Strike Adrella-Highwing

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Member Profile
Strike Highwing
Career Information
Callsign Strike
Full RS Name Strike Adrella-Highwing
Rank Captain
Current Status Active
Current Station CRS Ad Astra
Other Current Positions Phalcun 3, VSG
Personal Information (fictional)
Homeworld Alderaan
Species Human
Gender Male
Age 24
Personal Information (Real Life)

Captain Strike Adrella-Highwing, FireClaw 12, is a member of the Rebel Squadrons.

Identification

Biography

Strike took a deep breath, inhaling the crisp fresh air. He opened his eyes. The vast city square he was standing in was beautiful, the ferrocrete paths drawing your attention to the several wondrous monuments dedicated to the heroes and history of the past. The gardens that lined the paths were simple and elegant, and as the seasons changed, so did the colours of the flowers and shrubs that were seemingly encased by the immaculate grassy lawns that surrounded them. Going into the new season, the flowers had gone into multiple shades of dark purple to ensure that they absorbed enough sunlight to survive the winter. The shrubs had lost the light red berries that in the summer and early autumn had been so plentiful that the branches seemed to bend with the weight. Instead they were covered in dark blue buds that would drink up the rains of the winter and protect the seedlings of the berries for the next year’s yield of fruit. No matter where you turned, the beauty of Aldera’s gardens was inescapable.

Strike looked up, and marvelled at the buildings that were spread about past the confines of Aldera Square. The tall curved towers looked as organic as the gardens around him, like huge trees reaching to the heavens for sunlight. Even though he had seen them almost every day, they still inspired awe within him. To top off the vista, the backdrop of Aldera was a range of high snow-capped mountains, stretching away into the distance. Just behind the mountains, the sun was beginning to set, casting a rosy orange and red tint over the gardens, city, and mountain ranges. Strike loved dusk the most, because of the vibrant colours that were cast all over the surroundings. He closed his eyes, took another deep breath, and listened to the sounds that echoed through the Square. The birds chirped to one another, the sounds of footsteps and the conversations of the people all around him. The sounds of life.

He opened his eyes and looked to his left. His father, Kirth Highwing, stood next to him with his arm around Strike’s older sister Lyrissa. She was tall, blonde, and stunningly beautiful – just like her mother. Strike turned to his right. His mother was in her mid fifties now, but still retained the beauty that Strike had seen in the holo’s from his parents wedding ceremony, which had actually taken place in the summer gardens at the northern end of Aldera Square. His mother was looking skyward, as were his other family members. Strike looked up. The setting sun was less intense, and as Strike watched he saw why. A small disc seemed to be eclipsing the right hand side of the Alderaanian sun. Strike squinted, trying to get a better view. He had seen an eclipse when he had travelled to Avirandel with his mother a few years ago specifically for the purpose. But Alderaan had no moons; it shouldn’t have been able to have an eclipse. An unexplainable feeling of dread began to fill Strike, and as he looked to his mother, she too looked scared.

Strike looked back towards this strange eclipse. It seemed to hover in place. All other sounds seemed to fade away, as if the entire city had come to a halt in light of this impossible event. A thin beam of green light suddenly lunged from the disc and struck the planet’s surface well behind the snow-capped mountains. The explosion was unmistakable, casting a huge fireball easily a hundred kilometres high into the atmosphere, and seemed to rip the sky apart. The ground began to shake so violently that many of the surrounding buildings toppled, killing thousands instantly. Cracks began to appear and grew so quickly that entire suburbs of the city disappeared under the planets molten crust within seconds. As quickly as the beam of green light appeared, it stopped. The explosion however continued to grow. A massive wall of flame and debris enveloped the mountains, turning the snow into vapour. Then the delayed sound hit. A tremendously loud rumble filled his ears, drowning out people’s screams or terror. Strike looked to his family, who were rooted in place. He tried to yell for them to run, but found he had no voice. His feet felt like lead. He couldn’t move. He looked at his mother, who was now looking at him instead of their impending doom. She smiled her beautiful smile, the one that had always cheered him up, no matter how glum he may be. At that moment, the devastation hit. His mother, sister and father were all ripped away from him by the pressure wave preceding the flames, while he remained stuck to the ground. He lunged to catch them, arm outstretched to try and pull them back. He watched as their broken, twisted bodies tumbled through the air, lifelessly. Then the fire swallowed them. “NOOOOO!”

