Log:Resistance: The Summons

Resistance: The Summons (part 1)

OOC Date: December 29, 2017
Location: Hound Base, Nar Shaddaa
Participants: Ambrosia Greystorm, Gren Delede, Rail Onasi, David Ironside, Dashara Rand

The call's finally come. Greystorm and the rest of the Hounds can finally get out of this dank-ass hole in the ground. And now? Now there is organized chaos. Personnel are scurrying all over the place, fueling craft, loading crates, and chatting energetically among themselves. "Bryson!" Ambrosia barks for attention and reaches out to physically snag the arm of a uniformed technician buzzing by. She wields a datapad and without asking, plucks the tech's outta hand and mates hers to it via plug. "You see these coordinates?"

"Erm...yes?"

"I want you to upload this to every flight captain we got on this base...preferably before some of them split. This is where we're meetin up beyond the grav well, prior to jump. Make sure everyone made it off the damn moon."

"Got it!" Bryson chirps and doesn't hesitate to dart off once his is free of hers.

"Listen UP!" The bellow of command carries through the cavernous space as the vintage veteran continues to march on through. "WE LEAVE, FOUR HOURS, COUNTDOWN STARTS NOW. Flight Officer....YOU!" Whatever her name is "Grab a buddy, get your shit, and help whatshisface to upload all the recent Sims data, then delete all files. I want it braindead. Then hit Stash Zone C to get that bird in the air!" Dropping her voice, she mutters into comm "Sgt Ubi, you take some of your boys and get to strippin the armory."

"Yeah, that's fine. Just pack it and stash it," Rail says to one of the technicians that's finished refueling the A-Wing that young Onasi is currently standing on. "Last I heard was the U-Wing for some of the bigger stuff." He gestures to the Resolute.

When the technician departs, Rail moves the short distance from the tip of the A-Wing to the cockpit and slides it open, pulling a datapad from his belt and connecting it to the terminal. The nav-computer beeps as it begins downloading the coordinates to D'Qar.

Looking over at Amber's orders, FO Onasi drops down off of the small starfighter and moves to her, asking, "Where do you need me, now, sir?"

An announcement over the loud speaker blares, announcing an incoming vessel, warning folks to be attentive on the deck. Moments later, and a large Imperial-designed Sentinal-class landing ship glides in, and deftly squeezes itself into what passes for landing zone in the crowded Resistance hangar. The flying tank's ramp slides out with a hiss, but instead of a detachment of Bucketheads, there's a handful of techs that scurry out, apparently sent to assist in the stripping of Hound. Following them, and looking uncomfortable in his Resistance Flightsuite is Captain Gren Delede, Resistance Navy, and until very recently...by all accounts, a dead man. He pauses at the top of the ramp, and eyes the commotion. His eyes cruises across the various starfighters, lingering for a moment on the A-wings and their pilots, before settling on Amber. A small, somewhat sardonic grin touches his lips, and he starts in her direction, looking right at home.

A relative unknown runs in, followed closely by an R2 astromech droid. Carrying a helmet under his arm, his flightsuit seems brand new. Noticing the crowd, he runs up and salutes silently, waiting for orders.

Somewhat lost in the confusion - Dashara Rand or DX1066 as she used to be known walks into the chaos with her 'handler'. Still a supervised member of the resistance at the moment. Her green eyes widen at the activity - and like the unknown man she gravitates to Amber - the one person she really even half knows in this frackas. "Should I be doing something?" She asks.

"Why don't ya run along to housing and see if the Mess crew is ready to load?" Ambrosia offers to Rail, "And take that one with you," she motions to the green cadet that comes trotting up. "Ironside, just picked him up earlier today. First though, make sure your own gear is packed, ready to goooooooohoooooly GHOSTS, would ya look at that?" Her eyes have drifted past Rail's face to what - or who - comes out of that very new Sentinel-Class landing ship. Hands find their way to hips as she stares down the approaching dead man and nods quietly to something unsaid.

"Captain...." she greets, face getting squinty in thought. "Did I just read a memo regarding your resurrection? Or am I past due for my pills?" It's a completely legitimate question. No smiles here.

