Mel Tervho
The Vegemite Enclave
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Affiliation: Vegemite Enclave
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Post by Mel Tervho on Jul 15, 2016 18:04:31 GMT -8
Mel sauntered down the ramp after the group, watching them walk off into the sunset, and whatever particular pack of trouble they were destined for next. She didn't watch the com, her eyes were sweeping the perimeter and looking for anything suspicious.
Nothing stuck out at her, it was Nar Shaddaa, just as it always was. The flecks of colors mired in dismal corruption and stained by the landscape. Nothing pure or beautiful could exist here without being twisted or warped. It was the way of things. You could find anything for sale here on the Smuggler's Moon, not the least of which, morality.
The recording ended and her left hand pulled from her pants pocket to grab it from him and chuck it over the edge of the landing pad, letting the device sail to the unknown below.
"If you didn't carry it on to the ship, we're not bringing it with us. Come on. We're getting out of here."
She started walking, which looked like the direction they were supposed to go in until Mel hung a sharp right and then a few other turns, into a tram station. She was watchful but they couldn't move fast enough for her. Fel wasn't doing too good. She just had to get him to a safe house.
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Galdaart Fel
Retired High Councilor 
...not hiding anymore
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Affiliation: The Unfair Advantage
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Post by Galdaart Fel on Jul 16, 2016 19:43:12 GMT -8
Fel had been taken in by the thought of a man wrongly imprisoned. He had been to Kessel (not that long ago, actually...) and the notion of someone being sent there for the wrong reasons rubbed him the wrong way. Granted, it was a momentary thought. One that tugged a little at his heart-strings (though it could have been the Blasto...) He hadn't decided whether it was worth exploring. Of course, there were many smokescreens, and varying layers of Gao-yang-jong duh goo-yang that could be added by Alistair at will to play upon Fel's perceived emotions. It might be an absolute farce -- nothing altruistic about it. More than likely, it was one of Alistair's goons locked away and needing to be sprung ...what had the crime lord sent them as their new ride? I mean, Fel had no intention of actually using it, not after the debacle that was the YV-545 now smouldering behind them (ooh, here comes Melia...) but the gear-head and untrained Tele-mechanic in him wanted to know. Another Corellian vessel? Something more exotic? It wasn't every day someone simply handed you a new ship. What would be the harm in just having a look?
The rest of Alistair's message went in one ear and out the other: blahblahblah Kessel. Blah blahblahblah man wrongly imprisoned. Blahblahblah blah blah new ship, bay 38. Blah. Fel was mulling this and the rest of the facts (his condition, his friends, their chances of escaping Alistair and whoever he represented) over in his mind when Melia approached, grabbed the holorecorder from his hand, and tossed it into the great by and by. There was a momentary look of surprise on Fel's face, like a date had just smacked him across the cheek. That recording was 'the job.' He had made a (pretty shitty) living for fifteen years always doing 'the job.' And this represented saying a big, definitive NO to 'the job.' Which, in a former life, Fel might've (would've) argued would get you dead... He might even have uttered an abortive "But..." as the small projector sailed out of sight.
But he saw the look in her eyes. He had called the shots for a good spell. And she had played the dutiful partner to a tee. He knew he wasn't thinking very clearly, should never have given Alistair's message a second thought. But he did. Melia saw the path they needed to be on. Had their own mission clearly in mind. It only took him a split second to resolve himself, and when he did, he smiled at her.
Ok Mel. Just let me grab my gear.
He moved quickly back into the ship, headed straight for the bridge. Strapping on his gunbelt, he accessed the terminal once more, and retrieved the holonet message he had been composing. He looked it over briefly, and sent it (encrypted, of course -- though Fel's knowledge of encryption wasn't brilliant, and he also wanted to ensure that those on the receiving end could decipher the code.) He didn't bother wiping down the flight deck for fingerprints... he had been all over this ship, and to cleanse it all would take hours... or fire, and he simply didn't care. Their escape would not hinge on covering their tracks from this ship. It would rest in his piloting, and Melia's skills while on the ground. And a whole lot of nerve.
He cast a quick glance at the stormtrooper gear in the corner. It had served the purpose while it needed to, and might even have kept the good (?) name of the Fel crew distanced from his actions under duress. But he didn't need it now. Now was about getting home. Now was all there would ever be.
He walked back down the ramp, carrying only a small pack, and the extra weight of the DL-22 at his hip.
Let's go, partner.
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El-Nu Xunbaris
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Affiliation: Himself
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Post by El-Nu Xunbaris on Jul 27, 2016 14:06:06 GMT -8
From beneath the veil of shadows a pair of eyes gleened for a potential target. He sat, silently, legs hunched up to chest, the fingers on his dexterously manipulating a single chit coin, flipping it over his knucles making the coin move fluidly like water. He remained still and silent, taking but a momentary glance, eyes flicking over each passing stranger, in an instanct his brain calculated the potential and the factor of risk.
This was the city that never slept, constantly moving as creatures of varying shapes, sizes and genders went about their seedy business. Nar Shaddaa was a boil and those who frequented its streets were the sickness that were causing the boil to fester.
Of all the planets....not that he had seen anywhere else, he had only heard drunk spacers tales or the idle chat of whores. Really it didn't matter the planet for his circumstances would be the same, abandoned was abandoned and where he came from didn't concern him, only his next meal. Survival was everything and there couldn't be a harsher environment to grow up in then Nar Shaddaa. He had to make himself useful,useful enough to not warrant the ever threatening indisposability, yet not quite so useful that he appeared a threat. So he lived the life of a small time thief, only it wasn't living, not really, and it wasn't a life, it was surviving, because it was either them or him, and he could only trust one person.
There, five o'clock, just crossing the intersection, judging by the man's dress and the manner in which he walked El would guess he was a diplomat or an official, spit knows what he was doing in a place like this, and try as he might by dulling down his dress and attempting to walk as though the ground he walked on was his to own he failed.
Slinking from the shadows El moved catlike, skirting through the throng, he skirted the wall and then deftly scaled a sleuce pipe, keeping low and keeping the man in his sights. He quickly and stealthily skittered over the roof tailing his target, waiting for him to inevitably attempt to blend with the crowd. See most may think that to steal it would be easier to track down a target and acost them alone, it was true, one could attempt to do so. Yet when alone a being often fealt more vulnerable, more on guard and thus more dangerous. The crowd the bustle of a street was a theif's friend. El slid down an access ladder and moved in on the man, he shifted his way through the crowd with subtle shifts of his body, a subtle hand or foot placed steered others around him, he moved through the crowd like an eel. Then seizing his chance, he bustled forward knocking the target as another being approached carrying a large barrel. El quickly seized the small wallet and proceeded upon his way. The perfect steal, like a fluid painting, each brush stroke carried out with a mastery, and El, El was an artist.
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El-Nu Xunbaris
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Affiliation: Himself
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Post by El-Nu Xunbaris on Jul 29, 2016 13:18:13 GMT -8
El scurried his usual way home, he slipped under the rusting metal beam that lay at the base of one of the subway supporting struts. He wasn't sure if the small basement like cut out that had been hewn beneath the subway had been used in the past for smuggling or whether it had served in aiding the subway construction, or perhaps once had served as a rest pint for the construction workers. No matter, for it now served as a hide away hole for El himself. He slipped through the gap between beam and floor and dropped neatly onto the floor, to his alarm he saw a shadow in the dim light and reached for his knife.
-Stranger-
"There is no need for alarm, put away your weapon, for I mean you no harm."
El did not put away his weapon, instead he drew it forth and dropped low into a knife fighters stance, his grey eyes glaring at the cloaked figure, drilling his untrust home into the bedrock of the individual before him. The stranger remained unfazed and made no movement, he spoke again in a soft even tone.
