Log:First Order: Prison Payback
First Order: Prison Payback
OOC Date: December 8, 2017
Location: A Moon of Delaya
Participants: First Order: Kylo Ren as GM, FN-2003 "Slips", Arvis Locke, and FN-2187 "Finn"
Four days ago, a Resistance strike force engaged a First Order escort ferrying valuable materials and information to Ziro Outpost on Nar Shaddaa. The encounter occurred just outside of Nar space, and by the time additional TIEs were scrambled, the Resistance pilots had made good their escape.
There had to be retribution.
The mission was simple. Fly to OR-Kappa-2722, the staging point for the operation, and proceed on to one of the moons of Delaya. A small task force, a single squad, led by the experienced Commander Arvis Locke, would infilitrate the New Republic prison there where Erudo Ro-Kiintor, a First Order-friendly Senator, was being detained for questioning by Resistance sympathesizers. The mission was to extract him and leave no witnesses behind.
The prison itself is a small, squat little fortress, ringed by a high wall topped with electrified razor wire and patrolling guards. Luckily, there was a weakness. A weakness in the sewage system. The squad is infiltrating through the sewer. The pipe is roomy, providing ample room for two men to stand side-by-side in it, and a sludge of stinky stank crawls in a steady ooze around knee level through it. This is where your path to glory begins.
The thing about sewage (besides the smell) is the consistency. It's dark, it's damp, it's slippery, and shortly after the troopers troop on into the sewage pipe, there is the sharp retort of an armored body sloshing to the ground. FN-2003's shiny, white armor is now distinctly less so as he struggles to pick himself up and brace a hand against the wall. He doesn't say a word, but beneath that bucket-helmet, Slip's cheeks have taken on a definite flush. He should have been an architect
"Well...uh...here it is," Locke says, having eschewed his great coat for the purpose of 'not getting it too dirty'. Thank goodness. He trudges along the sewer pipe, wincing at the stench, "This is, uh, not exactly how I wanted to spend my evening, either, so...let's just keep moving along," he says, leading the way, long fingers curling around the grip of his blaster pistol. Slip...slips and goes tumbling into the poopoo water. Locke steadies himself against the pipe, keeping his footing.
The last time two times EM-1710 had done battle with the Resistance, the sniper had inflicted quite a bit of damage on their forces, but that most recent time? She'd recieved quite a bit back. Now? The shadowtrooper was back to full strength and armed once more. Checking over her equipment, the blonde woman's fair features were once more masked by the emotionless shroud of her armor. Her cloak hadn't been activated, there was little point to it when they were traveling in a group and knee deep in muck. She'd crawled through worse but that didn't exactly make the journey any more pleasent. EM simply knew better than to think about complaining, she was simply focused on keeping her sniper rifle clear of anything that could gum up its workings, her backup weapon remaining clipped at her back.
FN-2187 is situated behind and to the left of FN-2003. The trooper trudges diligently on, aware of the precariously slimy footing beneath them. He takes care with each step, causing him to be maybe a touch slower than normal, but the pace of the group seems to allow it. There is a moment of slight slipping, that cold feeling splash in his chest before he regains himself with barely showing he was in trouble at all. Smooth. Slip gets an audible sigh when he, you guessed it, slips. Eight-Seven starts to reach forward to help his friend, but thinks better of it.
It's dark in the pipe, but everyone is pretty sharp, maybe due to night vision or something like it in their fancy helmets. Locke is just talented. Up ahead, there's a pair of service exits set in the pipe, one to the left, and one to the right. From the looks of it, the passage to the right is not a good choice; the door shows heavy signs of corrosion and fouling, and the seam around where it joins the wall is... wet. All the way around. Like it's barely holding something in there. The other door leads into a narrow maintenance passage and then a darkened room with a door leading out, presumably into the prison itself.
Finn has gotten in enough trouble for helping Slips out already - the memory of Captain Phasma's brutal tongue-lashing still haunts the young trooper. Slips does manage to struggle upright without his buddy's help and, like the rest, is able to wipe the Resistance poo off his visor in time to notice that there is one door that they SHOULD NOT OPEN. "Sir." He whispers, his voice coming out tinny and monotone. Slips gestures at the passage to the right with his rifle, just in case their superior officer hadn't caught it. But of course he did - they all did. The First Order's finest, right here. Well, most of them.
"This is just awful," Arvis says, tromping along. He slows to a stop as they reach the fork in the road. He nods in acknowledgement of Slips, and he points to the left, saying, "We'll be going this way. FN-2187, you're on point. EM-1710, if you'd be so kind as to watch our backs? Thank you, dear." His blaster still isn't drawn, but his hand continues to grip it tightly.