Dashara gets a 1 fingered point to the sky that after a moment of thought is directed to Rail. Mr initiative over there. "Rand. Good news. You just might get a glimpse of our beloved General sooner than I'd thought. We're skipping town and going home. Hope your girlfriend won't mind." Scratching at her brow, she gestures vaguely around. "It's time to pack up and load up. You and our other new fella," a motion to David, "can follow Private Onasi here. From this point on, your time in Sims and PT is halted, till we offload and get you oriented to the BIG base. You get lost in the fray, find someone with a uniform, follow the leader."

"Flight Officer, sir," Rail corrects the Colonel. "And yes, sir." he adds, taking a moment to note the newly-landed Gren Delede. "C'mon," he voices to Dashara and David. "Hopefully they haven't put the chips away yet." He gestures for the two of them to follow behind and he marches toward the mess hall; i.e., his favorite room. David Ironside issues a command to R2 Astromech Droid - 11163. The droid bleeps its acknowledgement, and returns to its owner.

"Reports of my death were greatly exaggerated. Phoenix is gone, though. And my old little bird got impounded by ESPOs...but, I'm alive. Barely. The Admiral was...displeased." Gren replies, giving Amber a very brief thumbnail of where's he been for the extended absence. "Picked up a replacement on the way out the back door." Vague gesture to Last Call II, and and he nods to Rail as he glances in his direction. He gives an appraising look to all of the new personnel that he doesn't recognize, as ever, an old salt officer. "So, you're not senile, yet. That I'm aware of." He crosses his arms, and turns his head to look around the chaotic landing bay. "You're still alive. I'm glad, if a little surprised. How's the family?"

David Ironside salutes the new arrival, obviously a senior officer of -some- kind, then shoots a glance at Dashara and moves to follow Rail. As he passes Black Leader's X-Wing, his gaze almost involuntarily becomes locked on it to the point of his head turning as he walks away from it. Shaking his head, he mutters "Some day.." under his breath.

"I don't think 'my girlfriend' would be all that keen on me anymore," Dashara notes in passing with a wry smile. There were too many blasters in her first and last encouner with the Twi'Lek dancing girl. She falls into step behind Onasi, "Chips?" she asks not bothering to introduce herself. There may have been some talk around the base of the First Order officer who went awol and now was drafted into the resistance which might clear up any confusion.

"Sounds like you've had an interesting few months," Ambrosia finally awards Gren with a lopsided smile. Even when the mouth evens out, the left corner juuuust might be drooping a bit lower than the right. "Family's fine," she grunts in a manner that sounds anything but happy about it. "Won't be seein' Jax 'round these parts anymore, or Corporal Gath. Greystorm. S'just as well. Got a bigger problem come up, down here. Fairly new salvage from the lazy ass Republic forces." Both hands go to her face and pass a vigorous rub over to shake the exhaustion. "My son. The youngest. Wedge."

Gren and other oldies on base may remember the youngest of the three Greystorm offspring - tall and broad for his 18ish years, blonde like his momma - from last year's visit to her deathbed after the Sullust Op. He was the one blubbering like a baby over her corpse while Leia had to talk over the sound of it to pass along her words of encouragement to the rest of the family unit.

"Kid flunked out of flight school, so he thought he'd become a marine. Next thing I know, he's here. Signed up. Ready to do what he's no businss doin."

"Yeah, they got some kinda Coruscanti chips. Found them during a supply raid. Just about the only thing that's edible in that mess hall," Rail says with a grin over his shoulder at the two folks following him. "I'm Rail, by the way. Flight Officer 3rd Class Rail Onasi, but, uh...just 'Rail' will do. Nice to meet you two."

He rounds the corner to the Mess Hall and looks for something to do.

"You three!" barks a sergeant pulling a hoversled full of crates. Get these loaded up!"

"Yes, sir," Rail says, pulling rank and letting one of his two new friends pull the heavy cart along.

Gren pauses to turn, and returns David's salute. He tosses a wink to the passing nugget, and then his attention returns to Amber. He, as always, is direct and blunt. "You're his mother. I'm sure he's another natural born killer." Because that's exactly what every parent wants to hear. There's a frown as she explains that Jax has left the Resistance, but these things do happen. "We need more killers, Colonel. It's been so long, and shit just keeps getting worse, and no one is taking the First Order seriously. I'm ready to get back to kicking their asses, though." A pause, and the man smirks. "I could give you an even bigger problem, if you don't shoot me for suggesting it...."

