Name: Viik'ashak (Vika)

Race: Rutian Twi'lek

Age: Early-mid adulthood

Occupation: Medic, candy-hoarder

Appearance: Deep blue skin colouration, white dappling on the lekku (head-tails). 5'5" and athletic build, which she intentionally and culturally highlights with tight-fitting clothing and shiny fabrics. Extensive whip scarring across her mid back, usually hidden with clothing.

Gear: Vika usually doesn't keep too much on her person, depending instead on her "feminine charms" and "Twi'lek persuasion" to get her out of sticky situations. Bad habits die hard, no? She typically carries at least one kind of sweet, a small pistol strapped to her right thigh and three sedative darts kept wherever there may be space.

Backstory up until flying on the [insert ship name here]:
A product of an earlier conflict, Vika was born to surviving members of the Twi'lek Resistance. Rebellion and back-talk are her bread and butter, having been raised on stories of desperate fire-fights and impossible odds. Her parents had lived through Ryloth's occupation as an "Imperial Protectorate" and taught their children to value a strong sense of freedom from opression - something that had kept them alive during the years of turmoil.

But a new threat has surfaced, and those living on Ryloth are observing nervously from the "safety" of the Outer Rim. Their distance wouldn't save them, as the Shadow descends once more to claim their resources, their position - and their people. Vika was one of many torn from their families as the Order began its razing of the planet for anything and everything that would deepen their influence or further their cause.

Like many of the female Twi'leks from Ryloth, Vika found herself dragged from her home and sold into slavery. Due to the despicable conditions generated by the carnage of the First Order, the slave trade is thriving once more. Unfortunately for her, the underworld boss she was sold to had a tendency for violence. Unfortunately for him, so did she.

Any and all medical knowledge Vika has is a rough patchwork gathered from tending to the wounds of her fellow mistreated slaves. For them, it was dance or die - and Vika took it upon herself to make sure they kept dancing. As such, her bedside manner (or lack thereof) leaves something to be desired.

Propositions for shared backstory: Perhaps the crew (or some of its members) made a stop-over on Nar Shaddaa. Vika would be fresh from seriously injuring her former master - a known First Order informant and sympathizer. She could have a chance encounter with them and broker a deal for escape off-world, now that a well-connected underworld gang has her on their black list.

Name: Jacque Marduk
Race: Human (Sirpar born)
Age: 27
Occupation: ex-Smuggler (on paper at least), Muscle for hire.
Appearance: -
Like all humans born on his planet, Jacque is large and strongly built, standing at approximately 6'3" and weighing in at 92kg. His skin is a dark shade of brown- a result of the intense light of the sun on Sirpar and his eyes are dark grey. Jacque's body sports a few old and badly healed scars from a combination of deals that went sour, narrow escapes, and altercations during his time in prison.

Gear: Jacque keeps with him the basics like hygienic products and clothing, his more noteworthy possessions are:

• Welding goggles (he swears he feels naked without them after having worn them for so long back on his planet)
• DC-15 Blaster Carbine
• De-10 Blaster Pistol
• Vibro-dagger
• Hand held Comm device

Backstory up until flying on the [insert ship name here]: A native to the heavy gravity planet of Sirpar, Jacque was born into a normal, loving, all around unremarkable family. His life was originally just that as well: Unremarkable. The problem started around the age of fifteen when he started calling the wrong sort of people his friends. It started harmless enough: A delivered package there, a back alley deal there, but after a while Jacque found himself being roped into doing more and more risky things. By the time he'd hit eighteen he was a full blown smuggler, running anything from drugs to guns, to living people. He wasn't particularly fond of everything he did, but the money was good and he was in too deep to try and break it off without a solid reason. At twenty he began doing off world runs, hoping from planet to planet, system to system, gaining fortune and contacts alike as he ran whatever he was given.
For a little while he began looking into try to get his reputation up by dealing with a few Hutts, however all chances at that were shot out of the sky after a raid landed him in a prison cell with more than enough contraband to keep him there for the next decade at the very least. After calling in near every favor he was owed Jacque managed to shorten his sentence to about six and a half years, after which he spent the next six months gathering a few supplies he promptly fell in with a crew that seemed interested in the same line of work he was in. Being that he did get arrested for the exact thing they were hiring him to help with the rag tag group was naturally a bit hesistant, however as Jacque had both experience in the trade and a few contacts under his belt he was eventually accepted into the fold. The fact that he was also far and away one of the cheapest available options that wasn't a green horn or an undercover cop/bounty hunter certainly helped as well.

