Log:Knights of Ren: Unfit for Mankind

Knights of Ren: Unfit for Mankind

OOC Date: March 18, 2021
Location: Carkanis
Participants: Knights of Ren: Tamsin Cas, Sebek, Imani, Tarq Najjic, Andro Tain, Malik Ren, and Errod Zand

CARKANIS

The Knights have returned to Carkanis, the planet far out in the Unknown Regions, following up on rumors of attempted sabotage reported to them by one of the shipwrights, a rank and file loyalist named Ars Gallia. Convinced of the sabotage but lacking any leads, they'd left instructions with Ars to search for clues, and now, he had contacted them once again.

-Knights, go to the Drunken Jawa. It's a local tavern in the re-built side of town. I have good reason to believe there is someone there who will know more. Look for a supervisor. You'll know him by the blue and silver armband they wear over their utilities. Can't say more.

And so, Errod stalks through the streets towards the area that clearly isn't part of the careful original construction, puffing a cig. "I feel compelled to remind you," he rasps, tugging the smoking stick away for a moment, "People out here... something sets into them. Or was already twisted. You can't live this far on the periphery without it changing you, or choose to unless you've got no other option. Trust is not a luxury I would extend."

Tamsin, having returned with the group, had gathered herself and her supplies together, and made her way back into the city. "Why a Jawa, do you think? Such an odd choice. I can't imagine a place less like the planet they come from." Look, these were important questions, okay? Tamsin talked as she walked, eyes keen as she went on her way, alter, seeking for anything which looked, or, perhaps, more importantly, 'felt' out of place.

"I think that this group is already pretty well off that deep end of 'trust issues'." Andy comments, hands in the pockets of a deep purple jacket worn over her raiment. "Some of us might double dip into 'daddy issues', and the rest just /have/ issues." The archaeologist is tagging along - it's the best way to describe it. If push comes to shove and fighting breaks out? Well, the last time she was truly useful in a fight, her own headbutt attack knocked her silly. She's along for the feeling of inclusion, and for the sake of knowing things - but you won't hear her complaining. Andy's climbing and spelunking equipment are abandoned today in favor of her vibro-ax and a datapad. "Think there's any places for rent around here? It's actually not terrible."

"They're only issues if they cause problems," Imani chips in cheerily as she strides along with the rest of the Knights, armored save for her helmet, which is clipped at her hip currently. "If you repress them hard enough, you're fine." She's definitely a shining beacon of stability and good decision making. It's good that people like Andro have come along, the thinking type, the knowing type. She's the hitting until it stops hitting back type, she's good at that, the rest is up to the others.

"To venture into this crucible unprepared is cowardice or stupidity, He Who Cares. A planet of glorious battle such would not permit otherwise." Someone had better remind Sebek of the Desert, Flagbearer of Coret, Conqueror of the Sixteenth Deck, Consumer of Hounds, Wielder of Tei Tenga, He Who Hunts that this was a spit-planet on the edge of nowhere only really known for the First Order war effort, inasmuch as it was known at all. Once again he dispensed with the snarling ferocious animal helm, instead content to wear his snarling ferocious animal face. Nothing could hide the walking talking issue that was the Falleen. He stalked as a Knight of Ren does, flanking He Who Cares with his right arm tucked behind him. "Please permit us the good fortune of our contact being a traitor. Honour dictates that blood be shed."

"You mean subjects do not find anchor in faith that super-people are root of all conflict?" This is not naivete; this is sarcasm. "True measure of any world is price of ticket off-planet. Thousands of credits? Knife in back? Blackmail? /Price/ has - many - shapes. Tarq Najjic bets price is high, here." Maybe it's even illegal to beat feet. "Makes sabotage even stranger, if have no escape route. Escape route means corrupt officials who make problems go away- or New Republic operators. Or nosy idealist smugglers."

Really it could be anyone. That's why they had to come back. He walks down the road with the others, more used to the planet's inherently disturbing sense in the Force. "If drunken Jawa falls asleep, not even eyes shine beneath hood." Regarding the business at hand: "Anyone who meets us, immediate risk. if corruption goes up chain. Be ready to defend source."