-Stranger-
"You showed great skill today, I had wondered for what reason I had found my way here, and now I know, allow me to introduce myself properly.
The man raised his hands slowly showing his palms, he then lifted his hands and lowered his hood, El nearly stumbled and dropped his knife, for there before him was the man whom he had just stolen from, the alarm must have shown on his face, for the man raised his hands again in a placating gesture.
-Stranger-
"My name is Jaran Voltraen. I understand you are afraid, I can hardly blame you, living here as you do, going from a hand to mouth existence, but I have come here at great risk, not to take back from you what you indeed took from me, but to offer you an opportunity, a chance at something greater. You must have longed for a life far more than...."
The man gestured around the hovel.
-Stranger-
"It may seem mad what I am about to say, but deep down you know, you know you are different, for how is it you were able to steal from me today?"
El kept his knife aimed at the man, his expression displaying the range of his feelings, from surprise to anger, to puzzlement. Why should this Jaran even care how he was able to steal, he had stolen and now Jaran said he could keep it, not that Jaran was in a position to take it back.
"You give me one good reason why I shouldn't cut you down, you trespass into my space, you have seen who I am....."
-Stranger-
"Who you are, yes, but do you see who you are? You are capable of much more than stealing, you have a power you don't even know you posses, I can show you the ways of the force."
Was this Jaran bat shit crazy, what in a Hutt's Uncle was he yammering on about, the force, so, what El was now suddenly supposed to except the intruder because he happens to mention some make beleive mystical power and hope that solves the situation.
"You've got three seconds to provide a damned better explaination than that mumbojumbo................................One.................................................Two..............................
Jaran could see that there would be no way of getting through to the youth before him, only proof, he needed to see with his own eyes. Jaran closed his eyes and calmed his spirit, calling upon the force at hand, he reached out with his concious mind and the rocks upon the ground began to rise, with subtle movements of his hand they began to spin faster. Then a sudden explosive flexing of his fingers and the rocks shot off in a stream whipped around El's head and came back to spin in front of Jaran before he set them down upon the ground. The next sound to be heard was the dropping the knife.
"I.............I don't believe it."
Jaran smiled, this smiled was replaced by a look of shock bewilderment as he felt the sharp blade drive through his chest, he opened his eyes to see the youth before him his hands about the hilt of another dagger, the hilt burried up to his chest and blood pooling around the wound.
Two things had gone through El's mind, firstly Jaran knew El could sense the force, which was something El didn't even know, secondly, he was sure a dead force user would fetch a price and net him more than what he had stolen from the man in the first place.
"I don't care for the force, I don't care for your belief and I don't care for you, I only care about tomorrow, if you wanted me to have a better tomorrow don't worry, your death will guarantee it."
El withdrew the knife and watched as the life drained out of Jaran.
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Mel Tervho
The Vegemite Enclave
Posts: 169
Affiliation: Vegemite Enclave
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Post by Mel Tervho on Aug 2, 2016 4:30:52 GMT -8
The winding path to the apartment was purposely so, and by the time they got there, Mel was getting tired. The safehouse wasn't for a rest though. Their way off the planet was waiting for them, and the safehouse was merely the place to catch their breath and find out where the rest of the journey was taking them.
The neighborhood wasn't the greatest. Mel's directions had taken them to a part of town where a couple of junkyards were operating next to a purely commercial port. There were no passenger vessels over here, just ruins of ships and cargo haulers.
The code worked on the door, several stories up, and the way opened into a simple place with basic furniture and nothing else. There was a case on the table. A second opened it and inside Mel found what she had asked Pallux for. A medkit, some rations and a clean coms. She flipped it on, and read through his instructions and glanced at the clock.
"We've got a couple hours to relax. Enough for a bite, some fluids for you and then we met our ride off here. "
She walked to the window and looked down. There were a couple large ships sitting in the port, the last of their cargo being loaded up.
"There's a Marl Class down there. Our ride is in one of the holds. We take off with the Marl and on the edge of the system, we part ways."
She turned back to him, tucking the coms in her pocket, the message now long gone. Her head cocked over, and she sighed.
"Come on, sit down and rest. You're gonna need it. You hungry?"
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Galdaart Fel
Retired High Councilor
...not hiding anymore
Posts: 1,565
Affiliation: The Unfair Advantage
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Post by Galdaart Fel on Aug 2, 2016 9:57:33 GMT -8
Fel slumped into a chair, and quickly found himself on the floor, as the chair's leg gave way under him. He cursed and kicked the broken seat away from himself, not bothering to pick himself up off the floor, instead sliding to a sturdy-looking wall and leaning back, mostly reclined. He was tired, and it showed. His breathing had been laboured, and he had been unobservant -- just following Melia like cattle. If anyone had asked where they were and where they had come from, Fel wouldn't have been able to answer if he wanted to. There was both good and bad in that. He was content to let Melia lead, and mostly alright with following blind. But it also showed the extent of his illness. This was something Fel detested. Usually, he could direct his hatred at the disease itself, but right now he was the target. He hated what he had become, he hated this weakness, and he hated that he was dragging everyone down with him: Melia, and his crew. Didn't feral cats just crawl off when it was time to die? Couldn't he just do the same? Be better for everyone.
Fel didn't reply when Mel laid out the plan. It was sound, he'd come up with no better, even if he were in a position to do so. He didn't even bother looking out the window. The pertinent information had been said. Didn't need confirmation, and Fel didn't need to make sure Melia was prepped. He knew she was. Nodding at the plan, he closed his eyes a moment. When she asked if he was hungry, he smiled. He couldn't remember the last time he had been hungry. He replied sarcastically.
Only if there's a fresh batch of spice-loaf or smoked Corellian nerf in that suitcase. All the fixin's, too. losing the sarcasm I'm fine. You go on.
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El-Nu Xunbaris
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Affiliation: Himself
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Post by El-Nu Xunbaris on Aug 12, 2016 13:17:13 GMT -8
He had spent the night's duration haunted by a reoccurring dream, a whispering voice that called to him.
Having let curiosity get the better of his common sense El-Nu had examined the cote of the in he had slain, amongst his possessions he had discovered the strange laser sword the Jedi liked to wield, the ones he had heard fantastical stories about surrounding these Jedi and their mystical mumbo jumbo. Stranger still was the crystalline pyramid, a device that fitted snuggly into the palm of his hand, no larger than a tumbler. Then it had begun to glow and a being had been projected forth. The being was clad mysteriously in a fog or a small that also seemed to be their robe or cloak. The being had greeted El-Nu but had also surveyed the scene. El wasn't sure if the being was real, living or a hologram, yet the figure perceived what had happened. It also seemed to please the figure as it stated it was pleased to be free of the Jedi fool. Then it began spurting nonsense, yet the one word that stuck and resonated within his skull was Ossus. That internal word, or should that be world, because El-Nu had seen it in his mind and he couldn't shake it from his brain. He felt almost compelled to go and so not knowing quite why he upped, collecting what menial possessions he had including the strange laser sword and the device and made his way to the passenger craft departed for Ossus.
With the few credits he had he bought passage and boarded the rusted crate and seated himself upon the floor amongst other passengers and cargo. Shortly the vessel departed and El got his first taste of space flight, space sickness and concluded he wasn't sure he was keen on either.
