Log:Rebellion: Iridonia: You! Freight right there!
Rebellion: Iridonia: You! Freight right there!
OOC Date: January 10, 2024
Location: Iridonia
Participants: GM and Participant Rieve Selki, Bors Thul, Ezlo Rafe
(Enzo's employment was obtained in: http://www.swaoa-mush.com/wiki/Log:Poncho_and_Dopey)
--
Sat across the freight company, huddled in the rear of an unmarked gravtruck, Rieve makes the final preparations to his armour and also checks his weapons. A vibrosword sheathed at his hip, and a rather bulky looking blaster pistol. "So..." Rieve lifts his gaze, as yet unhidden by his helmet to both Ezlo and Bors. "... our task is simple, our uh... client requires that freighter. We'll get them that freighter. I have an idea... but I am always welcome to hear anything anyone else has to say." The Hapan falls silent, his gaze peeking out the tinted window at the walled compound opposite.
The company was known to have very deep ties with the Empire for one reason or another, the walled compound itself was accessible through the main building, or indeed a very heavy gate that allowed vehicles in and out. Within the walls of the loading bay a single freighter could be seen, unpowered and loading bay ramp presently lowered. There was room for another freighter to land beside it, though that space was presently unoccupied. There were the usual guards milling about on patrol and a couple of staff (from what one could see) working on the freighter, going up inside and so forth.
"We've one shot at this, the sooner we're up and away the better oui? We need to get in, storm that freighter, take off... and get out of Iridonian space. Quick." The blue-haired Hapan states, a lopsided grin etched upon his lips.
--
<"Frankly"> voice distorted by the antiquated commando armor worn, <"Nary a moment contends to concern upon the notions of steady and slow - Imperial presence here is thick as reeds..."> Bors continues, leaning forward in the gravtruck bed to focus his gaze on the guards and the freighter beyond them.
<"Thou knowst if I can get behind the controls I can fly that thing in manners most would complain it shan't be possible of its make."> the cane in the older man's hands held with the base of it resting between his feet. A shift of his body giving away a huff of breath, <"What means and method spark your thoughs, good sir?">
--
The group's token Arennian has a different way of making his preparations. Having already loaded up his weapons and run them through a functions check, he has only to prepare spiritually. To aid that process, he has rolled up something that looks suspicious like a t'bacc stick, albeit stuffed full of extremely dank, greenish-purplish Ardennian Shroob. You know, from Ardennia. His already sleepy-looking eyes grow slightly more half-lidded. But there's little noticeable effect in his already chilled out demeanor. It seems that he's just getting a LITTLE spaced, just enough to stay even.
"Man... you couldn't 'a found a better spot than this dump? There's like... whole buncha... it's like... you know... war is hell, man. Pretty sure they got some bomb-ass ships on Zeltros, man."
Looking out the porthole, Ezlo checks out the surroundings as well as one can from a porthole while also smoking dank shroob. Which, for those who haven't yet tried it, is actually surprisingly pretty well. In fact, he might be seeing too much entirely, including some things that aren't even there.
"I guess it's like... what if we all dress up in delivery uniforms, and say we're bringin' 'em a meat pie? Man... that sounds good right about now."
--
"Deception certainly sounds... fun. The less shooting we have to do before we're aboard the better, especially if we can get right up there." The very words mulled over by the Hapan as he looks to Ezlo, nodding somewhat. "Getting through the main gate would certainly... cut down on the time spent fussing through the main building. Think you're up to delivering some food? Bluffing your way beyond the gate?" Rieve asks of Ezlo, eying the rolled up joint of whatever mix is being huffed and puffed. Ezlo could sure pass for a laid back delivery driver.
Bors himself is regarded soon after. "I have certainly heard good tales of your prowess, I have a feeling we'll be needing every ounce of that skill and more... and yes, they are certainly cracking down. Which makes it a whole lot more exciting oui?" The question asked of both Ezlo and Bors, though the mention of Zeltros has Rieve smirk a touch crookedly. "Oh there's something aboard that freighter we need specially, don't you worry about that though. Once we're free and clear, you'll be dropped off somewhere safe and with enough creds to get you home. So..."
The Hapan clasps his hands together.
"Food delivery?"
