Bear's dad

The Langardian Confine Royal Navy does not rely on mass occupation forces or broad planetary armies. Langardia does not rule conquered ground, occupy civilian populations, or maintain long-term military administrations outside its own territory. Its military doctrine is naval, precise, and interventionist: arrive with overwhelming fleet pressure, isolate the threat, disable or destroy hostile capability, dismantle what must not remain operational, transfer aftermath to legitimate local or allied structures where possible, and leave.

The LCRN’s strength is therefore not conventional infantry mass. Its true center is the fleet: capital ships, corvettes, fast gunboats, precision vessels, elite crews, and the personnel trained to make those ships survive and strike accurately under hostile conditions.

LCRN personnel are trained under the assumption that combat vessels may be decompressed, damaged, boarded, or forced to operate under emergency vacuum conditions. On medium vessels, corvettes, gunboats, and starfighters, combat crews normally wear hardened operational suits rather than ordinary uniforms. A baseline survival expectation exists: any suited combat crew member should be able to survive at least thirty minutes of emergency vacuum exposure, allowing evacuation, rescue, damage control, or continued limited function after hull compromise.

Capital ships follow a different pattern. Pilots, gunners, damage-control crews, and certain alert-role personnel may remain suited during combat operations, but senior officers aboard capital ships do not routinely operate in full survival gear unless battle conditions require it. Medium vessels are closer to the fight. Capital ships are armored cities.

1. LCRN Breaching Corps — “Breachers”

The Breaching Corps are shipborne tactical assault troops attached to the LCRN. They are not occupation soldiers and not civilian enforcers. Civilian protection, policing, and settled-system order are handled by local structures and dedicated civil authorities. Breachers exist for enclosed violence.

Their duties include boarding hostile vessels, securing docking collars, clearing command decks, creating tactical perimeters, protecting Knights during high-threat operations, seizing stations or depots, guarding military and Order-related infrastructure, securing prisoners and evidence, and conducting mop-up operations after decisive resistance has been broken.

Breachers are highly trained and heavily equipped, but their operational scope is narrow by design. They are specialist close-action infantry, not a conventional army. Their armor uses white hard plates over deep Prussian-blue tactical fabric, with dark blue or black load-bearing layers and sealed helmets. The visual effect is disciplined, severe, and functional rather than ceremonial.

Their presence usually means the fleet has already decided that a space must be entered by force.

2. Void-Capable Breachers

Void-capable Breachers are a Breaching Corps specialization equipped for longer exterior operations, hull work, decompression environments, and direct action in vacuum. They retain the general Breacher identity but add heavier life-support systems, reinforced sealing, extended environmental packs, magnetic or traction-capable boots, and additional suit redundancy.

They are used when boarding actions, station breaches, rescue operations, or sabotage responses require troops to operate outside normal atmosphere for longer than standard emergency limits. They may cross damaged hull sections, secure ruptured docking points, enter depressurized compartments, or hold a perimeter along a compromised vessel skin.

They are still Breachers. The distinction is environmental endurance, not a separate branch culture.

3. Fighter Pilots

LCRN fighter pilots are precision operators rather than expendable swarm pilots. Langardian doctrine does not favor flooding space with large numbers of small craft unless the tactical situation demands it. Fighters are used as specialized tools: interception, escort, fast response, reconnaissance, point-defense extension, precision strike, and protection of boarding or evacuation operations.

Their equipment reflects this role. Fighter-pilot suits are lighter and more nimble than Breacher armor while remaining hardened and vacuum-survivable. Their helmets often use wider visors than assault helmets, prioritizing situational awareness, display integration, and cockpit visibility over intimidation or face protection. The silhouette is still recognizably LCRN, but the role reads immediately as piloting rather than assault entry.

LCRN pilots are trained to think as part of naval geometry. Their job is not to seek glory in isolated duels, but to place a high-performance craft exactly where the fleet needs a small, fast, intelligent instrument.

4. Shipboard Gunners and Turret Operators

Gunners occupy a central place in LCRN doctrine. In Langardian thinking, a skilled gunner aboard a corvette, fast gunboat, or medium combat vessel may be more valuable than an additional fighter pilot. Ten expert gunners inside a survivable precision platform can often matter more than ten pilots dispersed across ten fragile small craft.

Shipboard gunner suits are hardened for emergency vacuum, impact, acceleration stress, and cockpit or turret compartment damage. The operator may be physically seated inside a firing station, remote turret pod, local fire-control bay, or semi-enclosed weapons cockpit. Their equipment often emphasizes interface stability, display integration, arm protection, and endurance rather than walking mobility.

The gunner’s task is not merely to fire. It is to apply force accurately: disable drives without killing civilians, remove weapon mounts without destroying the prize, suppress hostile fire without damaging boarding corridors, and understand when not to shoot. LCRN fire-control culture treats restraint as a combat skill.

