Log:Mandalorians: Old War - Waylaid

Mandalorians: Old War - Waylaid

OOC Date: January 30, 2021
Location: Wild Space
Participants: Mandalorians, Rathe Kora, Karys and Hadrix Kora as GM

Wild Space - Near Jelucan Sector

The invasion of the Phantasm had begun - blasterfire filling the air, the ship shuddering from torpedo fire on the command tower. Chaos rules the battlefield. Chaos is the battlefield. One moment it was among the ranks of mando'ade and now, who knows how long after that last blink - all alone. Twisted metal around and smoke filling the air; blaste fire was distant and the alarm klaxons were akin to artillery fire for the closeness as much as the volume. Only a bare stretch of corridor running to and from where Rathe found himself now, with the indications of fore and aft clouded and made more confused by the appearances of branches going port or starboard, relatively, in either direction.

His head swims, he has no idea how he ended up this way, just a vague recollection of being tossed up against a wall at some point. Fortunately he landed on his head. Unfortunately. He has no idea which way to go. E-11 in hand he glances down each the port and starboad corridors... What can possibly go wrong? He chooses starboard, maze tactics. Advancing with the weapon at the ready.

What -could- go wrong? A question some say is cursed in itself and that lays bare a nightmare of poor outcomes associated with an inquiry as that. But traveling starboard, following the wall brings entry to a section of the craft where the sounds of fire seems deceptively closer, until the realization of the echoes finally sinks in.

The ship is a maze, true to his assumption, well designed and navigable; for those trained and associated with their make and model.

Silence suddenly wins out, despite the shaking of the ship. A single corridor, a service deck, with voices coming distantly and footsteps. None of which sound cautious.

White helmets, black eyelets, forms hunched over weapons and hustling with pointed intent in one direction. Heads move as if speaking - but clearly over private comms for the only sound to be heard over their hurried march is a muffle of voices as if behind thick doors and curtains.

They don't move as if they have spied anyone, or anything, just yet - alertness by one giving advantage over multiples caught up in the furtive moments of their current mission.

Progress! In theory. Rathe has discovered life, just not the life he wants. Stormtroopers, obviously on the move for his family and acquaintances. He can hear the muffled talk under their helmets, and once again wishes he could be connected with the right operational frequency. When he got seperated, all sorts of things happened wrong at once for Rathe it seems. He gives it a moment, stepping out of view. Then immediately starts after them, cover to cover trying to stay hidden in the hopes that they lead him to the boarding crew. For now, he lets the E-11 hang on it's sling, and reaches back to Unholster the T27... he's outnumbered and needs a force multiplier when the time is right.

One near the rear of the group slows up, a moment, still marching but a touch of distance growing between that one and the rest of the squad. Head turning for that long moment where the chances of disaster occurring is all but guaranteed before a voice calls out over helmet vocalizers,

<"Five-Five-Eight-Two, catch up you're out of formation!"> <"Thought I spotted something"> already his footsteps are picking back up, trying to reach the rest and get back to their position. <"They're ahead and moving aft, you saw a droid."> <"I don't know."> <"Don't know! HURRY">

And hurry 5582 does, carbine hefted up and footsteps carrying him among his brethren again. A spared moment for Rathe and a guide for now.

There is no motion, Rathe is not a leaf on the wind, Rathe is a pipe. Just a pipe. Just a... red and blue caped pipe. He can catch the local chatter and nods, appreciating for the first time all the stereotypes on Imperial Stormtroopers. He ignores the fact there were stereotypes for First Order Troopers, and Vanguard for that matter. Rathe is just better than that.

He starts to move with a purpose, the T27 low ready as a last resort, the closer he gets to the boarding party the quicker he gets out of here and not left behind. He feels anxiety of a sort, an unease that he is not present as War Medic, not just unease at being away from Karys and the rest of Kora. Fortunately, he does not have the force to tell him just how bad it is for the other group.

He follows his unwitting guides from cover to cover.

A reflection of something - why did the Empire and the Order insist on things clean enough within their craft to have mirror sheens? The path had been leading through rights and straightaways before a left and a correcting right. Blaster fire, screams, explosions - they were becoming closer. Not echoes faking proximity now.

One could almost smell the tibanna smoke disbursing from the main fighting.

But at an access panel, the rear trooper halts again and turns suddenly with his blaster raised, calling out, <"You! Drop your weapons!">

The others turn, leaving Rathe facing a half dozen sets of black eyelets are focusing and weapons are coming up.