--
A small nod from the man in black armor, slowly twisting the cane in his hand as if he were trying to slowly start a fire with it, head lowering, thinking, the cerulean lighting behind the visor serving its purpose to make his features ghostly and indistinct, <"If delivering, falsehoods tumble poorly from these lips, but I can follow leads. Alas the means to fast-talk escapes me, though to move under obfuscation is remaining a strength of mine.">
Bors looks to the one smoking, head canting to one side - the dubious raise of his eyebrow palpable but he turns back to Rieve, tilting his cane towards him fractionally, <"So I might serve better in the further portion of the truck upon our delivery, yes?"> head tipping to one side as well before he is looking out at the guards, expression lost behind the visor.
--
"Hell yeah, man. Saw this place on the way in that looked choice. Very choice."
It's true, not far away there was in fact a restaurant of some sort. It's a fact that Ezlo noted well, as he frequently gets snacky on missions or whenever there is stress. It should be a fairly simple matter to verify the restaurant's hours of operation, though Ezlo seems to have already jumped past that part and onto Stage 3. If only someone could remind him what Stage 2 was.
"Or maybe we just kind of.... you know... get on the datapad... uh... order some food to wherever we are... dude shows up with the food and uh... blast him."
He inhales deeply from his shroob stick, sending plumes of purplish smoke back out through his slit-like nostrils and wide amiable mouth.
"Take his clothes, throw him in a dumpster and just like... pretend to be that guy. Shiz... I'm a master of disguise, man."
--
"An option..." Rieve offers, pondering the prospect of the poor delivery driver. But there's a shake of his head. "If you think yourself able to bluff your way past that gate... we can be delivering parts, it matters not, there's no need for any innocents to end up harmed. More than necessary any ways." A test? Perhaps. Rieve moves to settle into the back of the van opposite Bors. "I'm content to bluff and lie if its necessary, but I'm certainly happier to see what you have to offer. Get us past that gate and you might just be worth the creds oui?" Rieve winks, a flash of blue, and he's gathering his helm into his lap.
"The better the lie, the closer we get so if you're up for it, take the wheel, or I'll do it." Rieve offers, ready to step in if Ezlo shifts to the rear. The lies better to trip and fall from their lips than Bors' own!
--
Settling in, leaning back against the inner hull too try and keep more out of sight, Bors nods as the plan is set in motion with his gaze, granted a tall man in heavy armor isn't always the most inconsicuous thing in the back of a cargo van - but he's happy to give it his best attempt at the very least.
Forgetting to look away from the front, for now, the Alderaanian watches - twisting the cane in one fist while the other grips the hilt of his other sword - wrapped about his waist like a combat belt, preparing to pull it should the need arise.
--
Operating a gravtruck is child's play for someone who knows how to operate a gravtruck. For Ezlo, it's much more difficult. Adult play at best. But believe it or not, this is not his first time operating as a delivery driver, nor is it the first time he's had to lie his way past some guards. An interesting man, that Ezlo Rafe, with a rich inner life. One which he might very well be enjoying at this very moment, but which none of us will ever get to experience.
When the gravtruck finally pulls up to the gate, there is a a grinding of gears as the driver manages to fumble the controls slightly, but nevertheless manages to avoid crashing into anything or driving in an overly intoxicated manner. But then, they don't sell much shroob on Iridonia, so perhaps the local authorities don't know the warning signs too well?
The window rolls down, and there sits a four-armed, blue-haired space monkey with a shroob stick dangling from his lower lip.
Immediately, the guard looks suspicious, but the little Ardennian looks harmless enough. After all, he's wearing a sort of beanie. What sort of ne'er do well would wear such a slouchy hat?
"You lost pal?"
The Ardennian leans out the window a bit, seeming confused by the question.
"Nah, man... I'm right where I'm supposed to be, man."
"Uh huh.... and, what are you doing here?"
"Shiz, man... what are ANY of us really doing here, you know?"
"Look pal, if you don't show me some identification."
"What man, you don't recognize me? I'm the Mayor of Iridonia, man. I'm here to make sure you've been keeping your horns sharp."
The guard actually looks slightly amused. But only slightly.
"Nah man, I'm just playin'. Boss man told me to bring this delivery here. Guess you guys go through urinal cakes REAL fast here, man... I've never seen so many."
--
Rieve has likewise settled into the back, hidden, quiet, a veritable ghost amidst the boxes and the shadows. All that awaits is the arrival. Should all go well...