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Galdaart Fel
Retired High Councilor
...not hiding anymore
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Affiliation: The Unfair Advantage
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Post by Galdaart Fel on Sept 1, 2016 18:40:29 GMT -8
Time passed. They had talked a little. Never easy, fluid, the kind of conversation best friends fall into. Neither of them were from that particular mould. But they joked, and under the circumstances, it couldn't have been much lighter or jovial, under the circumstances. They were both about to head into uncharted waters, for the first time in nearly two years (Fel) and a lot longer than that for Melia. She had finally convinced him to eat a little bit, though his heart wasn't in it. Mostly he did so out of a sense of social duty. No fun eating alone. The safe house didn't have much, but there was a roll-out mat that Galdaart propped himself up on while they were talking. It was a long way from comfortable, but after shrugging out of his boots, even unbidden, sleep found its way to him, and though he truly wanted to hear more of the story Mel was in the middle of (something about a LRRP on a backwater moon a few years back, three squads under her orders...) he fell asleep somewhere between sighting the enemy and the first shots fired.
He dreamed. Not a lot of it made sense, but he wasn't alone in his dream. A ship. Maybe not the UA. Maybe the Red Cred? Nothing was definite or particular about the place. Jace was behind him. Liya to his left, in the co-pilot's chair. Her hair was long, her clothing different. Dazac was typing on a terminal at the far end of the flight deck, laughing to himself. That was strange. Someone he didn't recognize entered, and their talk made Fel think this was a member of the crew, but who? Not Wade... this being was Bith. And where was Malora? He rose from the right-hand seat, and clumsily excused himself to go and find her. His exit upset the flow of the banter, and Jace was asking him where he was going. To find 'Lora, of course. He moved aft. The compartments were strange to him, the passageways unclear. Not in the med-lab. Not in the galley. Fel opened a door to reveal a cabin, a woman and man together in the bed. He didn't recognize either of them. "Sorry. Sorry..." Who were these people, and where was Karana? He exited, disorientation spinning him 'round. There was a growing feeling of desperation -- he needed to find her. Moving back through the galley, Fel knocked a bowl of apples off the table. Was she in engineering? Jace moved to bar his way. "Cap'n..." That must be it. Engineering. But why? No, not here. Maybe in the hold? The armoury? Now Liya was in front of him. "Galdaart..." Had Liya ever -- ever called him by his given name? What was going on here? He was panicked now, sweating. It was hot. Too hot. And where the fireblast was Malora? He ran back out to the common room, checked the Captain's cabin, the 'fresher, and the sensor / avionics room. Nothing. He was panting now, wheezing to catch his breath. Why the blazes was it so karking hot in here?
Hey. Fel.... Melia was shaking him. Time to go. You're burning up. Show me your arm. She had produced a needle. Stab. Plunge. Smack. Ain't no thing. Her gear was already stowed, the room wiped down. How long was I out? An hour. More. C'mon. Time's wasting.
Yeah.
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Galdaart Fel
Retired High Councilor
...not hiding anymore
Posts: 1,565
Affiliation: The Unfair Advantage
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Post by Galdaart Fel on Sept 2, 2016 19:24:23 GMT -8
They arrived at the freight dock a little after daybreak, New Vertica-time. The Marl class (named the 'Reluctance' -- Fel couldn't understand why) was little more than a scow, interstellar scrap merchants who bought low, sold -- well, low. The ship was about two hundred years old, and weathered to the bone. Just how Fel liked 'em. The stench of refuse and rot was fetid and rank in the open-air docking port, and Fel waved Melia off when he grabbed hold of the access doorway to the landing pad to steady himself, the craft still sixty paces away. The filthy, neglected craft loomed up, blotting out the early rays of the sun, casting shadow across Fel's body. He was happy to remain a bit player in the proceedings. She gave him a look of concern, but the spacer shooed her away to do the deal. Like the mercenary he was, the Captain of the Reluctance, a Dug, was overly loud and ornery about the fee, and didn't take kindly to Melia's plea that he should keep his voice down. All of this washed over Fel numbly, vaguely. He was elsewhere, somewhere in his memory, a time from before, playing back in vivid detail.
Melia came back a few minutes later, her cred-disc much lighter. These men were not in any way to be trusted, but it went unspoken... that was just the usual run of things. They came aboard the huge vessel, and the smell intensified -- testament to the 'cargo' they carried. Few words were exchanged. No introductions. Just the basics: toilet, your hangar, these areas off-limits. The last point was punctuated by the Dug fingering a massive pistol that hung obscenely from his midsection. Fel didn't really listen to the banter. Surely that little creature couldn't really hit anything with that thing...
Happy to keep themselves to themselves, Melia tugged on the outlander's sleeve, inclining her head in the direction of the Marl-class' several hangars, and specifically number two, which held their new mode of transportation. Mel entered the code supplied her by the Dug, and the door slid aside with a creak of rust, to reveal a very badly-parked (scant inches separated its' port thrust pod from the bulkhead,) D5 Mantis. She sat at an odd angle, maybe a five degree list, due to some missing floor grating in the hangar that the landing gear had discovered, and by the looks of her, she'd been to the wars, and then to another set of several wars.
Now that is a piece of crap.
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Galdaart Fel
Retired High Councilor
...not hiding anymore
Posts: 1,565
Affiliation: The Unfair Advantage
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Post by Galdaart Fel on Sept 5, 2016 10:09:04 GMT -8
Melia had said little, something along the lines of 'you get what you pay for' or 'you're lucky I'm not making you flap your arms to fly, bub...' and the pilot had been half-kidding when he had said the Mantis was a piece of crap. Truth be told, he'd never flown one. Most had been taken out of front-line service long before he had been born, and the opportunity had never arisen. He had jabbed verbally at her a little more: 'so how many refuse bins is this glorified tug hauling?' and 'it does have a hyperdrive, doesn't it?' culminating in 'we do want to outrun, or outgun the Imps... you know that, right? We're not trying to give them the advantage here...' but it had mostly been in jest. With this knowledge in mind (Melia knew him well enough at this point) she had given him the single-fingered salute, and marched up the entryway.
Fel had remained behind, running his hands along the underbelly of the craft, which was sizable. Touching every surface. He wouldn't have recognized the practice even if he was cognizant of it, but this was something Galdaart Fel did (ideally) with every craft he got to 'know.' An intimate understanding of each and every ship he'd flown, and loved. She was twice the size of the UA, and twice the height. She had been repaired more than once. Skins and colourations from at least three birds adorned her flanks and stabilizer foils. A fairly thorough inspection did not reveal any civvie or Naval markings or registration. Like a forger's good work, and a Hutt's bookkeeper, she'd been wiped clean of any history. Fel frowned at this. He knew his Naval history well enough, and was superstitious enough to know it was bad luck to travel aboard an unchristened vessel.
A quick search of the hangar bay revealed what was needed: a few simple cans of spray paint, half used up, but still enough to get the job done. He scaled the port side of the ship's nose, and got to work. The starboard side followed. When he was done, he took a quick look from the hangar floor, shrugged over his penmanship, and dropped the spent cans on the deck. "Spear." Walking inside, he saw no immediate trace of Melia, but continued with his familiarization. She was a large craft, but poorly laid-out. A Corellian craft this size would have made room for more than a hundred tonnes of cargo, but the KDY vessel barely had room for a few meagre crates. Accessing the ship's build records, Fel could see why. Capital-class weapons systems and shields ate up a huge amount of available space, and a layout that suggested the ship was a stepping-stone for the Imperial officer-corps. The bridge and navacomp / avionics suite were overly large, unnecessary in a ship that could be flown by a pair of reasonably capable individuals. There was room for six on the flight deck, and this particular Mantis had a 'Captains' seat added at the rear of the compartment, so that whoever was in charge could pontificate over the proceedings. Fel ignored this, and went straight to the pilot's seat. KDY controls were differently laid-out than a Corellian ship, but not vastly so. It wasn't the difference between a Mon Cal ship and an A-Wing. Just subtleties. Absorbing all he could, his mind took in every detail, and beyond.
