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About Jan Vicus

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  1. "Yeah, cut the cut-rate Stormie a break." Jan called out, putting every bit of scorn he could into his tone. "It's not his fault he washed out of maintenance technician training and ended up here guarding a bunch of losers." "You're one of those losers, buddy!" Gavin yelled back. "You amateurs probably karked-up my stalk. I bet none of you are even licensed hunters." Jan sneered. He thought he recognised the kid's voice, and the women - the pilot as well as the ex-Imp. But it was hazy, and he wasn't sure how he recognised them. He was pretty sure he wasn't hunting partners with an Imp, even a reformed one - if that was even a thing. Plenty of Imps had tossed aside their uniforms when the Emperor had gone bye-bye at Endor, and they weren't worth Bantha spit. Ones that went Rebel before the war turned, now, they could be respected somewhat. "You kriffing asshats fouled up so bad even this vape-bait here could have caught you. Am I right, vape-bait?"
  2. Jan forced himself to stand and stretch, jaw clenched against the pain and disorientation as he leaned this way and that, then paced as much as the small cell would allow, swinging his arms to get the blood moving. Whatever they'd hit him with, it had caused some manner of neural shock beyond what a blaster set to stun would normally inflict. He'd heard horror stories when in the Alliance about some of the interrogation chemicals the Imps had cooked up, and like many in his unit had vowed to press the stud on a thermal detonator rather than get taken alive. But there was no more Alliance, now. Now they were the Republic again, and he had not been part of their covert forces for years. If he had been interrogated, he doubted there had been anything of use to his captors locked away in his brain. So there was no sense worrying about that - he had to figure out a way out of this cell. Forcefield containment was not standard for Imperial detention blocks, which were the same whether on a planetary garrison, a Star Destroyer, or a custom's frigate. Heavy blast doors that would remain shut in the event of a power outage were the preferred manner of cell door. The forcefield indicated that these cells were as much for viewing as for containment. Hmm. Forcefields were unreliable without a dedicated generator, and prone to ion interference. None of which was a blasted bit of use right now, since he couldn't see a generator and had no way of causing any sort of ionic interference. He dropped prone, catching himself on his hands and pushing himself through a quick twenty push-ups, then sat back on his heels and became still, closing his eyes and breathing deeply a few times, then opening them once more, fixing them on the solitary guard. He had no weapons, no equipment, and no way of defeating a forcefield. Unless someone outside the field did something stupid, all he could do was wait. Patience was among the more cultivated of his talents, fortunately. Whether waiting under a bush in freezing cold rain for an enemy soldier to wander close to answer a call of nature, or waiting several days in one spot to ambush a patrol, the war had taught Jan that waiting was just extra preparation time. Time to get ready for when his enemy made a mistake.
  3. Jan was silent, his eyes closed as he rested his back against the wall of his cell, breathing deeply and steadily whilst listening to the others berate or placate the (mark) man. He might even have been mistaken for napping. "Lotta Imps like to gloat" the Alliance spook had said as he took the Lomin ale with a nod of thanks. The makeshift bar at Tierfon fighter base was typical of the R&R facilities of the Rebellion - sparse, scrounged from what could be found, and with a bartender droid that would nod cheerfully when you ordered any one of a hundred drinks, then dispense warm Lomin ale. Jan hated it, but when it was a choice between that and the moonshine some of the engineers cooked up from pressurised coolant fluid, the Lomin ale was at least safer. "See, most Imps know the Empire is immoral, and they're about on the moral level of Hutts for supporting it. So you either get the grimly 'I've got a job to do, but I don't have to like it' types, or the 'I'm gonna take the time to gloat, because that will reassure me that I am, in fact, superior. First type, you can work on, but you've got to be careful. The second type are losers. Wait 'em out, or better yet ignore them. That can force 'em to try and prove their superiority. That means they'll make a mistake, sooner or later." "Nothing to say, assassin?" the well-dressed man, whose name Jan couldn't quite recall, peered into his cell. Jan turned his head and opened his eyes, dark gaze scrutinising the man (mark) with a sweep from bottom to top, ending with his eyes. The average-seeming prisoner said nothing, just stared at and into the Imperial who, he was sure, was a target. He marked his manner of dress, the side he wore his blaster on, the faint tabac stain on his fingertips. And the whole while he remained utterly silent and expressionless, as though looking at a mannequin. Or a dead man.