The amused guard is soon joined by another, this one as dour as they come. A grim faced guard who has likely seen it all and gives the other a swift cuff of the shoulder. That grim gaze is soon fixed upon Ezlo.
"That's all well and good. If you have a delivery, you have paperwork and credentials. If you have paperwork and credentials, you have access. So." The surly guard crosses his arms against his chest. A brow quirked. Face simply set into stone. "We don't just let..." A hand is waved to Ezlo. "... anyone in." The twin gates rattle slightly as a brief swirl of wind picks up about both the truck and the street, though it soon vanishes.
--
Tensing, watching and waiting. Bors keeps on alert, remembering to lower his head to keep the glow of the visor hidden while fingers tense around the differing hilts of weaponry he has chosen today.
Dead silent for now, ready to spring if the moment comes to call for it and otherwise remaining at the ready while wishing he'd time for that bacta therapy session today. Blasted joints are killing him.
Foolish old man.
--
"Of course. No doubt, no doubt, no doubt.... Job ain't done until the paperwork is... uh... also done, right? Ha!"
Making a show of fumbling through some papers off to his side, the Ardennian thinks as quickly as he possibly can. But the best that he can come up with is to make a show of not being able to find them. So far, things are going great. Ezlo is a valuable addition to any team. Never leave home without one.
"Looks like my boss.... real piece of work, I'll tell you. Buck-toothed, cheese-eating so and so... terrible breath... uh... looks like that meat stick forgot to give me the proper paperwork. Again! Man, if I had a Wupiupi for every time... anyway, cut me a break, huh? I gotta get home, wife's roasting a mynock, man."
The stoic countenance of the surly guard causes Ezlo's lower lip to quiver.
"Come on man.... you're breaking my nerts, man...."
--
The surly guard grimaces. "This is why we need the Empire... just too much disorder and all this nonsense with not having the right credentials ready and on hand. You have a job. A single job to do. And you aren't even prepared to do that properly." The guard's voice rises. Annoyed, but even so he nods and gestures to the other guard to open the gate. "Next time you find that paperwork before you draw up at this gate. You darken my doorstep again and I'll make sure you go home to your wife very unemployed..." The man snarls faintly, teeth bared for an instant. "Take pride in your work damn you." Stepping back, hand on on his holstered sidearm, he gestures for Ezlo to drive on through. "Pull over by the building."
The building. The building on the opposite side of the yard. "And find that order before you leave."
Rieve remains still.
--
When waved through, Bors leans slightly while keeping his head lowered still, shifting to private comms now as the moment is presented, <<"Ere through, haste could be made for the ship at excessive speed once clear of the majority of them. Fire will be drawn, but nary gates nor barricades to bulwark 'gainst us.">>
The old man turns his head to look towards Rieve, turning fractionally more as if to be looking at the hapan through one eye more than the other. Body language to get his opinion? Trying to make out the blue tint of the hair? Hopefully the inferences made are accepted normally or this will just be silly.
--
Overall, Ezlo looks about as cume as a calmcumber. Perhaps that's what the shroob was really for, and if so, it actually worked fairly well. Perhaps there's a semblance of a plan after all behind those blue eyes lined with prominent red veins. Giving the guard a shy, but grateful nod, he uses one of his many hands to engage the gravtruck's drive. The shifter sticks a bit, but then it's not exactly a luxury yacht.
With one hand on the shifter, and two others on the steering controls, the guards could be forgiven for temporarily forgetting that there is in fact a fourth hand to consider. Sure, he looks outwardly to be extremely calm, if a bit embarrassed. But right below the gravtruck's window he's clutching the wooden grip of a pistol so tightly that it's causing his hand to shake despite his best efforts.
"Hey thanks, man. And you have a blessed day."
With the shifter engaged, he takes that hand free of the knob, and uses it to wave in a polite, conciliatory, and most of all friendly manner.
--
Rieve nods in agreement and offers up his own credsworth. "Just floor it." Oh the Hapan grins. His form shifting slightly, coiled perhaps? Poised? Either way that clunky looking JSP pistol is clutched ready, pointed towards the door at the rear of the truck. "Get us close and once we stop, we get aboard that freighter no matter what and we don't let anyone else board, but if they do? We put them down." Simple words. Words of death tinged with a delightful Hapan accent, so it all sounds glorious!
--
Floor it.
He can't help but like the sound of that, even if this contraption only has throttle controls that go to ten. Uncivilized. But then there is a 'rule' of sorts that many across the galaxy have come to learn in the decades since their inception.