Giving Rail a sideways glance, David takes the hoversled in hands and starts pulling it along. "Where am I taking this, Rail?", he asks. Obviously it would be a waste of time to drag a full sled to the mess hall for some chips, so David takes initiative in thinking his orders have changed. At the mention of a bigger problem, David turns back to Gren, curious.

Shrugging Dashara grabs a hoversled as well, "Dashara Rand," she says, "I guess I am jusr a recuit now if I have any rank. Used to be a Lieutenant in my former job. These chips nutricious?" She directs her emerald eyes back to Amber asnd the other man only briefly.

"Kid's never stomped a kriffing bug in his entire existence for frak's sake. He ain't me. He's good." And that's a problem, far as Ambrosia's concerned. "You know me better'n to think I'd shoot your mug..." there's a small tug of mirth threatening to return as she waggles fingers over the sport knife on her thigh. "What ya got? Walk'n'talk. I wanna make another pass through tactical, see how the data removal's going."

"Not at all," Rail answers Dashara with a smirk. He looks to the two of them and says, "We'll take the sled to the mess hall and get it loaded up, then we'll throw all of that on to the Sentinel that just landed. Should be plenty of room on that."

"Aye. I wouldn't mind seeing the old place again, one last time." Gren replies, allowing his thought to trail off, so he can follow the woman. "I saw Yavok when I came back. Had to get my bearings, find out what I'd missed on the way to D'qar." The Captain reaches into his flightsuit pocket, and pulls out a fresh looking flask. Old battered piece of gear has disappeared. "I could get drag him back. He's gotten a little soft, I think. But, he seems to have kicked the stims. And, like I said. We need killers. He's a hell of a killer." Gren clears his throat, and takes a swig from his flask, before offering it to Greystorm.

With a shrug, David looks away from Gren. Maybe the bigger problem is something the brass will handle and store away for a later time. There are more pressing matters to attend to at the moment. "David," he says to Dashara and Rail. "David Ironside. I got here just today." With that, he glances over at his R2 unit, giving it a quick nod and getting a series of beeps in reply as it rolls off towards the starfighters. "So, what are we hanging around here for? Let's go."

Dashara helps grab the 'chips', "Any booze in this place or do we have a dry insurrection," The saddest kind of insurrection in her opinion. She nods a greeting to David. Dashara's statuesque beauty marred as always by her no sithspit given attitude. Making her more one of the boys.

A hoarse "HAH!" emits from Amber's throat harshly and she waves off the flask. "Figures you two'd find eachother." Instead, she fishes around in vest pocket and slides forth a tattered-looking cig, followed by a lighter. "For the cough," she informs out the side of her mouth, and doesn't bother breaking stride to light up an end and puff a little healthy glow into the stick. A couple draws, then it's crumpled in hand and smothered before they reach tactical. "You 'big problem' is Yavok? I can handle Yavok...paid him a few visits myself since he was uh...the hell's the polite term for it." A few fingersnaps make to recall the word from her spotty(er) memory. "Dismissed. Yeah, since he was dismissed. Man's cleaned himself up, my opinion. Same old Sar, though. Full of shit." Punctuated with a flutter of lash. An eye roll, halfway at best. "Not sure. I don't really drink," Rail answers, helping load the cart down with delicious, crispy goodness. One of the bags is swiped and tucked into his jacket pocket. "Unless you count caff. Revolutions are built on caff."

Once the crates are loaded up, the cart is ready for the trip back to the docking section.

"Yavok's a pain in the ass. Just wanted to make sure, before I asked him back. He needs this. I swear, I wouldn't be suprised if he's off feeding pigeons in a park. He's lost his edge. Needs it back. I'll pay him a visit. We're supposed to meet at Takadona, soon." Gren replies with a grin, before tucking his flask away, and zipping the pocket up. As they step into Tactical, there is an audible sigh from the man. The place being torn apart is a shock, even if he expected it. "I hated being sent away from this place. Thank you for keeping it running, Colonel. I worried that I'd get back to find it destroyed....well, not by us, anyway."