Strike sat bolt upright in his sleeping cot. He was sweating profusely but was freezing cold. He felt weak, dizzy, afraid. He heard a concerned warble come from across the room. “I’m ok Torch, just a nightmare.” Strike knew he wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep after such a terrifying dream. He swung his legs from the cot, gathered his strength, and moved to the forward cabin of his family’s YT-1300 transport, the Redeemer. Torch, his R2-T9 astromech droid, rolled in after him, and moved towards the co-pilot’s chair to plug into a socket on the side of the console.

“We’re still a few hours from Corellia Torch, you monitor things from up here. Think I’ll go tinker with the targeting computer on the quad lasers, they’ve been wonky for weeks.” Strike was still feeling extremely queasy and had to stop in the galley area for a while and sit down. He’d never experienced anything like this from a dream before. Or anything for that matter. He finally made it to the upper gunnery pod and began working on the computer. Would really play havoc if we ended up in a firefight with a targeting computer that thought that leading a target meant shooting 10 metres behind it. And unfortunately firefights were becoming more and more common, as the Empire forced the desperate into piracy through a lack of any other option. Even freighters with legitimate contracts were being boarded and seized, their crews charged and heavily fined for the most minor of offences. Their ships impounded, and no other way to make the credits to pay the fines legally or feed their families, what was a person to do?

After a lot of swearing, hitting the side panelling of the console and fiddling, the computer seemed to have been mostly fixed when the comm beeped and a series of whistles followed it. “We’re there?” What sounded like an affirmative beep made Strike put his tools down. “Ok, I’ll be there shortly.” As he was heading down the ladder, Strike once again wondered how it was that even though no-one he knew spoke whistle-and-beep, everyone knew what an astromech was getting at.


As soon as Strike pulled the Redeemer back to normal space, the comm went haywire. Several recorded messages were sitting waiting for him, as were several Holonet reports. He put the messages to the side, and pulled up the holo’s. “A new casualty of unimaginable proportion in the Galactic Civil War. Cowardly Rebels have struck out against the innocent, showing that no one is safe from their desire for war.” Strike’s feeling of uneasiness returned in earnest. “Using unknown means, the Rebellion has detonated warheads of incredible power, destroying the entire planet of Alderaan!” What! “These images have just come in from Imperial forces that arrived too late to stop the catastrophe.” The news reader stopped talking, allowing viewers to try and comprehend the sheer scale of destruction. Strike looked at the screen, seeing no green or blue, no planet, nothing even remotely spherical. All he saw were rocks; asteroids floating through the blackness of space. No trace of life existed. Just the graveyard of what had used to be his home. He felt the uneasiness turn into helplessness, fear, and despair. His family, his home, his entire life was gone. His train of thought was interrupted by the news reader. “Despite this cowardly and deceptive act, the Empire’s resolve remains strong. The Emperor has announced that his forces are in pursuit of those responsible, and that they will be brought to justice swiftly.”

Strike turned the monitor off and slumped into his chair. He stared blankly down towards his feet, not knowing what to do. Do I head back to Alderaan and check, see if they got off-world before it happened? Strike knew that was impossible. He had the family ship, and even so, his mother hated to fly and would never leave her home planet. Do I contact the Imperial Authorities and see if- before Strike even finished this thought he banished it from his mind. Imperials were never to be trusted, his mother had taught him that for the last twenty years. But he was so confused he didn’t know if he should even cry. “Torch, can you handle landing the ship at Coronet? I need to...need to...” Strike couldn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t know what he needed to do. Torch gave a mournful whistle, which he assumed was a yes. Barely paying attention to what he was doing he went back to his cot, sat down on the edge, and buried his head into his hands. After a few hours, Strike heard wheels on metal roll into the room. He removed his hands from his face, and was surprised to find his sight blurry and his hands soaked. Torch moved next to him, bumped his leg and let a low long howl emanate through the room. Strike placed a hand on Torch’s domed head, and looked at the only family member he had left: a droid.


