Corruption in Costa Del Sol

[Okor]

The ragged cloak that concealed his ceramite carapace from view fluttered around his bulk, the briny sea air billowing out the bedraggled garment, flowing through the worn holes of its hempen construction. Freshly forged of Omnillium as it was, nothing can remain pure while used in the service of Nurgle, as evidenced by the slow slide of his surroundings  into entropy. He breathed deep, a rattling breath that scarcely drew attention from the multitudinous masses before him, jaded to this oddity, Okor; reduced to nothing more but another day in the life on the fringes of the Empire’s Order.

The dying light of the sun illuminated the plaza, the burning orb slipping beneath the sapphire horizon, iridescent patterns splaying themselves across the shimmering sea. One could attest to the natural beauty of this vista, were it not for the near-parodic purgatory they were trapped in. The Chosen doubted that the sun even existed in this realm. Their jailor would hardly bother to form stellar bodies and set them in orbit, while simultaneously trapping them within an intangible cage. No, the sky was as hollow as a promise from the desiccated lips of the corpse-emperor.

The bustle of the city continued, an ever-pulsing heartbeat, a life-sustaining rhythm that Okor lacked. He remained in place, an arterial anomaly that forced the crowds to part past his plagued bulwark. Glimpses of vibrant colours and snippets of eager chatter flowed by him, an assault on his senses only made worse by the claustrophobic ceramite shell that shielded him, concealed him, trapped him. His eye darted over the teeming masses, instinctually scanning the horde for any armaments that could harm his nigh-impenetrable armour. He needed to get away, to separate himself from the swarm, knowing full well that a single cry of Alarm would bring the wrath of Coruscant down upon him.

While it would surely be expedient, there must surely be more amenable ways to locate the hacker who housed his code-born companion.

He began to move, the tattered rags that obfuscated him from recognition fluttering around his titanic form, stalking off into a darkened alleyway, attempting to dodge the attentions of the autocratic regime ruling over Costa Del Sol.

He was not entirely successful.

Kai was a stormtrooper. This was not uncommon in Costa Del Sol, by any stretch of the imagination. It was a popular profession amongst the area’s youth, the idea of serving the greater good of the Empire more appealing than the thought of serving tourists for the rest of their lives.

What was uncommon was his leg, or rather, the lack of said leg. Beneath the knee, his limb was forged of clandestine chrome, the cybernetic polished to a gleam every morning, in addition to the rest of his regulation gear. The events surrounding his loss of limb was the subject of many an evening in the bar, his dark features grinning and emerald eyes twinkling as he recounted the tale to a lucky lady, or on one very memorable occasion, three. The dangerous fugitive fighting their way through the square of Costa Del Sol, the wild shot that claimed his limb, and the return fire that burned out their eye.

What he didn’t tell them was the weeks of surgeries that had followed, prying out every last shard of shrapnel from his flesh, excising the cancer that had spread through his body during that time, the piss that stained his greaves while he laid in the plaza, wondering if anyone would ever pick him off the ground.

His dashing features set themselves into a resolute grimace, his chrome leg clanking against the cobblestone of the plaza, his visor set upon the disappearing giant, the robe fading into the shadows of the back alley. Like hell that bubonic bastard would slip away from him again.