He knew that the tri-cannons would overheat six or eight seconds after the mfg. specs. He also knew that she could be pushed harder in-atmo than the 825 kph the mfg. specs document detailed (in fact, he knew that in a dive, she was good for better than 950 kph.) He also knew that the fixed forward arc cannon was the ships' greatest weakness, ROF being too low to accurately target small craft. How did he know this? The ship was telling him so. She poured forth her secrets and her history, and Galdaart Fel drank it all in like a bored housewife reads Harlequin.
Even as he did so, his mind wandered, to another time, another place. He was aboard the Dar'Yaim, it was unmistakable. That smell. The penetrating cold. The way the chair creaked in duress under his insubstantial form. There was another smell there, too. Cool, sharp -- like a first-ever whiff of perfume or frost on cold morning. Minty. A bit of her unruly mane of hair was tickling his cheek as she sat in his lap. There was nothing sexual about the situation, though it was indescribably flirtatious. He guided her hands on the controls. To be clear -- Fel had not taught her to fly. She 'had' that. And was not shy about saying so. But her movements and thought processes in the cockpit had been slightly wooden, faltering. She had asked him how he did it, and oddly, Fel could not explain it. So he had shown her. It was easier than finding the words. This way. You know there's going to be a headwind. Ease into it. Guide, don't shove. Smooth power delivery. Know that the reactor is going to be starved for fuel at 30%, 40%. Compensate. Dance with her. Correct the left yaw that comes with power delivery, and know that it will be there before it even happens. Not yet... not yet... now. She's shuddering, too much G. Back off the turn. Shallow out, and she'll let you know when she's had enough...
He had shown her other things, too. When to ignore her wishes. How to bend the rules, and when. How to get the most from her limitations, and let your pursuer think they were weaknesses, when they could be anything but. The 'lesson' had gone on an hour? Three? Maybe ten minutes. And she had revisited it with him more than once, learning all she could. She'd never admit it, but she was a fine student, and a quick study.
Melia had entered the flight deck, to find Fel lost in his thoughts, his hands conducting an unseen quartet, moving in a ghostly, savant pattern over the control surfaces. Her voice, hard as nails, snapped him back to the moment.
Fel. You ready? The Marl is outside the grav-well and about to make its' first jump. Time to go.
Ok. Let's get out of here. He powered up the ship, fingers moving over the different terminals like he'd been flying the Mantis all his life. Hey Mel? She's not bad, y'know. It'll do. A smile creased the lips of the soldier, and she gave him another single-fingered salute as she left the flight deck, on her way to field-strip her weapons. Fel chuckled as he brought the thrusters on-line.
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Deleted
Deleted Member
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Post by Deleted on Sept 6, 2016 15:23:12 GMT -8
The hiss of supercooled gasses, the blinding white flash, the freezing cold that seeped into one’s very core. He remembered every detail of that fateful day, every slight impression no matter how minute. They had cornered him on the battlefield, the Imperial dogs, cornered him and surrounded him on all sides. He had anticipated dying, likely taking as many of the disgusting humans out with himself as possible. He had not expected the directorate to order him taken alive, just as he had not expected the carbonite rifles and their freezing streams.
They had incapacitated him long enough to get him to an actual freezing chamber, to freeze him properly for long term stasis. But something happened that neither he, nor the Imperials expected - his biology, his Firrerreo healing factor, so great was it that it allowed him to partially overcome the stasis. His cells continually repairing themselves and being frozen, the effect was something horrific; frozen as he was, he had been awake the entire time he had been frozen. As a result, he remembered every moment of the long twenty years of his incarceration. He remembered initially being put away in a locker on Kessel, transferred to a freezing cell on Sullust, and now, his current abode - a stasis room on Nar Shaddaa.
His sight gone, he could dimly hear things around him, muffled through the dense carbonite. As he adjusted over the years, his hearing became more acute, and he began to make sense of his surroundings. The echoing foot steps of the guards boots down halls. The riotous shouts of prisoners from their cells. The soft hiss from carbonite gas hoses and the faint beep of stasis electronics. This was how he passed his days, listening, imagining, yearning. At first he had been angry, the Firrerreo xenophobia making his blood boil with hate and rage, a red blood lust that made him want to continue his war against the humans. This lasted the first five years. Now…hate gave way to complacency and apathy. The war was over, long over by his estimation. His people had lost. Indeed, he doubted the dimwitted Imperial soldiers that roamed the prison’s grounds had ever heard the word “Firrerreo”, let alone seen one in the flesh.
Ah, but smug satisfaction made a flutter of fleeting joy skitter across his mind. The Imperials had lost as well. Their precious Deathstar destroyed, their impotent Emperor killed, they collapsed down to a figment of their former self, this so called “First Order”. In this, he found satisfaction. In this, he found purpose that the war, while won through mutually assured destruction, had not been in vain.
“Thump, ssssk. Thump, ssssk.”
Ah. He was here. Was it 0500 already? The technician with the gimp leg, who looked after the stasis units, it sounded as if his limp was much worse. Dimly, he could hear the tech fiddle with controls, the machine beeping faintly in response - the hoarse and rattling cough of the sentient echoing in the room. Ah, this confirmed it, he was indeed much worse. It had been…what, three weeks? He could only guess by the cycling of guard shifts and the call for meal time for the other prisoners. But quite a while now the tech’s condition had been worsening. Idly, he wondered if perhaps the run off carbonite gasses were bad for respiratory systems. Quite a possibility. Stasis cells weren’t exactly well ventilated - prisoners frozen in carbonite were essentially looked at as furniture, with no regard needed for their well being. Not as if anything could hurt them within the carbonite anyway. However, for those who looked after the cells, this was unfortunate; the cells were often dank, small, and often poorly lit affairs.
“HURK! Agh, GLUCK!”
What a horrible noise. Surely his medical care covered…
“THUNK!”
His thoughts were interrupted as something hit his slab heavily, followed by a slow sliding noise, and a rasping. How alarming. Was the tech ok? He strained his ears to hear something…but nothing followed. The minutes passed, and inwardly he grew concerned. He had no love for his captors, of course, but the tech often talked to the slabs of carbonite prisoners. He was a simple sort, and, honestly, it was the closest thing to conversation he got on a daily basis. Besides the fact, he doubted the sentient was an Imperial. More minutes passed, and he counted off the seconds in his head. The tech started his diagnostic at 0500, the diagnostic and recalibration usually took till 0515. The guard usually came around 0520. Would the tech survive for five minutes? Inwardly he thought so. This was the first time the tech had sounded so bad. Likely it was an indicator of something more serious down the road.
How exciting, though. He hadn’t been this entertained since last month, when the noisy Rodian from cell block 5E got loose from his cell and tried to break out of his block. Granted, the rodian did this every other month, but last month he lasted for two minutes and twenty three seconds. A personal record, surpassing his previous by three whole seconds. Theoretically, given enough time, the lout may actually get out of the prison. Give or take a decade. His thoughts were interrupted by a muffled shout. Ah, the guard had arrived. He heard the commotion dimly, and the sound of the tech being carried off. Why had it taken so long for someone to notice? Were the stasis cells not well monitored?
