Ikaro was his name. And he was the stealth bounty hunter in the galaxy. He was exactly what people referred to him as— "no Klavier". People disliked him because of it, but more respected him. Ikaro's father had tried to live up to the general of legend, but what wasn't really a thing most men could do. So Ikaro grew disillusioned from this idea of "living up to his dynasty". Now twenty-four Mandalorian years old, he had already made a name for himself. Yes, he had led conquests and defeated many foes, but he also took care of his people. More aggressive than Klavier, but perhaps more willing to do what's necessary. Known more commonly as his callsign, "Dread Fighter", he was the birth-brother of Ofusaya Fett: the Mandalore.
He looked up at the amber sky enclosing the spaceport of the city of New Sundari. It was streaked with fading white lines and darting ships. Looking back down, he noticed some people looking at him. Not unusual for one of the Fett line, naturally. And especially not so for Ikaro.
His shocktrooper armour was among the most recognizable and unique. He took influences from his grandfather, Klavier Artyom Fett in it. While Klavier's helmet bore a shikoroc, Ikaro's had a crimson-fibred mane. Instead of carrying a beskan- a long, curved, single edged blade held in one hand, he carried a Beskius, a shorter sword, still made of beskar— an ancient Mandalorian iron impenetrable even to lightsabers. Especially lightsabers. Then, you had his beskar'gam— Mandalorian for 'iron skin', or 'second skin' in just as many interpretations, which was his Shocktrooper Armour. It was made up of a myriad of armour plates attached to a bodysuit. The chest, shoulders, ankles and thighs were especially broken up to allow for freest movement.
His armour colours were also important to him— black, for justice. His armour was primarily this colour because of how much he valued it. He didn't differ too much from his grandfather in this way. Purple — it had begun to mean something else entirely in this new era. Mandalorian pride and mercenary supremacy. Purple was a prideful colour, and represented honor in the merc trade.
"Hey!" Ikaro head. "Ikaro!"
He turned his head and looked down at the person. He was a tall man, but the other person wasn't.
A young woman, rather short, in gray and blue shock trooper armour. She removed put two fingers to her visor— an age old tradition of saying take your damn helmet off. They both did so.
"Heya, mister Dread Fighter." She said. She was red-haired with striking features. Large eyes, straight nose and full lips.
"What is it?" Ikaro replied. "And my name is Ikaro."
"Sorry? Listen, I'm here to be your apprentice of sorts!" She said with an innocent smile.
"Y-you are?! What?" Ikaro composed himself and opted to raised an eyebrow. That was enough expression to let out at any given time. "Well, this is the first I've heard of this."
"Oh, he didn't tell you?" The girl made a face like she was disappointed at somebody: she furrowed her left brow and moved her lips to the left too. Strange, Ikaro thought. "Your brother, that is? The Mandalore?"
Ikaro sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Are you alright Dread F—" Ikaro held up a hand as if to stop her. ". . . Ikaro?"
He lifted his head back up and threw it to the sky. "Damn Ofusaya. Just because he inherited the title he can just juristic what I do?" He shook his head and looked back at her. "Sorry, kid. People suck sometimes, you know? Even those you'd die to protect. But enough. I accept your apprenticeship. Er, who are you?"
"I'm Katawane of clan Fuse." She bowed. Ikaro shook his head.
"Yeah, that's way too many consonants and vowels in places they shouldn't be. I'll call you Kat."
"But wouldn't some else be more fitting. . ?" Kat didn't seem sure how to phrase her words. "Something more. . . Degrading, like 'kid' or even 'student'? Er, Sir, that is."
"What?" Ikaro was indignant. He waved around at the bustling ground level of the spaceport, and even to the few shocktrooper mercs jetpacking above whom seemed to be in a rush. "We are all equal on Mandalore. Mandalorians are equal everywhere. That is what my grandfather and his wife fought and died for, in the end. Klavier Artyom and Venus Lok Fett. Do you not think I would honor them?"
"No, of course not! Fine, Ikaro it is then."
"Good to know it's settled. And what else of you?"
"My father was a Sith who forcefully had his way with my mother." Kat stated. "I'm force sensitive. . . and then some. I'm thankful for such gifts. But I'm going to hunt down that Sith, and any others like him or the Jedi. My mother was the daughter of a Correlian-Mando mercenary."
Ikaro smirked. "And there it is. This is something personal. Great! You'll make the means to make this revenge of yours come to fruition, won't you? I can feel your fantastic work ethic already."
This left the young woman surprised. "You know, I was quite scared of asking your brother to let me accompany you, but now I'm not sure why."
"I know. I'm something of a noble."
"Well, aren't you just—"
"No, please don't misunderstand. I' m not the noble to look down my nose at you 'lowborn' great unwashed or whatnot idiot faraway aristocrats would say. I'm the type of no. . . man, to fight and be treated as an equal. Nothing more or less."
She thoughtfully rested a finger on her chin. "So you fight for respect?"
"Indeed I do."
"Listen, er, Kat, we can chat here all day, but are you ready to head out?" Ikaro said, checking his chrono.
"Yeah. Let's."