Nar Shaddaa's Open Orbit

Na'an shrugged, checking Elly's heart rate. "Rabbits have strong legs. Sharp eyes. Clever minds," she said quietly. The woman's pulse thudded gently under her fingers, strong enough to know the sedative had taken proper effect. "And yet they're prey. Always afraid."

She could feel Kent's breathing on the back of her neck, uneven and warm, bright with the sincerity and conviction only the young seemed capable of. The girl was really convinced that Na'an was what she needed...what she was meant for...she was already imagining that some unbreakable bond of fate had tied them together...

She turned abruptly, her work on Elly finished. 

"I hope you're not confusing the first Force Sensitive you've ever met for someone who can protect you forever. For your destiny," she finished. Her good eye bored into Kent's, as if trying to burn her meaning into the teenager's brain.  "We're on our way to the Enclave on Felucia. When we get there you'll have some time to ask questions, explore the facility.  Before making up your mind, I'd like you to at least see what real Jedi are like. You've never actually seen one, so you should know what your options are actually like.

Then, if you're really set on following me home instead, I'll tell you the rules--and then everything else. Sound fair?"

Na'an cocked her head, looking surprised, but did not pursue it. "Wherever you think is appropriate. I think you've earned free rein for the moment." She backed towards the door as she spoke, bending her knees as if she expected them to creak audibly. "I've got one more person to check on, then going up to Leigh. There's one last set of beds, or the cargo bay and the refresher--we got lucky, this loaner's got a shower. I'd avoid getting into the secondary quarters, though. For your own sake."
She hesitated before reaching out to Kent, patting her shoulder awkwardly. The muscles in the teen's arm were stiff to the touch, either with anger or some other sudden tension.

"And please," she said gently. "Take a vitamin."

****

Twenty seconds later, Na'an entered the primary quarters where Kent had deposited Adelle. Up in the cockpit, Leigh processed a thousand different thoughts and calculations, compiling information, drawing connections, extrapolating...and, her mind locked deep in her increasingly-frustrated data layers, pushed the lever that threw the Hawk headlong into hyperspace.

The minstrel class Yacht had entered Nar Shadda orbit hours ago. Zalus woke up from his reclined position aboard his minstrel yacht again, the the blaring screams of loud music and people who thought they were important. He rubbed his forhead and clicked through the different channels, every one of them and finally slammed his fist on the console.

"Dammit, trying to fall asleep to the grav ball tournament and all I hear is a bunch of angry IF fluff, again! Shit, Kolga better call me soon before I impersonate a farken spacecast representative and fanangle five billion credits in long distance sensor array calls from the fluffnuggets."

He crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes, hoping to fall back asleep. His yacht was his base of operations. He had a blastboat and an n-1 starfighter in the hangar. He hoped to expand his collection but two ships was enough for him and his crew. It was all a waiting game for the next mission. He only worked for hutts, and eventually one would call,they always did.

"Finally," Zalus groaned and stretched. He unclipped his seatbelt and rose up from his chair. He walked off the bridge and headed to the turbolift. He pressed the button for the door and stepped in, the cheezy elevator music played all the way down.

"I love nostalgia..." Zalus' spoke while his lips curled into a small smile.

The doors opened to the hangar and he stepped out. He looked to his two ships. A blastboat, and his custom N-1.

"Suuch choices..." He spoke with his hands behind his head. He made his choice with a shrug and headed aboard the skipray. But then he thought a moment, "Hey Navigator, just land this boat for resupply and refueling."

::Yes sir,:: A voice over the intercom replied, and the minstrel class yacht headed for the corellia sector.

A guttural growl, a curse, and 5055 was running - around the corner, through the port aft bulkhead. Sliding into the chair, 5055 slid a comm headset on and keyed it to internal speakers, booting up the heads up display all the while. As the ancient equipment phased into existence a wire diagram of the ship, and relative - relative, as this was a very old ship indeed - positions of the enemy craft, 5055 quickly hit a summary diagnostic of all weapon mounts. Two gimbal mounted capital grade cannons on the drive foils with a fair arc of fire, one port and one starboard cannon on the main hull, one nose mounted repeating cannon. Along with the diagnostic shield analysis and relative strength.