Signs of getting closer and rejoining his particular pack. This is going very smoothly, nothing can possibly go wrong! Except Sus-Trooper. Sus-Trooper HAD to look back again and see the shiny disturbed by the large angry shiny that is a Dreadfinder clad Rathe... and he doesn't even know Karys is hurt yet. The blaster is raised his way, and Rathe's low ready hold of the T27 shifts. No retort, no warning, no compromise. He simply wages war on those that would wage war upon him.

BLOOP! BOOOOOOM!

Immediately he side steps into an access pocket, trapped for a moment, but within cover as his mind replays three going down, more to go. Could be worse. There could be Droidekas.

Bodies flying from explosives hurled in their midst cut numbers in half. Sending all to the ground and tumbling while the ground shakes and plastoid armor is melted by heat or shattered by kinetics. A shot rings out from the cluster of survivors, a wild thing aimed to reciprocate the like response that was sent their way.

<"Drek! Someone get 'em!"> <"Opening fire! Call a medic!">

A scramble to get cover of their own while Rathe has dipped behind bulkhead supports. Another private war being fought in the depths of the Phantasm.

That escalated quickly, as if Rathe didn't just fire a grenade at them. Here. Privately, he took a little sadistic glee in what he just did. The Galaxy has a way of dealing out Space-Karma however as a bolt sizzles through his left leg. His helmet muffles the worst of his cursing, he doesn't even taunt them. He holds the T27 in his left hand, grabs the hypo-spray in the other blindly, jabs himself in the wound. The hypo goes back in place and he grabs a temp patch to slap on the armor. Growling he pops back up with the weapon to bear in both hands and leans out long enough to make a lot of white into a lot of black and chunky red.

Hurled forward in a cloud of explosive fire and shrapnel, one trooper remains in spite of the ordinance hurled at the squadron. A rolling heap of armor and bruised flesh beneath putting the last survivor in the open. Forced up to a knee, blaster hanging from one hand - the trooper draws a combat knife from their belt, helmet lifted and one eyelit out to show a furious glare behind.

There are no words but there is rage and a desperate play that finds the mono-edged blade turning end over end in the air. Quick as a flash headed for the joints of armor plates worn by the Mandalorian. A scalpel of a different sort seeking flesh and blood to hurt rather than heal.

There is impassive watching as the Trooper does his duty as Rathe does his. Rathe's helmet jerks back, surprised at the tactic used by the Stormtrooper, he's caught completely off guard. Rathe screams inside his helmet as the mono-blade bites deep between plates. The T27 is back in just his left hand, and it's toggled... but it offends the swordsman. The T27 is dropped on it's sling.

There is a shoving off to gain distance, Rathe using logn legs to his advantage, as he moves he plucks out blindly a disposable hypo. This is unceremoniously stabbed into his wound and tossed to one side at the same moment Rathe's left gauntleted hand closes on the hilt of the Vibrosword. It's drawn from that scabbard bolted to his left calf armor, an old habit picked up on a jungle planet so very long ago. With a wince he shifts it to a two handed grip, and then just his right hand. The blade comes up before his visor in salute to the Stormtrooper, and his helmet nods in respect to the trooper before him who went to blade.

Using the T27 here would have been Rathe, a brutal motion to just jab it into the trooper and trigger that burst fire. Yet it felt wrong here... for some reason. It offended the inner duelist that is Rathe.

The fingers of his free right hand, arm up as a potential guard, flicker at the Stormtrooper in a silent 'Bring it.'

Another blade pulled - broken carbine tossed to the floor - and held under handed as the Trooper rushes the distance with intention of of slicing another hole through the weak points in Mandalorian plate. Hard, bounding, steps to gain momentum and carry him over debris of shattered deck plates and fallen pipes.

Swift cross cut attempts and a jab are made - using the forearm plating and gauntlet guards as a parrying tool when the Trooper finally closes. Swift patterns, an attempt to overwhelm where the disadvantage of the opponent having reach to contest with, to find footing to press.

There is no mind paid to the broken carbine tossed aside. Rathe gets it, nods again. He slowly shifts into a dueling stance for the trooper. As desperate as he is to get back to the team, to Karys, to the others. He is grateful for the moment it is just him and this trooper. Likely no one would understand his drive for this. It has been far too long. This particular spectre of the Old Rathe... is acceptable to him.

