Aiven Crawford - Republic Intelligence Dossier and Background

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Republic Intelligence Database

::: Secure data channel - Connected :::
::: Checking for Access Privilege Level 3 - Granted :::
::: Loading Personnel File :::
Name: Aiven Crawford
Gender: Male
Age: 24
Year of Enlistment: 3976 C.R.C.
Rank: Republic Navy Lieutenant
Occupation: Intelligence Analyst
Current status: Presumed defector to the Empire

::: Identifying markers :::
Hair color: Black
Eye color: Blue
Notes:
*Extremely pale skin
*Often appears sickly and coughing
*Sometimes unable to walk under own strength

::: Background Information :::
The son of Valentine Crawford, a business magnate of the Core Worlds. Likely bribery and personal connections involved in Lieutenant Crawfords admittance into Republic Intelligence. Even though of remarkably poor physical condition, still admitted due to excellent analytical scores in all tests, questionable authenticity of results.

Served during the Mandalorian Wars upon various Flagships on the frontline, mostly involved in spaceborne ground operations planning and direct control of interceptor wings in ship CIC. All direct superiors report a commendable drive and work ethic aswell as capability in all positions and tasks he was assigned, to the point where frequent sickness or long sleep cycles were often overlooked.

Medical logs show an intense amount of treatment, yet consistently deterioriating condition that would have mandated a honorable discharge due to various factors shortly after the end of the war. Was noticed missing from his posted ship about three months after the battle of Malachor V, colleagues and superiors note he seemed to often converse and talk with a Jedi onboard his last assignment. Medical records show a remarkable improvement of his physical condition during this time period.

::: Current Asessment :::
While not a priority target the individual has been spotted on at least two seperate ocassions near areas of Empire Operations. In both cases they were seen wearing dark robes and in the vicinity of known Dark Jedi. Intelligence Analysis and Questioning of relatives and former colleagues in combination with this information makes it likely for former Lieutenant Crawford to have defected to the Empire.

While I have tried to find information on the potential for force sensitivity that would indicate a likelyhood of Sith training, no evidence or first hand accounts from those able to identify it could be identified.

::: Responsible Analyst :::
Warrant Officer Green
Last Edited: 07.10.3980 C.R.C.

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Mood: Architects - "Dying Is Absolutely Safe" (Live at Middle Farm Studios) - YouTube

Somewhere on Coruscant, Early 3963 BBY

He rose from the Kolto tank he had been imbedded in for the last few hours and immediately reached for the towel placed on a small table to the right. With a sigh the young adult washed his face, and with much trouble pushed himself up to stand, heading over towards the large, walk-in dressing room, cursing as he went. The vastness and luxury of the large, lush apartment he lived in had become somewhat of a curse – distance between things too large to traverse without pain even only to get dressed on the worst of days. Today was one of the better ones, he thought as he got dressed. Clad in simple, black cloth pants, maroon dress shirt and impeccable leather shoes Aiven made his way to the walls of the space. He sat, quietly on one of two comfy armchairs facing these very walls as they revealed themselves to be windows to the outside on his command, offering a view of Coruscant beneath him, most of the Skyline far below the 151st floor glass he was looking out of.

His thoughts reminisced on the consultation he had with his primary doctor yesterday… his body was falling apart. Each passing year his ability to move, grasp and eventually even breathe would decrease steadily and unless a breakthrough was made, he would probably be dead within five years, a result of the gene modifications done to him when he was still just an embryo. Gene modifications that had failed, a fact that was very apparent early on in his life but previously could be treated – largely thanks to the millions of credits his father spent paying for a team of researchers that was already working on related projects.

Bitterness filled him; it was all wasted. He would never inherit his father’s business, truly amount to anything. Sure, he was slowly taking responsibilities in management, participated in a business merger on behalf of Crawford Industries, was probably to thank for more gained profits, additional employees and political capital gained than most people even born on Coruscant could ever wish to achieve but… what for? And even then, wasn’t most of this only possible because of the station and status he was born into? Regardless, it felt without purpose or achievement now that he looked towards a future that sucked dreams and ambition into a void like a black hole, hungry to strip all meaning of life away.

Aiven’s gaze wandered to a shelf of physical books standing towards the centre of the room, surrounded by a circular staircase leading up into another room, filled with books. What did historians write about? What participation would people remember? He already knew what his subconscious wanted, adventure, excitement, a contribution to something – yet that wasn’t really what he cared for. Moreso he wanted his name mentioned somewhere else than on his father’s holonet page, nothing more than a tragic note about the young death of the business magnate’s son.

His father would not let him go. Not normally. And yet he would have a way to make him submit to his own wishes for once. The pale skinned, raven haired soul stared down at a letter, written by his mother on her deathbed years ago. A plea to her husband to fulfil his wishes should the time come where it was important to him, certainly written with different intent but it would do. His blue eyes shifted to a large dataslate next to it, a formal letter of application to Republic Intelligence as Intelligence Analyst – his father would pull the strings required to get him in once he was convinced. He would have an impact on this galaxy that had at least a chance at being more and different to the one he was born into. Or was it, considering he would use that very privilege to even join? Only time would tell.

[Bright]

Approved. Looking forward to seeing more of this character.

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Mood: Northlane - Bloodline (Acoustic)

Somewhere on a former Republic Destroyer, Outer Rim, 3960 BBY after the Battle of Malachor V

His lungs burned. Every breath infused with flame, pain, anguish. Alternatingly his eyes burned when closed or were forced shut when open because the dim light in his crew quarter seemed like a sun trying to imprint it’s like into his brain. He had really felt it for the first time yesterday, this power, this capacity and now he was coming down from a high. A high caused by the most potent drug in this Galaxy: The Dark Side.

Lord Reylin had shown him what it felt like to walk without pain again. Not needing crutches, not seeing people pity him with every step he took, no, they feared him. He had walked the hallways with an aura of darkness that could be felt even by those barely sensitive in the force. A flickering, hateful flame that rose from his back – and now he was paying the price.

When the calm, collected man had explained to him that he would have to build a tolerance for it, the tribute for feeding the dark flame within him with power to overcome his cursed body he had imagined it couldn’t be worse than any other day. The usual feeling of pain, weakness, but worse just enduring himself as he was bound to a bed, struggling to breathe, nothing was too high a price to pay to not experience it ever again. Yet here he was, bound to his bed by the Dark Jedi, a collar attached around his neck to stop his fledgling ability to call upon the Dark Side, for if he were to do it again, feed that addiction once more, raise the stakes, he would not wake up again.

And so, he endured. Fought. Screamed. Learned to deal with the rising emotions that overcame him like waves, intent on pushing him down into the ground to take control of him as if his body was being pushed up onto a beach with rugged sand, tearing at his skin. Time lost it’s meaning, became irrelevant, but he distinctly remembered coming to his senses late at night.

The raven-haired man looked around his quarters, drenched in sweat, and he began to laugh. This, this was it. This was his cure. His salvation. He would not die within the next two years; he would achieve greatness. That, he was sure of.