Kessendra

His trek to the control room was brief, Adrien stopped at no other doors to check for slavers. His number one goal right now was taking down the AA gun.

When he reached the control room he waited quietly at the door listening, there were clearly people inside but he couldn't tell how many just by listening. He took a step back and scanned the inside of the room using infrared via his hi-sense eyes. Eight. They knew this would be a target area. His vision returned to normal and he put his back up against a the wall next to the door. As he formulated a very quick strategy for taking the control room.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath in preparation for his assault. He pulled the bag of detonators from his shoulder and removed two then set the bag to the side. He activated the detonators and waited, silently counting down under his breath. "Six. Five. Four. Three." As he reached three he activated the door and it sucked up into the ceiling as he rolled into the doorway tossing the two detonators inside on his way across to take cover on the other side of the door as they exploded. He didn't know how many he had gotten but he knew from the cries that he'd at least gotten a few.

He rolled back into the doorway and the shooting began, it was quick and confusing, there was smoke and body parts and blood everywhere. When the dust settled Adrien was standing alone in the room with eight dead slavers scattered about the room. He honestly wasn't sure how he hadn't gotten hit with the number he was up against but he guessed good luck and skill went a long way. He dropped the rifle he had picked up earlier and walked over to the main console. He didn't really understand how any of it worked, he'd never worked on something like this but he was a smart guy, he supposed he could figure it out.

He had just started to read labels when his vision started to blur and he didn't understand why. Then he started to get light headed and cold. It was then that he noticed it. Blood on the console that wasn't there before. He reached down and touched it, it was warm so he reached up to feel his head and the wound wasn't bleeding anymore, in fact is was closing already. Then he looked down to see that blaster burns on his chest, abdomen, right leg, and left arm, six hits in total. He was losing blood quickly and he needed to get that AA gun offline. He looked around the room quickly and spotted an emergency power shut off on the opposite wall, that had to work.

His eyelids became heavy and his breathing became strained as he took a step toward the shut off. His legs became like jelly and he started to run as best as he could but fell just short. He crawled toward his goal and made it to the wall then up to his knees before he ran out of seam and collapsed into the corner smearing blood on the wall down to where he sat trying to stay awake and gripping his gun to put up a fight until either until he healed, or his wounds or someone ended him.

Silas opened the door, took stock of the scene. Ten dead? More? It was grisly. Blood and viscera covered the floor, and much of the walls. It honestly took him more than a minute to locate Adrien, as he had mistaken the Captain for one of the dead, originally. Dark Night... he was badly off. Preacher tied off tourniquets over the worst of the bleeders, and stooped to heft Adrien's weight over his shoulder, barely catching the whisper as he bent over the smuggler Captain. "kill it... kill it..." 

At first he wasn't sure what Adrien was on about, but clued in when he saw the power cutoff on the wall. Tugging it so that the large switch pointed to the floor rewarded the pair with obvious success, as banks of monitors flicked off, and machinery audibly powered down. He wanted to reassure the Captain, but his voice was nowhere to be found. Instead he hoists the injured man, for whom he can do no more without proper medical devices, and carries him back, down the hallway, and down the stairs, where he finds Neassa, Constanza, and several other bedraggled survivors -- slaves, no doubt. 

Catching the eye of everyone present, some of whom have blasters drawn and aimed in his direction, he seeks out Forseti, his gaze locking on to hers, and simply nods. It is done. 

*Trent was just about to answer Erly when he heard the call they'd all been waiting for. Silently he turned to the console, activated the thrusters, and pulled back on the helm* ::Roger roger. ETA one minute.::

*He turned on the internal comms as the Shadow lifted* ::Jem get ready we have injured coming on board.:: *He was cool and collected through all of this but with a sense of urgency, it was clear that this wasn't his first rodeo.* Erly, take Crystal and head to the ramp to help everyone in safely.

*The Shadow soared towards the building and Trent brought it down as close as he could to the entrance, about four or five meters from the door and with about fifteen seconds to spare*

Silas makes it aboard -- thankful to have been proven somewhat correct by the Qiraash woman that today was not his day. Though, looking at the state of those assembled around him, it was certainly not his comrades day, either. If this was a win, it wasn't by much.

Gratefully letting Adrien down onto a waiting gurney attended to by the Doctor, Silas would have most happily collapsed onto a couch and just bled awhile, except there were newcomers in their midst. Not a few of them either. Slaves, some of whom were armed. Turning to face the assembled fearful, wide-eyed and malnourished slaves, he raises a bloody, slightly shakey hand.

Friends... you are no longer in danger. You are safe... inasmuch as someone can be safe in a spacecraft in hostile territory. You are guests aboard a private craft, and for the duration of your stay, or at least until we get a better feel for the people in the room, I'd feel a whole lot better if those of you who are armed, drop your weapons on the deck, if you please...