"We'll find out before long, I expect," Errod grates roughly, tucking the cig back into the corner of his mouth as he walks down the planned streets, all straight lines and utilitarian angles, until they turn down the same bend as before, a clear deviation from the norm where the sightlines to the end are blocked by new construction, and not tidier construction, either. The drab greys and soulless windows shift to drab greys and bright holoads and signs as they move deeper into the rebuilt zone, a part of the city where the extraordinarily poor live and the structure and rules and stormtroopers are absent.

"Looking for a sign again," Errod mutters, stubbing out the butt under his toe as he tosses it down. "Everyone in the galaxy, looking for a sign. Some sign that any part of our meaningless existence goes beyond, extends into an afterlife, or at least remembered in someone else's life. That our names and deeds will not die when this frail body meets its timely end. When the Jawa falls asleep, not even its eyes are visible. When you drift off into that deeper slumber, not even a soul remains." He glances around absently, distracted by his monologue, the workers here mostly human and mostly avoiding eye contact as they recoil back into twisting alleys and doorways, dressed in broadly similar worker's clothing.

Tamsin, who allowed Errod's monologue to wash over her like a cool breeze, kept with the group as they moved, her attention shifting from the streets around them, to the denizens and then back again, "I am not familiar with this world," she continued, not at all following on Errod's thoughts on the matter, "This planet is not known to most of the galaxy, yes? Then how did all of these people come to be here? Surely they have not all been living here for generations, and if they have been, how did their forefathers come here?"

How many of them are monologuing? Andro Tain has learned to tune this out, for the most part. She's on a mission - finding something! This is her whole deal; while they meander down these twisted, dark, and ominous streets, the Mirialan keeps her eyes peeled... And sees nothing helpful. "I have spent a lifetime finding lost things, and I am going to tell you lot right now?" A deep sigh. "I have no idea where this place could be. This -" she gestures vaguely around them - a jumble of signs, seemingly none of which give any useful information. "-Means nothing to me."

Welp. This is it. This is where they die. Andy would starve to death just trying to find a vending machine here.

"I don't know either," Imani is agreeing with Andy on not knowing where the bar in question is, but right as the words leave her mouth she spots it. A sign. "Oh, wait," a lone finger lifts to point up at a sign ahead to the right. The sign has a slumped robed figure, and the words 'DRUNKEN jawa' written on it. The door to the bar is a sheet of repurposed stamped durasteel. "That was easier than last time."

"Ptuh!" That was Sebek expressing his displeasure at the eternal complaining of He Who Cares by letting loose a globlet of spittle upon the dusty ground of Alpha Prime. More hydration than the soil ever received. "Searching is fat! The galaxy's meaning is nothingness, and thus the perfect canvas upon which to define and embrace purpose! Should you wish to be remembered, act thus! Snare history into your grip and enforce upon it your deeds! Then and only then shall you be eternal!" The amount of bombastic ham was ramping up as the Falleen oozed his worldview all over his companions, the flickering of yellows into his skin tone a clear indicator of his emotions struggling to be let out. There was this entire concept of searching for a drunken something or rather that would probably be too marinated for good consumption, but the eldest Knight of Ren cared nothing for such things. Because you see, he was locked in the battle of wit and wordplay and violently clashing ideologies. "And if that is not your aim, then why care? Behold the now, for it is only in thus which you exist. Time dooms us all, some sooner than others, and thus all that matters is us."

Ideologies clash. Solipsistic egoism versus nihilism, fight!

But Tarq has no time for these things. Instead, he goes to the durasteel door, pulls it open, and like a perfect gentleman, holds it open with one foot, gesturing the others inside, and taking advantage of the opportunity to check behind them for anyone deliberately tailing them. He'll be the last inside through the doors.

Tarq has found the right place. Great job, Tarq! And as he holds the door open, what to his wondering eyes should appear but.....! Malik goddamn Ren, the only person in the galaxy with an accent more pretentious than his own. As has been established. He is unmasked, though his helmet is clipped and carried at his side, and looks the Knights up-down-up before wondering blandly, "What took you so long?"

"It's the First Order. Some are leftovers from a dead era. Some were likely 'recruited' in the time since. Empire's been gone, what, forty years?" Errod answers Tamsin's question with a shrug. "Because you've given me the wrong name," he remarks dourly to Sebek, failing to elaborate further as their destination has been found. The bar, a seedy-looking establishment on the inside, reveals none other than Malik Ren, ready and waiting for them. Errod steps inside as Tarq has seen fit to primly hold the door (like a gentleman), and glances up and down Malik in return. "We had a crisis of identity to contend with."