The Trooper comes in hard, the back of Rathe's mind approves. He does not let his armor do the talking this time, he intercepts with the sword. While his sword practice is not a daily regimen, it is still solid enough. His feet shift, his body twists, a roll of the wrist at the right moment. The vibrosword changes in his right hand to an underhand grip is well, and the blade snaps out for the troopers torso. There is momentum and force behind the blow as Rathe used his gauntlet along the non-vibro backside of the blade to brace and push. A twist step after connection, and he continues to hold it upsidedown in his grip to be ready to hopefully parry.

The warble of sound over externals is the single tell tale of the wound given in their exchange. A crack rent in armor with a glistening at its center. The crown of the trooper helmet swinging forward in attempt to strike against Rathe's before a short bound back. Turned three quarters. to present the guarding arm with blade opposite.

Still no words when he comes in anew, a hard downward swing for the shoulder and an attempt to palm strike to the the opposite - trying to twist Rathe into the attack. But plates are smooth, for reasons. Curved for more. To adjust momentum, to change the direction of pressure.

And in this case put out of favor for the attacking trooper.

Being stabbed hurts, being cut like that is far worse. Rathe knows, and a very very tiny back corner of his mind sympathizes. Then he has a headbutt to avoid, and an aggressive, but smoothly attacking Stormtrooper to contend with. He finds himself nodding his helmet at the trooper respectfully for how he present himself. He did take the headbutt diversion a little personal however, as he nearly fell for it.

When the Trooper moves again, it is fast, very well done. The palm strike actually connects to push Rathe offline, but the blade meets Dreadfinder. It is Rathes turn to shove off, step back and re-engage a stance rapidly. He is wasting time here, yet is loathe to rush. Eyes read the trooper ahead of him, and for a moment. The face under the opposing visor is his own. His past, mirrored in white instead of black this time.

A feint to his left, with his visor as much as a lean in that direction, it opens the trooper up just enough. Rathes hand shoves low, putting the hilt down, and tip up. The planned upwards strike does not go as planned, and the blade causes the armor to shrill in protest as it is rendered, skidding the blade through the armpit. Instead of the heart impaled, it is the Axillary artery. The death will be swift, but not instant as planned.

He does not let his opponant simply drop to the floor, he lowers him instead... the former NCO speaks. <"Well done, Son. Did your duty. Rest now."> Rathe feels the faintest spike of guilt, feeling as if he dishonored a trooper so willing to use such combat style by not ending it perfectly.

Rathe straightens, time to head towards the actual fighting, the Vibrosword already moving to be sheathed as his other hand goes for the T27.

A stumble in the step en route back to the main force again - the path laid bare. Hatchways opening before him but a sensation like numbness creeping into Rathe's steps on one foot. Warm wet within the armor, despite hypos and patching. Something that the man drifting to darkness behind knew to do.

But what was nicked?

How bad is the bleeding?

Is there an echo of his own voice in his ears, 'Rest now'... Is it time?

He should stop, he should patch that last wound and not just rely on the hypo-spray shot. Rathe continues on, looking for another niche in the walls so he can get distance on the mess he made and get closer to the team. He has his own memories to contend with now, from Medical School to Corps Training, how others were taken, and because of his father... he willfully submitted.

This latter part, this spectre of his life is what caused him to realize he needed to step aside and control the bleeding properly. He gives the chest wound a quick glance, the T27 is held loosely in his left hand again. Rathe blindly pulls the stapler he's added to the kit. He should probably use the Chromostring Dispenser... but. He needs quick and done, he jams it into the hole of the armor... and yelps as he gets a left nipple staple instead. The helmet muffles the scream of pain when the initial shock wears off, along with the WHHHHYYYYYYYYYYYY?! He damn near drops the T27 and blinks moisture from his eyes.

Less blood now, things are still open. A good chance to tear free again.

Unless we settle in and have a little kip, eh?

The path is long, winding and in several hatchways the bodies of stormtroopers blasted or hacked down are spotted. Some still smoking and some rolling over when something massive detonates and shakes somewhere below deck. Close enough to threaten to melt the reinforced treads of mandalorian boots.

Something that makes the floor seem to sag before it's gone just as quick. More shouting, not echoes, and a blaster bolt sings from a side corridor to ricochet off the wall and burn a small crater in the roof of the passage.

Very close, and wouldn't it feel -oh- so good to finally sit down, rest, forget it all?

Is that blood-loss talking? Or wounds suffered so far on this little side trip.

A drink. Rathe really does want a drink, that's another shade of his old self. Though that one never went away. Who went away?

Smiling, joking, not in armor Rathe went away. He died. He died painfully post Exegol piece by piece as every place he went more and more of his old gear was blown off him. He had left such a swatch of death and destruction in his wake.