Propositions for shared backstory: Jacque's time spent as an off world smuggler was short but incredibly productive. The fact that he's willing to smuggle any thing for the right price means that there's a slim chance he may have done business with either crew members or people with which the crew members are familiar.

Name: OOM F1-XR "Fixer"
Race: Droid
Age: 52
Occupation: Maintenance & Engineering droid
Appearance: Heavily modified and battered OOM pilot droid, with blue markings and hard backpack.
Gear: Tools set (in the backpack, redacted), supplementary probe with computer comm device. Blaster pistol modified for increased damage (a sewed-off E-5 carbine). Light built-in armor (improved to replace the original armour, that was sabotaged), improved sensor package. AND Extended battery (for 400 hours of un-interrupted operation) enviromental sealing (vacuum) Collapsible construction (this is standard) shoulder-mounted lantern, heuristic baktoid proccessor (argumental) built-in commlink; Mechanical Diagnosis software; aditional, telescopic arm, mounted in the backpack's left side. Defective vocabulator (it speaks with a distinctive german accent, and no ammount of fixing seems to be able to solve it)

Backstory up until flying on the [insert ship name here]:Re-activated by the Trade Federation resistance, Fixer got his switch-off program removed and was sent in a long-range trip towards savage space in order to hide key CIS documents. Shortly after, the TF resistance was crushed, and Fixer was left as one of the scarce survivors. Months later, he was found and joined a group of refugees who fled to the outer rim in order to scape imperial prosecution. When that group joined the rebel alliance, Fixer was right behind them acting as an expert maintenance operator. In this humble role, he supported a rebel ship in the very battle of Endor. Licenced one or two years after that, yet the outer rim was the only place where a droid could achieve a work assignment. There he has been, as part of the maintenance crew in the [insert ship name here]: sentient since the time of Endor, Fixer sees the 1st order stuff as worringly similar to what he has already lived, and has pretty straightforward ideas about it.

Propositions for shared backstory: The documents he transported for the CIS where not destroyed. Those are still hidden in an undisclosed location, somewhere in the inexplored savage space. And now, almost forgotten by Fixer himself, the only registry of that location its his own droid brain. In other matters, he may be attached with the captain who gave him the work. He may also have an interesting relationship with the pilot, because he insists in blaming all his failures to mechanical errors. The medic and him may have served alongside with the rebels/republic at the same ship or assignment.

They are not quite conscious of it, but Fixer and Loinen have met before: the droid was on board during the pirate attack that costed him his freedom, but was hided by security units instants before the assault, allowing the ship to return safely once abandoned by the corsairs. Viik and Grobul were "smuggled" alongside Fixer by noneless than Marduk "the man" himself, who also had had businesses with Loinen. In fact, during that travel, Loinen was outsourcing Marduk to get the droid, the cook and the Twi'lek to the outer rim. After a few "Imperial encounters" the passengers were forced to help Marduk and his shiny new pilot, Mussuka, to jump out of the pan. That, and the amazing discovery of Grobul's state-of-the-art corellian pancake recipe, ended up by deciding the fact that they could easily work together. And that's what has been happening, while no one takes droid oil as if it was endorian sirup.

Name: Krus Loinen
Race: Neimoidian
Age: 46
Occupation: Black market merchant
Appearance:



Gear:

- Two DT-12 pistols custom-fitted with silencers and scopes
- A vibroknife hidden in his boot, just in case..
- Lots of useless scrap he's hoarded during his travels
- A one-sleeved coat with lots of hidden pockets
- Illegal goods for trading purposes, including:
• A package of death sticks
• 2 crates of Sansanna spice
• 3 thermal detonators
• 2 thermal imploders
• 3 SE-14r pistols
• Power packs and gas cartridges for various blaster types

Backstory up until flying on the Milano:

Krus was born to a rich family in service of the Trade Federation, on the planet Cato Neimoidia. He lived through the normal childhood of a Neimoidian, learning to appreciate greed and manipulation at a young age. He was always highly interested in economics and politics, and could've easily gotten a career as an accountant like his father. However, his life changed drastically when a group of pirates attacked the shuttle carrying a 16 years old Krus and his father, hoping to acquire loot. The Neimoidians were taken hostage and found themselves in a dark cell on the pirate freighter. After some time of captivity, Krus managed to sneak into one of the ship's escape pods and flee - That was the last time he ever heard from his parents.
He eventually ended up on the planet Tatooine, and begun doing the one thing he was good at, gathering wealth. Krus spent years trading weapons, spices, advanced technology and whatever he got his fingers on. He worked for various criminal organisations and became a somewhat known figure, making lots of friends and enemies in the process. The Neimoidian is currently working aboard the ship Milano.