The other occupants of the bar, mostly human, nearly all human, really, glance up as the Knights begin to file in, and a few shuffle off to the restroom or wait for a chance to sneak past and out the door. The rest turn their eyes back to their drinks or quiet muttering conversations. In the dim, yellowy light, most of the patrons look the same; tired, of a certain age, grimy with grease.

Tamsin, who waited a body or two before she stepped inside, offered both a 'Thank you,' to Tarq for holding the door, and a 'Thank you,' to Errod for his explanation of how the poor unfortunate souls, or so they seemed, who populated this world had come to be here. With her helmet on, it was impossible to see her expression, but, regardless, as she saw Malik waiting for them within, she dipped head and shoulders in a bow of respect to him before she straightened. When she rose, again, her eyes went to those who were seemingly running for the hills, which, given the level of sanitation on this planet, might well be all that existed of facilities in the refresher area. Glancing back into the room, her voice came across the Knights' internal comms, "I believe I spy the one we were sent to find. In the corner of the room, left, at a booth, the one which was made of an old rotor of some kind (she didn't know ships, okay? It was a turbine), middle aged, greying hair, with that silver and blue armband we were told to look for."

Imani's smile brightens her face as her spots Malik already in the bar that they took a while to find. "Hey, you made it!" As though he's the one that's late. She doesn't mean it that way though, and she seems genuinely pleased to see him there. That's gotta count for something. She heads toward the Ren first, eyeing those who are fleeing the place that they're taking over. "That seems to happen a lot. It's a good thing we rarely have to go anywhere under cover." She isn't wearing her helmet either, so the commed message is something she misses.

Ah yes, the guy. "I shall ascertain his intentions," spaketh Sebek of the Desert, and then he squinted.

The Force, like He Who Jests, was a slippery lil fu-LANGUAGE. As the Falleen stood and stared with narrow eyes at the individual in question, his attempts to get a hold of the contents of his noggin was met more and more with a rather nasty headache. Wasn't he supposed to be inducing one of these instead of receiving one?! "He must have will of durasteel," murmured the annoyed Sebek, deflecting from his own ineptitude and now putting more effort into forcing down his migraine and his emotions. No one needed to see an angry Falleen exploding all over the place.

"Thank you, Tamsin."

Their resident Kuati slides into the bench opposite their contact at the individual's booth. "We - are the Knights of Ren. What - do you have for us? Do /not/ - say 'nothing.'" Tarq is smiling all the while, interlacing his fingers. "Is time to tell all. If you lie, we will know." He scoots further over. "Come, more the merrier. Is room."

Malik Ren is pleased to see Imani. Is he ever pleased to see the rest of you of you?! NO. Only Imani. Employee of the month, every month. Well, and sometimes Tamsin. But he is happy to spot her, there's a subdued smile and everything before it's back to BUSINESS. He steps along with the Knights and furrows his brow as though attempting to ascertain a target, but Sebek and Tarq seem to have narrowed it down for him!

THe man is studied for a moment, Malik's head tilted to one side. "Place both your hands where we can see them, please," he instructs the nervous individual in a polite tone that brooks no disobedience. "One of the rest of you, investigate the lever under the table, please." WRONG LEVER, KRONK

The man at the table, all middle-aged and tired, with salt and pepper hair along a receding line and grease so embedded into his hands, arms, and face, that it's basically just become a part of him, looks up with an air of panic as Tarq slides in, and then jolts back away from Malik as the Master of the Knights of Ren probes into his mind, thumping the back of his head against the back of the bench. "Ow," he hisses, hands coming up to clutch at his head, and then the warning is given, and his eyes dart down, bounce back up to Malik, down again. Weighing, weighing...

The greasy hands smooth out over the metal tabletop. "Look, see? I'm cooperating. I'm doing it like you said, don't- stay out of my /head,/" he pleads, clearly unnerved by the experience.

Errod meanders over, sliding in next to Tarq, his tired eyes looking across at the other man, somehow looking older and more worn-down than anyone even on this god-forsaken rock. "So," he rasps, settling his own hands on the table, not looking under as Malik suggested. Someone else will do that, probably. "You're the man we're here to find. You know who we are, but we don't know who /you/ are," he says.

