Log:Shadowport: Infestation Station
Anakin turns back from the dark side
OOC Date: August 23, 2020
Location: Ord Mantell Shadowport Base
Participants: The Shadowport, Eriu Jynx as GM, Zhu Yan, Liz'diot, B'haav Adasta, Netep Muri, King, Karr'roga, Naia, Emma Starflare, guest appearances by Rathe Versiano, Hadrix Kora
It may not be the most posh of bases but it has the benefit of NOT being on Nar Shaddaa and also being somewhat more discrete in its placement. Yes there is a junkyard but Eriu views this as a deterent for thieves and bandits. Inside the back haf of the ship has been fashioned into something of a liveable space complete with climat controls. Music is playing currently, some upbeat band thats been recently sweeping the galaxy as Eriu pours herself a drink and takes it in hand. Looking pleased with herself she moves over to a plush chair and slowly lowers into it - sinking into it. She puts her feet up and tips back her drink as the carry out lays across the various surfaces so that the Port and its current members can gorge if they so wish.
She dips her chin back as she drives away the dry air with some mixed alcohol with fruit. Sharp amber eyes trail over the rafters and support beams overhead as she bobs her foot to the music where she reclines.
Just another day for Shadowport and this one does not involve giant space slugs rushing at them, half eaten bodies, crazy colored birds, murderous mercenaries or the like. Its just a calm day that allows everyone to just..get to know one another.
Having just uprooted his life for the second time in a few months, King has taken the day to get settled in at the super secret base. His belongings (read: a duffle bag) have been stowed somewhere safe, and he's found himself wandering into the crew lounge, a rifle slung over his shoulder. It's an archaic-looking thing, it must be said, but that doesn't seem to bother the man much as he moves to have a seat in an unoccupied chair, unslinging the rifle and popping the clip out of it. The clip is tucked aside and the bolt of the rifle is slid back, clanging softly and ejecting the bullet that was sitting in the chamber which is snatched from the air and also tucked away.
"Not a bad little setup you folks have got out here," King says, pulling the bolt of the rifle back and taking a quick look at the floor plate. Free fingers flip the plate up and down a few times before he's seemingly satisfied by whatever he's seeing. "You crash the bird here yourself, or you just find it like this?" he asks, moustache twisting into a grin.
For something so large, it's almost obscene how quiet the Barabel can be - and move. There's no rumbling, no hissing or the sound of clacking talons on hard floors; just motion. For as large as he is, Karr'roga rightly shouldn't perhaps be able to move the way he does - fluid - leading with his head and shoulders that move side-to-side and that motion travels through his torso, spine, limbs, and finally the tail giving the odd look as if the Barabel is swimming through the halls. Low, the killer saurian breathes in the scents of this place and those thermal pits flash open. Time, and time again, covering the ground in an outward spiraling pattern as if searching for something: Which shouldn't surprise anyone, given the last time 'everything was normal' - there was a giant asteroid eating monster.
Learning down, wreathed in those rags that cover the Smasher armor, the large Barabel drags a talon across one of the stains. Tail swaying back, and forth, back, and forth, without ever touching the ground - and finally, he stands to glance around the hold with that slitted gaze and the distrust of someone who very, very clearly, still has some leftover PTSD.
It's then his nose catches the smell of that food - of the meat. Beautiful. Fresh. There's that motion in the body that shows how his brain is focused on remaining alert but...MEAT. The head jerking to the side, and that largest foot-talon tap-tap-tapping on the hard floor...before coming towards the food like a train on fire and once there releasing those loud vocalizations of growls, and hisses. MEAT.
"FETED, STUPID... NOOOO!" You thought you were going to have a calm evening in the base, except you forgot that Liz'diot also occupied this base from time to time. There was a crash and bang from his work room where he reclused himself away most of he time. The pustule ridden, sore afflicted, dimunitive Bith confined to a hover chair that had rear spoiler and neon runners THHHHHPPPPTTTTS his way into the common area. "WHO took the rest of my Namian Wine? THAT WAS MINE." In all actuallity, he probably drank it all or his droids hid it from him. Reguardless, Liz was no a happy camper. He pops open a hatch on his hover chair and gasps. "OH... THERE IT IS. HAHAHAHA..." He picks it up and uncorks the bottle, downing a great deal of the addictive booze.