A nod, but no verbal acknowledgement. EM-1710 moves into position with only really the sloshing of their feet to make it clear she was following the order. Of course she was. This wasn't her ordinary squad, but it didn't really matter. She'd keep them safe. Keeping her rifle at the ready, she moves towards the back of the group.
"Yes sir," FN-2187 snaps to attention and raises his blaster as he swoops ahead to the point position. His helmet shifts back and forth as he considers the path in front of him. There he comes to a stop for a moment, making sure everyone is in position before starting forward in the left direction.
The room is dark around them, and the small porthole out into the courtyard grants a limited view of what's going on out there. The squad will need to carefully exit and find cover before dealing with whatever they might observe without. Luckily, there's a few overhangs and stacked barrels of... don't think about it, this is a sewer.
FN-2003 inches closer to the pipe wall to allow Eight-Seven to pass him, but he still peeks out that porthole. There is limited viewspace, and his visor is still somewhat com-poo-mised, but Slips isn't completely useless. "I see... One patrol on the wall and two - no, three on the ground. Confirm?" He tries really hard not to think about what may be in those barrels.
Arvis Locke tugs idly at one of the straps of the blast vest he's wearing and says, "Yes, it certainly looks like that. 2187, lead the way." He leans against the wall of the pipe to make himself as small as he can and waits for the point man to go for it.
FN-2187 nods a confirmation. "Confirmed. Four targets in total," he reports quietly while still eyeing the movement of the Resistance scum. He leans back, turning to look over at the officers. "Sir. Should we wait to see if they move their rounds?" he asks quickly, head jerking back to judge the movement of the enemy again.
The patrol on the walltop carries on, unaware of what activities might be going on in the courtyard below. He's primarily looking out, the young private on his first real assignment, a backwater prison on a no-where moon with no action and no hope for glory.
Down in the courtyard, though, one of the guards notices something over by the sewer shed and starts heading over to check it out, walking right towards... "Stormtroopers! Sound the alarm!"
Take cover? Okay! Slips slides behind those barrels he was trying so hard to ignore, but it's only partial cover and he is completely unaware that a leg and elbow are totally visible. "Kriff." Slips groans as the alarm is raised. Reflexively, he brings his rifle to bear and swings his gaze to Locke. "Sir?" But look at his boy 87, perfectly hidden. Ish. Better than the rest of these stark-white militants - really, trying to hide in the dark in highly reflective, white armor is just... It's hard, okay?
Arvis Locke thought for a moment that he'd be the reason why everything started popping off. He isn't trained in combat or stealth, after all. More...commanding a big ship. Very different skill sets. But, luckily for him, Slips is there to fail in bigger and more spectacular ways. Why did they bring him, again? "Fire! Do not let them reach that alarm!" he shouts at his cadre of stormtroopers as he begins to quickly step his way toward whatever cover he can find.
You're not stark white, Slips. You're mostly poop brown. FN-2187 is a decently sized man and he manages to tuck himself around a barrel with moderate success, thank you very much. /He/ isn't the one spotted. At any rate, they have been spotted and Eight-Seven grinds out a growl of frustration. "Dammit, Slip," he grunts and pushes out, firing off a shot that misses fairly wide. Stormtroopers, psh.
"Stormtroopers!" Every guard on duty jumps up, scrambling for their weapons and charging after their sergeant to go fight the First Order, the First Order that inexplicably emerged from the sewer shack. Even the kid on the ramparts takes aim, launching a shot that takes 2003 in the shoulder, probably bowling him over. Inside, an alarm begins to sound, while the guards fan out and find cover.
Desperate to redeem himself, Slips leaps upright and starts firing - he packs one hell of a punch, but his downfall has always been his ability to dodge. His shot connects, downing the Sergeant, but his snarl of satisfaction dies in his throat as the return fire catches him the shoulder. He is thrown back to the ground, teeth digging into his bottom lip to keep him from crying out. "I got 'im." He grunts out, clutching at his wounded limb - but the alarm is blaring.
Arvis Locke scurries behind a pillar and watches as Slips takes a bolt to the shoulder and spill out onto the ground. He was taught long ago not to get attached...so, he doesn't. Instead, he rounds the corner and fires two shots toward the private; one impacting with his arm, the other with his leg.
"Nice one," FN-2187 agrees as he ducks around the other side of the shit barrels and takes aim at one of the ground patrollers making towards him. There is a a gutteral moan and the man falls down, now sans a stomach cavity. FN-2187 heaves a sigh and pushes forward to cover Slips. Because Slips. "Sir?" he barks over his shoulder, waiting for orders. "The whole prison will know by now."
