Log:First Order/Resistance: Abduction! Part 2

Abduction! Part 2

OOC Date: December, 28 2016
Location: Nar Shaddaa
Participants: Fuze as GM, Sar Yavok, Gren Delede, First Order

The First Order patrol moves through the undercity, the narrow alleyways and passageways of the decaying belly of Nar Shaddaa. They are the standard patrol size of six; a Sergeant, identified by the flashes on his pauldrons, and five Troopers. Three are men and three are women, judging by the armor, but otherwise they're helmetted and anonymous. It's night, the rain is coming down steadily, so visibility is low and the Troopers are using tactical flashlights on their rifles to scope out the shadows. So far they have found nothing save the dregs of the city; trash, pleasure girls, more trash, beggars, more trash, wrecked speeders and the like. They are disenchanted and grumbling, and the Sergeant is keeping them in line with some harshly colorful language.

It has been a long night for Gren. A long-ass flight, and a hurried landing when he heard about his daughter. And now this rain. They have a ship close by, but for the moment, they are on foot. Delede is dressed in a very old set of tropical storm trooper armor that has been painted a very dark grey. It almost blends in with the ancient filth. His blaster is drawn, and held low, as he leans his head acround the corner of an alley, watching the patrol. <<<I've got six, Sar. We need atleast two. Make sure one is the NCO.>>> He takes a deep breath. <<I've got you covered, old buddy.>> The old pilot leans out from his cover, and starts to snap off a flurry of accurate shots at the leading stormtroopers. He does not target the Sergeant. He'll trust the actual soldier to do that bit of work.

<<Yep,>> Sars remarks into his comm, peeking around the corner, eyes peering through the viewports in his own set of ancient Stormtrooper gear. His is green, of course.

He slides the long-barreled EE-3 sawn-off from its holster and rounds the corner, leveling it at the sergeant. He looses three bolts at the NCO, before another poor trooper gets a single shot aimed at them.

Hopefully the Lt. Colonel is a big enough target out in the open that the dirty space Nazis lay off of his grieving pal.

The leading, #1 Trooper beside the Sergeant was just saying, "This stinks, Sarge, I..." when Gren's first blaster bolt takes her in her chest. She's flung backwards, her helmet rolling off as she twitches spasmodically before laying still, the oily puddle fanning her sodden blonde hair about her face, eyes blankly upturned towards the rain. Another Trooper, #5 catches one of Gren's bolts in the face, the helmet melting, the man falling back, twitching and jerking violently, heels scraping and splashing in the puddles, for forty or fifty seconds before he finally goes still. #2, a short fellow who is swinging his blaster up to return fire, catches a bolt in the leg and goes down screaming; his right leg is all but severed at the thigh, cauterized by the plasma but still he's going into shock, his helmet and headpiece torn off to reveal a vaguely oriental appearance, hair slicked back. Following on Gren's volley come Sar's measured shots; the Sergeant is hit twice, staggering him backwards onto his ass, his fingers fumbling helplessly at his dropped rifle as the stunning electricity courses around his central nervous system. Trooper #3, a short stocky female, takes another stun round; she falls backwards into a pile of trash, and there's a clattering and crashing of metal as several hundred pounds of scrap comes cascading down atop and around her, pinning her helplessly; white legs kick and scrape and she's screaming. That leaves #4, a tall skinny female, and #6, a burly fellow; they dive into cover and commence firing back into the darkness, hampered by the low light but helped by the fact that the volley of shots apiece from Gren and Sar betrayed their positions well.

It isn't something that happens that often. But, once and a while, his luck runs a little sour. The tall lady trooper's blast catches Gren in the side, and pitches him back into the alley wall. His armour shows a blast mark, and beneath the plasteel, he's in some pain. But, he's also a father out to find his daughter. He's off the wall, and moving forward, now. Walking toward the incoming fire, he starts to squeeze off bolts. The trooper who shot him is the primary target. The DL-44 is in his hand runs dry, eventually. The barrel sizzles in the rain, and smoke rises from his own blaster burn. <<<We've got 'em, more or less. I want a medteam at the safe house, -now-.>>> A groan carries over the comm, likely.

Oh hey, somebody shot Gren. Bad form, Stormtroopers. <<You good, Delede?>> he asks, whipping his blaster towards the only Stormy left uninjured. He unleashes a flurry of blaster bolts towards them, hoping at least a couple of them hit their mark.

To her credit, the tall female trooper comes out to meet Gren, standing her ground. It's her funeral. His blasts take her in the belly and breast, spinning her around so she pitches face down into a deep puddle; that she's dead is evidenced by her stillness as her armor backplate burns, a through and through shot. Burly guy keeps to his cover, firing at Sar without effect, but he fares no better than his companion as it's Sar's blaster's turn to find its mark. He slumps forwards over his weapon in the dirt. That leaves three of them; severed leg guy, hyperventilating, going into shock; garbage lady, struggling helplessly in silence to shift a beam that fell atop her; and the Sergeant, who has crawled onto all fours and, still weak and trembling, is fumbling his rifle towards him with shaking fingers.

