Log:Clan Kora: Interplanetary Ambush
Members of Clan Kora are individually attacked on various planets in a synchronized ambush by a mysterious and violent group of Umbarans.
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Interplanetary Ambush
OOC Date: September 09, 2021
Location: Tatooine, Bespin, Scarif, Nar Shaddaa
Participants: Clan Kora, Valeska Jaivon GM, Hahtavi Kora, Hadrix Kora, Avery Ihala Kora, Sumi Kora
Hahtavi
It's late in the day on Tatooine. One of the suns has sunk into the horizon and the other isn't far behind. The streets of Mos Eisley are still humming with activity. With the heat of the day waning, it's a good time to get a lot of the running around done when there's still daylight. The stalls are bustling with shoppers and the cart-tenders are up-selling their wares in the growing shadows of the adobe buildings.
Along one of the diagonal streets, a group of Jawas huddle past talking excitedly to each other. Then again, Jawas always sound excitable. One particular street vendor is watching the passers-by with a chin on her hand looking bored.
Tatooine is one of those hurry up and wait kind of places. People here take their time and run to their own schedules, often lazing away the heat of the day and being most active in the mornings and evenings, and well into the night.
Just now, Hahtavi leans against the side of a building in the shade not far from the vendor. With one boot stuck against the building, he has a datapad out and is working his way through computer slicing programs one at a time, trying to learn how to hack and get around various issues. His helmet is on, his usual rifle and flamer are slung over his back along side his jetpack, the usual grenades along his belt.
As people of various kinds move through Hahtavi keeps track of them with his helmet's augmented optics. Once in a while he checks the time. Soon now it'll be late enough in the day for him to make his way to the market and to a certain cantina where he's to meet someone for information on a bounty. Meanwhile, as he waits, Hahtavi works on the datapad that is not set into his armor, and glances up often to watch those who are moving through the narrow street. Well, it's about that time... so the datapad is shut off and Hahtavi begins to secure it into his belt, about to shove off to head for his meeting.
So far, it's just another boring day. The vendor nearby sighs heavily and yawns into her fist. This is her seventh shift in a row and she only has about two day's worth of sold merchandise to show for her. Further down the street, other vendors are announcing their sales and the supposed "freshness" of their fruits. This vendor in particular has given up.
The helmet keeps up with the hustle and bustle, lighting up every sentient around the Mandalorian in quick order. Mostly bottom-rung citizens just trying to scrape a living off this dirtball of a planet. Those with money are already lazing away in the nicer establishments or in moisture-cooled homes. The rest have to labour about draped in robes and hoods.
Even so, this particular side street seems a bit more crowded than usual and there appears to be some movement on the rooftops in the vicinity.
It is not unusual for their to be roof top activity on top of some dwellings as the suns are lowering in the sky, but packed as the street is, and narrow, combined with the roof top activity he didn't quite catch, it seems like a good place not to get caught up in congestion.
Hahtavi fires off his jetpack and starts upwards - his intention to clear the confines and head on his way towards the open market. If he can get clear of the buildings and out into the open evening air...
"What in the kriff?!" The vendor staggers back in her stall as the Mandalorian is suddenly airborne. It isn't so much that the Mando is flying. In fact, they tend to do that, but it's the abruptness of it has her ducking under the table and cursing in Jawa; swearing that she's going to rip her boss a new one and get a different job after today.
Up on the roof, there are three robed figures that appear to be genuinely startled at the Dreadfinder's sudden appearance. Behind Hahtavi, on another roof, two more suddenly crouch down into cover positions and down on the ground, another one is looking up to watch the flight trajectory.
"Son of a--- get him!" says the one on the ground and with a flourish, the robes pull away to reveal armour of dark grey and black. In succession, half a dozen rifles power on and take aim, but the Mandalorian has got the upperhand.
As he rises, Hahtavi is /equally/ caught by surprise to see persons reacting to himself in more than a merely vaguely startled fashion. No, he wasn't getting a vibe that anything was amiss. He merely dislikes crowds and narrow streets full of people to slow him down. So as it becomes clear that they are freaking out /because/ of him and pulling weapons, the Mandalorian does what any Mando'ade would do. Hahtavi pulls his own rifle off of his back and slings it to clip onto his tactical rig - giving them ample chance to open fire first.
They haven't in that moment but clearly they are taking aim to do so. Any possible doubt that this is an intentional ambush dissolves as he gains altitude.
Hahtavi aims his own rifle and fires at the one who looks most likely to shoot at himself first, then fires another bolt at another close by him or her! <"You want to play? I'm game! Bring it on, /friends/.">
In a pair of powerful blasts, two of the mysterious figures are erased from existence; their lifeless bodies shoved backwards by the force and flying off the edge of the roof into an alley below. The four remaining members have steadied their respective aims on the Mandalorian. Two go wide but two at least hit their marks.... and one ricochets right off again!
At ground level, the reaction is immediate. With startled screams and curse words of various languages, the citizens of Mos Eisley are scattering in all directions away from the sudden firefight. In the alley, the two corpses hit with a heavy thud onto the cloth canopy of a vendor, destroying the stall and the cheap terracotta pots housed within.
Two down, four left! Hahtavi makes a mental note that stunning at least one or two of them for questioning would be wise. Meanwhile, one shoots a slug thrower at him and the rifle's bullet plings hard off of his beskar breastplate! The second shot nails him in the upper left arm! Hahtavi swears at the sudden pain, finding his left arm harder to work with to aim his rifle in turn. The impact also turned him in the air, making him have to correct to aim in turn.
The Mandalorian starts to swoop in lower, no longer ascending. The Mandalorian made blaster rifle kicks off two more shots, hitting one attacker square in the chest and the other blowing the fella's pelvis, taking his legs out from under him.
