Log:Reverie: The Wrong Sort of Hello
Mos Espa on a cool evening....things go the wrong way.
OOC Date: June 4, 2022
Location: Mos Espa
Participants: Tovani Enno herself/GM, Migs Mayfield, Khalim
Mos Espa, a literally dust bowl in the middle of an unforgiving planet. Those with the money to be elsewhere often are and those who are here are by necessity only - usually. Tovani is stands just outside the hangar where the Blur has been parked, waiting on a delivery of parts and goods to restock the waning stores after an unsuccessful attempt to haul in another bounty. Its a side job for the swoop racer and she's regretting it in the moment, her hand lifting to scratch at the gritty skin along her mauve hairline at the back of her neck. Long dusty pink locks are wound up and around at the back of her head in a messy bun. Sharp gold eyes glance back away from the hangar, scanning the streets that criss cross before her in hopes that the sled transporting what they need will arrive sooner rather than later.
She checks the chromometer on her wrist and then sighs.
The Blur is currently being attended to by a crew of droids, refueling and fixing a few dings in the hull from chancing too close to an asteroid field. Khalim will never notice those..right? Character. The ship is gaining character.
There is that stillness in the oncoming evening right before the streets will come to life when the heat relents that Tovani is given to a false sense of security. Jawas make their move then, approaching with a small cart of goods - not her's.
Migs is only a few hangars down the way leaning up against the sand-blasted structure and looking tense as he scans the tarmac this way and that as if looking for someone. A glance to his datapad and the expression sours. "Yer kiddin' me with this," is grumbled to himself but loud enough to earn a cocked eyebrow from a technician wandering by. Sensing himself being stared at, Mayfeld lifts his head and bites out: "I wasn't talkin' to you, scrab. Keep moving." To which the passerby gives him an honest Tatooine salute -- with only one finger -- then carries about on his way.
Another glance at his datapad. Another curse, this one under his breath. A finger pokes at the screen hard to turn it off and it gets shoved into the recesses of his vest. "Screw this." Pushing away from his lean-to in the minimal shade, Migs makes starts making his way towards the main starport; passing by the colourful Wroonian with her own problems.
As the Jawas approach she hears the exclamation from Migs, a vaguely familiar face as he passes by. "Hey! You local?" Its a question thrown his way as she takes a step towards him, hoping he can help her out with a problem..well two. Warding off Jawas from the hangar and finding out if the person she bought from is reputable.
"Do you know anything about Lenny's Leftovers? Its some scrap yard on the outskirts that promised delivery. Did I potentially get scammed out of my credits?"
There is a hopeful look as the Jawas hang off to the side, letting out the high pitched native tongue in an effort to distract her from her impromptu conversation. That is when things get a little less straight forward and more suddenly unexpected.
There is a soft TING off the wall beside her as a cylindrical piece of metal hits the building and rolls to the ground just behind her. The Jawa's see it, hesitate, look at each other and take off as a gas begins to pour from it and lift into a cloud right around the Wroonian. Coughing immediatley ensues and the woman becomes obscured by the thick grey cloud. With no current wind it lingers like an unwanted barrage upon her senses.
The quick shuffle of footfalls of a cloaked figure sound. A helmeted head filters the toxins, or will when they get near enough to the affected area.
Khalim had just descended that still-lowered ramp connecting the Blur's interior to that sand-choked expanse of thruster-scored duracrete. He'd been on a beeline for the personnel-sized hangar entrance Tovani was just beyond, but there's a double take at a pair of spaceport services pit droids working beneath the vessel. One standing atop the other's spindly shoulders, of course, shifting this way and that to help keep its sibling from clattering to the deck. "What the?" he breathes out, "those aren't refueling droids." Dark brown eyes narrow as he notices the focus of their attention: a rather gnarly dent and an accompanying scrape that managed to peel a solid half meter of paint off the transport's belly.
A growl escapes, mild as it is, as the Mirialan's attention returnst to that small exit beyond which he knows the guilty party awaits a delivery. "Toviiiiii..." He resumes his beeline.
"Lenny showed up?" he asks as he passes into the bazaar-like thoroughfare the hangar adjoins. "Lenny's Knapsack or something? And why, may I ask, is a repair crew working on the Blur?" There isn't time for answer, however, as that metallic object TINGS off the wall just to his right. Khalim starts, and then again as it begins ejecting gas. An arm is ineffectively brought against his mouth, a heavy pistol slipped out of a low-slung holster.
- COUGH* *coughcough*
Oh this isn't good, not good at all.
Aged blue eyes barely even look the Wroonian's way as he briskly tromps past. "Do I look like a rekking brochure?" His accent gives him away, to be sure. Not a local in any sense of the word. Also not much of an altruistic sort on the face of it. He brushes the woman off, but then has to stop suddenly or risk walking right into a green-hued man coming from the other way. "And apparently I'm invisible. Hey! Where do you get off--"
Ting.