“Where are you from boy?” Strike lazily took his eyes off the Corellian whisky in front of him and tried to focus on the old man behind the bar in front of him, but didn’t answer. “Cause it’s plain to see you ain’t from round here. Can’t hold your whisky at all can ya?” Strike looked back down at the drink in front of him. He was sitting in the first bar he could find outside of the Coronet spaceport. Surrounding him was a large number of empty ale mugs, and a few empty tumblers that once contained the same whisky that he now drank. “If you don’t answer me boy, I’ll be forced to call CorSec on ya and have them turf you out.” Strike took another swig, and then looked back at the old man. “Have you got any Alderaanian wine?” The barkeep eyed him up “I’m not serving you wine, especially not Alderaanian wine. Why, it’s irreplaceable now...” he trailed off, and slowly the stern look on his face faded to one of sorrow. “You, you’re from-” “Yea,” Strike replied, “do you?” “I have some in the back chiller, fine vintage, best one in the last twenty years! Last time I served it was to a-” Strike cut him off “Just get it.” It’s the closest I’ll ever get to home ever again...

The barkeep returned, and poured the golden liquid into an elegant glass. “Don’t worry, this one’s on me, just don’t break the glass. Or spill the wine.” Strike took a massive gulp from the glass while the barkeep went and locked the door, then poured himself a glass. Strike had been in the bar since mid afternoon, but at the late hour that it was now, was the last customer left. The barkeep sat down next to him. “I’m sorry boy, I can’t even imagine what it’s like...I lost my wife many years ago, but to lose everything...” The old man said nothing for a while. “I’m Jarran by the way.” Strike took the barkeeps extended hand in his own and casually shook it. “Strike.” “Unusual name that, ‘Strike,’ how’d you get it?” Strike paused for a while. “My mother was...unconventional.” A heavy silence hung in the air before Jarran spoke again. “Personally, I don’t see how they could have done it.” “Who?” Strike queried. “The Rebellion. Where did they find weapons that could blow up a planet?” Strike got the feeling Jarran was baiting him. “They didn’t,” Strike replied, “they couldn’t. They can’t even afford proper blasters, let alone doomsday warheads. Plus terror isn’t their weapon – No. This was done my someone else, someone with more practiced hands in the ‘art’ of terror and violence.” Strike left it at that. It was clear what he was implying, and he got the feeling from Jarran that he agreed. Another long pause followed. “Strike, I think we’re both on the same page. I have a contact on Fresia who you may want to talk to.”


Strike’s head was throbbing. The hangover was still in full swing, but his memory of the night was near crystal clear. “Torch, we’re leaving. Contact the flight tower and get us in the out-bound queue.” Torch whistled a query. “I’ll focus on getting the bacta onboard; just get us in the queue. We’ll be stocked when we’re ready to leave.” Strike went back to supervising the loading droids placing the last crate of the life-saving liquid in the Redeemer’s cargo hold, the whole reason that he was off-planet in the first place. His father’s private surgery practice had lost its Imperial Bacta Contract after he had ignored the Empire’s ‘humans only’ health policy. Now the only way to keep the surgery supplied is the black market. Strike stopped mid-stride heading back to the Redeemer’s boarding ramp. Was the only way. Strike was thinking like his family, Alderaan, and his old life, still existed. He pushed it from his mind and headed for the forward cabin. It was time to find a new life.

“You heard me Torch – Fresia. Yes, I know there isn’t much there, but it’s more then what’s waiting for us...anywhere else.” Torch took a second, then plugged in and started making the calculations. Once he had announced he was done with a single high tone, Strike lined the Redeemer up, and pulled the hyperspace lever back. Millions of stars began to race towards him, blurring into long white lines, before the ship broke the sub-space barrier and entered the long blue tunnel of hyperspace. Strike sat back, but immediately began thinking of how much he had lost. I need to preoccupy myself with something. Strike turned in his chair and pulled up his received messages on a side terminal. There were the usual trash messages, which he erased, but stopped when he found a message that had no subject or contact details. After puzzling for a moment, Strike opened it. The holo-tank beside him spluttered to life. Strike’s mother, Calypso, appeared. She beamed her magnificent smile, and Strike’s heart skipped a beat. “Kirth, Lyrissa, Strike. If you’re seeing this, then my past has finally caught up with me. Kirth – the love of my life – while I am pained to leave you alone in these dark times, I would never trade the years we had for a full lifetime without you. Lyrissa, my sweet Lyrissa. I am so proud of you; you will make a great surgeon. Just like your father. And Strike. My most brave and wonderful son. You are a great pilot, and an even greater young man. Words cannot express the joy I feel when I think of you all.” Calypso paused, bowed her head for several seconds, then looked up again. A tear trickled down her check, but she brushed it away. “I leave a heavy burden with you, my children. For you are the heirs to a near extinct bloodline – the Adrella’s. Do you remember the stories I told you as children, of brave and noble knights striving for peace and justice? They were more than fairy tales. And the Adrella’s were some of these knights, a family strong in the Force. I was once one of these Jedi Knights. My full name is Calypso Adrella-Highwing. Your father and I had to hide this from you to protect you, as dark enemies control the Empire, and seek the destruction of any who may have the power or the will to oppose them.” Strike’s mothers’ eyes were now streaming. It was clear to see the anguish it was causing her to tell her children that she had deceived them. “The Emperor and his enforcer, Darth Vader, are the sworn enemies of the Jedi Order, of which you are descendents. I have fallen, and am forced to hand the legacy on to you. You must not fail. In the cargo hold of Redeemer you will find a hidden compartment. Use its contents to guide your decisions. Do not despair; do not hold on to anger or fear. They led to the dark side. Trust your judgement, listen to your feelings. And may the Force be with you.” Calypso struggled another smile, and then her image faded out as the recording ended.