With two more left, Hahtavi opens his helmet's vocoder and amplifies his baritone, <"SURRENDER AND PUT DOWN YOUR ARMS!">
Two more of their compatriots are out in the most gruesome of fashions and the remaining pair are not swayed by the booming baritone of the Dreadfinder. What started as half a dozen is now down to two but those remaining two are definitely professionals. One shot barely misses, colliding into a balcony past Hahtavi and the other hits its mark only to pling off the beskar chestplate.
<"Boss, we're taking heavy fire!"> One is heard saying into his helmet and then seconds later, he nods. <"Understood. Pinning him down.">
<"Pin this!"> Hahtavi swoops over and comes to land on a near by roof top, switching the toggle on his rifle from kill mode to stun. He fires at the closest robed figure and nails that individual with blue stun rings, dropping them for later pick up - if possible. The second one is a bit further away and moving so Hahtavi's second shot misses.
As soon as he's fired he flips the toggle back to kill and starts moving himself. No point in making too easy a target of himself, <"I hope you brought a missile launcher!">
Actually, if more show up and one whips out a missile launcher at him, this Mando might dirt his armor but Hahtavi's not going to tell them that! He seeks cover behind a low wall rather than hanging around up in the air where everyone and their mother can easily see him.
The merc on the ground -- the one putting out the call -- watches as his last partner is stunned unconscious on a roof. Out of reach. The last remaining grunt takes cover behind a weather-worn stall, pressing his back against the wood and hugging his rifle to him in readiness. He knows when he's out-gunned but he also knows backup is arriving soon.
And backup is here. A swoop bike comes screaming down the now empty, dusty street of Mos Eisley right towards Hahtavi's location. The rider is a formidable-looking sort: a broad-shouldered, feminine figure wearing the same grey and black armour and slinging around a rifle from her shoulder.
Backup is coming and in moments, there's the swoop barreling in. Hahtavi's behind cover himself and no longer as obvious as he was before. He eyes the woman who's dismounting and swinging her rifle but instead of aiming at her, the Mandalorian pulls a grenade. Hahtavi shifts position along the low wall until he's along the side closest to the figure he'd heard calling for backup earlier. His helmet's tracking system indicates where the fellow has taken cover in an abandoned vendor's stall.
A breath later, Hahtavi pops up just enough to toss grenade after having held it a moment to start cooking off.... down it drops just inside between the stall's display table and the near wall.
The Kora ducks back down behind his cover and is moving to change his position along the low wall even as it blows. If the new arrival is any good, he doesn't want her to know exactly where he is, so Hahtavi stays as low as he can as he looks for a good position to fire upon her below.
The sound of the swoop approaching gives the grunt a surge of confidence. Finally. Things had gone sideways too quickly. Gloved hands tightening on his rifle, he is just about to move for another shot when the grenade rolls into view. Under the helmet, brown eyes widen and the mercenary is rolling away as quickly as he can. He's fast enough to avoid taking the full brunt of the explosion, but in the blast of energy and splintered wood, he is thrown like a ragdoll across the street into an abandoned cart. Dazed and his ears ringing, the grunt takes a shot in vain towards Hahtavi.
The Leader powerful up her rifle and immediately fires as the Mandalorian makes his escape into the rooftops. It goes wild but chases him until he gets cover. She, too, ducks for cover around the corner of an adobe house; craning her neck to look around in wait for the man to pop his head up. <"You may as well give up, Kora! All your friends are being hunted as we speak!">
<"Why? Did you bring an army? Because I think you need backup for your backup..."> Maybe somebody is feeling cocky. It'd be a nice change from his more usual bad luck he's had a much too long streak of lately. All the same Hahtavi moves, giving a silent prayer to the universe that he's not being stupid. His jetpack fires and up he goes...
But not very high. Just enough to get the drop on the swoop driver if he can. It exposes him to her fire yet may also give him the advantage of surprise! Aggression instead of cowering behind cover. Down he drops, Galaar rifle toggled to stun once more. As soon as he can see her he's firing blue stun rings right at her. The first shot misses but as he descends and the second shot is closing range, he nails her even as she's about to shoot him in turn!
Boots land with a thud in the dust. Hahtavi turns and uses her cover for a few seconds to see if there are any more surprises showing up right away.
The leader goes down in a blaze of blue energy donuts and that only leaves the last one still collapsed in a pile of what used to be a cart. Vision blurring and ears still filled with the high-pitched EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE of the aftershocks, he mercenary pulls off his helmet with a gasp of air.
He's a young man. Dark skinned and brown-eyed. A trail of blood trickles from his ear and there are likely more injuries currently unseen in the mess. Yet professionalism continues to win out and the man reaches up under his chest for... something? Within seconds, his armour begins to beep. And so does the Leader's. As do the bodies of the other grey-and-black armoured bodies scattered around the street. Beep. Beep. Beepbeepbeep.... faster and faster and faster.
It takes him a second to hear the bleeping and realize what it is. Does Hahtavi have time and is he willing to risk trying to disable the device if he can find it fast enough under that armor? <"Osik.">
The Kora decides maybe retreat is wiser. With a grenade, Hahtavi would have an idea of how long until it detonates but with this? Who knows! So up he starts to run, and tries to trigger his jetpack but his left arm is hurting and suddenly it's not responding fast enough.
The shockwave from the blast THROWS Hahtavi through the air and out into the street! He hits the hard packed dirt with a heavy THUNK of armor and feels debris raining down on top of him in bits. Oh, including an arm over there.
A sigh, then he's stiffly, carefully getting himself back up onto his boots. He turns his head to look but he already knows he's not going to have prisoners alive to question. <"Shab. Professionals."> Hurting, he dusts himself off and reloads his rifle. All in a day's work.
There isn't much of anything that passes for law in Mos Eisley, so Hahtavi will examine whatever is left and gather what clues he may.
The second sun of Tatooine is nearing the horizon now. The sky has darkened a bit more and the once-crowded street of Mos Eisley is a scene of carnage and destruction. Stalls shattered. Wares scattered and broken. Blaster fire holes now pock the surrounding buildings and there is a smell of o-zone and blood in the dry air.
