Sparks flared from the tip of Jaster's fusion cutter as he carefully worked at the table. Laying strewn in pieces of three was his JT-12 Jetpack. As much as he could, Jaster avoided the use of his jetpack. He'd found them to be very touchy and nearly unpredictable at times. To him it seemed that his was even more so. It'd nearly killed him three times and just the day before, he'd nearly sprained his leg from it shortening out with him nearly seven feet from the ground.
No matter, however. The job was done, pay distributed and another band of scum scared and sent packing. He was ready to return to his compound on Cheravh and put his ground to the ear again for another job. Business for them had a tendency to be slow, often going for a span of weeks in between paydays, a side effect of taking a strict moral stance.
Jaster had lived a life surrounded by all walks of scum and vile beings. As a young man he'd even dabbled in with them but was quickly straightened out. His three years of incarceration on the planet Concord Dawn helped open his eyes. The prison guards set them to work laboring in the fields of one of the thousands of farms on the planet's surface. They called it 'character building' and it had humbled him, taught him everything his abusive father had neglected to. Upon release, Mereel trained and became a Journeyman Protector. They were the law of Concord Dawn and Jaster took his duty very seriously. But he quickly found that scum was everywhere in the galaxy. Even on the small farming world, corruption spread through the ranks of the Journeyman Protectors. Whether or not it was a slip of judgement, Jaster didn't really think much on it. But even today, he doesn't regret killing his commanding officer. Again Jaster found himself behind bars on Concord Dawn but it was his character witnesses that saved him. He was a free man but in return, he was exiled from his home planet.
For a while he'd been a drifter, searching for a purpose but always remaining the man he'd become in his detainment. It was on Cheravh where he found it, where he found the Mandalorians. It wasn't long before Jaster fell into a familiar pattern though. The difference however between his challenging of Dire Kole, the Mand'alor and the Journeyman Protector Vern Alkeer was that Jaster gave the Mand'alor an 'honorable death.' Dire Kole was a mere pirate and made many enemies among his people, enemies that Jaster had attracted as friends. Jaster became Mand'alor and had little trouble from within his people. Jaster was the new rule of the Mandalorians. Not only did he root out the less savory Mandalorians, he inspired the more honorable ones to rally under his name.
The Supercommando Codex was his word, his law. It was the standard of honor which his people would live by. Of course, living by this standard limited the taste of clients and work offered for his people but, in the end, they were happier than their days under criminals like Dire. It was an easy fix for Jaster, his soldiers would be paid more than him. The bigger their cuts, the more content they were.
Standing from his work bench, Jaster rubbed his eyes as he laid down the fusion cutter and stretched his spine. It felt good to be able to relax somewhat. His flak vest was displayed off in the corner with his grey and red helmet adorned on top. His quarters aboard his Frigate were dimly lit and quite simple. He didn't collect trophies to decorate his walls only a single banner, red with the black sigil that his people recognized him by. The very same one that was emblazoned on both shoulders of his Beskar. The only other decoration he had was the rack of blasters and knives bolted to the wall adjacent to the door. The sudden two solid knocks on the metal door stole his attention.
"Come in," Jaster called. The door hissed open and Montross stepped inside. The tall, broad shouldered Mandalorian was still relatively young compared to the hearty veterans that usually accompanied Jaster. Montross had been with Jaster since he became Mand'alor. It was no question that he looked up to him, which wasn't exactly a responsibility Jaster wanted. But he never had to question the Mandalorian's loyalty. "What is it, Montross?" Jaster asked.
"Tor Viszla has made contact. He demands to speak with you."
"Something wrong with his cut?" Jaster mused.
"No, I already asked him that," Montross said with a smirk. "He says he'll only speak to you," he added.
"This better be important," Jaster grumbled as he moved to the corner and slid his bare arms back into the sleeves of his fatigues. Sliding on his flak vest and putting his chest plates back in place, Jaster then placed his helmet on his head and stepped to the computer terminal against the wall to the right of the door. He pressed a button on the controls and a short, shimmering blue hologram stood on the pedestal. The large Mandalorian too was adorned in his black armor but held his helmet under his arm, allowing his long black hair to sit freely on his shoulders. His rough, grim face stared at Jaster's cold helmeted gaze. It was apparent, that the both of them weren't too thrilled about the meeting. "What is it, Viszla?" Jaster inquired.
"Mand'alor, a matter has come to my attention which I must address to you," Tor said in as dignified a tone as he could muster. To Jaster, it still sounded harsh and seedy.
"You've already got my attention," Jaster said coldly.
"No, no this is something that must be discussed face to face. It concerns our people, Mand'alor," Tor said. He knew just how to play Jaster, appealing to his honor as Mand'alor. For a moment, Jaster stood in silent thought.
"Alright, Viszla, when?" A very subtle grin snuck onto Viszla's face.
"I am currently out of system but will return within this cycle. My shuttle will board your ship," Tor suggested. Jaster thought for a moment longer. With the meeting on his ship, at least he could set the terms, they would be on his grounds.
"Very well," Jaster replied. "You have until the end of this cycle." With a press of a button on the terminal, Tor's image was gone, taking its blue lighting with it, leaving Jaster and Montross in the dimness of his quarters.
"Viszla's coming here?" Montross inquired with a scrunched brow. Jaster removed his helmet and set it on the com terminal.
"Yes. I'll inform the crew that we're staying in system," Jaster said. He stood with his hands rested on his waist, deep in thought. His sharp gaze then fell on the young Mandalorian. "In the meantime, I want you to alert our men, I want them on standby and mission ready." The look on Jaster's sharp expression was dire.
"Think Tor's got a job?" Montross frowned.
"I don't know what to expect but we'll be ready," Jaster replied. Montross' frown deepened.
"You do know that Viszla's not out enemy," he said with a snicker.
"No, no he's not," Jaster said as he stepped closer to Montross. It seemed to be time for another lesson. "But I prefer to have a blaster at hand whenever facing those I don't trust." Montross looked over his shoulder at the wall of blasters behind him then let his gaze drift to the blaster pistol worn on the Mand'alor's hip.
"I just learned something about you," he said looking back at Jaster's gruff face. "You always wear a blaster." Jaster smirked as he placed a hand on Montross' broad, armored shoulder. The young Mandalorian's expression was void of its usual confidence, it was as if he suddenly began to question his place.
"Don't take it personally, Montross. Some habits just don't break."