"Nobody," the supervisor (or so his armband declares) replies. "I'm nobody. Nobody important. Just let me go and you'll never hear about me again."

As the Knights moved inside, and Tarq and Errod went to corner the supervisor in question, Tamsin followed along, moving so that she was not blocking the man himself, because nobody wanted to be shanked by a two-fer if one of the other Knights needed to do the poor sod in. Instead, she took a knee, on the Errod and Tarq side of the booth, helmeted head tilted as she tried to both get a look at the mechanism, and not get in the way of any of the other Knights. Don't worry, Errod, Tamsin did not put out a hand to hold onto you for support. That would be //fresh// and Tamsin was never fresh.

"I am very glad to have worn gloves," Tamsin said to no one in particular, as she took that second knee, moving far enough under the table to hope no one was taking paparazzo shots for the holonet, hands sifting through the trash and detritus on the ground, bottles, food, used silverware and what passed for napkins. Don't look too close at what's on them, Tamsin Cas, you'll go blind. Finally, though, she spoke, this time, her voice, modulated, but clear as she spoke through the helmet, "There appears to be some sort of hatch beneath the table, a trapdoor in the floor. Perhaps the lever opens it."

Back to BUSINESS! When Malik heads over to the guy and probes his mind, Imani follows and lingers back a step, looking like a too cheerful to be properly intimidating bodyguard. Her head tilts to watch as Tamsin takes up the unenviable job of getting down on the floor to look at the lever beneath the table, happily remaining here on her feet and far away from those troubling napkins. "Well that is an odd thing, isn't it? What kind of bar has a table with a trapdoor? What is that all about?" she asks the man, using her words since she can't poke at the inside of his mind. Well, she could, but it'd be messy and he wouldn't be able to answer more questions after she did it.

Sebek of the Desert slid into the seat next to He Who Cares, the trio now forming a metaphorical conga line of violently murderous philosophers. Then he smiled.

It was the wish of everybody in this room that was not a Knight of Ren, and possibly some that are, that Sebek /never/ /do/ /that/ /again/.

"I'm hungry," oozed that thick, goopy accent of his, ineffably and confoundingly polite through rows upon rows of very pointed incisors, corners of his mouth almost reaching the part on his head where ears would be if he had any and as sharp as his permanent winged eyeliner. "Follow instructions thus and answer your... friends." Were they? Were they really?!

A secret door?! Tarq beams at the supervisor, asking Tamsin, "Does trapdoor drop those of us on bench down below?" Should we move, in other words? He looks towards the bar itself. "Wonder about loyalties of owner, now. Yes, el-u-cidate. Quickly. Comprehensively." His hands are still together, and he twirls his thumbs past each other in a 'get on with it' gesture.

The supervisor stares at Sebek in the sort of way one stares at something they wish, deep down in their heart of hearts, to have never stared at at all. Whatever gumption he had convinced himself of, whatever torture he had imagined enduring before ever spilling the beans, it's gone, evaporated in the face of all those pointy teeth.

"It's a trap-door. A /trap/-door," the man repeats, and his eyes dart down again, weighing...

...but the fight has gone out of him. Ashamed, frightened, he averts his eyes, clutching tight to the edge of the table. "We knew. We knew you were coming. Had to do something about it. Had to shut you up. This- this was the plan. I don't know anything else. I was supposed to get you here and then pull the lever. I don't /know/ what it's about! Just let me go and you'll never hear from me again. No one will ever hear from me again."

Tamsin, working her way back out from beneath the table, which, was now full of feet as well as other possibly less noxious things, rolled back up to her haunches, saving actually getting up for the time after she had, very delicately, removed a space wet wipe and cleaned her gloves, though she did that as a routine sort of a thing, you know, being accustomed to having dirty, usually bloody hands, "Whether you will be heard from again, is not really up for you to decide." And then, her voice tightened, just a hair, "Who told you to set the trap?" There was an edge there, but only a small one. Wee Knightling was wee.