A-Wing pilots are crazy.
Hunching in his seat and getting into brace position Bors sinks into his seat and hopes for the best.
--
Not nervous at all, not even in the slightest, Ezlo begins to pull forward as the gate lifts. The directions are clear enough, both from the guard, and from his temporary coworkers. However, the directions that they're both clearly giving are not exactly in accord with each other. In fact, they're almost diametrically opposed. Such is the nature of Ezlo's confusion that the drive shifter was not properly engaged at all, stuck instead in a position between forward and reverse, and ultimately accomplishing neither.
There is a loud grinding noise as the gravtruck suddenly lurches forward, and immediately stops. Locking up its main drive system, the space ape finally shows some true panic, though he turns to smile embarrassedly at the guards. Shifting the gears again, he accelerates... albeit in the exact opposite direction of forward. He corrects this by slamming the breaks on, once again causing the vehicle to lurch in the opposite direction.
Once again, he smiles embarrassedly at the guards.
This time, there is a sharp squealing noise as the gravtruck finally begins heading the right way. Extremely slowly.
Extreeeeeeeemely.
"Come on, come on, come on...." Ezlo looks almost as if he's rowing up in his front seat, as if he can push the truck forward faster merely with the strength of his lanky biceps and positive thoughts.
--
"Seriously?" The surly Guard arches his brow and steps after the truck, the other guard following as the gate is slowly closed behind the lurching vehicle. The surly guard does not look impressed. The smell of something haveing burnt out does not impress either guard, the surly one who was hardly impressed to start with simply shakes his head. "Towards the main building..." The guard waits. Watches. The truck doesn't turn. It doesn't follow the trajectory it should. "I said the building. THE BUILDING!" He starts to jog after the truck.
"We've a situation..." The first pistol is drawn. The young guard who closed the gate eyes his older comrade and likewise draws his, moving at a jog after the jerking gravtruck.
Rieve looks to Bors and then to Ezlo. "Well. I am guessing this is flooring it?" He asks, a half-smile etched upon his features. He rolls over and rests his foot on the rear door. Taking a breath, pistol lowered into a shooting position.
The surly guard starts into a run, waving at Ezlo. "You idiot. What are you doing?"
--
<"Blast..."> grunt distorting in his vocalizer, Bors looks to the door as Rieve prepares then back towards Ezlo, <"Good Sir Ardennian, I suggest that thee find the gear and get this crate moving 'fore we need open the hatch and make this a much more... strenuous action, mmm?"> frowning internally the elder man looks to the weapons he's holding and the blaster Rieve has ready.
<"Give it a moment, I'm sure he'll get through...">
Hear me? Get through.
--
As he continues to look down, Ezlo frantically tries to figure out just went wrong with the crummy gravtruck. Sure, it's entirely his fault, but maybe that means there's something that he can do to set it right again? The only thing that would probably work to fix the mission at this point would be a time machine. Rieve could use it to hire an entirely different Ardennian.
The vehicle is moving so slowly that the running guards, though generally not known for their sprinting prowess, are actually 'gaining' on the truck. Looking to his left, Ezlo is surprised to see them catching up to the window, shouting at him, and then falling slightly back again as the vehicle once more lurches violently. Now nearly on the verge of tears, the creepy blue space monkey can think of only one response to the guard's question...
"THE BEST I CAN!!!!"
But finally, just when it looks like he's about to be overtake by a couple of portly, puffing guards, Ezlo stumbles upon the right combination of knob fiddling and gear-grinding to reengage the drive! One more violent, heaving jerk sends contents in the cargo area flying, and then...
The truck rockets forward waaaaaaay too fast. The poor passengers in the back will probably never want to ride with Ezlo again, but at least he finally figured out how to disengage the mag-brakes...
--
That was the final straw! The first round is fired and pings off the side of the van as the surly guard draws his blaster and opens fire. A second shot rings out a moment later from the younger guard that was with him.
"We've a breach!" The very words uttered into his comms to his fellow guards. Now a distance away, that doesn't stop the two from running after them, blasters held ready, another annoyed shot pinging off Ezlo's door.