Shared history:

Krus has lots of money and contacts throughout the galaxy, and he can usually talk himself out of any situation. When it comes to making deals and trading, Krus is the right Neimoidian for the job.

Name: Gavon TreVayne
Race: Human
Age: 38
Occupation: Bodyguard / Enforcer (Prev. Employed with Imperial Security Bureau) / Bounty Hunter
Appearance: 6’0, 210lb lean muscle, olive skin, neatly combed dark hair with streaks of gray
Notable Gear: Reinforced leather jacket with durasteel & cortosis armor plates sewn into the lining, dual blasters, modified light blaster rifle, vibroknife, & chewing gum...for those moments :)



“You know the rules, lmperial dog. If you want to eat, you fight!”

The large Fight Master, whose species was unknown, fully charged electro-staff in hand, continued to poke and prod the blood and sweat-soaked combatant, shouting profanities in aurabesh, and spitting vile yellow-green saliva which poured from the corner of his mouth as he spoke. The resounding death chants of the crowd pulsating throughout the small makeshift arena had become deafening as the battle continued.

“That's ‘ex-Imperial scum’, genius…” The human retorted in between heavy breaths.

“If you want to die...well...you’ll have to die somewhere else!” The creatures lips parted forming a wry smile that revealed rows of jagged, displaced yellow stained teeth. “And I’d hate for something as succulent-looking as you to waste away so soon”

The combatant stood up slowly, holding firmly onto his right arm where his opponent, a dark reddish-hair Gundark who smelled of week old urine, carved a good sized gash that went deep, rendering any muscle movement in the arm useless at that moment. The human shot the wretched Fight Master a cold stare, his sore and tired green eyes ignited with the will to push on.

“You know I used to like you...about thirty seconds ago, but now I just want to kick you in your face. The problem is, can't tell where your face starts and your ass ends you slimy piece of- ”

The human’s gaze suddenly switched over to the charging beast, fifty meters ahead and closing in fast.

A frantic look replaced the Fight Master's earlier smug expression as he let out a harsh squeal and something exclamatory in his native language. “Gru’dah! Time to take my place behind the gate! Good luck meatbag human!…”

The Fight Master, chuckling to himself, started toward the outer gate, while the human’s arm quickly reached out and grabbed the electrostaff mid-handle. “Not so fast worm, I need to finish this...”

The human male, tall, lean, and muscular in physique, held tight to the staff, shifted his weight to his leading foot and spun around with the grace of a wild Cathar, ripping the weapon free from the Fight Master's greasy hands. As he was virtually meters from the huge beasts open jaws and massive claws, the human gladiator launched the electrified end of the staff straight out in front of him and the weapon hit its mark with near precision.

The crowd roared with intense excitement. Blood is what they wanted to see, no matter whose it was.

“Move!” He shouted toward the slug-like Fight Master as he dove and rolled sideways out of the overly-pissed creatures path of destruction. The energy cell powering the staff overloaded causing the beasts insides to burn at an accelerated rate. It writhed out of control for a few moments longer until the dust settled and the beast’s shrieks and thrashing fell silent.

“Now I eat…” The human said behind clenched teeth. “And you’ll not say another word...”

The fight master, shaking off the anxiety, stared at the creatures half-burnt corpse in disbelief and then back at the dust-covered, bloodied, and bruised humanoid and nodded in acknowledgement.

“Ehh, right...so what do I call you off-worlder?” The fightmaster asked, as he motioned over to the clean-up crew.

The man grabbed the edge of the Fight Masters tattered cloak and wiped the sweat, dust, blood, and whatever else was stuck to his face.

“Call me whatever you want slime, just pay me what I'm owed and I'll go on my way.”

“Hah, bold words, meatbag. You'll get your pay, less the cost of that electrostaff you destroyed, of course. But I need a name as well before you see anything.”

“Fine. Gavon..call me Gavon”



Odd jobs...it had been like this since the collapse of the Empire, its many holdings and investments dried up, stolen, or destroyed by enemies and competitors, or any entitled rogue group considering themselves valiant heroes of the war. Many corporations throughout the galaxy whose vested interests were embedded in the mega-structure of the Empire, abandoned planets, or negotiated new contracts with private businesses, Republic officials, or anyone willing to keep them employed. Inhabitants of the galaxy needed work and did what they could to hold on to it.

Gavon had no real love for the Empire, it’s Imperial army of drones and losers, and especially not the deified Sith, whose ego knew no bounds, or so he heard. Fortunately, he never actually met a Sith Lord, or any “force sensitive” during his employment, and even if he had, Gavon [jokingly] assumed they would be easy to spot. Did a Jedi or a Sith glow with the force? Was there a secret handshake that would be their tell?

