care of this, sir? I need to get back to my duties." Christopher suddenly says, completely flat.

Strangelove had seen strange things in his life as a doctor, had patched up hundreds of pilots coming back from missions... but never something quite as unique as this man. "I'll... uh... right... Give me a moment..." His skilled hands quickly patch up the cadet's bloodied nose before injecting a neurostim into his neck to control the bruising. After a few more pricks and pokes with various instruments to assure that no further permanent damage had been done to the young cadet, the Doctor motions for him to dismount the slab. "You're all set... try to be more careful."

The cadet suddenly grins again from ear to ear and wraps his arms around the doctor, hugging him. "Thank you!! You're very niiice!" The cadet says before stepping back. He shakes his head slightly. "Thank you sir!" He salutes and walks out of the infirmary at a brisk military pace.

Almost as quickly, the doctor leaps back to his console to bring up the cadet's full medical records... and take a stiff swig of a container he keeps hidden under his desk.

---

Minutes later, the doctor sits flabbergasted at his console, his jaw slightly slackened. His right finger moves from line to line through the medical reports for one Christopher Tharen. A young pilot of 21, Christopher had been a decent pilot for the New Republic 314th Strike Fleet. On a routine escort flight the convoy he was attached to was ambushed by an Imperial Victory I-class Star Destroyer. His flight was able to easily dispatch the Imperials and drive off the Star Destroyer. Feeling cocky, the young pilot rammed his X-wing into an enemy TIE Fighter at maximum acceleration...

He awoke three days later in the medical ward on the Nebulon-B Medical Frigate 'Lotus'. While able to save him, the medical droids and doctors onboard the frigate were unable to remove a piece of the TIE's radiator panel sticking out of the top of his head, cleanly penetrating his skull and slicing into his brain. Using the latest in medical technology they were able to fabricate a special flight helmet for him to keep the radiator panel from causing permanent damage. Unfortunately, a side effect of the impact and injury causes him to lose his mental control from time to time... The effect on his flight was minimal; and he was assigned to remedial starfighter training to assure his ability to pilot a starfighter was still intact. Medically approved, he was assigned to the Hopewell during the past week, and is scheduled to serve for a very, very, long time.

Doctor Strangelove closes the medical record while taking another long swig from his flask. Rubbing his temples, he sighs. "...I am going to be seeing that kid more often... I need a bigger flask..."


Hoozier Dahdi & Mahboob Ishari

"Jarn Farron? Must be quite a guy to have the Colonel worked up like that." "I dunno, but I could really go for a sammich." "Ooooh yeah, a sammich."

The banter continued between the two recruits as they made their way to the bar, conveniently open at all times. Luckily, the ship had two backup systems dedicated to keeping power to the bar, so even in the midst of a total systems failure, the bar could be kept running for...oh, seven years.

Flight Cadet Hoozier Dahdi strolled in first, followed by another cadet by the name of Mahboob Ishari. Hoozier, of Corellian descent, slid into a stool at the bar, eyeing up the slender form of the bartender. Deep blue eyes crawled up and down that curvaceous figure, wet tongue raking across tender lips as he focused on the bartender's firm chest and ample rear. Before his gaze went any further, however, Mahboob's hand slapped his shoulder. "Come on, give DUI-40 your order already!" Whoops, that's awkward!

After giving their subsequent orders to the droid, they eagerly awaited the intoxicating sustinence that would keep them going for the next few hours of their shift. It was easy to say that the bar was the nicest area on the entire ship, especially with the GAPING HOLES AND UNFINISHED DECKS RAMPANT ACROSS THE ENTIRE SHIP! Ah, crap, I went off on a tangent again. Anyways, Mahboob eyed up an actual human female, hair streaming down her back, eyes that you could get lost in, a rack that you could cure meat on, and a rear end like a Star Destroyer. Okay, maybe not THAT big, but it was nice nonetheless.

A few swigs of his beverage were taken before Mahboob got up the courage to walk up to the gorgeous female, his eyes never leaving her boo........tiful face. His smile could melt ice, and he started to use that charm on her.

"Hello, gorgeous, what's your sign? Slippery when wet? Yield? Dangerous Curves?"

"What the hell are you doing?"

"I'm just trying to become more acquainted with you."

"Do you REMEMBER who I am?"

"Uh...we've met before?"

"You dumbass, I'm Colonel Nea, your commanding officer. Remember?!"

"Oh...have we met before?"

"Yes, I just yelled at you on the bridge!!"

"Ah, right. Umm...who are you again?"

With a yell of exasperation, Colonel Nea stormed out of the bar, a puzzled look taking over Mahboob's face as he made his way back to the seat next to Hoozier. "You know, she looks kind of familiar." "Yeah, but she's probably a lesbian anyway." "Good point, dude."