Rieve laughs. He actually laughs. Sure he's almost thrown across the inside of the truck. But he can't help but see the amusing side of this whole predicament as the van veers crazily and draws up alongside the freighter. Far faster than was believed to be possible after that start. "Right! Get yourselves aboard oui? Out of the fire and into the ariag'nee oui?" A bright gap-toothed grin is offered and Rieve kicks open the side door, and opens fire himself. Pew! Keeping in relative cover, the Hapan fires off two very red and very angry shots. Pew!
"We're under fire!" The words are barked by the surly guard.
The landing ramp is but a few short feet away.
--
Leaping clear in the wake of Rieve's firing, the weapon wrapped around his waist left to remain there and the gem on top of his cane starting to glow with the touch of his thumb to a bead-like nodule just below the grip. Held now like a baton rather than as an aid for mobility, Bors is sprinting for the ramp.
Getting to old for this.
He knows he's huffing harder than he'd like right now. Puffing. His knees are screaming and every good sense he has is being dragged into a backroom by the adrenaline junky... to be beaten savagely for their temerity.
--
"Dammit dammit dammit! We're porked!"
As a shot hits his door, Ezlo covers his eyes reflexively with two of his hands, remembering to steer only after many meters have already been crossed. As the rest of his compatriots bail out, Ezlo prepares to follow their lead, and opens the door in order to do just that. He eyes a spot that looks relatively forgiving, he hits the mag-brakes, and then... HE LEAPS!
Only to get yanked back down immediately from the safety restraint that he has been dutifully wearing this whole time! The shroob stick falls from his mouth as Ezlo has just enough time to react to the fact that the gravtruck is about to crash right into the freighter. He doesn't even have time to cover his eyes this time before the impact causes everything to go temporarily black. All he has time to do is press even harder onto the mag-brakes and hope for the best. He doesn't really remember much from those microseconds.
When Ezlo comes too, he's staring directly at what looks like a durasteel wall. The gravtruck is on its side, but miraculously all the way up the ramp, and inside the freighter's cargo bay.
As he clambers out the passengers window, Ezlo looks far more confused than anyone else on the planet right now, and doesn't even try to play it off as intentional.
--
Bors would find himself overtaken by the truck. His artful leap was enough to spare him the indignity of the screeching up the ramp. Or indeed the tossing and turning that soon follows. That at least spared his knees a great deal of trouble. And likely a good many other joints too. Bors would find two rather shocked guards at the entrance, both having been waiting patiently, weapons drawn and ready to ambush. The truck rather ruined that particular operation. One is still gawping at the truck for a few seconds more, turning to the approaching Bors. The other is already looking to draw a bead upon the man.
From beyond the freighter, the young guard is kneeling beside his fallen comrade as a few more guards rush from the main building, but they are a ways away. They still fire though. The red beams blasting at the loading ramp. The accuracy of the pistols and their frantic dash not helping at all.
Rieve finds that his door is now a roof exit. "You... okay?" He huffs as he flings himself with a distinct lack of grace up at that opening, and manages to cling, wriggle and flail his legs in a distinctly graceless fashion as he clambers free, barely able to do anyhting else at all but huff breathlessly. "BORS!"
--
Fired on! Letting the armor take it, specially treated and curved plates reflecting the blaster bolts on his charge, Bors leans forward into the movement. Grip loosening momentarily on the cane to let it slip down to extend his reach as long, loping, steps carry him towards the guards.
<<"Best move quick behind!">> huffed on comms as his cane finds purchase on the shoulder of he shooter, surging ionized energy into them to disrupt nervous systems and making them fall back steps and out of range of the return stroke from he Alderaanian <<"I'm moving in, at speed. Headed for the bridge!">>
Not even giving time to look back at he pair he has surged past, his mission the priority.
--
"Did we win?"
Still dazed, though this time from shock rather than shroob, Ezlo begins the process of pulling himself out of the... well, it's not exactly wreckage. Despite it all, the gravtruck might just live to be useful another day, though they'll have to find someone much stronger than Ezlo to tip it back over. He looks very unsteady on his many hands and single pair of feet, but starts quickly piecing things together through various context clues. There appears to be gunplay, lots of shouting. Real harsh noises, man. All of the indications that not only has victory not yet been achieved, but it's not even especially likely at the moment. As his blue, beanie-wearing head pokes out of a window, all of his worst suspicions are confirmed.
"Aww... man... I can't go to jail again..."