The First Order operatives are rapidly thinning the ranks of the guard here, and their mission is to leave no witnesses. There can be no evidence that the First Order was involved with this raid. The sergeant falls under Slips' fire, even as the young boy on the walltop sighted in on the Stormtrooper. His hands are shaking from the stress, the panic, the fear, the adrenaline, but his aim is true, and Slips goes down. "For the general!" he cries, triumphant, until the fallen Trooper gets back up again. He tries to hit the one coming up from behind to cover, but his shot goes wide, and he starts to lose his hold on the situation, his breath running out of control.
Meanwhile, 2187's taking down another of his friends, leaving the man with no thoracic cavity, and Jic Tiddo, his rival in all things, is struck in the arm and leg by an old man. Not to be killed this easily, Jic returns fire at Arvis with a wordless shout of rage and fear.
That kid is loud and panicking - he's an easy target for even the injured (and, arguably, terrible) Stormtrooper that is FN-2003. The trooper uses the barrel to steady his aim and account for the wound to his shoulder and the rifle shot fires with uncaring speed and precision, taking the Resistance kid through the throat, effectively silencing him. "Don't think your general will miss you." He grumbles as he slowly pivots to line up his next shot. "So we've got more shooting to do." Slips replies to Eight-Seven, trying to compartamentalize his failures and focus on the pure joy that comes from doing a duty and leaving a trail of blood. Maybe they'll go out for snacks after.
"Great shot!" Arvis thought to himself, before the target started shooting back. "Ow!" he thought afterwards. The Resistance soldier's bolt pierced straight through his thin blast vest, leading the older man to stumble into the pillar beside him and slide all catty-wompus to the floor, clutching his stomach. "Ahhh," he says, pulling his blood-covered hand away from the wound for inspection. "Find...uh, find a directory. Get me to it. We need to find the Senator." He lifts his pistol to fire twice more. Both miss their marks.
FN-2187 growls as Arvis takes a hit. He spins over to drop to a knee in front of the officer, raising his rifle to nail the shooter in the neck. Jic dies. Poor Jic. "Directory. Yessir." He pops back up, jerking his rifle at Slips. "You heard him, O-Three. Let's move." Eight-Seven pushes forward, keeping his rifle trained as he makes for the body of the sargeant bodies to retrieve a datapad should he have one.
Slips' shot takes the young hero through the neck, severing his spinal cord from his body half-way. It doesn't kill him, but it cuts off all sensation from one half of his body while the other half screams with agony from every neuron, and he collapses, asphyxiating, to the walltop, where he will gasp and choke and claw at his charred neck with one hand until the oxygen in his brain runs out.
Meanwhile, poor Jic suffers a similar fate, the renegade Resistance warrior who pinged Arvis Locke falling instantly dead after 87 blows his neck open. The alarm is still ringing, but the courtyard, on the surface of it, seems clear. There's no more shooting, at least, but the Resistance are a wily bunch, even if these aren't real Res soldiers.
Slips gives a nod, his helmet hiding his grimace. No, no, don't mind him, he'll be just fine. "Moving." He grunts, falling in behind Eight-Seven and keeping his rifle up to cover him, turning side to side and backwards as they move. But FN-2187 should have known better than to ask /him/, of all people, for cover. He's in serious pain and covered in feces - not even just human feces, which would be more acceptable. It's disgusting, alien, trash feces - who /knows/ what those sickos eat. He doesn't want to think about it - but he does, the pain in his shoulder and the blood loss fogging his brain and concentration. He sees nothing. "Don't see anyone." He mutters through the comms as the other FN does his thing. He is uncaring to the plight of the dying Resistance scum.
Arvis Locke stands up with the aid of the pillar and moves past Finn, giving the soldier a pat on the bat as he scoots by him. He looks around with that tactical gaze that all big boat captains posesss and says, "We're, uh, we're clear for now." His hand moves to put pressure back on his wound and he beckons for the other two to follow him toward the entrance. "2187, where is the Senator being held?"
FN-2187 goes down to one knee, relying on Slips to cover him as he roots through the Sergeants belt. He pulls out a datapad, taking a moment to access the data. "Block B, cell 17, sir," the trooper reports as he stands up and holds out the datapad with the information. "This might hold some Resistance information, Sir," he says, encouraging Arvis to take it with a little wiggle.