<<I'm fine. I forgot how much getting shot fucking hurts, though.>> Gren replies to Sar, turning his helmeted head to glance in the direction of the Lt. Colonel. He mag drops the empty power cell from his pistol, and slams another in, while moving toward the trapped trooper. When he's gotten close, he looks down at her silently, before yanking off his helmet, and holding it against his wounded side. "Buckethead. I'm Captain Gren Delede. Your superiors made this personal. That's why your pals had to die." A brief pause, and he reaches up with his blaster-hand to brush rain out of his eyes. "I'm going to let you live, bitch. But, do let them know that I'm coming for my daughter. And a whole mess more of you aren't going to make it. Maybe you won't, next time." He kicks his blaster out of reach(if he can), and places the helmet back on his head. Hopefully the First Order has Space GoPros on their bucketheads. <<Dibs on the one-legger. He's lighter.>> The disoriented Sergeant? He has implicit trust that Yavok will keep him from being a problem.

"That's not protocol, Captain," Sar says quietly, moving over to the pinned Stormtrooper. He kneels down and slides his sport knife from his belt. The trapped soldier's go wide inside of the her helmet. Cries of protest begin to echo through the alley and she starts grabbing at Sar's hands.

"Stop, goddammit! Stop!" he shouts down at her, before using his knee to pin one of her arms down to the damp duracrete ground. A quick movement of his knife between the armor on her chest and her helmet, and the girl's screams fall quiet, replaced with ever-quieting gurgles.

Sar stands slowly and wipes the blood from the blade before slipping it back into its sheath. He walks over to the crawling Sergeant and places a swift boot to the side of his head, sending him collapsing to the pavement.

He hefts the NCO up onto his shoulders and says, "Let's go."

The guy with the severed leg is staring at the ground, hyperventilating, unable to comprehend the deaths of his companions through the pain in his leg. He watches vacantly as the pinned girl's feet scrape and fall still, as the Sergeant is booted in the head and picked up. The Sergeant is a dead weight on Sar's shoulders; with the armor as well, he must be close to three hundred pounds.

<<Neither is what we're going to do next, asshole. It was a good speech, damnit.">> Delede grouses, as he watches Sar murder the trapped Stormtrooper. Gren's hurting. And he's not really that big of a guy to start with. But, it doesn't stop him from trying to lift the one-legged trooper...and failing. Instead, he just grabs his good leg, and starts to drag him through the filth and the muck. "Don't worry. We got docs. We'll patch you right up, kid...and me." It's unlikely the injured kid is actually able to understand what is being said to him. But, hey...maybe that old-school Imperial cadence will be comforting? Sooner or later, they'll arrive at their safehouse, and its med-team.

Sar Yavok is doing fine under the weight of the armored trooper. "A fine speech, sure. But survivors only complicate thing," Sar says, quietly.

They enter the safehouse and Sar lets the unconcious Sergeant flop onto the cold, dark floor.

"See to the Captain, Lieutenant," Sar instructs one of the members of the medical team. Kid's secondary."

Neither prisoner presents much in the way of problems from the security standpoint; the Sergeant is still unconscious and the legless Trooper couldn't fight his way out of a wet paper bag. Indeed, the medics are not optimistic they could save him, let alone his leg, but both can be patched up enough to talk, at the least. Their armor yields few clues, other than that the Sergeant is designation FG-4984 and the Trooper, FH-1099.

"I'm fine for now. If he dies before we can chat...that just leaves us that asshole." A thumb is jerked at the NCO. Still, Gren's tossed his helmet into a corner, is working...with the help of a tech, to peel off the chest plate of his armour. That'll need fixed. A pained look, and then he takes a deep breath, attempting to appear unruffled. "You should take the first pass, Sar. This is more your arena, than mine. I'll play the part of the pissed off parent in the background." Which really really shouldn't be too hard. A glance at the med techs. "Come on. Let's wake up the big one."

"Alright, sure," Sar says to Gren, before he slides the Stormtrooper helmet off of his head. He walks over to where the Stormy is propped up and crouches down in front of him. "You see how fast we worked over there? The First Order is nothing. You got your suits and your fancy guns, sure...but we got a bunch of pissed off people who have seen your kind before. And we ain't scared. We're ready."

"Now tell me where Sabella is or I'll start cutting off parts of you that they don't make cybernetic replacements for, yet." The Sergeant's eyes stare up blurrily at Sar Yavok. Possible concussion, the medics said. "Who the fuck's Sabella?" he mutters thickly, glaring. "You killed my squad, you sonofabitch." His tongue works at the corner of his mouth where there's some blood, the lip split and puffy, perhaps where he bit his tongue when he was hit with the stun round. His eyes are full of hatred. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Gren frowns, and apparently doesn't like the concussed Sergeant's answer. He walks up to the one-legged, in shock trooper, and levels his DL-44. The heavy blaster punches a hole in the safehouse wall when he pulls the trigger. The hole is a few inches from the asian face. "We haven't killed -all- of your squad, asshole." A brief pause, before he continues. "One of your patrols took her off the street in the Gearhead district. Took a few casualties. Talk to the man. I won't kill 1099. We'll save him, even."