Looking over his shoulder, David pulls a fancy sealed bottle from his flight suit, setting it down on a crate and wordlessly sliding it over to Dashara. "Swiped this from the place they recruited me at. It was fancy. The guy at the door should've been more polite," he whispers to her as they pull the sled along.

Dash replies to Onasi's remark, "Darn is the buzzkill division then. I'm more of a depressants girl," She looks gratefully at David's offering unveiling her hip flask from her armoured decolletage, "Thanks - looks nice - you can hang onto it - maybe have a drink with me after the big move. Assuming we aren't dodging blaster fire right away."

"I love being sent away from this place," Greystorm fails to empathize. She takes a little stroll around the interior as her little Intel operative nerds scramble to wrap it up. More than one heads jerks up and around to stare at Gren like they've seen a ghost, but she doesn't bother with introductions and instead bends to pick up a shiny bolt that may or may not be important later during reassembly. "Summons to fresh air couldn't come soon enough. But you're welcome. Wasn't easy. Order's been a lil more frisky lately, what with another Hutt coup and local political turmoil. Buuuut, we're still here. And they're still here. Sadly. Did nab a rogue fossil floatin' round up in the orbit - TIE Defender old as we are. Dermout, Jax, my nephew - we had the thing surrounded, then it blew itself sun high. Picked up some coded cylinder it shat out right before self-destructing but Darsi's slicing muckup couldn't crack its code and she and I were...well. It wasn't a good night. Week." A slow headshake as she recalls the smelly purple explosion and she pivots to sit her ass down on the large, central table.

"Anyway, scored some supply transport schedules of First Order goods. Slammed and linked up to one of them with a lil boarding party and got as far as the cockpit to check the jump comp while our engineer went for the manifest to see who's supplying, buuuuuut it was rigged to blow. Make a right mess, but we got out." She tosses the bolt from one hand to the other. "That's a sampler of the excitement you've missed 'round here, so...don't be too sad."

Rail Onasi and Co. return to the docking section, and gestures to the big Sentinel landing craft. "Alright. We'll just get 'em loaded up on there and see what else we can get into." He helps manuever the sled right in front of the shuttle and grabs one of the crates, marching it up the ramp and into the belly of the ship.

"It sounds better than six months in a Corporate Sector prison. Bastards get cutrate corps to handle everything, especially the food. They fed us for like a credit a day, per prisoner. The soap...don't get me started. I have delicate skin." Gren complains, after nodding to the folks that recognize him, and looks confused. "I'd take hijinks on this shit hold over boredom in that shithole on any day of the week. Still, glad you didn't get blown up. Always a risk with you." The man shrugs, and walks over, and picks up a big box of crap, acting like a hauler, rather than an officer. "I'll get this crap back to D'qar, then I'm off to haul Yavok back by the ear, Amber. After that, someone's finding me a proper job, because hell if I'm gonna spend my golden years flying a heavily armed grunt bus. That's just my weekend ride. Waste for the best pilot in this outfit." Starfighter pilots. Never short on ego. He gives the Colonel a smile, and says. "It's genuinely good to see you, Colonel. I'll get this back to the Last Call, and see if I can't direct traffic, a bit."

After securing the crates on the shuttle, David walks down the ramp, catching the latter half of the shuttle pilot's sentence. Smirking to himself, he walks over and leans on the stationary hoversled, currently not hovering so much. "So what's next? Any more chips we need to grab?" David makes a show of looking around and the muffled sound of glass clanking against glass can be heard from inside his flight suit. "Those'll be some more bottles. They pissed me off at the Golden Orb earlier.

"My my - quite the scsoundrel we are new blood," Dashara remarks to David proferring a wink. "Don't worry though - I've put people through worse for pissing me off. Used to be my job in fact." More junk food sounds just fine for Dashara who eyeballs the remainder of the brass.

"We'll see how long that sentiment lasts," Greystorm wisely quips while leaving the heavy lifting to him. She's 'supervising'. The crow's feet in her eyes' corners crinkle a little more deeply and voice softens into a tone that dangerously resembles warmth. "It's good to see you, too." A hasty salute sends him on his way, then, and she eases off the table to get out of the way of the other bodies doing actual labor here. "I'll be back in ten," before she moves out in Gren's wake to check the status of another room.