It might, but we'd have to ask Amber for that, cough cough. ANYWAY, the courtyard is clear, and the main building lies ahead. There's two doors leading in to the squat duracrete bunker, one conveniently marked Aurek, the other marked Besh, because Star Wars and we are good at immersion on this game. The scent of sewage is still heavy on the air, added to the crisp aroma of sizzling, burning flesh. Inside the windows, a strobing red light can be seen.
Arvis Locke takes the offered datapad with a 'thank you' and fiddles with it a bit before deciding he can't get anywhere with it out in the field, and tucking it into a pouch somewhere on his belt. Entering the compound, he heads for Cell Block BESH, as Finn previously noted.
FN-2187 keeps to the point position, moving through and checking corners as they go. The trooper keeps his weapon ready as they move. "How is that hit, sir?" he asks as he motions that the next section is free and clear.
The air inside the the prison is thick with dust and the smell of decay. It may be a New Republic installation, but this far out here, with this little supervision and the tiny budget, it doesn't really matter. Things are bad, the inmates come clambering up to their doors as the two move into the halls, and over it all, the klaxon sounds. "Please! Please, get me out of here, I didn't kill no one!" a voice yells from somewhere. "You gotta help me!" The passage is pretty much a straight shot back, and around the next corner should be cells 11-20.
"It's not my, uh, it's not my favorite thing to happen all day," Arvis says, checking his hand for more blood. Yep. More blood. "2187, kill.../that/ one," he says, gesturing to one of the louder inmates. "Quiet!" he shouts, looking around at the captives. "If I...If I hear so much as a /peep/ out of one of you...you'll get the same. If you're quiet...well, maybe I'll be more generous with which cells I unlock." He continues walking.
FN-2187 stops, almost hesitating at the order. His rifle swings around and sinks the prisoner in the leg. The non-fatal hit may likely prove fatal from bleeding out, of course, but FN-2187 leaves that up to the stars to decide. Hopefully he doesn't scream with the stun. Eight-Seven moves on, approaching the next corner that is right before the Senator's cell. He checks and stops abruptly. FN-2187 holds a hand up and making the signal 'Enemy. Two.' His head turns, checking the position of the small troop.
No witnesses. Eight-Seven may have a soft streak, but as Slips is passing the prisoner's cell, he can see the pained individual opening their mouth to let out a scream, or a whimper - or maybe nothing at all. But 2003 has had enough slip-ups tonight, and silences them with an immediate shot to the head. Reflex. He keeps going - Enemy. Two. Freezing behind Eight-Seven, Slips awaits orders.
Screaming, gunfire, it draws attention from those two guards FN-2187 tried to warn the others about, and the shout of "They're inside!" rings down the hallway. 87's peek around the corner is rewarded with a shot to the shoulder before he can duck back, but at least it wasn't the head, right? The two guards take up position on either side of the hallway, half-sheltered behind shallow variations in the walls.
FN-2003 takes a knee as 2187 takes a hit and juts abruptly out around the corner, firing a shot off, wildly. It's true - taking the private out. "With our luck, I'm gonna bank that someone heard that." He grumps, still favoring his own wounded shoulder. "You good?" He mutters to Finn, ducking back around the corner to re-load.
Arvis Locke grins a terrible little grin as Finn and Slips gun down the terrified prisoner. Then there's Finn telling him that there's two more guards. Slips takes one of them out, and Arvis sidles his way into the hallway, firing twice. Bang bang. Both of them hit their marks, but his standard-issue pistol just doesn't have that much stopping power.
FN-2187 jerks back around the corner, hissing. There is a fun new scorch to his armor and blood seeps through the plated seam. "I'm good," Eight-Seven assures. He hefts his rifle, roaring back into the hallway and firing off another shot to down the second, half dead man. "Nice shot, sir," he says, stagger half a step back as his companions take care of most of the work. Heaving a slightly ragged breath, the trooper is forced to use his left hand awkwardly. "That should be his door."
The door 2187 points out is Cell 17, alright. The heavy durasteel confinement blocks some of the view, but the prisoner comes forward nonetheless, a tall, thin man with a gaunt aspect and wavering, imperious voice as he speaks. "Are you here to rescue me? It's about time, Leia and her goons have had me locked in here for a week! That- that sort of behavior cannot be tolerated if you want to keep your friends in the Senate!"
Directly opposite the cell, a computer terminal is set in the wall, and the air is still filled by the red strobe and klaxon sounds.
Bypassing the cell in order to keep his rifle trained down the empty hallway, Slips allows Arvis to do the talking. He's useless with computers (just computers?) so 2003 doesn't bother touching it as he assumes his sentry role. "Clear." He announces. The 'for now' hangs unsaid.