However, all things considered, his dislike for the Empire only went so deep as they did provide a steady stream of work, enough it seemed considering the amount of enemies in and out of Imperial controlled territories.

At the time the Empire was at the height of their power, Gavon had been conscripted and trained at a young age under a relatively new branch of the Imperial Security Bureau (ISB) as an Enforcer Agent. The ISB had many branches and agents that kept their fingers busy shuffling through everyone else's business, and the Enforcers were there to ensure they survived when things went awry. They were considered, for all practical purposes, a bodyguard. Training as an Enforcer was quite strict, and long hours were spent in physical as well as mental exercises, learning to extract a team member (and themselves) out of any given situation. Weapons training was one of the last exercises, and a number of blasters, rifles, and an assortment of melee weapons were given to each Enforcer agent to use as needed. But above all things, they were protectors to the agents, and each life lost was a scar on their reputation that would be carried forever. A scar that Gavon wore with much shame.

Kaliza.

Her bloodied face and frightened expression haunted him each night and continued to remain at the forefront of his mind. It was supposed to be an easy covert Op for her, in and out, but the ambush came quickly and the false intel Imperial Intelligence had been fed positioned Gavon and his crew at the wrong extraction point. Even among the opposition of the higher-ups and some of her peers, she had been the first non-human to be accepted in Imperial Intelligence and her career was over before it started.

Protectors. Who are we protecting now, but the undeserving?

After the seat of the Empire had diminished, and the Imperial military no longer working in any official capacity, Gavon found himself at the unemployment crossroads, and sometimes even at a dead end. The galaxy was trying it’s best to pick up the pieces left by the last war, and most corporations and small business had hiring freezes that lasted months. Relief work wasn’t hard to find, and while it paid very little, the benefits had been well worth the time spent for the ex-Enforcer. During a demo and clean up job on Coruscant, the undercity had been overrun with refugees who once lived on the surface, crime and violence was at an extreme high, even for the likes of the underground world beneath the shining city. Gavon, having taken residence on one of the housing levels, came across a girl, no more than six or seven years of age, who had been hiding away in the closet of a unit he rented. The frightened Togruta child, who he later found out was one of the many war orphans, quickly warmed up to Gavon, and strangely he to her, for it wasn’t until moments after their meeting that he realized the little girl had an unbelievable resemblance to Kaliza.

Weeks turned into months, and both Gavon and his charge, Uriah, left Coruscant and headed toward Nar Shadaa to meet a potential employer, Madam Z’noshe, a wealthy art collector who was in need of a full time and local bodyguard. She also had concerns of several pieces of artifacts she claimed were being stolen by pirates and gangs looking to sell them back to her, but had no hard evidence, or a location to start. Gavon knew this job wasn't going to be as black &and white as he hoped.

In the long run though, Gavon hoped after some time, his new employer would be able to provide a good home and education for the Togruta orphan Uriah in exchange for half his agreed amount of pay. Even half was enough for him to live comfortably and Gavon knew the little girl needed a life away from all the chaos…



The momentary pinging sound from the communicator console next to his bed startled him from a deep sleep.

“What the...how long was I out? Geez, I didn’t even hear it ring the first time” Gavon rubbed his eyes, and turned on the holoscreen to view the message:

MESSAGE PENDING:
From: Enara Z’noshe
0200 : Centaxday
[[ URGENT ]]

A miniaturized translucent version of Madam Z’noshe materialized on the small holopad.

“Mr. TreVayne, my apologies for the disturbance at this late hour, but your attention is of the utmost importance. Please contact me as soon as you can on my private channel. Enara out.”
Gavon arched an eyebrow, mumbling to himself. “Must be important. She addressed me as ‘Mister’ “

Name: Marka Mussuka
Race: Xexto
Age: 41
Occupation: Pilot, Pod-Racer
Appearance:



Gear:
Blaster Pistols x4
Helmet-mounted Long Ranged Comm-link.
Flight Suit
Utility Belt

Backstory up until flying on the [insert ship name here]: Marka was born on Troiken, like most of his species and grew up with a distinct dislike for the Empire, then the following Republic and now has even more disdain for the First Order. He pretty much learned to hate almost everything, whilst growing up.