Ah. Probably not, now that he thought about it. The excess gasses likely corroded any visual feed over time, not to mention, who would bother paying someone to watch a statue all day? Maybe if he had still been at kessel; a bona fide penitentiary. No doubt the damned Imperials had his frozen slab encircled with a squad of Stormtroopers, each armed to the teeth, guns pointed at his motionless and frozen form, awaiting for the smallest sign of movement. On Sullust, things had been a little more lax, the patrols less frequent, the techs a little less attentive. Now, here on Nar Shaddaa (Or was it Nal Hutta? He had misheard the guard when he had been moved. Something that plagued him every day of his imprisonment), things were considerably less restrictive. Irritation pricked his consciousness, and if he could have frowned, he would have; was he really not that important or dangerous anymore? I mean, really, it had been twenty years, but…
He caught himself in that ridiculous thought. Was he really getting upset that his security wasn’t tighter? Mirth, and a mental laugh echoed - had he been in prison so long? Was he actually offended that they didn’t think he was important enough to spend credits on? Why, if he was lucky, in another decade they wouldn’t even bother keep him frozen. It would probably be cheaper to thaw him out and put him in a regular cell. Carbonite wasn’t cheap! He just had to wait the Imperials out!
…Wait.
Something skittered across his consciousness. The mirth was forgotten, replaced by curiosity. An odd feeling. A foreign impression. Something was…different. Something was…off. He strained to hear - the hiss of gas, the beep of machines - and found everything was in place. What was off? What was wrong? Was he going insane? Had he finally broken? Perhaps he…no…wait. He was WARMER.
No. Surely that was wrong. He strained his senses. Trying to pinpoint the feeling. A difficult feat indeed when trying to ascertain the difference of a degree. But soon the feeling became more prominent. He WAS warmer. What had changed? What had happened?
Realization coursed through him. The tech! Had he fallen on the panel when he collapsed? He strained to hear once again, listen to the pattern of beeps from the console. Always five beeps, always one pair, followed by another pair, followed by a single long tone.
In the perpetual darkness, he listened as the beeps sounded off, and, after a moment that seemed to stretch on into eternity…he listened as a sixth beep rung out into the darkness.
Six beeps. Six beeps! SIX BEEPS?!
He wasn’t imagining things. The tech had failed to recalibrate the panel! And what an important thing to do; carbonite had to be monitored over long periods of time. It’s stable matrix, especially in regards to the delicate process of keeping someone alive, had to be carefully monitored.
Wait. Was he going to die?
Fear now washed over him like a wave. So what if he was warmer? It’s not like he was going to melt out of the slab and escape to freedom. Life support would fail by the time the slab had completely thawed. Or…would his healing factor preserve him long enough to be completely thawed? Worry. Doubt. Disbelief.
But…if he was being completely honest…for the first time in a very long time, something else came to the surface of consciousness.
Hope.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Varric Tar, security guard for the New Vertica Imperial Penitentiary, slowly made his rounds. Ah, but it was boring work. There were six blocks, and block six was the WORST. Most of the guards called it Hoth duty, and for good reason; the entire block was devoted to stasis booths and carbonite cells. Not a living soul around, at least not by classical definition. In fact, the warden doled out rounds in block six as a disciplinary measure. Varric, though, didn’t mind it so much. He liked the quiet, despite the boringness and repetition of the job in general.
Casually he peered through the slightly frosted window of a carbonite booth, made sure the prisoner was still frozen, and made sure all lights on the panel were green, before continuing on down the row. Glance, check slab, check panel, walk on. For fifty cells. Then he would loop around, and repeat the whole process. Honestly, there hadn’t been a break out of a stasis cell in fifty years - of any prison for that matter. It was expensive, but a highly secure method. The closest thing to excitement had been the rodian carbonite technician, Hissk, who had broken down a few hours ago. Carbonite smoke was bad for you, according to the Alderaan Medical Association anyway. Course you can’t pound that into the warden’s head - his job was to make cost cuts. Ah well. At leas this way old Hissk would retire maybe, spend some time with his wife and kids.
Speaking of Hissk, the cell he collapsed in was coming up. Idly, Varric glanced inside. All lights were green, and the slab was…
The slab was empty, and devoid of prisoner.
Adrenaline and fear surged. Varric clutched his com and called for backup. Slapping a hand on the controls next to the cell door, an alarm klaxon went off, red lights pulsed, and for the first time in years Varric pulled his blaster pistol from his belt and flicked the setting from stun to kill. Not thirty seconds later, backup in the form of ten fully armored riot guards, complete with shields and heavy repeating blasters filed in. Holding up a hand, Varric signaled for them to flank either side of the door - and two of the ten riot guards pulled stun and flash grenades in preparation for a breach and secure method of entry.
“Designation? Species? Reason for incarceration?” Barked out the riot guard commander.
“Prisoner 5055-∑. Firrerreo. Incarcerated for war crimes again the Imperial order. S-rank threat designation.” Replied Varric, pulling up the info on the panel next to the cell door.
“Firrerreo? What the hell is that?” Muttered the Commander, trying to peer into the cell through the Carbonite smoke.
“Extinct species. Humanoid. All other info is unknown or classified.” Varric replied back quickly, the mysterious nature of the prisoner suddenly making him far more nervous than he already was.
“And S-rank designation. What, do they have some kind of Jedi in there?” Muttered the Commander perhaps a little too loudly. The guards around him shifted uncomfortably at the idea of fighting a force user, and the Commander shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Prepare for breach and clear. Weapons set to kill. Move it men!”
They took their place, the Commander gave the signal and Varric nodded sharply; with a hiss the door shot open, grenades followed, and a series of blinding flashes resonated through the block. Storming into the room in pairs, the air was filled with blasterfire, scorching the walls, searing the ozone, and filling the room with the acrid smell of blaster discharge. This continued for some seconds, and then, as the order for ceasefire was given, the room was filled with ghostly quiet.
Peering through the smoke, Varric and the riot guards scoured the room for any sign of life, hands gripping their weapons in a death like grip. More than one barrel wavered and shook in the air.
“Wh-where is he?” Muttered one guard, his eyes darting across the room. Varric was about to respond, when the Commander held up a hand. Everyone tensed. But, slowly, the Commander lowered his weapon.
“He’s here on the ground.” Said the Commander, nudging the body of prisoner 5055 with his boot. “Doesn’t have a hole or blaster burn on him. I think he didn’t survive the thawing process.”
The guards as a group visibly relaxed. They shouldn’t have. Because as soon their weapons dropped, the motionless and supposedly lifeless form of Prisoner 5055 MOVED. He moved with blinding speed.
5055, on his back, spun on the ground, his left leg slamming into the back of the Commander’s knees, making the man drop to the ground. His right leg coming around, in front of the Commander, 5055 locked the man into a pincer lock, cutting off the man’s air supply as powerful legs squeezed the man’s throat closed. The Commander’s left arm, holding his blaster rifle, flailed, and his right, holding the shield, dropped the shield as his hand came up to scrabble against the leg choking off his air supply.
The other guards began to react, raising their rifles, turning towards the commotion. But the mist obscured. Confusion reigned.
A twist, a snap, and the Commander’s head lolled to the side, broken. A yank, and the man’s repeating rifle was in prisoner 5055’s hands. A roll to the side, a hop to his feet, the rifle leveled, and a stream of fire cut across the room in an arc, cutting down three of the guards farthest away from 5055.
Seven were left. They raised their weapons, and opened fire.
Their mistake; the Commander’s shield was on 5055’s arm by that point, and with a slight crouch and a calculated angling of the shield, the reflective surface sent the blistering torrent of blaster fire back to its source, cutting down another three, and scoring a fourth on the arm.
Three and a half left.
The shield was beginning to melt, and 5055 would have to address that. But not before 5055 opened up with his procured rifle on the wounded guard, finishing him off. One moved for the door, hoping to seal him in, the other two split into opposite directions, flanking. 5055 spun in a circle, releasing the shield, using alien strength to throw the shield with enough force to crack vertebrae, sending a guard down to the ground and coughing up blood.