Mayfeld's stomach drops into his feet, his already pale face blanching and annoyance flooding way for the brief flicker of panic. He knows that sound. It's been decades but Maker be damned, he knows that sound. The haze is already to his knees in milliseconds -- he grabs the scarf looped around his neck. Now it's made it into his lungs -- he is coughing as he wraps the fabric quickly around his nose and mouth. Vision obscured by the thick haze and the sound of movement, he stoops down and moves towards the open hangar where Tovani and Khalim had been standing in front of.
Blinded at the best, about to pass out in a few more seconds at the worst. Tovani drops lower, her eyes watering as she chokes out a cough, "Khalim?" COUGH! She is about to turn around when there is a rough hand on her arm and she reaches forward and grasps it, turning into the pulling yank only to find a helmeted face and a taller build than anyone familiar she knows. "Hello, Lotus...been too long," the figure says, pulling hard on the Wroonian.
His voice carries to the others in immediate vicinity which does not currently involve the Jawas any longer. Survivors those creatures. Like roaches.
A fist balls up and with what focused strength she can muster despite the searing of her lungs she takes a swing at his neck and misses, half stumbling through the smoke that just keeps spreading and becoming more of a problem for those trying to navigate. Other bootfalls hit the ground around them, the sound of a speeder stopping outside the field of smoke can be heard.
Invisible? Not quite full stealth! Khalim had managed to get a half-apologetic smile off, just barely, when chaos had taken hold. In the moments that follow, as that smoke rises into the obscuring cloud it quickly becomes, it's his ears that give him that sense that something's wrong. A voice, very near, that sounds less than friendly. But it's the shifting swirls of that obscuring gas that gives him the vague outline, through his own sting of tears, of Tovani in a hard grip and the Wroonian's failed swing back.
He's collected enough to recognize, intuitively, that a blaster bolt under these conditions would be to risk shooting the wrong person. That heavy pistol finds itself back within its holster, a feat that requires little in the way of conscious thought at this point, and then he's closing the distance to Tovi's would-be abductor. A harsh chop-slap intended to separate the two results in Khalim's hand simply rebounding off an armored guantleed. What follows is an open palmed blow across the man's visor, his helmet rocking back but no serious damage likely inflicted.
"Kriffing," he manages to get out, between the coughs that follow. "Tovi, fight!" A glance back to the man, vaguely familiar as he'd glimpsed him for that brief moment. An appeal behind that dark brown gaze, smoke and tear stained, to help.
Shoulder pressed into the side of the hanger, Migs rolls around the edge of the open bay doors into relative cover. Keeled over and coughing heavily, eyes watering from the irritants, he rallies himself in the few seconds he can spare. In that split of time, a debate is going on in the bald-man's dome. Most of it involves the various curse words he's picked up over the years peppered with arguments on why he should just bail on this encounter.
This ain't his fight. These ain't his people. Hell, his contact didn't even rekkin' show up. Unless this is some kind of set-up. If it is, he needs to erase the threat right now. Also -- and this is important -- whoever it is just gassed him and that can't be left to stand.
It all passes through in the span it takes to choke a deep breath or two through the layers of fabric wrapped around his head. A decision is made and both hands disappear into the depths of his vest to grip at the twin pistols kept hidden there. A look over his shoulder, around the edging, he peers into the haze of movement. A trio of figures all clustered together in what seemed to be a confrontation and a few skittering just beyond that perimeter.
A twist on his foot and he pulls out of cover; two pistols now firing off together in frighteningly rapid succession. The bolts whiz past the trio dangerously if expertly close and nullify two targets before they can get within melee range.
No one ever expects a random bystander to stick it out and fight. Neither do these guys - unfortunate for them. As their leader is currently caught between Mirialan and Wroonian they are thus faced with the onslaugh tof one Migs Mayfield who suffers no fools and leaves no survivors. That is the way this is playing out thus far as not just one but two hit the ground, the second still living and breathing as an offense to Mig's very existence. He does however start to crawl back towards the speeder outside the heavier portion of the gas cloud.
THe third is untouched yet but the mission...or objective does not seem to be finished so he turns his weapons towards the bolts and unleases one heavy shot after a moment to aim. It cuts through the smoke and lands heavily on Migs, slamming home hard.
Fight Tovi!
Her eyes are watering, starting to get a bit puffy as she coughs, her lungs burning now. There is a growling grunt as Tovi's fist goes flying with the added pep talk from the Mirialan beside her. The masked man releases her, stumbling back as she hits him again, taking a step forward, though this one does not land as heavily. She grits her teeth as there is a clicked sound in his helmet. He takes a step back and then another before turning and hurrying from the cloud of gas, grabbing at the crawling figure downed by Migs to haul him aboard the speeder.