Scattered in various places are seven bodies; destroyed in a simultaneous detonation. A last-ditch effort to maintain secrecy and mystery. It worked. None of the seven assailants are talking or ever will. Their armour unusable and their identities unknown, they all sport the same tattoo on their left wrists: a dark circle with an "M" in filigree in the middle.
A coordinated attack from a group of professionals. They had mentioned the other Kora were also being hunted. Hopefully they fare just as well.
Hadrix
The hyperlanes and trade routes of the galaxy go to all kinds of places. Exotic vacation locales. Dangerous, man-eating death traps. The occasional planet of acid or swamp. A few dozen barren desert planets that serve no purpose other than to be overbearing enough to make any visitor go 'Whew. Glad I don't live here.'
Bespin is somewhere in the middle. Certainly a bottomless deathtrap for the unwary or inebriated who roam the various edges of Cloud City. A vacation spot that gets old quickly. And if one stares out at the sea of clouds long enough, it certainly feels about as barren as Jakku. But it has a few decent restaurants and some other touristy spots.
But mostly, people come to Bespin to load and unload cargo. The starport is bustling as ever with ships coming to and fro. Crews of sentients and droids alike holler at one another with near-misses and confused manifests. Most won't even venture far from the starport: eager to get back into the cold vacuum of space.
Passing a datapad to a Muun who turns to slip away in lanky steps, Hadrix's first priority after getting his pay was to get a meal in him that wasn't from the ship conservators. Wrapped up in his armor, very few could know what the man was thinking. His body language nil. A man who spent most of his life encased in a shell - he and his brothers and sisters in the creche learned to have none if they could help it, to speak in direct LOS comms to avoid tapping. The only privacy that they knew.
The big man is a fan, always has been, and when he slips into the cantina with Gripper at his shoulder and Clankah back minding the ship - and the ID10 was well aware of the mood he was well set and brooding in.
So she was silent.
One of the reasons that they were such good friends.
When the sentients break around him like water around a stone his path to the bar itself is unhindered and he needs only to point at a bottle and hold up two fingers close together as if they were one, a chit following. Then he waits.
Most are born with an innate instinct to get out of the way of creatures bigger than they are. Some are not privy to such wisdom but hey. They often don't live long enough to breed. Natural selection at its finest, that. As Hadrix cuts a path through the cantina, he finds it unimpeded. The bar, which had moments ago been nearly half full, is suddenly wide open for him to take any seat he likes.
Well. Almost any seat.
An older gentleman remains on the stool where he sat; a cloak over his body and a cigarra nub in his mouth. Grey hair is thinning on the top but the beard is still going strong and it curls up in a grin as Hadrix makes his appearance. "You shore know how ta clear a path, eh, lad?"
<"Other people think they need to clear it."> shifting to let the krayt scales off his shoulder, arms folding on the bar counter and leaning rather than sitting, Hadrix's head remains fixed forward and the balor glare of the bionic behind the visor pulses slowly. No more is said, back inside of his world.
To a degree.
Never safe until home. Never peaceful unless he can account for every angle. He's not calm, but ready. Not relaxed but reclined. The animal close to the surface, sniffing and unconsciously causing a physical mimicry that he isn't quite aware of at first.
It's the middle of the day on Bespin. Prime time for a lunch rush. The cantina is filled with patrons; mostly spacers but also a few locals who have a hankering for the day's special. Today it is a creamy seafood chowder and side of thick sliced toasted bread. Given nearly all those ingredients have to be imported, it's both a treat and a rip-off.
The old man's lunch appears to be half a bottle of brandy with a side of two and a half cigarras. The lunch of champions. "That's because you're as big as a damn Wampa, har har har! I's tell ya, I's use'ta work fer a guy about as big as ye. Dumb as a bag of dead duracrete rats but he could dead lift a speeder, eh, lad?" The bartender, looking warily between the mostly silent Hadrix and the never silent older man, brings the Mandalorian his order and then quickly finds they have to be somewhere else.
The old man is still talking. "---them two trees together like that and we couldn'ta get them apart. Boss was right pissed but impressed, eh? Didn't even get overtime, tho."
The man's chatter is overpowering the normal hum and murmurs of the cantina. But it can't quite overpower the sound -- barely audible -- of several concealed blasters starting to charge.
No food for the big man, just a drink. The sight of seafood on the menu turning his stomach. The glass is within reach, one hand forward pausing as his head cants to one side.
Kot oya'la. Strength is Life
<"Shut up and fall off your stool."> his hand continues, but upward now. Standing upright as the breadth of his palm clears his shoulder pauldron and his fingers wrap around the carved, wooden, grip just behind the bulbous plasma pressurizer chamber that squeals to life and starts its' heavy, pulsing, thrum.
Ijaat oya'la. Honor is Life
<"I don't suppose if there's a bounty on me, you'd be willing to let me know how much it's set to?"> Turning to face the sound of blasters being engaged. The bronzium cannon in hand. The barrel slowly sweeping with the green glow growing in the depths.
Verburyc oya'la. Loyalty is Life.
Helmet tilting to one side and the visor sweeping the bar in a single slow movement, the massive gun trailing after, his other hand reaching to slide the bolt action that chambers one of the durasteel bolts into the launching chamber, waiting to be sheathed in plasma.
<"Kyr'am oya'la..."> Death is life. <"On should die as they've lived."> the last said with a predator's liquid purr.
The old man blinks a few times at the dismissive reply, but it's the pulling of the weapon that has him staggering out of his stool. "What the--- hey, watch it there, lad!" All talking in the cantina has stopped; all eyes on the large Mando with the almost larger gun. It is a sea of terrified faces frozen in a moment of absolute confusion. What's going on here? This is Bespin! This sort of stuff doesn't happen in Bespin!