He starts moving again, T27 in one hand, the stapler in the other. If he stops moving too long he will die, if he doesn't stop soon... he will die.

He wobbles in place as the massive explosion hits, he locks the magclamps to his boots by instinct. He unlocks, ready to ry to rocketpack down the hall when he feels that sag, but it is gone just as quickly as his urge to just close his eyes. He had given in to the urge just long enough to see something crystalizing. Blue eyes.

With an effort Rathe raises that surgical stapler again, jams it to the wound and rapid fires a quick closing of his stabwound. It's a start. The stapler is put away, the pain was as galvanizing as the blue eyes in his darkness. The spent pack is thrown aside as a new pack is loaded. He needs to move. They will need him.

Everything is dark. His face hurts. The sensation of pressure on chest, abdomen. Then a realization that the floor with his own reflection eclipsed by himself. The ship is shaking again. Pain in the chest with an ache that suggests things could have been far worse if knowledge and talent hadn't stopped the worst of it. Vision threatens to blacken again, but there's a different sound turning the head that had been face down on the corridor floor.

Movements are stiff, how long was he out? A minute? Less? Mind over matter can't always ignore blood loss and tissue damage. But the name Versiano wasn't asked to be taken away and replaced by another because there was weakness that was stripped away.

It was asked to be replaced by Kora because the man taking it would be a pillar to hold it up with strength equal to those already bearing the weight of duty. Shared gratefully with the man who found himself tumbled over with shallow breathes pumping in his lungs.

Boot steps, rapid but heavy coming and with a turn of the eye there is the sight of white armor skidding to a halt, black body-glove. An E-11 held in a left hand, an off hand grip.

The other hand is down, palm up, no bulging cheek vents, no black eyelets. Just a face that used to be battered by scar tissue. Smoother now, bearded, one storm gray eye and the other black with gold and glowing pupil.

"Lesser man wouldn't be awake, let alone alive." stones grinding together forming words, "Up and at 'em brother. She needs you. We need you." a momentary pause, "Not time yet."

He doesn't remember getting down here. Not a good sign. Hopefully he's been mistaken for dead, if he doesn't move there will be no mistake. He can feel the odd pooling sensation inside the sealed armor. Not so sealed as it once was with a blaster burn and the stabbing damage. Rathe is surprised that he awoke on his own, had it been another explosion that dislodged him?

His visor turns down the corridor, his vision swims, blue eyes again in his darkness. He should be at her side now, h should be at all their sides. The Galaxy at large had other ideas. Versiano no more, he should let go of his Father, of Corulag, of a not-childhood. Not as horrifyingly violent as Hadrix', but just as equally disturbing all the same. Raised by a man who lived and breathed COMPNOR before he became chosen for the new Order.

His palm to his right hand slides onto cool mirrored floor, he tries to push up. He fails the first time. Boot steps, he needs to move. Move or die.

He starts trying to awkwardly grab for the T27 as the armored boots and shins swim into view halted before him. He expects a blaster bolt to put it all black again. Rathe digs down, pushes hard with limited success, his visor turns to face his... savior?

Hadrix Kora swims into view, as does that hand palm up offered. <"Never been happier to see your ugly mug before..."> His hand slaps the one offered and he doesn't fight Hadrix bodily hauling him up. <"Is she ok? Are -they- okay?"> Not just Karys, no. Family. Unsteadily he bends to pluck up the T27 and regrets the decision when his vision swirls. Hadrix's words become more focused in mental replay. He nods sharply in response and inhales and exhales. <"Not going to hear the end of this on the beach at Ealor, am I?"> He doesn't sound angry, amused. A joke. A mesh of the old and new Rathe. His helmeted head rolls around to crack his neck and focus him. <"Lead the way, this maze sucks, why can't you ever bring us to the mission of Booze and Sports?"> He is definitely more the two now, Old Rathe would have waited to mock-complain like this AFTER the mission, Newly Forged Rathe just goes with it, and drops into a more professional toned. <"I have your back, vod. Lead on.">

"I think if the 'ade are told, it's going to be how I found you half-dead and still trying to run your stubborn shebs down the hall. Too stubborn to die, vod." a laugh as they begin to jog with the big man close enough in case Rathe has another lapse of not enough blood in his system.

"They've been hit up, Narsai did her... thing... catching up." the pair rounding a corner in an upward leaning corridor - one of those service passages when the lifts aren't an option. Bodies and blaster scores lining the way. Too many bodies. Too much blood.