Derrek O'Sullivan

Derrek O'Sullivan glanced about the flight deck... What there was of it. He shuddered to think that he'd be... flying off of this. As he debarked the shuttle he'd flown in on, he couldn't help but wonder how it was that a fresh flight cadet who performed reasonably well during his initial flight training could get assigned to this... heap.

He only hoped that his squadronmates and his commanding officers would turn out to be better than this pile of scrap.

He hadn't heard too much about them- he'd only completed flight training three weeks ago, and had spent the last two weeks in hyperspace to link up with the Hopewell. What he had heard was a mass of conflicting information. It was said his new instructor was supposed to be an expert pilot. It was also said that he'd been busted back from a much higher rank, and was an incompetent buffoon. He wasn't sure what to believe.

...If he only knew what he was getting himself into...

As he briskly strode away from the shuttle, Derrek shouldered his duffelbag, and looked for SOMEONE to report in to...


Iskander Tamarack

Iskander Tamarack stood in front of the judge, ready to face the facts and just head off to jail. He’d run out of luck. Fuck it, he pondered, jail couldn’t be all that bad. Least he’d get the holo-net and 3 meals. He was resigned to his fate. The judge looked him up and down.

“Mr Tamarack, you’ve burned enough bridges around here for me to suggest locking you up for a good portion of the best years of your life…but I’m a forgiving man. We’re at war here, and we need every man we can get to sign on the dotted line. That’s why I’m glad your lawyer suggested that you’d be willing to trade prison for military service. The discipline should do you some good. I hope to never see you again here. You’ll be shipping out later today. Good luck, son.”

Iskander had been winking at one of the nearby jurors, a young woman in her mid twenties, making various signs for “call me,” completely ignoring the judge. That’s when his lawyer nudged him back to reality.

“Wait a fucking second? Militar…..” His lawyer nudged him again, this time a bit harder. He was fucked now. 3 square in jail sure as hell beat 3 square fighting in some mudhole or in the void of space. Shit, sometimes they didn’t even get 3…and what the fuck was wrong with his lawyer? That motherfucker sold him up the creek.

His lawyer smiled a devious smile. “You’re check bounced, have fun in wildspace.”

Iskander’s blood rose to boiling, and there was no one that could stop him quickly enough. In seconds he was on top of his ex-defender, wailing on his face with both hands until teeth and blood were flying everywhere. “I’ll kill you, you fucking douche.”

It took about 20 tasers to shut him down and he was thrown onto a shuttle for basic within the hour…but she did call him…

Iskander stood in front of his unit CO, smoking a cigarette while starring vapidly at the no-smoking sign. He’d been standing before a lot of douches lately. Perhaps this was his lot in life. He was trying desperately to get kicked out of this basic star fighter training, but his damn scores were fairly good, despite his attempts to just wash out…either that, or they just needed some bodies strapped to engines to send out there into the mix. His CO huffed and sighed, the same old routine.

“Cadet, we have a videotape of you selling your Awing’s circuit boards planetside for banned substances and whiskey. I don’t know what to say…”

“I might suggest kicking my ass out of the unit and maybe sending me to jail.” He avoided the customary sir, hoping anything might up his chances of leaving this shitshow. On the brightside, military jails were even cushier than regular prisons.

“No cadet, we can’t afford to lose a pilot of your caliber, you’ve done amazingly well on your tests, when your ship actually has all its parts to fly. We’re sending you out with a very special ship. You’ll get your orders within the week. Until then, yes, you’ll be spending some time in the brig.”

“Sweet.” At the thought of some peace and quiet, he turned around and let the military police escort him to his new bed.

At the bar of the “Hopeless,” Iskander was already scamming drinks off some off the ship’s crew. Pilots always have more charisma than the various sensor losers and engineers and shield adjusting fucks. They saw hanging around with him as their opportunity to get with some of the female ship crewmembers in the bar, his charisma and pilot status drawing them in. Iskander saw it as a chance to get them to buy drinks for him and the women, and then let him go off with those same girls.

He looked around the bar and smiled, “This might beat prison….”


Pags Matris

Pags Matris walked along the unfinished Strike Cruisers deck, wondering to himself how he had be assigned to this ship. He hadn't done anything wrong that he knew of, and had passed within the top 25 of his class. He kept walking, thinking to himself as he passed an officer and forgot to salute.

"YOU! Pilot stop, and come to attention now!" the officer said as he stopped and turned to look straight at Pags.

Pags immeditaly come to attention. "Sey ris, tahw I od?"

"What the hell did you just say??" the officer said glaring at Pags.

"Ris, I ksa tahw I did ris!"

"Son you better start talking basic or I am going to though you out of a airlock!"