Some patrons, a group from a freighter company, closest to the door make a run for it immediately, leaving their seafood chowders behind. Credits well-spent. Others are staggering from their seats and backing away. And even some others are looking very gruff and put-out by the interruption.
And then in the corner is a cluster of four spacers who have been watching Hadrix warily this whole time. As the gun starts to swing their way, one of them pulls out a blaster. The other three immediately follow suit but do not fire fast enough.
<"Keep them holstered or put it back in."> giving them a last warning, the big man is a statue with the huge wookiee weapon shouldered, but his head is not tipped to put his cheek near the furniture.
'Take the shot.'
'They need to shoot first.'
'Nine-Oh-Four, you do not hesitate!'
'I'm not Nine-Oh-Four.'
Hadrix trembles as adrenaline begins pouring through his veins among the cocktail of feel good chemicals his body had been conditioned to release when the idea of combat was there. Elation, joy. Battle at last and the chance to prove he's the better predator.
'That's not who you are, any more.'
Eyes tightening at the outer corners, and within the helmet his lips become a hard line.
With Hadrix's attention on the four in the corner, more of the patrons are quickly making their way out. The smart ones, anyways. Those who remain, eager to watch the show, are ones that might not live long enough to breed. Hopefully. The bartender has fled into the back and the old man has made his way around the bar itself for cover. And maybe to swipe a bottle or two.
The four grunts freeze for a moment, their faces looking to one another in curious hesitation. As if they are not used to hesitating at all. There is an unspoken dialogue between them. These aren't just cargo loaders taking a break from their duties. Sharp eyes speak to one another without words. Slight nods. Grips tighten on the blaster handles. They are communicating with each other.
And inadvertently to Hadrix, as well. A decision is made and all four turn to face the Mandalorian. Again, they don't fire fast enough.
So it begins.
They shared looks, the tension, Hadrix's first shot is high, too long since he used the long gun - too much time with the man-pack turret that he's been using to hose fire.
It's still a fantastic sight when the crater opens up, pitting the wall behind the quartet and showering duracrete and pressboard powder over their backs. Absorbing the shock as he leans into the recoil, the bolt is pulled and with another growling hum the cannon fires again. The gun-arm of the sentient disappears and the figure is blown to their left leaving a cloud of vaporized blood and tissue turned to blackened fog in the wake of them.
<"Really want to do this?"> the bolt action is drawn again and he takes another step forward, <"Do you know what you're asking for here?">
One is vaporized into what used to be blood and skin and other such nonsense that requires one to live. The three remaining break apart so as to force the Mandalorian to pick a target and readjust his arm. Or maybe just to split his attention. Firing as they run, two of the three shots bounce off the beskar armour and the third hit the wall of alcohol: bottles exploding in a spray of glass and booze.
"'Ey!" Calls the old man from behind the bar. "Watchit!"
The first shot, Hadrix turns at the waist and dips to let the bolt go wide of the front of his helmet - the others striking beskar and bouncing wide, another step forward. The red glow tracking to the one who tried to shoot him in the face. Anger welling up in him and with it a snarling sound that warbles static through the vocalizer of his helmet.
Oblivious to the burst bottles and flash boiled alcohol spraying about behind him the Massive Mandalorian squeezes again, the blast catching the assailant from behind, most literally. Sending the lower half of legs wheeling to either side and the body from the ribs up spinning forward.
Naught else remains but scorched mist and the reek of the cooked bones that exploded with the vaporizing tissues.
The report of the cannon is enough to actually push Hadrix back two of the steps he's taken, stud soled boots leaving gouges and the second blast explodes a section of the ceiling, sending half a decorative support swinging to the floor.
No more words, these would be killers want to meet the real man.
The remaining stranglers who thought they were going to get a good show have now thought better of it and are high-tailing it out of the nearest exit. Bowls of food left behind. Tables and chairs upended and strewn about in a rush. There is some impromptu renovations going on and it involves a lot of viscera. Only a of the patrons remain. The insane, the daring, the... attacking?
Two more blasters powerup behind Hadrix. One originates from a customer wearing grey and black armour who is ducked behind an overturned table. The other is coming from behind the bar. Detectable for the trained hunter even as the two remaining grunts are returning fire while they run and look for cover. Both shots go wild.
<"Anyone tries to shoot me in the back, I'll put them over the edge and you can fall until the tibanna chokes you or the gravity crushes you.">
Though he is able to ride out the immense kick of the weapon, Hadrix's second shot is less spectacular than the first, again, save for the natural light now pouring in through the fist sized hole at the center of the divot burned through stone and structure.
The first bore the effect of turning one of the attackers into a quickly spreading collection of limbs and a head that rolls across with a gawping expression plastered to its features.
<"Run now, you live.">
Another one bites the dust. Or rather turns into dust. With each concussive hit of the weapon, the wills of the remaining attackers are rattled but not broken. Two more shots. Two more misses. Two more grunts perhaps rethinking their life choices.
Only two of the three present enemy guns is accounted for and the third shows up in the form of the old man: sober and steel-eyed looking at Hadrix from the sights of his rifle. "Easy there, lad," he says gently; soothingly like he were talking down some great, rampaging beast. Because he is. "I can see the writing on the wall." As well as numerous blood splatters. With a gesture, the man commands the two remaining mercenaries move cautiously for the exit.
Coming around the bar, the old man is backing up as well; rifle still trained on Hadrix. Reaching the opening, the man grunts. "I told them we needed more to deal with you. But I'm sure the others are having better luck." He drops a small cylinder at his feet. Upon impact, the device cracks open and a thick screen of smoke billows outwards and upwards.
When it clears, the man is gone.
Avery
Along the sandy beaches of the tropical getaway that is Scarif sits a row of comfortable, cozy bungalows walled by palm trees and so close to the beach the sounds of the ocean play on a loop. It is a warm, humid morning. The sun is only just starting to peek out from the horizon, turning the cool blues of night into the invigorating shades of red and pink and orange.