Strike’s soul was in turmoil. Seeing his mother from beyond the grave was rattling enough. But to know that the message was supposed to be for his sister and father as well. His life seemed to be spiralling out of control, heading towards the abyss of a black hole. On top of that, to learn that he may also be one of the last heirs to this Jedi Order made him feel even lonelier than before. He was alone. His family was gone. Strike’s despair fuelled his anger at the Empire. An Empire which had stripped Strike of two families – his true family, and a family he only just knew he was a part of. Dark thoughts began to fill his mind. I will make the Empire pay. I will make them feel the pain I have felt. I will kill their loved ones. I will raze their cities to the ground. I will have my vengeance!

A high pitch squeal from Torch pulled Strike out of his visions of the death and destruction he would wreak on the Empire. He looked towards the R2 unit, and saw that the co-pilot’s chair had been crumpled. Strike knew he must have somehow done that – what else could have?! His mothers’ words reverberated through his mind. Do not despair; do not hold on to anger or fear. They lead to the dark side. Strike took a deep breath, and cleared his mind. He pictured his family in Aldera Square, all smiling at him with the sun high in the sky. That was the image of them he wanted to remember, not his dream of their death. Strike exhaled, and opened his eyes. “Sorry Torch. Quick, unplug yourself. We have a secret compartment to find.”


Using Torch’s sensors made finding the compartment a little bit easier, but it was well hidden. Inside Strike found a datapad, several data cards, and what looked like a long silver handle. When Strike picked it up, it felt warm as if it was alive. Strike read the data cards during his day long journey to Fresia, and learnt a great deal about the Jedi, lightsabres, and the twisted, dangerous, views of the Sith. Following the manual closely, he also began attempting to learn how to wield the blue bladed lightsabre that had once belonged to his mother. Arriving at Fresia though, Strike encountered a whole new problem.

“YT-1300 transport, you have entered our sensor range, identify yourself.” Strike looked out the front viewport. Orbiting Fresia was the last thing he wanted to see – its triangular shaped white hull inspired fear the galaxy over. An Imperial Star Destroyer, bristling with turbolaser turrets that could destroy his ship in seconds, and sporting seventy-two TIE Starfighters that would be able to out run his ship easily. “This is YT-1300 transport Redeemer, requesting permission to land on planet’s surface.” Strike was betting on Imperial security measures this close to the core would be quite lax. “Transport Redeemer, transmit cargo and crew manifest for verification.” Strike hoped this worked. “Transmitting now.” Hidden in the cargo and crew manifest was a slicing programme that would list the Redeemer, her cargo of medical supplies, and her captain, Strike Highwing, as top priority, urgently needed to resupply the Coromon Islands’ hospital. That is, if Torch’s new slicing programme was as good as Jarran had promised. After several tense seconds, confirmation came through. “Transport Redeemer, request granted. Head directly to Coromon Islands Medical Facility.”