It's true. Looking so much like a snack, Ezlo is very likely to be gobbled up in such an environment. It's a thought which sends a cold chill down his spine. That might also be from the shock though. Still, he thinks surprisingly quickly for someone who always looks half asleep and suddenly remembers that no man can be jailed as long as he has a sufficient supply of grenades.
And Ezlo has all the grenades.
Reaching into one of his back pockets with one of his feet, Ezlo pulls himself up through the window with a pair of his hands, flicks the switch, and tosses it up to his uppermost set of hands. Here's hoping he grabbed the grenade that he meant to...
"Hope ya brought your SKATES, scuttbags!"
He chucks the grenade out though the ramp, and out amongst the approaching guards. After the flash, a thick bluish layer of liquid spreads out along the ground, creating a small puddle that almost instantly freezes solid. It catches two of the guards, immediately causing them to lock up as they are stunned, and will soon by frostbite victims if not treated.
"Ha ha! YEAH! EAT ICE RINK!"
--
Rieve stumbles from the upturned truck and runs at a sprint towards the two frozen guards. "Watch his back!" Gesturing after Bors as he moves on through towards the cockpit. Rieve has other plans, dashing and firing off a couple of shots at the enemy outside to keep them pinned and rethinking their ideas of approaching. Red blasts ping out from the freighter. How long has passed? Mere minutes.
Even as Rieve fires, he pushing the frozen guards down the ramp, letting them slide and tumble off the side. It matters not where they land, just that they aren't aboard when this group takes off. His single shot wings a tired looking guard, sending him to the ground, alive, but in pain from the blast that sent him spinning.
BORS! Oh Bors! That dash to the cockpit is met with one very surprised looking captain. His eyes widen as he regards the intruder, he'd heard the commotion, but surely it was just the guards being... and then the grinding? Droids dropping cargo? He was about to check... then he'd heard the comms chatter. He'd pondered staying put. Hiding. His heart was racing, he eyed Bors and luck was with Bors, the Captain fumbled for his sidearm, stuck briefly for a second within its holster.
--
The gemmed head of the cane meets the jaw of the captain, the moment before they collide and the nobleman uses the momentum to smash his shoulder into their chest, <<"On the bridge!">> rolling with the motion, back against the man now wreathed in blue ionization and around to keep his balance, feet moving of their own accord as he slips past.
<<"Everyone aboard?">> lifting his arm to swing the head of the cane again, up over his shoulder and into the small of the poor sod's back hurling a fresh reek of ozone into the air and crackling energy pelting over their body. In the seat, the cane across his knees Bors is already reaching to being takeoff sequences,
<<"Dare say I hope thee hath boarded post haste or this shall be a negatively expedient traversal.">> leaning towards the throttle controls with a trusty, old, equipment probe - wedging it at the head of the throttle and pushing to 'extend' the range of the bar. <"So uncivilized..."> noting the capped for intended speed.
--
Hopping down from the gravtruck and landing on his bare handfeet, Ezlo looks both stunned, surprised, and triumphant. Also hungry, but that's less relevant at the moment. He notices that they're still not out of the woods yet, and actually looks a bit concerned by the fate of the guards he just mercilessly condemned to a life of potential robot legs. They'll probably be okay, especially if he never thinks about it again.
As the takeoff sequence begins, the floor beneath Ezlo's bare feet begins to rumble, making the already unsteady Ardennian suddenly shift his weight to keep from falling over. But with four arms to stabilize himself, he manages to keep his balance. It might seem counterintuitive, but the occasionally handy ape is actually heading in the direction of the cargo ramp!
Where he pushes the big green button on the panel next to the ramp.
There is further rumbling as the ramp begins to draw upward.
"Don't worry. I'LL close the door... damn man... born on a moisture farm or what?"
--
The ramp begins to creep upwards. Shots ring out from the guards who are ever closer, even the one Rieve floored with a shot to the thigh! But even after one shot wings Ezlo, the ramp finally seals and lights brighten on the deck before Bors' very eyes. The freighter is sealed. All is good.
Rieve looks to Ezlo as he witnesses the shot, reaching out instinctively and missing a shadow moving from behind several boxes behind him. The mechanic who had been tinkering before all this happened lunges for Rieve, swinging a heavy hydrospanner and only by sheer luck does Rieve duck, dodge and stumble in response as he flails out of the way of the angry looking mechanic.
"Get off my ship!" The very words spat by the angry looking Twi'lek mechanic who raises the weapon for a second time, approaching, advancing, angry and annoyed. "You'll not get away with this!"