Two left.
The last guard moved in for close combat, hoping to use his shield’s stun function to stop the prisoner. 5055’s rifle came down butt first on the man’s foot, breaking toes, making the man stumble. Reversing the weapon, 5055 jammed the barrel into the man’s now exposed ribs, and pulled the trigger. The weapon pulsed. The smell of burning flesh filled the air.
One left.
Frantically the last guard fumbled with the access code to close the doors and lock down the cell block. But, in his terror, he messed the code up. He tried again, but a shadow looming over him made him stop. Slowly, very slowly, he turned around, expecting death any second. He was greeted by topaz eyes regarded him cooly, black hair slicked back and striped with a single shock of silver gleaming in the fluorescent light, skin pale from lack of sunlight that still glimmered gold. The alien smiled, and well developed canines made shivers run down Varric’s spine, made worse by the man blinking normally like a human, and then by a second set of eyelids that *snick-snicked* horizontally.
“Hello Varric. Is your wife Callon doing well?” Asked the prisoner in a smooth and level voice. Varric’s eyes widened, and fear filled his hear. The prisoner shook his head as Varric started to raise his pistol. “Tsk tsk, that won’t do. Night night.” The prisoner brought his hand down on Varric’s neck, the force of which knocked the man out cold.
But prisoner 5055 was already moving. Moving down the hall, using key cards from the fallen bodies of the guards, stripping off clothes and putting on the clothes of one of the guards.
There was no time to waste.
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Deleted
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Post by Deleted on Sept 7, 2016 19:06:36 GMT -8
The alarm klaxon droned in the background, filling the air with its deafening scream. Emergency lights strobed, bathing the halls of the prison complex in garish red. Booted stormtrooper boots pounded across the deck plates - the soldiers in their perfect lines with gleaming weapons filing through the halls at speed. All of this was caught by the HoloNet crew, with the excited news anchor animatedly informing the public of the developing “crisis” every minute. It was, in short, quickly turning into a spectacle. And what a spectacle it was; Prisoner 5055-∑, his mugshot plastered across the HoloNet, had escaped a maximum security cell and was currently going on a rampage in the Nar Shaddaa Northern Penitentiary Megaplex.
The truth, of course, was a little more mundane. Prisoner 5055 had indeed escaped, and killed ten guards in the process, but currently was nowhere to be found. In fact, it seemed as if he had vanished without a trace. The news team didn’t know this of course, as the prison warden himself had been advised by his superiors to not cause a panic. And so the spectacle continued on, quickly spiraling out of all control.
Ah, but the story had even made its way across most of the planet (being a slow news day, and, lets face it, a planet of criminals had an overt fascination with prison break stories than most planets), and, even into space. So far into space that certain ships would likely pick up the signal. And, if their captains were wily enough, the prisoner’s serial number may spark a memory - a memory of a similar prisoner with similar identification who had been on Kessel not that long ago. A certain prisoner who, if rescued, would likely provide the same reward that the Kessel job would have paid. Hell, maybe even a little extra.
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Galdaart Fel
Retired High Councilor
...not hiding anymore
Posts: 1,565
Affiliation: The Unfair Advantage
Traffic Light: Green
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Post by Galdaart Fel on Sept 8, 2016 11:38:20 GMT -8
Fel sat in the Mantis' pilots' seat, thinking. It was cold, and the pilot had zipped his coat against the numbness of the deep. For many long minutes, he had sat, watching the formations of planetoids and star clusters in the distance, wondering what the hell to do next. No word from Ade. And Fel wasn't fool enough to try to signal him again. He had considered going to the 'Run. It was possible the crew were there, but unlikely. He had also considered Coruscant. They had lots of underworld contacts there, and Fel was certain they could provide intel. But it was too risky. There were literally a thousand planets they could be on, for a thousand different reasons. They were likely on a job. He considered contacting one of his usual fences, but the likelihood that they were being watched was too high, and the possibility that they'd laugh in his face -- 'Hah! Fel... ain't you dead?!' -- was even higher. So he sat for the moment. Melia was asleep in the ship's sole cabin, and all was quiet. He had turned off all the cockpit lights, and it was dim around him, just the lights from the instrument panels and the faint glow of starlight illuminated the flight deck. He had picked up the transmission about forty minutes earlier. Knew what it meant. Or what it could mean. Still, he waited. Indecision was an awful thing.
They were so close. Nothing prevented them from leaving, except not knowing where in the three suns to go. He prodded aimlessly at the controls, twisting a knob, batting the inert control surfaces away, only to have them bounce back into his hands. Fel had never been especially good at waiting. As a fighter jock, ages ago, it hadn't been amongst his list of concerns -- worrying what came next. That was for someone with a higher pay grade. He had been assigned, he had gone. As a smuggler Captain (and in several other, less-successful endeavors) he had been constantly on the move. The next job meant the next meal, the next repair for the ship, for Wrench. Waiting was foreign. He glanced back at where Melia would be resting. The door was open, but he couldn't see her. The light was dim there, too. Only a faint red glow came from below, at the engineering cores.
He sat that way for almost an hour. Replayed the holonet message a few times. Willed Adrien to contact him with news. And mostly, wondered what 'Lora would say.
He powered up the ship, spun a hard arc to port, bringing the filthy planetoid back into sharp focus, and lit the fires. What am I doing? He had no idea where to go, and (truth be told) was scared to death of the potential heat an Imp prison facility could bring down, but at his core, this was all he knew. There was nothing else, except the next gig. The man was going to need a lift offworld. Hastily bringing up charts, he selected the least-populated and lowest-level public star-port that was within a thirty mile radius of the prison, and rolled the dice.
Either he would, or he wouldn't find them. Either way, Fel checked his chron. Two hours. Two hours and they were lifting off.
Melia appeared groggily behind him. Where're we, Fel? Short hop...
Uh...
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Post by Deleted on Sept 9, 2016 19:30:01 GMT -8
Silently, Prisoner 5055 watched the pandemonium from his hidden vantae point in the dusty air vent as guards ran back and forth, klaxons blared, and lights strobed. So much fuss, so much activity; and, inwardly, there was some admitted self satisfaction that he apparently WAS worth all the effort to keep contained. Ah, but the hard part was over. When the carbonite had finally given way to let his body fall to the ground, he had feared that he would either die, or that hibernation sickness would so completely incapacitate him that he would be helpless before the guards.
He was fortunate that his biology was so hardy, and that the fuss over the fainting technician had bought him precious minutes to allow him to recuperate. Initially, he had lashed out at the guards in instinct - unthinking of the damage he had dealt. Had he been more restrained, he could have perhaps kept the situation from escalating into what it was now. But that was neither here nor there.
Shaking his head, Prisoner 5055 slowly moved through the ventilation system, deeper and deeper into the complex. This was, in all honesty, a very shoddy prison. Kessel was top notch, Sullust was fair. But Nar Shaddaa? Please. What a joke. Their ventilation system had heavy grates, and nothing else. Their sewage system was likely equally unprotected. In all honesty, the entire prison was a glorified hotel with bars. It may have some fancy scanners and biometric locks - but the bones, the little details to keep people from escaping, they were entirely absent.
Then again, this was something of a classic Imperial mentality - no one in their right mind would think that a prisoner would escape from a hundred or so heavily armed Stormtroopers. Or get past their ever watchful sentry droids. Or their locks. Or their blastdoors. But, alas, in typical Imperial fashion the entire affair was approached with a military base mentality; fortifications, guard points, doors and locks and choke points. It would forever baffle 5055 as to how some of the most brilliant engineers - for you had to give the Imperials credit where due - could design such impressive battle stations, yet completely overlook the fact that their air vents should be small enough that no one could crawl through them.