More shots slamming into walls at the end of the passage and the pair find stormtroopers laid about, Mandalorians firing, Terek putting a blaster bolt into a chamber and Karys with helmet off, burns marring her acting as a medic in the midst of the chaos even while blazing away with her pistol.

"Next ops is ale and sports. Otherwise I think she might do us in, eh?" A careful pat to Rathe's shoulder as they make their arrival. "Especially if she doesn't get to hear where the hell you've been."

Things go suddenly quiet, save for arms raised in momentary victory before hand gestures for search and exfiltration go out and the sound of a ship clamping to the outside of the hull smashes the din.

Karys is caught up in tending the Surs mostly, turning to each in turn as she moves amongst them, her helmet hitting her hip as it rests clipped to her belt. Her pistol blasting as she discards used items from her medkit while she slowly depletes its resources. The wound upon her face is angry red, causing her left eye to squint as she tears the patch out of its binding with her teeth and slaps it into place before offering pain killers and stims to her patient.

Dark hair has been ruffled, falling free around the ruined left cheek which is torn open by the blaster bolt. She's sweating and some of it rolls into the open wound and she winces, hissing through her teeth as she turns about to help those who need her while they make their exit.

She has yet to notice the new addition in the chaos.

<"I appreciate that, but it does make for a funny story. Too bad we cannot change the names to protect the innocent?"> Rathe being the innocent, and self-admitting he deserves to have his chops busted for this. Rathe is winded, but picking up, the hypo-spray from earlier starting to have a better effect. Seeing them all not dead is also an instant morale booster. He's not sure how to explain this, he's not sure how he ended up where he did to start with.

They have returned to a proper cluster-kriff, as all good ship battles are. Rathe can see between the lines, hear the symphony of war before him. Old Rathe, New Rathe, Reforged Rathe... all reside naturally in such controlled chaos. His visor, as much as he tried fighting the urge, snaps onto Karys. Karys without a helmet, Karys with a blaster burn. Retribution Rathe burns in his chest howling for a target. He shoves him away for now. His head turns towards the clamping on the hull. He has his duty, but he is proud to see Karys work. Using what she learned from his instruction, what she already knew. <"Listen if she gets mad, you're my new shield. Congrats on this dubious promotion, lets get them out of here and patched up. Med bay is ready to go.">

Rathe hesitates in place, he just watches Karys. Burning into memory this Kora Valkyrie working hard to help others to safety.

Those blue eyes that saved him in more than one way.

Then Rathe is moving to do his job, the T27 is slung, and he's reaching to help support whoever needs it. He needs out of this place of spectres. They all do.

"Aye. Get them home." Shield. Hadrix's expression twisting slightly - regret and perhaps no small measure of self recrimination there. Warrior queen blazing away and memories etching their way into the mind of a man who looks at them all not like some patron watching over, but like a chronicler who sees the songs to be sung around the celebration fires in years to come.

Rathe was greeted with calls of his name, hands on his shoulder, checks on his medical status even when he set to his work. The Mando'ade were dragging out the bodies of Imperial kept alive by Corp-Sector gene work and rejuv-methods that would normally be outlawed outside of that particular corner of space.

Laughter and even bursts of old war hymns while the injured looked to aid and the others saw their own come home on the battlefield. There was still blaster fire in the air, the pilots hired by Clan Sur starting to move to go retrieve craft landed in the boarding - a path mostly cleared by their ingress. Others began hauling the treasures of Mandalore reclaimed towards the hole cut in the hull with breaching charges where a pair of miss-matched eyes watched a pair of kin linking up with the youngest of their small family that had expanded in barely a year since Exegol.

"There's better choices for a shield, brother." lines cutting into a face to mix with whispered words while the gaze kept on the other. "Think there's a better choice in all of that." gaze focusing on blue and crimson armor before disappearing into the depths of the Wind in The Void, to let the betters have their celebrations.

The greeting of Rathe draws her attention amidst the various other sounds as the Mandalorian's board and begin their egress and she remains off to the side to set one more wound before getting into the ship. It is from this vantage that she watches Hadrix first then finally Rathe, left eye squinting asd the pain remains on a wound she could not possibly have treated due to its location. "Where have you been?" Its asked with her own voice unfiltered as she quickly moves through the group towards him as Hadrix walks up and onto the ship.

She reaches out her hand to grip at his arm, giving him a quick look over as if she is not the one with a massive blaster gash in her cheek. "See you on the ship?" Because in the midst of all this they have to go. Time will be had on the ship while wounds are being treated and they are given time to breathe.

She does not give him time to answer, just one blue eye looking up at him before she releases and starts for the ramp, aiding one of the other injured on board.