5. Medium-Vessel Crew

Medium-vessel crews are the backbone of LCRN precision warfare. This category includes pilots, copilots, engineers, comms officers, tactical officers, navigators, and shipboard specialists aboard corvettes, fast gunboats, patrol craft, compact strike vessels, armed transports, and similar platforms.

Unlike capital-ship officers, medium-vessel officers are commonly suited during ship operations. They are not detached from danger by scale. They operate inside vessels expected to maneuver aggressively, take damage, suffer decompression, and remain functional under pressure. Their suits are less specialized than Breacher or fighter-pilot gear, but more protective than ordinary uniforms.

Officer or senior-specialist status may be marked through subtle helmet or armor markings rather than ornate rank display. This is especially common on medium ships, where authority must remain legible under helmeted combat conditions. The visual language remains practical: the officer is still part of the machine, not standing above it.

A Langardian medium ship is not crewed as a disposable small capital vessel. It is treated as a precision violence platform. The pilot places the ship. The copilot manages systems and tactical alignment. The engineer keeps it alive. The comms officer preserves coordination. The gunners remove enemy capability. Together they make the vessel a disciplined instrument rather than a blunt object.

Operational Chain

A typical LCRN intervention follows a layered logic:

Fleet elements isolate the target area, control routes, suppress escape, and establish overwatch.

Medium vessels and precision craft disable shields, drives, weapons, hangars, communications, or station systems with controlled fire.

Fighter pilots intercept threats, escort boarding craft, deny hostile smallcraft movement, and strike specific vulnerabilities.

Gunners and fire-control teams remove enemy teeth while preserving what must survive.

Breachers enter only when the target has been made small enough to survive: corridors, decks, docking collars, control rooms, hangars, depots, and enclosed command spaces.

Knights intervene where ordinary force becomes insufficient, morally dangerous, or tactically inappropriate.

SOMEWHERE IN THE OUTER RIM (14 BBY)

The slaver ship came out of hyperspace as if it were jerked out of it. For one suspended second the stars stretched ahead of it, clean and obedient. Then the field collapsed. Alarms went through the hull in red sheets of light. Men shouted over one another on the bridge. Someone called it an interdiction field. Someone else called it impossible.

Erin Bersan felt the ship lurch under her boots. She was standing behind the ring leader’s chair in the upper meeting room, where he had gathered three of his senior men and two brokers whose names changed depending on the system. The room had been designed to make people feel trapped before they knew they were negotiating. Low ceiling. Dark table. Heavy doors. A viewport wide enough to show profitable stars and small enough to remind visitors they were inside someone else’s ship.

Now the stars were gone. A Venator Star Destroyer filled the viewport. A vision that she felt had been taken right from her deepest memories of the Clone Wars. For a moment nobody spoke. Then the ring leader swore, quietly at first, then louder, as the slaver vessel was pulled sideways into the capital ship’s ventral bay.

“Imperials?” one of the capos asked.

“No,” Erin said before she knew she meant to speak.

She could feel the shape of the other ship through the Force. Not clean. Not dark. Not empty. Too many lives, too much discipline, too much silence where panic should have been.

The first breach sounded like the ship splitting open.

Not near them. Below. Somewhere through the forward docking collar, then another impact farther along the main spine. The ship’s internal channel filled with screams, blaster fire, cut-off orders, and the sharp interruption of men dying before they understood the fight they were in.

Then the meeting-room doors buckled inward.

They did not explode. They bent, violently as if an invisible hand had taken hold of them and decided the mechanism was irrelevant. The locks tore out of the frame. The doors folded, dropped, and hit the floor with a weight that made everyone at the table flinch.

Armored soldiers entered first. Their armor was not Imperial. Mandalorian lines, maybe, but too uniformed for clan work. White and dark plates, red markings she didn't recognize. Controlled movement. Rifles raised. Trigger discipline. They spread into the room without shouting.

Behind them came a man in dark clothing and armor elements, tall, calm, carrying no visible urgency. Behind him, a woman with red hair and a stillness Erin noticed before she noticed her face.

Erin moved while reaching for her lightsaber.

She got one step.

Then the Force closed around her.

Not a push. Not a blow. No hand lifted against her. Her body simply stopped belonging to movement. Her knees struck the floor beside the table. Her saber remained in her hand, useless as her fingers were no longer hers to command. She tried to rise and could not. She tried to turn on the blade and could not. The pressure was complete without being painful.

The ring leader snapped at her.

“Do your job!”

Erin’s jaw tightened.

“I can’t move.”

The man looked at her.

“Tsk Tsk. You. Stay put.”

His tone was mild.

The ring leader stood quickly, his chair scraping backward.