“It’s the Deathstar all over again.” Muttered 5055 to himself, chuckling slightly. The sound of his own voice was still something of a shock, but, he was already getting used to it - mental monologues only went so far after all.
Bracing himself in a vertical shaft, 5055 leveraged alien strength paired with his newly procured Stormtrooper boots to slowly inch himself up the shaft, pausing every so often to gain his bearings. In all honesty, he was following the flow of air - the flow of hot air, to what 5055 hoped was either the roof or an exterior exhaust vent. Only time would tell. Thankfully he didn’t have to wait that long. Coming to a sharp curve, 5055 hooked his hands on the edge of the vent and hauled himself up to a - finally! - relatively horizontal surface. Before him a medium sized fan rotated lazily, and, beyond, the flat permacrete surface of…
“A Hangar? No. A landing pad.”
A landing pad that currently held a single sleek, wingless, Rapid Air Deployment Airspeeder. Resembling a sleeker, thinner, more aerodynamic version of the aging LAAT, the “Raider” as they were known, were small limited capacity Airspeeders with light armament. Currently, it sat empty, with its canopy open. Waiting, inviting some wayward prisoner to climb inside and go for a joyride. There was, of course, just one problem with that.
Prisoner 5055 had no idea how to fly, pilot, or otherwise turn on the blinkers of said Airspeeder.
“…This, might be a problem.”
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Galdaart Fel
Retired High Councilor
...not hiding anymore
Posts: 1,565
Affiliation: The Unfair Advantage
Traffic Light: Green
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Post by Galdaart Fel on Sept 10, 2016 6:16:23 GMT -8
This had been, top to bottom, a bad idea. Fel had no markings, no registration, no papers, nothing of any kind to demonstrate that the 'Spear' wasn't, in fact, stolen. They were sitting at a public landing pad (the only saving grace being that there wasn't a deck officer 'in charge.' There were services, sure, but like a service station, if you wanted fuel, you bought it.) If you wanted something fixed, you approached the mechanic (a burly Tarsunt.) Otherwise, as with many things on Nar Shaddaa, you were left to your own devices. There was no doubt they were attracting attention though, considering the next largest ship on the pad was a comparatively tiny Loronar Atlira. Then there was the problem of Melia. Fel had done her a greivous wrong, in that she had secured their exit, their salvation, and called in one of her few remaining favours in the 'verse to do so, and he had blatantly turned his back on it. A weapon may have been drawn and aimed. Words were exchanged. It was not pretty. And ultimately, the only reason they were on the landing pad was because he had remained stubborn in his assertion that Captain, however obviously an idiot he is, makes the call. She had 'taken a walk' on touchdown, and as the minutes ticked away, Galdaart wasn't sure he'd see her again. A bad idea. He seemed full of 'em.
He checked his chron again. Twelve minutes remaining. Come hell or high water, the ramp was closing in twelve minutes.
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Post by Deleted on Sept 12, 2016 14:21:04 GMT -8
It had been a hard sell. Granted, waiting for a pilot to come along and then popping out of a vent, waving a large blaster around was relatively easy enough to do; but convincing said pilot to fly the airspeeder without trying something had been more of a challenge. A level voice, a smooth tone, and a steady hand holding a very large gun had ultimately been the key to cooperation. Even now, the airspeeder was setting down on some dingy run down spaceport’s landing pad; and 5055 was about to release the pilot when the human made a quick and sudden move for something at his side.
5055 didn’t think - his hand moved of its own volition, his finger twitching, the blaster pulsing. The human’s corpse smoked for a second, before falling to the side, revealing a DT-12 heavy blaster pistol in his hand. Silently, still processing the…mess…in front of him, 5055 eventually just shook his head. Why make a move now? The human was home free. Honestly, 5055 would never understand the species. Their sense for survival was so…odd.
Taking the pistol from the human, 5055 abandoned his rifle in favor of the smaller and more concealable weapon, tucking the weapon into his coat pocket (having, er, “liberated” an Imperial officer of his boots, pants, tunic, and overcoat). Wrenching open the airspeeder bay door, 5055 hopped out of the vehicle, snapping off a smart salute to two very confused looking stormtroopers who had come out to greet the vessel - confused, or so 5055 imagined, as an alien in a Imperial uniform had to be an odd sight.
Picking up the pace to a jog, 5055 made it through a nearby doorway, passing into the spaceport proper, leaving the Stormtroopers to look for the pilot of the craft. The viewscreen being polarized, they had no way to know that the pilot was dead. And being stuck on guard duty, they couldn’t know of the escaped prisoner - or at least a visual description - what with the prison still being in relative chaos.
Still, though, 5055 worked his way through the landing bays and pads hurriedly. He would only have so much time before the troopers found the -
“There he is! Blast him!”
Or not any time at all. 5055 rolled hard to the ground, spinning on a knee and swinging his gun arm up to draw a bead on the voice that had shouted out behind him. The heavy *thump* of his blaster pistol ringing out across the permacrete. The crimson bolt sparked a hole in a Stormtroopers chestplate, the human falling down slowly to the ground. But, behind him, three more squads of his brethren were running to the sound of their comrades voice. So, 5055 chose the pertinent choice; he ran. He ran like hell.
Spinning on his heel, leveraging alien strength, he ran at speed through spaceport. Crimson fire filled the air, and, no doubt, a certain captain would take notice and lay down some cover fire.
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Galdaart Fel
Retired High Councilor
...not hiding anymore
Posts: 1,565
Affiliation: The Unfair Advantage
Traffic Light: Green
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Post by Galdaart Fel on Sept 12, 2016 19:05:28 GMT -8
Kark.
Karkarkarkarkark.
What exactly did you think was going to happen, dick-fingers? Prisoner escapes from Imperial Max-sec lullaby facility -- it's not likely the bucket-heads will give him a get out of jail free card and a complimentary pass off-world. Fel hesitated for a split second. He had no way of knowing if this was the man spoken of in the planet-wide APB. Not like the Remnant (or the First Order -- what exactly were they calling themselves these days?) were handing out descriptions and hand-drawn wanted posters to every tramp freighter Captain on the dock. Could be this was just some other 'Shaddaa lowlife, on the run for one of a hundred different violations.
No. There were upwards of thirty troops, officer-corps and enlisted, armoured and uniformed alike, from no less than three distinct branches of the Imperial military machine chasing this man. Fel's eyes swept across the markings on the officers' tunics: Intelligence, Armoured Cav, Spec Ops, and finally, a prison guard. That sealed it.
The man was running across the platform, moving from Fel's right-to-left, at a distance of maybe forty paces. After an interminable pause of a half-second, in which Galdaart Fel weighed the opposing merits of beating a hasty, silent retreat versus fighting a running battle off-world, he raised his DL-22 and snapped off three quick shots, taking down two troopers. The prisoner's eyes darted in his direction, long enough for Fel to know they had made contact, and the spacer beckoned to the stranger to change direction -- c'mon! ...before firing twice more at the throng bearing down on him. Those would be the last shots fired from the landing ramp, as Fel dashed for the cockpit, leaving the ramp open, vaulted into his seat, and fired up the engines. He didn't wait for them to even fully power up. He switched over, prayed for the couplings to hold (a burn-out would leave them dead in the water) and instead of evenly feeding power to the repulsors, he shoved a fistful of thrust directly into the aft engines. The Mantis lurched and dragged along the tarmac, and only after momentum had built did Fel begin dialing up the repulsor-lift, slowly bringing the ship up, off the deck.