Once on the surface, Strike headed for the rendezvous point to meet with Jarran’s contact. The meeting spot was near an abandoned town on the night-side of the planet. On the way, Strike couldn’t help but think how quickly his life had changed; a few days ago he had been a member of a respectable Alderaanian medical family. Now, he was a vagabond without a home, and one of the last Jedi descendents, with a lightsabre he could barely use hidden beneath his jacket. He was about to also become an outlaw. By meeting with an ex-Incom Industries executive and agreeing to fly him off Fresia, which had been recently nationalised by the Empire, he was committing high treason against the Government. The illegitimate Government, Strike reminded himself, ruled by the iron fist of the Sith. Joining the Rebel Alliance was becoming more and more appealing. A frightened voice whispered out of the dark to Strike’s left. “Mr Highwing? Is that you?” “Strike Adrella-Highwing, at your service.” Strike had decided to incorporate his mothers’ name into his own. He would ensure that the Adrella legacy lived on. “We need to leave right now, patrols of stormtroopers have been sweeping the southern fringes of the town. This way.” Strike led the way quickly back to the Redeemer, his unnamed charge close behind. Once aboard the ship, Strike quickly powered up the engines, lifted Redeemer off the ground and throttled it up to full power, shooting spacewards as fast as possible. The stormtroopers were bound to call in and advise the orbiting Star Destroyer of a ship departing the search area, but he hoped it would be on the far side of the planet.

“Torch, keep a close eye on the sensors. I don’t want anything sneaking up on us. And power up the quad lasers. We may need them.” Strike glanced at the shield readouts. 88%. Damn, the shield emitters were still out of alignment! That will have to do I guess. Just as they were clearing the atmosphere, green bolts of light streaked past the forward view screen. Torch screamed, and Strike spared a split second to glance at the sensor readout. Six red dots. He hoped those were only fighters. “Torch, calculate a short jump out of here. Take us towards the core!” Strike wrestled with the flight stick, jinking and weaving, making sure as few shots connected with the shields as possible. He looked to his passenger. “Do you know how to shoot?” “Not really, no.” “Doesn’t matter, get to one of the gun turrets and start firing blindly. If you hit something - great. If not, at least they won’t think we’re defenceless! Go!”

Several more shots hit the shields. Damn, down to 40%. Strike flicked a switch, which increased power to engines by taking it from the shields. He then put his shields double back to bring them back up to 80%. That should help. All of a sudden one of the blips on the sensors flashed and disappeared. His passengers’ voice echoed down the corridor from the gunnery turret. “I got one! I got one!” Strike keyed the comm, “did I say to stop shooting?! Get on with it!” He turned to his co-pilot. “Torch, we won’t last much longer – how are those nav coordinates coming?” Torch chirped at him in an irritated tone, then after a few seconds whistled an affirmative. Strike didn’t wait – he lined the Redeemer up, pulled the lever, and jumped into hyperspace.


“Mr Adrella, Sora here says your flying was excellent. To be honest, I never thought we’d get him back. How did you get past the Allecto? That Star Destroyer has repelled each and every rescue attempt we have made to Fresia.” The Rebel General Dodonna sat behind a simple desk. Strike’s passenger had given him the coordinates for the Rebel base on Yavin IV after their jump to Vulpter within the core. As soon as they dropped out of hyperspace, he had picked up a large debris field consisting of an unimaginable amount of metal. Apparently they had missed the Battle of Yavin, and the destruction of the Death Star, by just a few days. He had been filled in by Princess Organa on how Alderaan had been destroyed, although he basically already knew. He had seen it after all. “To be honest sir, it was my R2 unit, Torch, who dealt with that,” Strike replied. “Really? These little astrodroids area remarkable,” Dodonna looked fondly over to Torch. Strike looked over to his droid as well. “He’s the only family I’ve got left, sir.” “You’re not alone there son, this rebellion has already made many orphans. And I regret that this will just be the beginning. We have a long road ahead.” Dodonna trailed off. After several moments, Strike cleared his throat. “Sir, I’d like to volunteer to join this rebellion. I’m already an outlaw, I have no home to go to, and no family. At the very least, I’d like to make sure that the Empire can never put anyone else in my position.” “Well, thanks to you son, that will be possible. Sora, the man you rescued off Fresia, knows where Vors Voorhorian, the designer of the X-Wing, may be hiding. Perhaps even starting a new workshop! With fresh fighters and supplies, we’ll need pilots more than anything to keep this rebellion alive!” Dodonna stood up from behind his desk, walked around to Strike, and held out his hand. “Welcome to the Rebellion, Mr Adrella!”

Note: Biography copypasted, no alterations made.

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