Pags gulped for a second and then responded "Ris, I ma kaeps cisab ris!

The officer stared at Pags for a long moment and then just walked away "What kind of idiots did they put on this ship?"

Pags watched the officer walk away and shruged. *Damnit what did I do now???* He continued walking down the corridor, still wondering why he was on this ship


J.B. Fizzwinkle

Born of noble descent, J.B. Fizzwinkle the Third knew he would be good at everything he did, after all he was nobility. At the age of 21 J.B. was forced to join the Military, which he was very much opposed to, but after what happened he had no choice. See, J.B. was caught in a political scandal, and the only way out of it was either death, or the military. Any other option would have brought shame to the family, and the lack of any inheritance. J.B. is not going to give up his money, so he went to the military.

The written tests to the military were a bore to J.B., he was so arrogant that when his tests came back almost perfect, he demanded that they let him be an officer now and forgo any further training. The only thing he wasn't good at was that his piloting skills left a lot to be desired. To further assist J.B. in his training they set him up in simulators and eventually on the real thing. Slowly, J.B. got the hang of flying and eventually started to like it. His arrogance and lack of courtesy with every one made life difficult for him, for you see he didn't understand why people don't salute him more often, he deserved it after all. Eventually he started to figure out that if make these people happy, you can manipulate them to do your bidding. However, he learned to late. He was called to his CO's office for some rather distressing news.

"J.B., you've been assigned to the Hopewell, it's a training ship designed to perfect your skills as a pilot and a member of the military. You leave in the morning."

"Oh, so I am finally going for officer training, and getting my own ship as well. This is wonderful, thank you, Sir."

"You misunderstood J.B., they will be training YOU, there are still some things you need to learn. Now, I suggest you get packing son, you don't have much time. Dismissed!"

Upset, but having enough common sense to hide it, J.B. saluted and walked out and headed for his bunk to make preparations to transfer to the Hopewell. *Why don't these people understand that I'm better than they are? I could be running this place if it wasn't for daddy screwing things up for me.*

The next morning came and had J.B. entering the shuttle taking him to the Hopewell. "Take me to my new home pilot." J.B. said to the shuttle pilot in a very demeaning tone. "Aye sir." The shuttle ride was a long but uneventful trip, uneventful until they tried to dock on the Hopewell. It seems the landing bay wasn't entirely finished, so upon entering the shuttle made a safe, but shaky landing. It was also very short, the shuttle pilot wasted no time helping J.B. off into the ship and escaping.

Once on the Hopewell, J.B. tried to find anyone who would carry his bags to his new room. Looking around, he was hard pressed to find anyone at all to talk to. To J.B. he thought everyone was off preparing his new suite, so he didn't mind doing some manual labor and decided to carry his own bags for once. Heading towards the nearest computer terminal to find out exactly where everyone is and where his new room is.

"Landing bay isn't completed, and the computer doesn't work. Just how do these people expect me to live anyway?" Gathering his things, J.B. walks off in search of anyone on board this ship.


Joseph Reynolds

The subject of this brief personal history would comment, only if prompted, on their progress through life to date as, “Still trying to find himself.” Anyone who knew him, or for that matter looked at him, would give the slightly different opinion that he was, in fact, an abject failure.

From the tender age of six Joseph Reynolds had been constantly frustrating and disappointing his father, William Reynolds, a well to do entrepreneur who dealt mostly in shipping and specialised delivery. Despite good teachers and insistent prompting from his parents, Joseph did not do well in the realms of academia. He wasn’t much liked by his peers, but there were one or two that didn’t regularly try to stove his head in with various pieces of classroom equipment, and those few knew him as Jo. With them he formed steadfast bonds of agreement not to hit each other and they remained in correspondence for some time, mainly attempting to call on or shirk off various debts and favours.

At the age of seventeen his father took him out of school and as a last resort decided to bring him into the family business and have him trained as a specialist delivery pilot, leaving him in the capable hands of his best and most trusted instructor. After many offsets that extended his training period of a year to two and a half, breaking a total of thirty eight bones and several ships (the exact number appears to have been covered up in the company archives), Jo’s instructor deemed him ready to take his delivery flight, graduating him into the company’s pilot corps with no honours and some unhealed scar tissue.

Joseph was to deliver a package of great importance to his father, a piece of invaluable art that would stand in exhibition at the centre of his new venture, a state of the art cruise liner. Jo made company record time, flying his retrofitted snub fighter through a small asteroid field and plotting a hyperspace course that shaved off a few minutes from the standard jump calculations used by most employees. His father’s eye had twitched several times upon being informed of his arrival, more so when he came within visual range, those near thinking themselves capable of understanding the emotions he was going through as a proud parent; what little they knew.