Imani bends forward to peer under the table, then down at the floor to see just how large the trap door is. "Should we just drop him down there to see what happens?" she asks the others, straightening again. "I'm curious to see what's down there, but I don't know if actually being dropped down there is the best way to learn. You should all get up if we do want to try that though, and make him sit where you guys are. Yeah. Once you're done asking him questions, obviously."

There's something poking at his mind AGAIN, after he's tried so hard to cooperate and tell them what he knows. But this time, the man's mind pushes back. "I told you I don't KNOW!" he shouts, slamming the table with both open palms, SLAP, his feet kicking forward with the force of the gesture. And kicking the lever.

The reaction is immediate, and the floor drops away from beneath the table, the hinge of the panel running all the way back beneath the bench Tarq, Sebek, and Errod are seated on, dumping the bench and everyone on it into the abyss, never to be seen again.

Just kidding, it's a metal chute. They hit it with a metallic twang and tumble away into the abyss, never to be seen again.

"...I did not mean to do that," the supervisor whispers, wide-eyed.

Down, down, down, the three Knights hurtle into the darkness, richocheting off the sides of the chute like pinballs, and eventually freefall a short drop into a dim, flickering light, metal floors, girders... it seems familiar, and that's because it is. It's the interior of a Star Destroyer, but it's tilted, somehow, split like an egg cracked open with the Knights having been dropped in at the crack. The decks above rather than a ceiling loom like the gallery of some perverse ampitheatre, lined with figures clad in workers' grey, dozens of them, that lunge to their feet with a roar as the payload tumbles out into the middle.

Is it possible to fall when you've already fallen? This is of course a question He Who Cares would ask. Sebek's answer was simple. Yes. And it hurt. BANG THUNK WHUNK all the way down. And then eventually the three of them were reduced to varying states of pile on the floor of an ampitheater surrounded by cheers and jeers of the peasantry.

The peasantry.

Now Sebek was a racist, classist, arrogant jerk but that didn't mean he... or that... actually nevermind there's no real upside here. What it DID mean is that when confronted with something like peasants acting superior to their true lords, Sebek snapped.

Green shifted to yellow and then orange as Tei Tenga burst angrily to life. "All you who fail to know your place!" The Falleen's arm darted out to snare one of the audience members, but being in close proximity to He Who Jests was clearly applying slipperiness to his grip. He couldn't even make a flutter. "By the hands of your true lords you shall participate as fat for the purge! Begin making your funerary preparations and pray you have concluded by the time I reach you!"

Down, down, down - Tarq does not scream or shriek. After all, he knew this - knew /something/, anyway - was down here. But as they bounce off each other and the walls of the chute, he closes his eyes to slits, letting the Force guide the motions of his body. As they leave the chute, he twists and kicks off the side, flipping around to land on his feet. ReinForced muscles absorb the impact. "Is saboteur convention?" He smiles, a tight, predatory smile, and says with exquisite politeness, "Tarq Najjic thanks you - for gathering. Is convenient." And with a snap-hiss, his lightsaber's blade rises next to and behind him, hilt held in a backgrip.

Goddamit. Look at this. Look at this goddamn NONSENSE. Three Knights just flipped off from stupid furniture down a stupid hatch into a stupid god knows where. Malik makes a brief, frustrated gesture at the Supervisor, but even that fails to really have the desired effect, he can't focus! GOD DAMMIT.

"You are so correct," Malik replies to the supervisor. "You didn't mean to do that. And you shouldn't have." He looks at the people remaining to him. "Imani, cut off his arms and send him into the pit. Please and thank you."

Errod is there with the other two, having also fallen down the trap and landed in a heap of weapons and armor that slowly dragged itself upright again with the sort of rueful movement of those who should have seen that one coming. Looking around at the crowd, more an audience than assailants, he raises an eyebrow but nonetheless unshackles his chain-whip from his back, the plasma rivulents crackling to life with far less fanfare.

What were meant to be blast doors, once upon a time, function brilliantly as dramatic entry points as the panels slide back and a crew of construction droids, rebuilt and rigged for WAR, come shambling through. Their arms have been replaced by straight-up blades, bits of armor strapped and welded to their torsos. A modified KS unit with scythes for hands stares at the trio with flat droid eyes, and placatingly announces, "Do not resist."