Rising from bed early to avoid the heat of mid-day, Valeska has trekked out towards the main town to run some errands. Thus leaving the bungalow quiet and peaceful. All the windows are open to allow the salt-laden cross breeze to billow through.
Avery wakes to the soft sounds of nature rebounding off the walls of the bungalow, the gentle lap of waves, the quiet call of the seagulls, everything about their home spelling peace and comfort. Normally the Mandalorian Slicer would exit bed in a rush, eager to greet the day, but this day he decides to lounge preferring to get ready at a snail's pace. Once dressed, he stands at the window of the bungalow, drinking some heated caff and staring out at the blue-green ocean that stretches from their home. "Not a bad life..." he quietly mumbles to himself, the cup lifted to his lips with a smile.
The thick orange of morning is already ebbing, surrendering territory to the encroaching march of the light blue sky that comes with another beautiful day on Scarif. The sun, though, seems to be taking its time and the shadows of the trees still run long onto the sands. The beach is empty of vacationers save for a few specks in the far distance: early birds on a morning jog or late-night party goers just waking up with a hangover.
It's peaceful. Serene. The ocean waves lap onto the beaches in a steady, whispered hush; the secret its trying to tell carried on the wind that rustles the palm leaves. Tropical birds chirp and at the boardwalk, businesses are setting up shop. It's a relaxing hustle and bustle that almost -- almost -- masks the sound of something shuffling in the sand outside.
An eyebrow lifts at the odd, out of place sound, and his attention focuses in pausing the journey of caff to his lips halfway, the mug frozen in place. His head tilts to locate where it might be coming from and his steps carry him lightly to the appropriate window. On his way, Avery accidentally bumps into a table, the furniture teetering to dislodge a glass. Thankfully his quick reactions kick in and he snatches the container before it shatters on the floor, no additional noise made.
After narrowly giving away the goose, Avery makes it to the portal to the outside, cautiously peering out to see what might have shuffled about in the sand nearby, eyebrows raised while he looks for the culprit.
Outside the opposite window there is no sign of movement. No critters running about. No lost, hungover neighbours trying to get into the wrong bungalow again. No tripped over trash cans blown over by the wind. What there is, however, are divots in the sand where someone or something had recently passed by. Fresh but quickly being erased in the breeze. Something is out there.
From inside the house, there comes another sound. A slight shuffling of fabric and armour. Boots touching the hardwood floor as gently as they can. One in the bedroom... and another in the spare room. On the front porch is the patter of sandy soles creeping towards the door... a hand on the knob....
It doesn't happen often but there are times where Avery wishes he slept in the armor... this is one of those times. A furtive glance to the bedroom where is armor is kept brings a grim frown to his face, looks like he'll be greeting whomever these intruders are in normal clothes. Dark emerald eyes shift to the E-11 leaning up against a chair nearby, at least he won't be unarmed. Moving as quickly and as quietly as possible, Avery darts over to retrieve the carbine, lifting the weapon and powering it on to be ready for whomever decides it was a good idea to raid the home of two Mandalorians. The Slicer slides up next to the bedroom door, eyes flashing between the three entrances that are being advanced on, and waits to the side, ready to throttle whomever in exiting from his place of relaxing.
All. Movement. Stops.
Silence. Oppressive and thick. If one didn't know any better, it would almost seem like the gusts of wind outside have even slowed to a mere draft. The curtains flutter and the wind chime hanging over porch resonates its hollow, musical gongs.
The sweet, safe serenity of Scarif blankets the space.... then bursts into flames in an eruption. The sound of blaster rifles powering up is his only warning. The front door flies open and there in the doorway is a figure armoured in grey and black. With no helmet, the blue-skinned Chiss' red eyes dart around the space to quickly spot his target. They get a lock in on Avery but not fast enough to shoot first.
The other two assailants in either bedroom are only seconds behind, rushing from their rooms and turning their aim at the Mandalorian, as well.
Avery's eyes go wide when the intruders immediately zero in on his location, so much for /that/ element of surprise. At least they're not quick enough to fire first, that honor is his. The trigger on his carbine is depressed once, a bolt of red plasma leaping from the barrel to strike the man entering the front door. The shot wounds him desperately but not enough to drop him for good... not yet. "Welcome to my home!" he yells as he dives behind the island in the kitchen, a second shot erupting from the barrel as he falls, this one striking the wall nearby to the man coming from their bedroom.... hopefully Valeska doesn't get pissed that he's shooting up the interior of their home... if only he was a better shot. "Just leave the bills on the doorway, I'll get to them when I have the chance!" Avery calls from behind his cover, preparing to rise to fire again.
The carbine answers the door with a blast, propelling the Chiss mercenary backwards and landing with a ragdoll thud on the sand just beyond the steps. Alive but perhaps wishing he wasn't. <"Request...ing..."> he is heard struggling to say with a throat filled with blood. Trying to contact someone.
Avery's path to the cover of the kitchen island is pocked with two more blasts of fire; one hitting the wooden stool and scorching it with splints. The other a cabinet door above, singing it with burning embers. The merc in the main bedroom quickly ducks back inside for cover. The second rushes from the spare room and dives behind the couch in the main living area beyond the kitchenette.
Avery lifts from behind his cover after the blaster fire from the two inside miss. He marks the location of the pair, the easier of the two to hit most likely being the one not behind a door frame. As such he lifts his blaster and sends a shot through the couch, the bolt boring through the sofa to mark the floor rather nearby the man hiding behind. He scrambles from his cover, just in time to meet Avery's second attack, the last thing he'll ever see. With eyes wide, Avery drops back behind the island, shifting over to the right in order to have a better bead on the one in their bedroom.
One down and one dead. Not looking for the would-be invaders. Outside, still unable to sit up, the Chiss finishes calling for back-up and opts to stare up at the sky for a spell. Just to rest his eyes. One fresh corpse lay cooking on the living room area rug while movement from the main bedroom has gone silent. It's almost missable, but the sound of someone slipping out of an open window can be detected, but beyond that there is no indication on where they went or where they might be coming from next.