The reports of the incident are still sketchy at best. Local authorities are yet to gather all the statements and indeed recover all the bodies, although what is certain is that Joseph Reynolds somehow managed to find a weak spot on his father’s mammoth ship and smash his snub fighter into it at high velocity. On the rescue ship, in front of all the crew and other rescued passengers, William Reynolds disavowed and disowned his son, after which his left eye was seen to twitch a great deal more before he marched into the craft’s cockpit and sealed the door behind him, never to see his son again.

Jo did not fair well alone. He received a little money from his mother, but lost most of it through muggings, the odd stint of gambling and reparations (which he is still paying off) for ships he would damage upon trialling for companies looking for pilots.

In the end, a bleak future ahead of him, Jo decided that the best course for him and the galaxy as a whole was to do what was right, to move on to a more noble cause, a purpose greater than he himself; to sign up for the NR military and pay off his debts.

Jo’s cadet profile shows him to be physically 23 years of age, with a face that is not unpleasant to look and could be construed as ruggedly handsome if viewed in bad light and through thick beer goggles. His eyes are blue and while not piercing, do not appear sappy or lifeless. His frame is broad, yet not filled out and he stands at six feet and one inch tall, although it is said he spends most of his time sitting or lying down.

---

Major Dunstable looked up from the informal intelligence briefing he had before him. He recognised the sardonic prose and wondered at the officer whom he assumed had written it, one whom he knew from a past life, somewhat saddened that such potential and previous acts of fealty to the Rebellion had gone to waste, reporting on the likes of this candidate rather than the secrets of the Empire.

The youth fidgeted slightly, but met the Major’s gaze squarely as he notice it fall upon him. Dunstable looked at him more closely, taking note of the well tailored yet drab and worn clothes. Jo sat with his legs spread slightly, hands clasped together, his frame slumped slightly in the chair. Dunstable raised an eyebrow,

“It states on your record that you have well over two thousand hours of flight in various snubfighter craft types? That’s quite impressive for a non-com who’s been flying for as short a time as you have.”

The youth shifted in the chair, sitting more upright, an almost relieved look about him, “Yes sir, that’s correct.”

“Good. Perhaps then you could clarify something for me; despite your logged flight time, I see you have only twelve logged landings. Is that correct?”

Joseph swallowed hard, the colour draining from his face slightly. Dunstable kept his polite yet quizzical gaze firmly on him and Jo shifted once more in his seat, managing to mumble, “I haven’t quite mastered that part yet.”

Dunstable’s face remained emotionless, taking no small effort on his part. He looked down at the datapad once more as if to study something. A thought struck him; the lad had passed the required reflex tests and this little discrepancy must have gone unnoticed by any of the bean counters for him to reach this stage in the process. He smiled broadly and looked up at Jo, who in turn shifted uncomfortably.

“I think I have just the thing for you son. You’ll do fine in the fighter corps, yes.” He paused for a moment, as if considering something, “I think you’d do best as an Xwing pilot. Your instructors will finalise that decision of course, but I’ve an X-wing oriented course in mind. I’m assigning you to an old colleague of mine and I’m sure he’ll be glad to have someone with your flight time.”

Jo beamed at the Major, “Thank you sir, thank you.”

“No need son, now just sit tight while I push a few buttons and send you on your way.” His smile widened, “Your CO and instructor will be a Lieutenant Jarn Faron. Please do pass on my regards and greet him with my compliments.”

“Oh yes sir, I’d be happy to sir.”

The Major finished with the datapad and then looked up again, his face a picture of sincerity, “There, all set. There’s a shuttle that leaves on the hour, be sure not to miss your flight.” He passed over a data cylinder, “Here are your assignment orders and travel pass, you’ll be assigned your gear and billet upon arrival at your place of instruction, the Strike Cruiser Hopewell.”

“A ship, sir?”

“Yes son, a ship, you should count yourself lucky to be one of the few trained on one.”

Jo stood at the Major’s gesture, data cylinder in hand, “Thank you sir.”

“Welcome to the fighter corps son, good luck..”

Joseph nodded, beaming, “Thank you sir.”

When the recruit had gone the Major placed his elbow on the desk and lowered his forehead into his hand, doing his best to stifle the noise that seemed to be attempting to escape his nose and mouth, then added under his breath, “You’re gonna need it.”

‘Ah Faron, I don’t mean to kick you while you’re down.’ He thought, ‘But I find sometimes, I just can’t resist.’

His data pad beeped, alerting him to the fact a new recruit was ready to be seen to. The Major pressed a virtual button on the pad to acknowledge and waited to see what type of moron would be sent to him this time.


Links

Characters:

None 'writer' characters:

Retrieved from "http://wiki.rebelsquadrons.org/index.php?title=Introductions&oldid=14699"