  4. Maybe it's a matter of pressure plus seeing the task coming? I'd say it likely wouldn't affect defensive reaction skills at all, because no thought goes into them. For instance, if someone suddenly grabbed Gavin and 'boom', he's in a brawl, he might not have the time for his brain to undermine his efforts. On the other hand, if he's squaring up in a fighting circle with people betting on him and a crowd jeering... My read is that it's situational and shouldn't affect purely 'yipe' reflexes.
  5. Character Name: Jan Vicus Type: Bounty Hunter Species: Human Gender: Male Age: 26 Height: 5'9” Weight: 168lbs Physical Description: Jan is an outwardly unassuming, soft spoken man of average height, usually dressed in a spacer’s padded jumpsuit that conceals a wiry, powerful frame beneath. His eyes are a dark sable hue reminiscent of a bird of prey, and his dirty blond hair is worn medium length, together with a short beard framing a face tanned by alien suns and scarred from a harsh life. His body under the shapeless clothing he prefers is likewise scarred – cuts, blaster burns and other wounds leaving a story of war on his skin. He bears the tattooed emblem of the Alderaanian Death Legion on his chest over his heart, and bears a number of crude tally-mark tattoos on each arm above the elbow – a large number. On his back is a stylised version of the Rebel Alliance ‘firebird’ formed out of nebulous shadowy smoke, it’s wings stretching across his shoulders and the motto “No Mercy for the Merciless” inscribed beneath it. Personality: When the going gets tough, the tough get mean. Jan is focused, ruthless in attaining his goals, and usually has at least one trick up his sleeve. There is no quit in the man, powered as he seems to be by a caged furnace of sheer rage – if he appears to be backing off from a stated goal, either it wasn’t his true intention or else he’s giving himself room to charge. He’s not heartless – the plight of innocent victims can and does move him – but years of covert warfare, murder and sabotage have hardened his shell to an extreme degree. Before, he was a weapon under the control of Alliance High Command. Now, he's self-guided. And he'll never stop making them pay. Capsule: An Alderaanian by birth, everything he loved was taken from Jan by the Empire. He signed on with the Alliance as little more than a child, spent long years learning to channel his hate and rage to make the Imps suffer, until finally his reason for being is is to make everyone attached to the New Order suffer for their crimes. Every Imperial - from the highest Grand Moff down to the lowliest Army trooper – who did not defect before the war was won is accountable. The Corporate Sector bootlicks, the noble houses of the Tapani, the fat placid citizens of the Core Worlds – all who wilfully turned a blind eye to the atrocities of the Empire and lauded the New Order are complicit, and not even worth the saliva it takes to spit on them. Of course, there’s not much call for soldiers who are not inclined to forgive or forget in this time of rebuilding and trying to set the past aside. After the taking of Coruscant back from the Empire, Jan was politely mustered-out of the Alliance military’s infiltrator corps, given his back pay, and hopefully nudged in the direction of New Alderaan. Instead he called in some favors, became a licensed bounty hunter, and now trawls the galaxy taking commissions on Imperial war criminals, corporate profiteers who benefited from the war, Imperial bounty hunters now wanted by Republic security forces, and former ISB agents who have landed on their feet on worlds that are outside the New Republic’s extradition treaties. Not all of these contracts are legal, but that does not bother Jan – only the nature of his prey concerns him. Quote: “...”, "Legal doesn't mean 'just', and justice doesn't rely on legality.", "Some people can move past it - good for them. I re-live the death of my world every time I close my eyes. And when I wake up, the pain is as fresh as it was back then."
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