Indeed. Bors should spot a light blinking. A garbled message directed at the Freighter. Or to the company. Either way it simply asks if assistance is required. And it sounds like assistance is coming no matter what...
--
<"Ohhh I bid farewell to the port and the land... and I power from Alderaan's white sands..."> throwing switches and leaning to look over his shoulder at the sounds of blaster fire continuing. Staring and then casually slapping a switch to have the cockpit hatch slam shut and lock.
<"To search for my long ago, forgotten, friends. To search the place all star sailors end..."> still singing as he opts to engage the repulsor lifts ahead of schedule, slapping a console when alerts offer him protest. <"As the souls of the dead fill the space of my mind, I'll search without sleeping, till peace I can find. I fear not nebulae, or ethereal winds against me. I remember the fallen, do think of me? When their ones in the void forever shall be."> more alerts come and he leans to scrawl something with the probe tool at the head of the thrust controls.
And then his voice engages on the PA, "Fie, cease thine conflict - thine noble captain utters so. We shall be engaging at speed, immediately."
Then the main engines go as the throttle lever is pushed so that it hovers at 11.
No word sent back on comms, if anything Bors simply turns off comms for the moment as the ship surges - landing struts having barely cleared the ground and the craft not meant for such maneuvering 'coughs' when a dancing set of fingers inform the forward repulsors and maneuvering thrusters of impending 'proximity'.
Such a fibber, Bors.
The resulting burst from both systems kicking he nose upward even as power meant normally for non-atmospheric travel begins superheating duracrete in a trail behind them and the ship clears dock and starts to streak for atmosphere.
<"Plot a course to the night, to a place I once knew. To a place where my hope died along with my crew. So I swallow my grief and face life's final test. To find promise of peace and the solace of rest..."> singing again.
--
Just as it looks as if they might pull this off after all, just as it looks as if Ezlo can finally grab a snack and take a nap... horrible tragedy strikes! Though it takes Ezlo a second to realize just how horrible the tragedy is. He hears the shot, but doesn't register until his sweater starts to get damp, and in the moment before the redness starts to stain through he's concerned primarily with thoughts that he might have wet himself, or that someone else might have wetted him. In a sense, both statements are true.
"Shiz... looks like this is the end of the line..."
Looking down dramatically at his torso, he sees the blood dripping, and clutches his midsection with two of his hands.
"I shoulda done... so much more... with my life..."
Sinking dramatically to his knees, he looks as if he's about to deliver a very lengthy monologue, in which he reveals the life lesson that he's finally learned, far too late. But he's interrupted by the crazed rantings of a frightened, angry mechanic.
A mechanic to which Ezlo extends a hand, as if trying to communicate his own helplessness.
"Hey man... come on... don't be such a boner. I'm gonna die anyway... I... <cough!> just have.... <cough!> one dying wish...."
Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a plastic bag, with a little greenish-purplish bud of some sort of leafy-looking fungal growth.
The mechanic seems to know what it is.
"Before I <cough!>... slip away... how about we <cough!> <groan....>... light one up and... get totally spaced?"
--
Rieve is certainly torn between the 'dying' Ezlo and the raging mechanic trying to stove his head in. Ezlo's attempts to soothe over this upset in his last few moments, those last few seconds before oblivion takes him... well... they make the mechanic pause for a second. Rieve takes that second to tear his vibrosword from its scabbard, though he doesn't turn it on and seems intent on using the flat of the weapon. Yet... Rieve is off balance and the mechanic swings again rather wildly! The first swing connects heavily with Rieve's stomach doubling him over all the same and forcing him to tumble and scramble away from the mechanic. Winded. Breathless. And trying his best to stay between him and his dying companion. It'll be over soon Ezlo. Soon. So soon sweet space simian.
Bors seems to be having a better time of it with the freighter moving a little oddly, the weight clearly isn't stowed properly. But his skill with the ship has it soaring high and swift. His voice bouncing nobly about the corridors! Indeed, altitude is gained swiftly with Bors' skill. The rush, the creaks, the unsteady footing some might find as the freighter soars.
And the fighter soaring into view on the port side... waiting... there's still city beneath... but it's gaining. Space is approaching...