Or how quickly reinforcements will be arriving.
Leaving the bleeding man on the porch, Avery leaps over the island to head to the room. A couple of quick peeks find no one inside and the Mandalorian moves in to secure his breastplate and helmet. There's not a lot of time and he has no idea how many he's going to face now that reinforcements are here. Still, any armor on is better than none at all. E-11 in hand, chest plate and bucket secured, Avery moves back out into the living room, peering around for anyone approaching before he moves on the injured man at the door.
The Chiss doesn't even try to sit up but he is starting to roll onto his side coughing up blood into the sand. Barely clinging to life, he is in no shape to fight. Certainly in no shape to resist as Avery exits the bungalow half-donned in Doomseeker armour with an intent to drag him inside.
Thankfully, there is still one member of his party that is more than capable of fighting back. Swinging around from the edge of the house, the remaining Umbaran attack fires a shot on Avery, the bolot hitting the chestplate and bouncing off into the ether then he quickly ducks back again for cover.
Avery takes a step back as the blaster fire bounces off his chest. He looks down at the smallest of marks made on his beskar and storms in the direction of the baddie. Turning the corner, he finds the man moving away rapidly, carbine comes up and two shots bark from the weapon. The first collides with his foe, sending him stumbling forward as he tries to make a get away, the second sails over his head after he stumbles from the first. <"Kriff..."> the partially armored Mandalorian says, glancing back at the one bleeding out on the doorstep before he slips back into cover.
The battle as moved to the exterior of the house now, shots fired and returned in rapid succession. The Umbaran merc, now wounded, fires from the hip as she stagger-runs; missing her target as she disappears around the corner to the backside of the house. Down the boardwalk, another pair of boots can be heard rapidly approaching, no words exchanged but their purpose clear in their gaits. The reinforcements have arrived.
The Chiss is still immobile on the ground. The front door and all the windows of the house open. And through all the violence and chaos, the ocean waves caress the shore like a forlorn lover.
<"Son of a..."> Avery begins before the sound of boots registers in his headset, he turns and the HUD in his helmet picks up a pair rushing down the boardwalk. Quickly his E-11 is lifted and two blasts ring out, the first striking the one in the lead, sending them down to a knee, nearly as wounded as their friend in the doorway, the second lifts Avery's foe off their feet, flinging them off the boardwalk and into the surf below. Three targets left, two nearly neutralized, one limping around behind the house.... the Mandalorian dives through the window before any return fire happens, getting into cover and listening for any further assault or approach.
Silence again but not for long. The sound of a swoop bike's engine starts faintly in the distance and grows louder and louder. Kicking up a trail of sand in its wake, the bike lurches onto the boardwalk and screams past the two downed mercs on the boardwalk, coming to an abrupt stop in front of the bungalow. The driver, a talk, lithe figure in the same grey and black armour, throws himself off the bike and swings his rifle around to bear. A moment is taken to assess the situation and then the helmeted gaze rests on the building in front of him.
Wasting no time, he rushes up to the front porch and presses his back against the side of the door, pausing to listen into the house for any movements.
The sound of the assailant arriving and rushing the porch has Avery retreating to a better position, the Mandalorian listening for a moment to make sure he'll be clear of enemies in his new area before he darts that way... it wouldn't do to retreat to a place already occupied by foe. Unfortunately, as he makes to move quietly, he knocks over the same table he hit earlier, this time the glass falls to the floor and shatters. <"I never liked that thing anyway..."> He remarks, head snapping to the front door as he dives for the cover of the bedroom.
Picking up on the movement, the new threat whips around the door frame and opens fire immediately, going on sound rather than sight to hound his target. The blast hits the very same table that Avery bumped into, blasting off one of the legs in a burst of wooden shards. The Umbaran Leader continues his rolling momentum, entering into the house and, stooping low, takes cover behind a quickly overturned coffee table and a thick, sturdy yet comfortable chair. The whine of his rifle fills the air as he prepares for another killing shot.
Avery rolls into place next to the door frame of the bedroom, spinning to ready his carbine to fire. His eyes trace the path of this new threat as he dodges behind a coffee table and that unusually comfortable but thick chair. The man doesn't cover himself entirely though, accidentally leaving a foot out in the open. It's this foot that receives Avery's first shot, the man howling in pain as he shifts reflexively, his movement bringing him into view. <"You, however... were not invited."> The Slicer claims, burying a searing bolt of red right between the man's widening eyes to topple him over dead. The Mandalorian pulls back and listens, attempting to hear sounds of the other one he injured possibly making some foolish move.
The home falls silent again. Two corpses in the main room littered with the unmistakable destruction of a fire fight. It smells of burnt ozone, seared flesh, melted plastoid, and charred cloth glowing with little red embers. No more attacks are incoming. Just the rev of the swoop bike's engine outside, a pair of blaster shots, and the sound of the bike then speeding away into the distance.
Moments pass and there is one more sound. A low moan from the front porch as someone steps upon it, a foot dragging. A stumble. A curse. They can be heard leaning hard against the house breathing heavily.
Avery lowers his blaster, walking cautiously toward the porch with eyes that shift from side to side, waiting for the next assailant to pop from Force knows where. He nudges the dead body of the Leader as he passes by, moving to the entrance with the carbine ready to be brought to bear in case there are additional reinforcements that enjoy announcing their arrival through a groan.
There is someone waiting for him on the outside but even as heavy-footed as Avery may be, the figure on the other side apparently does not hear him coming. Jerking her head up, Valeska raises her DL-30 blaster pistol right into Avery's Y-visored face. Recognition dawns almost immediately and her aim waivers. "Avery..." With that, she collapses forward into him, the extent of her own injuries apparent with a glance. Unarmoured, she has various wounds sustained from a similar attack and though alive, she fared a bit worse.