When he was old enough, he started working at his fathers Mechanics shop, learning how to clean, repair and keep all the big space-freighters flying. Soon, he was learning how to back them into the dry-dock and not long after, how to fly like a pro. Whilst working for his father, he started to fall in with a less than reputable gang who convinced him to "borrow" ships from the shop for racing purposes. He was good, damn good, until he was caught and his father fired him. But, the spark was there and the love for piloting things at incredibly fast speeds through death-fields was there. Using the money he saved, he managed to work passage to Malastare, where he knew the Pod Racing was good. He took part in a trial for one of the racing teams and was eventually accepted onboard, giving him a pod and a schedule.

For the next 15 years, he managed to make quite the name for himself in the pod-racing circuit. Although his win-loss ratio was nothing special, he nonetheless managed to become popular with the fans for his hotdog antics. However, it was after an Imperial Remnant raid on the planet that he decided to see the end of the Empire, signing up to the Republic's starfighter corps. He didn't like the Republic, but he disliked the Empire even more. He managed to make a name for himself behind the controls of a B-Wing and even took part in the Battle of Jaku, personally delivering the killing blow to a Star Destroyer using a pair of well-placed Proton torpedoes to the bridge-deck and watching it hurtle, out of control, to the planet bellow.

After that, he went back to Malastare, but couldn't seem to find fun in Pod Racing anymore. The excitement that battle brought him was not easily forgotten, that's when he decided to sign on as a pilot for some gormless idiots that required a pilot for their "Perfectly legitimate business" as far as he is concerned, if there is a chance for trouble, he is all there. That being said, he has no love for killing. As such, he will never directly target the cockpit of a ship unless it is absolutely necessary, he prefers to disable than destroy.
Propositions for shared backstory: During a stop-off on Malastare, they managed to catch one of the rare occasions that he actually came first in his race. He goes out to celebrate with a night on the town, when he see's them trying to navigate their ship, poorly, to a maintainance bay, where he approached and asked if they needed a pilot for their "Perfectly legitimate business." Naturally, they just watched him win a hell of a race, so he obviously has some skill. As such, they accept.

Name: Alexnick Grobul

Race: Human

Age: 17

Occupation: Diplomat, Cook, Housekeeper (in this case Shipkeeper)

Appearance: Pretty short (160 cm) mysterious teenager wearing black cloack which cover most of his body except his black as well shirt. If he takes off his hood, you see his perfectly bald head (and really bad looking red bruise on top of it). He also carry black old-fashioned sunglasses in all kinds of situations, even if they are completely uneccesary. He mentions that he has some nobility ancestors (well he certainly acts like someone coming from rich family).

Photograph of his appearence

Gear: Several types of cloacks (violet, green, brown, mentioned before black) and sunglasses. Outside of it only carries small blaster pistol, for self-defense (but to be blunt, he's in overall horrible fighter).

Backstory up until flying on the [insert ship name here]:

Alexnick is a mystery which no one really knows about. To the people of the ship he presents himself as a member of minor nobility house Grobul from Adumar Planet. Problem is that no one can really verify it and he also can't really prove it. His overpolite and exagerrated way of speech may as well be a type of constructed 'mask' which he follows and believes to be the truth. Also problem with his version of the story is that people from Adumar Planet were obssesed with blastswords and starfighter combat, while he is in fact well to put it bluntly horrible fighter. Plus his certainly not noble like activities (cooking or cleaning [clean freak]) make this version of the story not so believable. In this case mentions that he asked maids to show up their work so he may learn it as well out of boredom.

Alexnick since he was a child was surrounded by several servants (or people which pretended to be ones). Spoiled, irresponsible and unaccountable he had people do everything for him unless he looked for it willingly. He always had strange contact with his parents - they weren't mean or rude towards him, but they never really spended their time with him and reduced it to minimum and forced most responsibilities and education towards his teachers, which treated him like he was made of glass. Maybe he never learned the truth, but certainly he wasn't stupid - something was off, but he never asked as he is mostly one thing - a coward. He prefered to pretend and believe in status quo and that everything is alright. Sometimes they carried most exclusive clothes, while in others they carried typical battlefield gear. For outsiders it looked like they... sheltered him. Maybe because they didn't want him to become part of their troubles because of some old family shame or they wanted to keep danger out of him. Problem is that one year ago... they dissapeared. He couldn't contact them and all he had was access to family credits (just enough to bribe some people to help him escape) and servants suddenly also didn't show up anymore. Suddenly he realized that he is alone in the world and only thing he had is a suitcase with some clothes, blaster pistol (which he barely trained with) and money. Also he noticed that his parents were in trouble (or they were dead) as their residence dissapeared in explosion. Following his gut feeling he escaped the planet and decided to join [insert ship name here] and hope that he can survive. And also that whoever dealt with his family isn't also after him...

edited--

The man who knows a lot, Kyle Horain.