--
Fighter incoming, message board saying hails are trying to come through and Bors isn't paying them any mind. Leaning over the controls and slapping a readout, <"No...">
The ship tries to inform him that it is having trouble with atmospheric friction, announced also by the ship shields that are trying to raise in spite of the battering trying to knock them back out. One hand moving to begin tapping in hyperspace coordinates as they continue to rise, flicking the PA on again,
"I do hope you're getting this all settled, and soon." tone sing-songy.
--
It's truly astounding how quickly Ezlo Rafe can roll up a fresh shroob stick. Even in the midst of chaos, even in the middle of his own dramatic death scene, those dexterous hands can still roll up a stick that's so tight, and packed so well, that it'll have an immaculate draw and allow the poor wounded space monkey to enter the void calmly chuckling. He'll die doing what he loved, a victory that can't be taken away from him, no matter how much his belly button is beginning to sting.
But speaking of immaculate draw....
As he lights up his tightly-packed joint with one hand, he covers the joint with another, and lights it with yet another. Three total hands dedicated to the task of providing him with some extremely dank shroob, which might seem in the moment to be an excessive amount. After all, the guy who will supposedly sign his check is about to get his face caved in by a rusty wrench.
But it's that fourth hand that counts, as if often the case with Ezlo.
As he inhales the thick, pungent smoke, the Ardennian who claims to be a fearsome bounty hunter firmly grips the wooden handle of his blaster pistol, and takes off the safety. As the mechanic prepares to attack again, he fires off a show which misses, but draws the mechanic's attention.
The other two go right through the mechanic's eyes, taking out first the left one. Then the right one.
Still crouching, Ezlo finishes inhaling, and the whole cargo bay starts to smell like a mynock roast.
"Should have <Kaff!> called my... <Kaff!> mom more... <Kaff!> often..."
And then he slumps over. Definitely totally dead.
He's even snoring to prove it.
--
Rieve pauses as the mechanic just keels over with a dull and dead thump. Lifeless. Gone. Soon to be forgotten. Rieve stows his balde and moves to kneel beside Ezlo, checking him over and tugging a slung pack from his shoulder and settling the various bandages and ointments and such between him and the ape. "You're going to be fine, cease your death rattles... I mean it's been a while since I did this and this is just a scratch. If you wish to see a true wound, I should show you mine." The very words uttered as he pokes, prods, and finds the suspected wound to be a touch smaller than expected. Even so, he binds it, pads it, spritzes it first of course with a stinging dose of bacta. Waiting of course for Ezlo to stir before doing anything proper. Either way, over the comms, Rieve announces. <<"Final problem dealt with... just patching up our friend.">>
Two shots are fired. They are not warning shots. The shots are felt. But the shields and Bors' piloting ensures that the ship holds its course!
--
Rolling the ship on axis when cannon fire begins to rain down, the Alderaanian at he helm growls as the ethereal rudder struggles with the power fluctuations caused by strikes forcing power to divert to shield restoration. More and more striking, but a switch toggle shifts shields to double back once past the customs ship.
Shaking in his seat and grumbling to himself as he aft of the ship slews to try and face stronger portions of the shields to absorb the strikes that threaten the inertial dampers.
<"Oh it'll be fine...">
Who the hell is he talking to? Himself? Non-present droids he is used to the howls of? Who knows. But the nav system flashes bright green, illuminating the faceplate of his helm and his next move is instinct. Hoping people are braced as he throws another lever, sending the ship hurtling forward in a flicker of pseudomotion and into the hyperspace tunnel.
--
"Snnnnnnzzzz... Hee hee... stop it Zu-Zu... that tickles..."
It's not every day that a man gets shot almost directly in the belly button, and that's not really what happened to Ezlo either. Whatever hit him though, hit him so close to the belly button that there's a good chance that he'll look like he has two when he finally gets his bandages off. Or he might look like he has one very large one. Either way, it's merely a flesh wound, with no organs poking out and a general lack of blood now that the bandage has been applied.
But it looks like he's already off and dreaming, unable to hear just how much of a baby he's being.
"... snnnnnzzzzz I mean it... snnnnzzzzzzz... hee hee... 's'not your birthday..."
Let's never speak of this again.
--
And Rieve? He slumps. He grins. He sets about making the necessary communications... and perhaps stowing a dead body. And one not quite so dead body. Yeah, that one will need tossing off the ship at the next landing. Alive. Unharmed. Unconscious. Ezlo will also find himself deposited with enough creds for a ticket, before the ship departs again for a destination unknown...
--