"Valeska!" He cries as she topples into his arms, the half-armored Mandalorian sweeping her into his arms to carry back into the house. As he rushes to the bedroom, he notes the blaster marks in the heads of the two he left alive, the distinct absence of the big man's swoop, and he would imagine the lack of a hobbled merc out back. A grimace crosses his face, uncertain at the moment who assaulted their peaceful home... but that can wait, he has an injured girlfriend to see to and all thought and concern is directed at her as he lays her upon the bed.
It won't be long before Scarif authorities will be littering Bungalow Row. Asking questions that the Mandalorians cannot answer. Gathering up the bodies of the attackers and sending for medical help for the injured. But before the corpses are carted away, it is noted that they all appear to be from the same group as they all share a tattoo on the inside of the left wrists: a black circular outline with a "M" in filigree inside of it. With the escape of the remaining merc comes a promise that this assault was not only well-coordinated but is certainly not to be the only one.
Sumi
The Pulse lives up to its name. Music thumps enough to carry over outside, luring potential passers-by from the sidewalk into hopefully becoming customers. Most of the time it doesn't work, but there's been the odd curious sort that finds themselves wandering in and swept up on the crowd. The lights. The music and booze.
It's nearing the magic hour: that time where the crowd is the thickest and the whole place gets humid with bodies bumping and grinding. A mass of people are on the dance floor forming one amoebous organism that seems to undulate and sway in a sort of hive mind. Lights are flashing and the alcohol is flowing free. At a cost, of course.
Sumi sets up on a loft looking down over the ocean of swaying bodies, foggy air, and dancing laser lights. In her armor, it gave her a regal look, with each dent in its frame refracting light in an odd but mesmerizing manner. Sumi was not as intimidating as most Mandalorians. Her perpetual silence and statuesque interactions with passersby in the club typically transpired with them avoiding her path. She had the authority to use violence. She is the chief of security here, and rumor was, /no one/ escaped her view.
Currently, Sumi leans heavily upon the railing of the loft with both hands. With her helmet on, it's not clear /where/ she watches, only that she's watching.
It's about as routine as every other night before it and any other night to come. Too many people in one place likely breaking a few fire codes. A couple of rowdies getting tossed out on their bums. One particularly bold Shist who thought they could run out on their tab. That ended well. Not for the Shist, but needlesstosay, the tab got paid.
Dull in a place of such excess and borderline debauchery; depending on how short the skirts are and who is doing the measuring. Or so it would have seemed. Around the perimeter, some figures are moving about. Dressed darker than those around them in grey and black armour, they could be part of a new security team hired. It is difficult to tell in the haze of smoke and fog and currently, they are all scattered about the area along the edges. About three of them are in immediate view. All without helmets and one glances up in Sumi's direction.
The one who glanced up at Sumi finds the aura of Sumi's helmeted gaze peering back at them from above. It might have been easy to dismiss the look as being an all encompassing one, but Sumi nods to them. Maybe that removed any doubt? Hard to tell with professionals who are good at controlling their expressions. Sumi makes no effort to move from her perch, happy to be witness to all the debauchery, it was no secret that the warrior was a 'watcher'.
The eyes meet Sumi's helmeted glance without wavering; an older woman in about her early forties stares back. A slight nod in return and a raise of her hand. The other two figures in various parts of the room turn their attention then look up, seeing Sumi, as well.
The music goes low and then starts to building again. A steadily increasing tempo that has turned the thrumming of the room into a slowly tightening spring. As it speeds up, it builds on itself. The pitch gets higher and higher then a pause... and the bass drops and three fully charged blasters are pulled out in union. All aiming immediately at the Mandalorian in the loft.
Blasters. Joy. Sumi brought the action to them. By going to the ground, she eliminated the vantage all three gunmen had on her and reduced it to one at a time. While it wasn't the most thought out strategy, 'Get Em' had never failed her before. So she mantles the railing and lands down below in a heavy THUNK that could /not/ be good for her knees.
Only she did not rise up slowly, or do anything that might seem theatrical. She sprang up like a viper and struck this old female right in the face with a rear right hook that landed just at the drop of bass. Durasteel reinforced knuckles found an unprotected face and blood spattered the floor as Sumi closed the distance to the merc to make them reconsider their life's choices.
A three-point point landing brings the Mandalorian at ground level and two of the armoured figures has lost their window. The third has managed to keep her eyes on Sumi's movements but it only does her enough good as to see the hit coming. Metal knuckles meet a jawline, knocking the mercenary back dazed but still on her feet. With a loud ringing in her ears, the merc shakes her head the stars from her eyes and wildly swings for Sumi. And wildly misses.
For the most part, the crowd hasn't noticed. Too much music and lights going on to pull their attention. Though there are several who are nearby who turn around to see a fistfight breaking out and offer the appropriate hoots and hollers! Meanwhile the other two are quickly trying to make their way over towards Sumi through the throng of people, blasters held close to their chests and signalling to someone else towards the bar.
Sumi follows the feral swing from her opponent with a precise hit that carries weight. She twisted her upper body, pivoting and flaring the hip to deliver a right hook that devastated her opponent. Her eye felt that, and Sumi wagered, she'd have eye problems the rest of her life. She stayed close to her enemy though, wanting to minimize collateral by making her body the likely target, even if this ol' girl couldn't make a blow count. A second swing reveals to Sumi that the grunt isn't out of it yet, she still has a good eye to see out of, for now..
The older woman is still trapped in the momentum of her swing when Sumi's metal knuckles decide to crush an eye socket. Her bell thoroughly rung, the woman sways with a grunt and ducks the follow up. Then the entire room tilts to one side and she falls over to the ground where the edge of the dance floor starts to rock back and forth like a ship on choppy seas.
Angrily shoving their way through the patrons, the other two mercenaries break through the wall of bodies blasters-first and immediately open fire. Both shots, unsurprisingly, miss the short Alor and while one ends up breaking a light fixture, another finds purchase into the bare back of a male twi'lek.