"WHAT?! No!" the supervisor screams, paling. By now, the rest of the bar has emptied, the other patrons capable of realizing when it's time to get out of the Drunken Jawa. Only this poor man and the bartender who has been quietly polishing the same glass for the last ten minutes remain.

"WHAT? Yes," Malik mocks him.

"Malik, I will be right back." Tamsin's voice was calm and controlled as ever, as she left the supervisor, and possibly the bartender, because really, when Malik was on a tear, he was on a //tear//, and moved to deposit herself into the opening the the chute, "This is not the ride I hoped to ride tonight."

And then she was gone. Whoosh! Shimmy, shimmy, bang, bang, down the chute she went, thankful for her helmet which at least kept those brains of hers from being dashed against the sides. Truly, she was more concerned with her bag, as she went down, down, down, and then out! Not quite a superhero landing, as she got to the bottom, but she did get her feet under her and did not end up eating space dust. And, bonus, bag intact. "This is a very unfortunate turn of events." It was impossible to miss the incoming horde.

Were Errod, Sebek and Tarq between her and them? No? Get behind them!

Imani jerks back when the lever is kicked and her fellow knights are dropped into the trapdoor below. "You really shouldn't have done that." The advice is offered in a serious tone, as though this is a mistake that he can rectify and recover from. It's not, she seems aware that it's not before the order comes to remove his arms, and when Malik does speak she offers the Supervisor a shrug as though to say it can't be helped. Without a word she yanks free a weapon that she isn't seen using often, it's one of the blades she brought with her when she was discovered by the knights. The edge is sharp and made even more deadly when the weapon is switched on. It's with a few alarming slashes that she does as asked, two chops to remove the first arm, and only one for the second, and then she dumps the limbs after Tamsin. Sorry, TimTam, and whoever else might get slapped as a result. If the supervisor doesn't fall in on his own, she assists with that as well, then steps back to look over at Malik. "Do we go after them?"

"Behold, the tools of the weak and easily conquered!" erupted the furiously orange Sebek as Tei Tenga was whirled angrily! "To whit, I shall introduce them to your eventual fate!" He strode towards the first gladiator droid as rage and fury bubbled inside him, his eyes the furious red-rimmed golden glow of complete mental abdication. There was no way in hell that He Who Leads, She Who Slaughters, and She Who Ra... oh there she was!

"Rejoice, She Who Rages, for you have reached the battle so promised! Use your prodigious power to yank forth these infidels as sacrifice to our glory!" The frothing, hissing Falleen didn't make much sense, especially since he was lopping off the arm of one battle droid, and completely bisecting a second after his next cudgel-like swing was a whiff. Was he saying 'start picking off spectators'? That was a /tactically unsound/ move! But, when had Sebek ever been tactically sound?

Or mentally sound, for that matter?

The approaching droids with blade arms draw Tarq's attention reluctantly away from the workers in the makeshift 'stands' of this arena for a moment, then he looks back at the spectators. He is starting to narrow his eyes and takes exactly one step towards abandoning the arena when he hears another impact on the ground, and Sebek say hello to She Who Rages.

He nods once to Tamsin. With his other junior Knight there, he refrains from abandoning this amphitheatre's center pit. "Stay behind Tarq Najjic," he says, just in case she hit her head on the way down and got crazy ideas. And then he moves forward. He's not raging and running roughshod like Sebek. Instead, as he moves, he brings his hand forward, slicing through incoming scythe-arms and torso in a single swing, then sweeping the leg out from another and stabbing down through its chest. His last slash goes wide, but not very, as the droids' combat reprogamming shows its worth in pattern recognition of 'getting the hell out of the way'.

"Sure is," the bartender replies to Malik with a shrug, still polishing that same glass, very intently. It's spotless. He keeps polishing, nodding towards a door a few booths down. "Right there. Take the stairs. Watch your heads, though. Low rafters a few spots." He offers a wary, rueful grin. "People get bored 'round here. Just trying to keep things entertaining. No harm in it... usually."

Down in the harmless entertainment area, the Knights, four of them now, face off against a squadron of killer robots. Several fall immediately to the fury of the lightsabers, but there are a good group of them there and the KS unit ducks in behind Tarq with one of those scythe-hands flailing. Two loader droids, outfitted with buzzsaws, circle around Sebek, moving in menacingly, attempting to close him in a pincer, while Errod trades blows with a flying surveillance droid that simply has a spike mounted to it. The spike punctures his leg, and he responds by smashing the droid with his chainwhip.