“You have no idea what you’re attacking,” he said. “No idea. I work under Hutt protection. You’ve just put your entire command in debt to people who will spend years teaching you what that means.”

Her boss still mistook the intruder for an Imp.

“I’m not here for you,” he said to the slaver without looking at him.

The room went eerily quiet.

The man’s eyes stayed locked onto Erin's.

“I’m here for her.”

For a moment she did not understand the sentence. Then she understood too many versions of it at once.

Jedi survivor? Execution? Claim? Punishment delayed five years and arriving in armor?

Her mind began racing so fast that the room seemed to fall behind it.

The ring leader stared, then laughed once.

“She is not for sale.”

The man’s expression did not change.

He looked at Erin with something she could not read. Not pity. Not disgust. Not the cold appetite she had learned to recognize in men who saw power and wanted to own it. He spoke to her then and it felt almost gentle, caring. It was unnerving.

“Well then, let’s release you from your obligations, shall we?"

The ring leader had just enough time to misunderstand.

Light broke out around the man.

It did not come from his hands. It came from the space around him, branching in sudden white-blue violence, clean and enormous. Bolts struck every man at the table at once. The capos jerked back in their seats. One of the brokers hit the wall hard enough to crack the panel behind him. The ring leader remained standing for half a second longer than the others, mouth open, eyes still full of argument.

Then he fell.

The light vanished.

No one else had been touched.

The soldiers had not moved. The red-haired woman had watched, neither pleased nor surprised.

The pressure holding Erin disappeared.

She rose with all the force her body had been denied.

Her saber came up.

It left her hand before the strike could begin.

The orange blade spun once through the air, still lit, and landed hilt-first in the man’s grasp. At the same time the Force hit Erin across the chest and drove her back into the wall. Not hard enough to break her. Hard enough to make the point. Her boots left the floor. Her shoulders struck metal. The pressure held her there.

The man clicked his tongue again, softer this time.

“Nuh-uh.”

Erin bared her teeth.

“I do not mean you harm,” he said. “And I know you could not possibly harm me, even if you tried. The people accompanying me, however, may not know that quickly enough. Do not provoke them into protecting me from you.”

The red-haired woman stepped beside him.

Her eyes went to the saber in his hand. The blade painted her face in molten orange.

She tilted her head.

“Nice color.”

The man gave her a side glance.

Something passed between them. Erin saw it and hated that she did not understand it.

The man retracted the blade. Silence returned with the absence of its hum.

He looked back at Erin.

“Can I release you now?”

“Who are you?”

“That is not an answer.”

The pressure at her throat and wrists seemed suddenly enormous.

She swallowed.

“Yes,” she said. “I yield.”

“Very well.”

The Force let her go.

She dropped to her feet badly, caught herself on one hand, then stayed half crouched because standing too quickly felt like another mistake. Her throat ached where nothing had touched it. She rubbed the pressure points anyway.

The man tossed her saber back.

She caught it by instinct, stared at it, then at him.

“Who are you?” she asked again.

The red-haired woman watched her with an expression so careful it was almost kindness.

“What do you want?”

The man seemed to consider which answer she would survive.

“I am Kell,” he said. “This is Vala.”

The name meant nothing to her. The room said otherwise. The soldiers held their silence around it like discipline around a fire.

Kell looked at the dead men, then back at Erin.

“We find people who were left too long in places like this.”

An officer appeared in the ruined doorway and bowed his head.

“My lord, the ship is secured. No threats remain aboard.”

“Very good,” Kell said. “Start stripping its systems apart for anything useful.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The officer left.

Erin stared at Kell.

My lord. Of course. She thought.

The word completed the shape her mind had been trying to make. A formidable force-user. A warship. Soldiers in uniform. Enemies killed without effort. The old owners dead. The ship already being taken apart for spoils.

He had come for her.

She understood.

She carefully set her saber at her side and solemnly lowered herself to one knee.

“I will submit to you, my lord” she said.

Vala's face changed. Only a little but enough for Erin to feel something she hadn't expected. She bowed her head.

“Please,” Erin said, because the word had become easier than pride years ago. “Teach me.”

Kell looked down at her.

He did not smile. He did not accept. He did not correct the title either.

“You will have to learn by yourself first,” he said.

Erin did not understand.

“You may keep your saber,” he continued. “You may walk freely aboard my ship. Do not cause trouble with my people, and they will not cause trouble with you.”

She looked up slowly.

Freely.

The word did not fit anywhere.

“Yes,” she said, because obedience still knew what to do when understanding failed.

“I can do that, my lord.”

Vala looked at Kell.

Kell’s eyes remained on Erin.

For the first time since the doors had fallen, he seemed almost tired.

OF COURSE IT'S A FANFIC