Fuzzybootz
Heat
Name: Gavon TreVayne
Species: Human
Age: 39
Occupation: Bodyguard / Enforcer (Prev. employed with Imperial Security Bureau)
Appearance: 6’0, 210lb lean muscle, olive skin, neatly combed dark hair with streaks of gray
Faction: The Golden Exchange
Equipment: Reinforced leather jacket with durasteel & cortosis armor plates sewn into the lining, dual blasters, modified light blaster rifle, vibroknife, & chewing gum...because why not?
Skills:
> Hand-to-hand / close quarter combat experience
> Tactical Espionage
> Proficient with small firearms & blades
> Intermediate level slicing
> Investigations & Security-systems specialist
Weaknesses:
Slowed over time: (physical) While he’s generally a fit person, Gavon is unable to keep up a fast steady pace for long due to a prosthetic left leg from an accident years prior.
Addicted to Painkillers: Due to his leg injury and the cybernetic replacement, which at times, seems to be rejecting its host, the pain can become unbearable and Gavon doesn’t hesitate to inject a good dose of painkillers to keep himself in the game. However, several years of the same routine has caused him to develop a habit which, if not kept in check, could hinder his actions.
Biography:
“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 ‘former Imperial’, genius…” The human retorted in between heavy breaths.
“If you want to die...well...you’ll have to die somewhere else!” The creature's 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, I 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”
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Odd jobs. It had been like that 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 tools, 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 Shaddaa, 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…
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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.
“Mister 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, pass phase: ‘drunk Dug with a gambling problem’. Enara out.”
Gavon arched an eyebrow, mumbling to himself. “Must be important. She addressed me as ‘Mister’ “