Again, he had no way of knowing whether the prisoner was aboard -- Fel hadn't yet powered up the systems that would allow him access to closed-circuit external monitors and sensors... but based on the figure's rate of motion, and that unquantifiable oh-Gods-it-HAS-to-work last ditch effort, it sure felt like a success. At least, in some strange way, the ship was telling him he'd done the deed. Must've been akin to a gunfighter knowing in her gut there was one round left in the chamber: a subtle shifting of weight, or the bristling of hairs on the back of his neck... Fel couldn't have explained it if he tried. But he just knew.
At barely twenty-five feet off the deck, the spacer grabbed a boot-ful of left rudder and yanked hard on the sticks, presenting the D5's belly to the platform as the ship rolled to port and descended at an alarming rate from the platform, picking up speed before reversing the turn and slingshotting skyward. Angling the deflector shield as the last sprays of blaster-fire peppered the hull, the pilot fed power to the engines, extended the third foil, and prepped for the fight to come...
He barely had time to think of the man who had come aboard, or what had become of Melia...
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Post by Deleted on Sept 12, 2016 22:12:41 GMT -8
Around a corner, down a stairwell - back UP the stairwell as a squad of troopers appeared at the bottom. 5055 was running out of places to run. They were cornering him, slowly. His natural strength gave him incredible endurance, and his vision, leading into the ultraviolet, allowed him to see in the dark far better than most - so long as even a little light was present - which helped him outwit the troopers in a few places. But tricks only went so far when the Empire was after you.
Taking another corner, breathing heavily now, 5055 ran out across the landing pads. Behind him, troopers followed, their boots thumping across the ground. Frankly, 5055 was past being honored by the fact they had rolled out such a large carpet insofar as an attempt to recapture him. Indeed, he even cursed the fact he had been offended by the lack of troops in the first place.
Shots ran out, three to be exact, startling 5055 - he was far enough away from the troopers trailing him that their stun blasts fizzled out or could be outright shrugged off, and he hadn’t been expecting the sound of a blaster bolt just yet; he figured they’d tire in a few more minutes before switching to lethal. Stumbling slightly, 5055 turned toward the source, to see…well he wasn’t sure what he saw. Some kind of scruffy, grizzled looking human, who looked more like he should be running a bar in a dump somewhere than flying a ship.
And the ship! What a piece of crap! It was too old to be called an antique - a relic at nearly four thousand years old, a rare D5 Mantis patrol craft. 5055 had only heard of the thing as a result of his time as a military officer - studying military history, in fact. Which was why, as the captain (or who he assumed to be a captain) shouted out to him, 5055 immediately changed course, and ran full tilt towards the ramp of the ship.
Because he knew; he knew the thing was FAST. And, as the ships engines fired up without even cycling first - 5055 knew very little about ships, but he did know you didn’t just jam the ignition to ‘on’ and then fly away - he knew that the pilot was either daring, or an idiot.
5055 didn’t care. Running up the ramp, he fell to his feet as the ship unexpectedly lurched forward. Rolling back up, cursing loudly, he leveled his DT-12 and fired off a few rounds out of the bay at the approaching line of troopers. Several fell as a result, but already they were opening up with lethal bolts on the ship, several ricocheting wildly in the hold off durasteel panels - one such wild shot pegging him in the shoulder, sending the burning arid smell of bubbling flesh wafting through room.
5055 slammed a fist on a control panel, mashing several buttons simultaneously. Luckily, one raised the ramp and sealed the bay against further fire. The ship lurched, now aloft, angled dangerously - 5055 could feel the interior and exterior gravity fields shifting on each other, making the stomach flip. And then another lurch as engines engaged. Gritting his teeth, lurching forward, 5055 didn’t take the time to appreciate the vertical structure and layout of the ship. Accommodations that were, sadly, lost over time. Stumbling up the stairs of the bay, 5055 came to a stop in a large room with a holoprojector well in the center. He assumed this to be navigation.
“No time for introductions! If the hyperdrive fails, head to Kiskua! Moon twelve has a stormy atmosphere you can lose them in! Does this thing have turrets?!” 5055 wasted no time. Because, frankly, short of opening a bulkhead and shooting his pistol at pursuing ships, his part in all of this was over.
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Galdaart Fel
Retired High Councilor
...not hiding anymore
Posts: 1,565
Affiliation: The Unfair Advantage
Traffic Light: Green
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Post by Galdaart Fel on Sept 15, 2016 12:46:15 GMT -8
...Next in 'open orbit'
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Altair Sirraf
The Galactic Alliance
Posts: 344
Affiliation: Unknown
Traffic Light: Blue
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Post by Altair Sirraf on Feb 16, 2017 8:27:41 GMT -8
New Vertica - Landing pad 42 - Entertainment District
The vessel he was currently aboard had landed several hours ago, and out the viewport granted to him, on the entire left wall of the conference room he was granted as his 'prison', he could see the lights and clear evidence of pollution that certainly plagued this planet. The vermin here had built a metropolis around the entire planet it would seem - something he had seen nothing like. There was no elegance - no grace in the planets design, if there even was one and he had begun to think that civilization was beyond these uncivilized barbarians. If this is what awaited his people, and their homeworlds under the control of the Empire and the rule of the First Order, if this is the 'advancement' and glory of the empire that they spoke so highly of... he wanted none of it. It made him sick just to see it.
He closed his blood red eyes, blocking the offensive image of the planet from his senses and exhaled several times - slow even breaths. He grounded himself in what he knew, his mind began to relax. He sat cross legged upon the long rectangular table positioned in the center of the room. The chairs he had moved to the right side to clear the view so he could see the stars as the ship had moved through hyperspace but now he had wished he had blanketed the walls completely. Burgundy curtains with the emblem of his house hung against the bulkhead on either side of the door which had remained closed since his jailer had left on a mission that would hopefully be the end of him and the group of false men that held him here. Only two remained upon the ship now, an entity he had been informed was named Janus - apparently they were created in unison with one another and their primitive constructed minds were in some way linked to one another creating a single consciousness. The thought brought a taste of bile to his mouth - a perversion of all the natural order - its like wouldn't have been allowed to exist within his civilization. Regardless, when the time came he doubted they would prove much of a threat, it was Altair that concerned him. There was something about the gruff human that pricked at his conscious ever since his capture aboard The Everquest...
The name as it passed his process of thoughts brought him to a pause, and he inhaled the long breath he had been slowly releasing to calm his mind. His eyes were still closed, and yet images began to flash before his minds eye. A vessel more grand than any he had been aboard in his life not a battle cruiser or a warship that his race had perfected centuries before the most of the Universe had even dreamed of touching the stars... this was a ship without rival even though its design was taken from the outworlders Outbound Flight, a failed attempt to colonize the Unknown Region many centuries earlier - The Everquest was the peek of non-military innovation and the legacy of the Inrokini Family. Everything about the vessel was state of the art, and its secrecy and defense was unrivaled. The vessel was intended to colonize a region of space on the far side of Chiss Space, deep into the black into space unknown by them. However the Invasion several years ago by the First Order had caused the project to be put on hold, and the fleet assigned to guard it retasked to defend Csilla, and eventually destroyed leaving The Everquest defenseless save for a single combat cruiser... which was no match for the fleet that had eventually discovered them.
The very distinct 'THUD' of the landing ramp hitting the ground just outside the conference room brought him from his memories and the Chiss opened his ruby colored eyes - narrowing them menacingly towards the sound as if the affront caused by the interruption would not go unchallenged, but he simply exhaled once again and shook his head knowing that finally Altair... and his team of false men... had departed...
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