Kessendra Space Port

Common Room, Wayfarer-class transport, the Midnight Shadow

The need for a vote on a course of action was taken out of Erly's hands when the team on the field called for an airlift. She nodded at Trent, slung her rifle and darted for the boarding ramp. Her eyebrows went as high as they possibly could when she saw the condition of the crew. It was Juvex all over again. Only, even more passengers than ever. After ensuring everyone was aboard, the blonde dashed back up the ramp, and yelled, “Gem, get moving! There's a lot of red everywhere!”

She ran back to her temporary quarters, where she'd last dumped her bag, full of her belongings, and grabbed her personal medikit. It was nothing compared to whatever Jemima had, or whatever they got from the RDMC on Honoghr, but it was an excellent Corellian industrial-issue field kit, often used by the private sectors, including CorSec. She didn't like having to use it already, but the condition of the crew demanded it. All hands were needed, and if she could help even a little, then by the Force, she was going to do it.

Racing back out, she looked around, and began tending to the most seriously wounded, mostly cleaning wounds and applying first aid to the visible injuries. Jemima would be needed for the more serious cases.

Mister... may I?

And before he knows it, she young girl has taken Silas' hand in her own. For the briefest of moments, it is nothing more than a lovely punctuation to the scene. Several of the former slaves had begun to place their weapons on the deck of the 'Shadow, and as Preacher stands, speaking to and placating the throng before him, this young girl comes up and takes his hand. The act silenced him, and caused him to look down at her, a little uncomprehending, a little touched by the kindness of the act. He takes her hand and smiles his very best 'it'll be alright' smile, even as blood from one of his wounds runs down his arm, over his palm, and meets her hand.

It's at this moment he feels it. Her inner Strength. He can see it as a clearly defined shape, a light behind her eyes, and a warmth and calm emanates from her very being. In that moment, I feel some measure of strength return to my limbs, my core. This connection, not quite as deep or all-consuming as that which I had shared with Draykon before, would permit me to draw on her power if I elected to -- or at the very least, I would be able to make the attempt, and she could try to stop me, or not... but it doesn't matter. I am not inclined to take more than this girl is willing to give. And so it is merely a welcome help, like water to a man dying of thirst.

And so we stood, hand in hand for a moment, watching as the slaves before us (for the most part) relented and disarmed themselves, standing in various states and forms of distress, injury and undress, as the crew of the Midnight Shadow, broken and bruised, teetering on the edge of the long sleep, arrayed themselves around the room. It was a scene the likes of which Silas had never seen before.

Some of the slaves -- most obviously those who had suffered most grievously at the hands of their tormentors -- were not so quick to drop their defenses. Silas stepped slowly toward the nearest -- a Devaronian female wearing scarcely a rag, red welts and bruising covering her abdomen and face, and removed his coat, draping it around her shoulders. He placed a hand gently on the bloody knife she held in a death-grip, catching her eye with his own.

It's alright. You're safe. Never again.

...and then the moment passed. Doctor Sacharo called out, anguish lacing her voice and actions, and one of the former slaves collapsed under the fatigue and the obvious injuries she bore. Silas moved quickly, catching the woman who fell, laying her gently on the deck, while calling for help and doing what he could with the many injured. 'Doing all he could' was not good enough, as his Doctoring ability was nothing like some of his other skills, and now, with his Inner Strength mostly depleted for the day, and his own injuries weighing him down, it was all he could do to keep pressure on the injured woman's bleeding leg, keep her awake and focused, and slap bacta patches on the many wounded's injuries as they were passed to him. The hold was such a mess of injured beings, many speaking in tongues he didn't understand, trying to figure out safety, food, shelter and what would become of them, that he didn't even see Adrien, the Doctor, or what had befallen Constanza. He was one battered and war-weary face in a group of nearly forty, all tired, sick, wounded or otherwise displaced and looking for leadership and direction.

Adrien. Where was Adrien? He had lost track after the Captain had slipped off his shoulders and onto the waiting gurney. Catching the eye of another slave close-by who was fearful, but appeared uninjured, Silas called out to the young man.

Are you alright, boy? Do you speak the Basic tongue? a nod. Come here. Come. motioning for the lad to join him. He approaches warily. Do not be fearful. You are safe for the moment. at that moment, turbulence assaulted the Midnight Shadow, sending tremors through the airframe, and the boy nearly bolts, fear seizing him by the throat, though Preacher holds him with his gaze. It's alright. Bumpy ride, is all. Look -- boy. What is your name? Verrgil. Alright, Verrgil. I need to find the Captain. Which means I need you to put your hand on this wound, to keep the bleeding stopped. He shies away. No. Verrgil, you must do this. She needs your help. I will come back. In the meantime, try to get the attention of the Doctor, or the Blonde lady (Erly) over there. That's it. Press as hard as you can. Good lad.

Silas labored to stand, held onto a bulkhead for support. Moved through the hold, which was quickly starting to look like a make-shift field hospital / refugee camp. He checked three men to see if they were Adrien, but found only slaves. He dressed two more wounds, pressed five more bacta patches to lacerations till he had no more in his possession. Making his way slowly through the ship he eventually made his way to the cockpit. Adrien was nowhere in sight, but Weston was at the controls.

Trent -- what are your orders? Where are we?