Now the hooting and hollering of a pleased and rowdy crowd shifts into panicked screams of alarm that starts from those who can see it all unfold and fanning outwards. Now two more figures have appeared from the back room on the other side of the dance floor wearing similar armour, and are trying to make their way over as the crowd starts to race towards the exits.
Sumi ends her first opponent by claiming their collar and jerking them to her. A nice Keldabe kiss breaks the female's skull at its fore, and Sumi drops the lady to disarm one of the other two joining and shooting at her. She uses a compliance hold to twist his arm, and in doing so, passed in front of him. The passing motion yields an opportunity to strike and she does just that, conferring a backhanded strike that likely left him spitting teeth. She steps toward her new enemy and twists him to double as a shield against his companion, who still had a weapon.
To this point, Sumi has said nothing to any of them. Content to fight, and let her actions do the talking, she seems to be right at home in the middle of all that chaos.
The first is down and out. Breathing but that is likely not a good thing for her. Helpless to aid her partners, the pair are left to defend themselves against a blur of Journeyman armour that cracks an arm and sends one of the blasters clattering to the ground. The younger man, a Belosar, growls until the backhand stops the noise cold and chokes it in his throat. The other, a green Quarren female, takes a hit and swings back. It is clear none of them were quite prepared to go in close combat. Even more apparently they were not at all properly prepared for Sumi Kora.
The crowd is pushing against each other trying to get out, slowing the progress of the reinforcements that have appeared from the back. Gloved hands out, the assailants are grabbing those who get to close by the shoulders and throwing them to the side, rushing to get at Sumi.
Sumi swings and misses, doubling back with a sharp elbow to drive in at her shield's chin. It is hardly damaging enough to persuade him away from violence, but that's about to change. She turns toward the opponent rushing her and throws his friend into their path to slow them down.
In that time, she draws back her cape and activates the Sonn-Blas Z6 riot control baton, extending it with a razor sharp SNAP, then twisting it to generate the electro-shock that pulses and hums along the serrated edges of the mace-like baton head. Sumi does not wait for them to process what she's doing, or what she has; it's her turn to rush.
Another crack. Another dodge. It isn't quick but the pair are getting ground down and cannot get a hit on her. "I told the damn boss it wasn't enough numbers!" The Quarren bites out in crisp, angry Basic. There's no small amount of blood in those words.
"Had to spare some for her damn hound and the others!" Her partner growls.
Around their immediate area has cleared out and now with the other two joining, there are four mercenaries surrounding Sumi. But the snap of the baton gives them pause. Hesitation... followed by confusion. They're not used to hesitating.
"Shut up and get her!" It's the older woman on the floor who has rolled onto her side but has gotten no further. "NOW!"
Sumi didn't buy into letting them regroup. Her fighter mentality was to give them constant pressure, and always have them keep their guard up. They paid for the pause in attack, and Sumi picked them apart for it. By the end of her furious flurry of strikes, three grunts were appended from their place on the dance floor and jettisoned across the room following the electro-sonic boom of each riot control baton impact. Whether they died or not remained to be seen, but when the dust settled, and the fog of the artificial smoke began to part, Sumi stood in an aura of electric blue energy turning her gaze to her final opponent and rushing right for them.
What's left of those partiers who couldn't get out of the congested exits fast enough hae pressed against the fall walls, ducking under tables and covering their heads. The smart ones, anyways. The dumber ones dare to peek over their various items of cover in the off-chance they can see more of the carnage. And what a show they are greeted to.
A trail of blue follows behind Sumi like a wide, bright ribbon. A sickening crack, crack, crack precedes three of the four falling to the ground convulsing with the aftershocks sparking across their bodies. The forth, wide-eyed, takes a step back... then another... then turns to run.
On the ground, the oldest merc sees that their advantage was long blown and failure was assured. But failure isn't an option. With a grunt, she reaches to her belt and presses something along her back. The bodies laid strewn about as well as the one lone attack now trying to flee begin to beep. Beep... beep beep.... beepbeepbeep.... Faster and faster and faster.
Bombs. The bane of her existence. Sumi dropped the baton and cast back her cape, drawing out an illegal weapon so dangerous and inhumane that its very likeness has been banned from almost every governed star system. Sumi discharges the four on the ground in quick succession, not just killing them, but dispensing every thing about them in a single, transforming second that reduced their matter to something unseen, like dust.
The fifth shot crossed the room in an orange hot contrail that struck the man center back. He didn't even have time to register he'd been hit before his body was reduced and a wave of dust swept over the silent crowd, watching in horror.
A trail had been cut through the fog leading back to the steaming weapon Sumi twirled and holstered back at her side. She was annoyed to have no evidence, but Kasia would be pleased that her club was no longer in danger of being blown the rekk up. With the situation handled, Sumi brushes her cape back over her array of weapons. As she walked away from the scene of this massacre, she hiked a thumb back over her shoulder and told the bartender, <"Someone, clean that rekk up.">
Those who remained in the bar -- the patrons, the staff -- bear witness to a horrifying series of events. The rapidly increasing beeps are unmistakable and there are five sources of unknown power about to explode. No way out... no escape. This is it!
A flutter of a cape brings forth a weapon of utter, atom-splitting destruction. But this day it is also salvation. FWHOOM! FWHOOM!FWHOOM!FWHOOM! In succession, the four prone bodies are gone, taking their final threat along with them. The last, the runner, is heading for cluster of people huddled at the exits. The crowd scream again as he nears them.
With a flash of orange, the wide-eyed man in gone in a poof of stardust and the beeping stops. Forever. No evidence is left behind but plenty of witnesses. Those who aren't sobbing uncontrollably or puking in the corner. Not to mention plenty of recordings to be had on the Mando's helmet to review later. For now, there is a mess to clean up on the dance floor and a nasty bit of business to take care of.
The attackers had mentioned splitting their numbers to take on the others. That can mean only one thing.