"Senatooor," Arvis says approaching the door, with his hands clasped behind his back. He looks the politician over and quirks his head to the side as he's threatened. "All this talk of...of friends and you're forgetting that we we're standing right here. The keys to your...proverbial salvation. 2003, 2187; watch the hallways." He turns and moves to tap away at the computer terminal. A few entries and the cell door slides open. A few more and an automated voice rings out, <<REAGENT SYSTEM ACTIVATED. PLEASE EVACUATE THE FACILITY.>>
"Gentlemen," Arvis says, gesturing for the three of them to make their way towards the nearest exit.
FN-2187 steps aside to let the higher ups do their thing. He stands silently, not looking at Slip. On orders the trooper turns, facing down the hallway and lifting his rifle to shoot if anyone shows their face around the corner. He jerks a look above him at the sudden voice and grunts. "This way, Senator," FN-2187 instructs and starts to tromp back the way they came.
The reagent? That's right, the voice did not lie; the prison, as Arvis was aware, is equipped with a failsafe of sorts, meant to stop the escape of dangerous convicts in the case of a dire emergency. In this instance, it's a chemical reagent designed for release into the ventilation system capable of reducing every organic lifeform in the building to a withered husk. <<TWO MINUTES TO RELEASE. PLEASE EVACUATE THE FACILITY.>>
The door open, and instructions given, the senator quails briefly, but the announcements seem to galvanize him, and he steps forward, orange jumpsuit and all. "Well, let's- let's get out of here, then, just get me out of here, and then we can talk about who owes what to who."
Ah, so now they're running for their lives. Flanking FN-2187 and the senator, Slips starts to run at the urging. "Are you able to run, Senator?" He asks, wincing at the idea of having to throw the man over his good shoulder and carry him. But, either way, Slips is a decent runner - he's fast, he doesn't sl-fall. They're not out, yet, but maybe they'll make it in time!
"I look forward to it. Perhaps we can invite Kylo Ren. I'm sure he's got strong opinions on the matter," Arvis says, bringing up the rear, blaster pistol hanging loosely in his hand.
They're running, now? Crap. Yeah, they're running, now. Well, at least everyone else is. Arvis has a blaster wound in his stomach and he's sixty five years old. Either way, he's doing the best he can, okay!? It's just not very good.
FN-2187 goes ahead as Slip flanks, leaning into his run that pulls between wanting to get out and making sure Locke and the Senator are keeping up. His reaction time is pretty on point as they turn the corner to find a guard standing at the door. Eight-Seven spies him before the Res guy can event react. "Cover!" he shouts at the same time firing off a rifle shot to the man's upper chest.
The attack takes the guard by surprise, a man who'd been on his way to check on the fallen outside, and 2187's shot hits him square in the back, knocking him scrambling onto his knees. Somehow, the determined guard, surrounded by dead comrades, holds onto his rifle and turns to shoot, half bent double, back at the Stormtroopers. "You'll pay for this!"
"Shoot him again!" The senator yells, too fixated on getting out of here alive to worry about whoever Kylo Ren is. "Shoot him dead! Kill him!" The klaxon is still sounding, and a polite voice informs everyone, <<SIXTY SECONDS TO PURGING. PLEASE EVACUATE THE FACILITY.>>
Slips doesn't take orders from this politician, but his training agrees with the senator's decision. His rifle whips up and a bolt buries itself into the enemy. "We're clear, let's move!" Maybe there's a note of panic behind that monotone, tinny buckethead-voice, but it's probably just the situation. He's moving again, stepping over the fallen sergeant. Is Arvis gonna need a piggyback, too?
SECOND WIND. Arvis manages to tap into some of that basic training he got...some amount of years ago. Can you believe he's 65? He looks great. He's managed to supress that awful pain in his stomach long enough to sprint toward the exit. Is he leaving everyone else behind? Does he care?
FN-2187 nods his appreciation to Slip as the other trooper downs the guard. He jogs forward, still holding back to make sure the old guys are making it. "That's the spirit, sir!" he says chipperly to Arvis as they make their way out. Ignore the booming death-voice!
The last guard opens his mouth to say something, maybe to plead for his life, maybe to curse his killers, but no one will ever know, because 2187's blaster hits him in the chest, striking him dead on the spot. As the small group clear the doorway, it slams shut just behind them as the speakers blare out one last time: <<PURGE COMMENCING.>> The screams and cries for help from within rise to a fever pitch, and then gradually go silent. The klaxon ceases, the strobe ends, and all is calm. The First Order has struck back, and no one will be able to prove they did, no matter how much they know deep down who was responsible. It's the best kind of revenge.