"Fair trade," Errod rasps, looking down at the spike in his leg.

Not to worry, you guys! The cavalry was here! Look, she had the fancy pants weapon and //everything//. "You are only so good of a shield if you do not get yourself killed, Tarq. Please do not get yourself killed." But, Tamsin, never one to turn down some protection, if only to give her time to think, damnit, moved to put Tarq between herself and the oncoming horde. She winced, though not visibly, as she saw both Errod and Tarq take injury, but she fought to keep down her doctor's instinct, and instead, drew her stunsaber (told you it was an awesome weapon of weapons). She did, not, however, attack directly. Instead, she clenched her free fist, one of the droids, that Load lifter droid, and sent it like a bad idea at one of the other droids. Here's hoping its saws would do some damage to its fellow.

Imani switched the weapon off once the job was done, but the blade remains in her hand as she follows Malik to the bartender. "Boredom can be a real killer." She smiles at the bartender, then turns to head for the door. "Oh, uh, so you know it goes without saying that if any part of /this/ is a trap--" It's not that she's cheerful as she makes the threats, but there's something very comfortable and casual in the way she lifts her blade and gives it a little wiggle for emphasis as she looks back at the bartender. "So speak now if you need to." Provided no further warnings are issued, she'll head for the door that's supposed to take them down to the trapdoor drop spot, helmet going on to help protect her noggin from any missed low beams.

The infidel machines of battle, unsatisfying they were to duel, were not altogether ineffective. Whilst they made painful work of his comrades, Sebek noted, observed, ducked under the first predicted swing but was in no position to dodge the second. He caught the incoming blow in the only place he could.

His hand.

"Unwise."

Gripping the scythe-blade, ignoring the faint green oozing on his palm, he yanked the droid towards him and impaled it straight through the leg joint. Then with a flick, the leg came off and the droid fell. He turned quickly to face the next one, noting that it was learning how to evade him. "Come HERE, infernal contraption!"

The droid with the scythe arms lands a deep cut from Tarq's right shoulder blade to his left waist before he is able to deflect it with his saber. "AHHHH!" he cries out, then tries to end the droid at his flank, but his movements are all more clumsy. The initial thrust misses, and the two wide slashes likewise do not make contact with the infernal scythe-droid.

He staggers backwards towards what passes for their back line. His robes are sticking to his back, darkening the already dark cloth with red. He takes a deep breath, raising his weapon to a guard position. "Tamsin, can hit me with something? Pain is- distraction."

"Just so," Malik agrees with Imani's assessment of the trap situation, and then steps for the stairs, which he descends at a leisurely pace, illuminating the corridor with the snap-hiss of his red lightsaber! "It sounded almost like there was a crowd down there, did it not? If it's so, if anyone has seen fit to view the Knights of Ren as 'entertainment,' kill them. Leave a few for questioning." Sigh. "Is it just me or does nothing about this make sense? Rather a lot of effort to hide a saboteur, isn't it? Or have we departed from that completely? I'm not entirely opposed to glassing Carkanis from orbit."

"No, no traps on the stairs," the bartender replies. "Just the man who comes in every Atunda to pull the lever. Not your guy. Some other guy. Different guy. Always the same guy, except tonight." The glass sparkles but he continues to wipe, well after Malik and Imani have disappeared through the door.

The fight wears on in the makeshift arena with the makeshift gladiators getting far worse than they gave, and as there are only a few left, and the others are in pieces, the remaining droids' sense of self-preservation kicks in, throwing down their arms. Not literally, they can't. They're attached. But they drop their arms deliberately, shambling back towards the blast door with the KS unit droning, "Retreat!"

The spectators, perhaps unaware that these were, in fact, the Knights of Ren, and not a trio of rubes duped into being used as 'harmless entertainment' like every other Atunda, also begin to disperse, splitting up to fade away into the bowels of the Star Destroyer derelict. As all know, they are warrens of corridors.

Errod, blood running down from his thigh in rivulets, gimps over to the bloody, armless corpse of the superviser and grabs onto his belt, dragging it over a sparking, ruined droid towards the others as Imani and Malik enter through the makeshift stairway. "You lost something."