Behind those obscuring tendrils of smoke all that can be seen are rough blobs hauling eachother away. One of them he still recognizes as Tovi's almost-abductor, having witnessed him release her and disappear backwards. His pistol is suddenly in hand again, even as he's turning, turning and dashing back through that private hangar's still-open door. There's nothing in the way of real aim, just a general direction in which he discharges two bright golden bolts. They run high, spashing against the corridor's far wall, and intentionally so. Covering fire! The best he can do in the moment.
Once more within the hangar proper Khalim smacks the door's control panel, half-visible through smoke-irritated eyes, and it seals behind him. Behind all three of them, as Tovani had managed to drag Migs within. The absence of that smoke allows his vision to begin clearing. A hard look is shared with Tovi as joins, scanning down her form. "Are you hurt?" She appears fine, especially in contrast with the downed man she pulls. A blaster bolt had struck Migs center mass, leaving a burned score through fabric and some indications that the damage hadn't ended there.
Matching Tovi's movement, upon the other side, he helps the cranky ginger up the ramp and within. "Medikits... did we restock?"
Two assailants successfully neutralized yet Mayfeld curses. Two isn't enough and the volley is on him before he can get his legs to move. 'Should've listned to reason,' says an obnoxious, know-it-all voice in his head. A voice that is every bit his own. A flash of red lights up the smoke a short distance away, the bolt ripping through the cloud of gas and finding purchase directly into his chest.
The bolt burns right through his vest, the harness, the shirt underneath. It eats at the skin immediately; and explosion of energy erupting from the sternum and the kinetic energy fracturing several ribs and partially collapsing a lung. Suffering under the cuncussive blow, Migs is thrown backwards a couple feet -- further into the hangar he had been standing just at the threshhold of -- and lands hard onto his back.
Both pistols fall from his hands upon impact, skidding across the hangar's deck to the sound of metal on sand. It is a massive hit to take in one go and the older man lay staring up at the high-arched ceiling dazed and gasping for air. Also his vest might be on fire.
As the gas cloud continues to linger and slowly vent out of the top of the hangar, Tovi is coughing still, wishing for the life of her she wore more sensible armor with a helmet and filter. Khalim is the man of motion in that moment, looking her over and then considering med kits as she studies the man flat on their current hangar floor. "I...I am fine. He..is not." She croaks out and starts his way, dizzy from the inhalation.
"Kriffing..." she begins and goes down heavily upon one knee next to Migs. "We need to get off this world..and we need to get him to a medic. Priorty one. Pay the droids...lets load him."
Migs may not get a say in this as Tovi moves herself by scooting over to his shoulders and reaching down to pat out the fire that still smolders along the edges of his clothing. "Got you..." she says, her voice raw. The Wroonian grunts, getting her hands beneath his arm pits an dthen lifts, rising up so that his legs drag. "Get his guns..." She rumbles out, stepping backwards and towards the ramp. "I hate this...world..."
Every now and again the layers that are Khalim betray themselves, the complexities of his life having created some manner of automatic responses to crisis. None of them involve sitting in a corner; all are movements forward. Not always in the right direction. But in this moment there is but one way forward and as he kneels next to Migs he looks to the downed man. That injury looked dramatic, even through obscuring layers of vest, harness, and shirt. He's considering options, even as the man's blasters are collected up.
Knowing the Wroonian's strength, that compact form more powerful than his own, he looks to Tovi. "Get him onto a blast couch, I'll prep us and we'll..." A stricken look crosses his features, "We'll pull in some favors." He points towards that now sealed door leading back into the hangar-adjacent bazaar lined thoroughfare. "That was not random. We're not leaving a paper trail." A searching look follows, but he makes no further commentary and begins dashing up the ramp.
He doesn't stop for anything but that cockpit door, and then the holo-surrounded pilot's seat just beyond it. First up, paying their bill, and getting those droids out from beneath the Blur. That's a function made possible by the 'pad that's pulled out of a jacket pocket. Even as this is happening Tovi and Migs - if he's conscious enough - begin to hear the hypermatter reactor's powercycle, a low thrum that begins to permeate the starship's interior. Air circulators begin pushing with a bit more emphasis and moments later that subtle ion scream of the transport's sublight drives can be heard as well.
Their time upon Tatooine is short.
There is a ringing in his ears that is not going away anytime soon and this unfamiliar hangar is swaying back and forth as if Migs has found himself on a scooner stick in the middle of a Pamarthe storm. But it is the emptiness in his hands that carries the most weight to Migs: keeps him anchored somewhat to consciousness and an awareness of reality.
Two figures are standing over him talking to each other. He can't quite make out the words, but there is a distinct sneer creasing his expression at the mention of taking his guns. While he didn't /hear/ the words, it is as if he could sense them. He tries to protest, but the iron-taste in his throat and the sickeningly charred smell of his own burned flesh renders him unable to do so. Verbally. That grimace is ever-present as he is lifted up and whisked away.