Sar Yavok clasps his hands in front of him and watches as Gren goes on to do his thing. For now, he's content to just let it proceed. At least nobody's getting hurt, right?

The Sergeant flinches, even though the bolt wasn't anywhere near his head. He moistens his lips, considering his limited options. "The girl? That her name?" He's thinking hard, gaze flickering between Gren and Sar. Gren seems to be the dangerous one; Sar will merely kill him. "Alright. It wasn't our division that did it. But I heard rumors. We all know about a man called Delede. Head of the so-called Resistance here on Nar Shaddaa." The words are spit out contemptously. But he's putting things together, which is no mean feat under stress. "The orders from General Morsi were to take some girl alive, to act as leverage against Delede. That part worked, I guess," he grimaces. "Guess the General wants to talk to Delede directly. Which of you two is Delede?" General Morsi's name will be unfamiliar to Gren and Sar. He certainly isn't part of the garrison here on Nar Shaddaa.

Gren doesn't look over at Sar. He doesn't even lift an eyebrow. But inside? He's likely amused. He'll rub that in, at some point. "I'm Delede." There is a moment of thought, and he looks at his blaster like an old friend, though he doesn't use it to directly threaten anyone, for the moment. "You're doing well, Sergeant. I'm proud of you. Keep talking. Keep saving both of your lives." He kneels know, near the Sergeant. A wince betraying the pain in his side. "Morsi. Is he here? I'd like to get in touch." Sorry, Yavok. Gren just has rapport, at the moment.

Sar Yavok isn't in any hurry to distract Gren from what he's doing, so he simply stands up and slides his cigarillos from his utility belt. He lights one up and slowly begins to smoke on it as he watches Gren and the Sergeant.

The Sergeant grimaces, eyes only on Gren now. "Morsi isn't here. I'll tell you this, though." He turns his head away from Gren and spits a gobbet of blood onto the floor. "He's in Intel. I've never met him, but word is he could extract information from a Jedi." He smirks, "If you believe in them. Your girl knows anything, he'll know it five minutes after he walks into the room. Think I'm lying? Not lying, Delede. That's the word in the barrack rooms. But I don't think he's coming here. Area isn't safe enough. Too many of your damn Resistance pilots and snipers and bombers to risk him coming here. No, he'll have the girl bought to him on some safer First Order-loyal planet."

"Jedi? Those aren't real." Gren stands up, with another groan, and reaches over to feel the wound on his side. He looks at Sar now, and then back at the Sergeant. "When we wake up your Private...is he going to tell us the same story? Because, that's the only way that I don't personally kill you both. I'd hate to. I like you, pal. I really do. Remind me of a proper Imperial. Looking out for yourself."

Sar Yavok moves to have a seat in one of the chairs, hands hanging between his legs as he watches. "Well, who'd know better?" Sar asks of himself, a grin cracking his lips. He flicks some ash from his cigarillo and looks over to the private.

The Sergeant grunts and shrugs, apparently not seeing the need to grace Gren with a response at first. Instead he just keeps watching Gren, occasionally glancing at Sar. But at Sar's comment he stirs again. "Look, Delede, at least allow me to go check on my Trooper." It's the first time he's paid much attention to the injured man.

"Pass. The Medtechs are doing a fine job. It's good practice for them. We're usually not the ones getting our limbs blown off." Gren, though. He goes to check on the injured trooper. He moves to stand over the fellow. A speculative look is given to the asian man, and then, he turns his gaze on the Sergeant. And plants his heavy armoured boot directly into the cauterized stump. The medic looks more or less aghast, of course. This isn't protocol. "Rise and shine, Private!" Not that he expects coherance. Who knows though! "Got any more questions for the Sergeant?" This is said, almost as an aside, to Sar.

The Private screams, nay, shrieks, writhing under Gren's boot. "You sonofabitch!" yells the Sergeant. "Alright, alright, leave him alone! They're taking the girl out on..." ANd he names a date, which is coincidentally flexible to match with everyone's online times for the final scene. "Out of the Hutt landing pad! That's where they're taking her! Leave him alone!"

A glance to Sar, as if to make sure that he also got the date. There is certainly a recording device in the room. Gren repeats the date and time, and looks at the Sergeant with a very sincere gratitude. "I appreciate the help, Sergeant. You won't be living rich, but we'll find some agro-world on the Rim to dump you on." He nods to the medcrew, and points to the door. "Get the speeder prepped, lads. We'll get the prisoners secured for transport." The shaken techs collect their gear, and head out the door. Likely glad for some air. There is some brief conversation with Sar, and almost casually, Captain Delede turns toward the Sergeant and injured Private. Two pulls of his trigger later, and there are no more First Order survivors. "Hopefully they didn't see that coming. He seemed a decent sort." And, then it is down to the business of planning a rescue.