"TIE's will be the least of our problems. On Vartholium they sent no less than three cruisers after me. Time is not on our side."

5055's hands flew over the control; piloting a craft was one thing, but if there was anything he had experience with, it was weapons and weapons stations alike. Three TIEs came in from above, a trio of triangles that darted across the targeting display, leaving behind symbols of direct hits on the dorsal surface. 5055 attempted to compensate - cutting power to all the capital grade weapons by fifty percent, he diverted the power to shields and engines, letting the pilot decide how to best distribute it. It was a tactical decision - lowering the output of the cannons allowed for a large decrease in the time needed for the capacitors to cycle a charge, and thus, more rapid fire. The bolts, while less powerful, should, theoretically, still get the job done - that is, if TIE's hadn't changed that much from twenty years ago, and were still shielded.

"We are safe in atmo in the short term. It is imperative we make the jump to hyperspace in the long term. If you can get us to Serenno, your payment, and facilities to keep us safe await. In theory."

5055's words were clipped, to the point, and completely clinical. As the ship dove, the pilot firing ahead and diving under a piece of wreckage - followed up by a point blank spray from the nose cannon into a TIE - 5055 bid his time. The capital cannons had not yet fired nor swiveled on their mounts - by all appearances only the pilot was manning the nose guns. 5055 would use this to his advantage, and wait for his chance to strike. The craft pitched itself into a heavy turn, the trio of TIEs from before dove and struggled to compensate - again, the craft flew into another tight turn; the trio if fighters, out of the forward field of fire of the forward nose cannon, but unbeknownst to them, within the arc of the the capital cannons. 

"Var'Ketch!"

The shout of glee, the foreign word ringing out over the comm - 5055 swung the capital cannons into two arcs of converging fire, depressed the control stud on the firing controls, and cackled as the cannons thumped in response, belting a rapid salvo of bolts. The salvo caught one TIE completely off guard, completely obliterating it. It's port wingman swerved wildly, attempting to avoid flaming wreckage, while the starboard wingman ascended rapidly, attempting to evade the newly active cannons. 5055 opted to track the swerving TIE, as it was in disarray, targeting the craft swiftly, and sending a second salvo of bolts screaming its way. The pilot attempted to compensate, juking about before heading into a steep dive; but its pilot had not realized what the other TIE had, this being that the turrets were mounted for maximum arc at a parallel plane to the hull, and at roughly a forty five degree angle downward being the maximum that the turrets could swivel. This was in contrast to a few scant degrees upward. In other words, getting above the ship meant getting out of the firing arcs, but diving low...this was certain death.

As the streams of fire tracked, then converged, enveloping the TIE in a fiery death, 5055 was smiling. It was an odd sensation. But, after all this time, twenty years, 5055 was right back to killing Imperials...and it felt, in a word...exquisite.

The pilot’s warning to ‘hold on’ came just as the ship surged forward - making 5055 furrow his brow. Where was he going? They couldn’t possibly outrun the TIEs in this heap of…

“Oh, haha, no.” 5055 said flatly, his eyes transfixed on the closing blast doors ahead. “No, no, no.” But the blast doors still came at them, and the pilot showed no sign of slowing down. “No, no, NO!” 5055 shielded his eyes, mumbling prayers to the Firrerreo Gods, and refrained from opening them. He never saw the flaming wreckage, the crashing ships, the scattering sentients. He never saw the bare six foot clearance, nor how close they came to death. This was for the better. For when 5055 opened his eyes, he was ghastly pale - for a firrerreo - and an odd brownish color, the Firrerreo equivalent of a human turning green. “I’ve fought in three battle campaigns. Piloted walkers, tanks, mobile artillery platforms. All on the ground. Always on the ground. Never, never will I get used to flying. In air or space.” Said 5055 in a dull monotone, his hand coming down from over his eyes, the color slowly returning to his face.
“I suppose introductions are in order. You may call me…Fifth. And no, human, that is not my real name. We Firrerreo do not give our names.” Fifth shook his head, rubbing his temple for a minute or so. “There is a villa in Fiyarro on Serenno. Coordinates 2143231-Alpha-Besh on the planetary grid. We should be safe there. Or…we may not. It has been twenty years since I’ve been awake. In any case, we will be in far less danger there than in the presence of Imperial Dogs.”