B'haav Adasta was told that this would be a quiet day to further meet and mingle with the other members of the Sahdowport - members he has really not seen much of outside of the invariably-criminal outings of the last weeks. So, of course, he is as prepared for anything as he can be, perching on the arm of a couch in his grey suit, with a dapper, dark grey hat pulled low over the antennapalps most likely to distinguish him Balosar. He looks exhausted, dark grey eyes catching long blinks as he hasn't slept in a day, or three; his hands fidget with each other, and the only thing that seems to draw his fullly alert attention is the sniff of alcohol on the air that makes his head pop back slightly.
He's out of the way, and that's where he likes to be. He offers polite nods to the other members of the Shadowport, but to no one's surprise, he does not opt to speak before being spoken to.
No space slugs, no corpses, no angry avians or moody Queens of Poozah...
Muri's had enough downtime to do two things: switch up her hair color and make some headway on that "Atrium" botanical project that's been many weeks, some months maybe in the making. It's the sort of thing she busies with a few hours or days then leaves. Sometimes for /many/ days. One day it will be a lovely paradise. Right now it's still disorganized dirt, potted plants, budding cuttings, and a labyrinth of irrigation tubing that currently doubles as a snare if one isn't careful about where they step.
But nothing can ever be so simple, can it?
Netep meanders on in to the lounge, operating under the guise of seeking food. *Sniff*Sniff* She pokes about a carton or two after wandering the perimeter of the room. Glancing here and there. Mostly /up/. "Sooo...none of you've notice any uh--" Karr'roga gets a look when the hissing starts - or rather, where he's looking gets a look. And then Liz comes in screaming NOOOOO. A quickie glance shoots over to EJ resting there and she runs her tongue thoughtfully over teeth. Fortunately, Liz is just fussing about wine! So. "Any muja sauce?" She uplifts the noodle carton in hand and gives it a waggle for added effect. The pile of sauce packets that were lumped alongside collapses to reveal...."Hey, lookee there. Nevermind!"
Yup. All she had on her mind. Picking it up, Muri makes for a suitable spot to park her bum where she can watch the gun slinger do this thing.
No space slugs, no corpses, no angry avians or moody Queens of Poozah...
Muri's had enough downtime to do two things: switch up her hair color and make some headway on that "Atrium" botanical project that's been many weeks, some months maybe in the making. It's the sort of thing she busies with a few hours or days then leaves. Sometimes for /many/ days. One day it will be a lovely paradise. Right now it's still disorganized dirt, potted plants, budding cuttings, and a labyrinth of irrigation tubing that currently doubles as a snare if one isn't careful about where they step.
But nothing can ever be so simple, can it?
Netep meanders on in to the lounge, operating under the guise of seeking food. *Sniff*Sniff* She pokes about a carton or two after wandering the perimeter of the room. Glancing here and there. Mostly /up/. "Sooo...none of you've notice any uh--" Karr'roga gets a look when the hissing starts - or rather, where he's looking gets a look. And then Liz comes in screaming NOOOOO. A quickie glance shoots over to EJ resting there and she runs her tongue thoughtfully over teeth. Fortunately, Liz is just fussing about wine! So. "Any muja sauce?" She uplifts the noodle carton in hand and gives it a waggle for added effect. The pile of sauce packets that were lumped alongside collapses to reveal...."Hey, lookee there. Nevermind!"
Yup. All she had on her mind. Picking it up, Muri makes for a suitable spot to park her bum where she can watch the gun slinger do this thing.
Through the windows of the crew port was the approaching sight of the jankiest, ugliest YT-2000 the galaxy had ever seen. Seriously it belonged... right here, actually, in the junkyard. It had no right to be in the sky, let alone moving quite so fast. The only YT of that model that frequented the area was the Redline, and that could mean only one thing. Yan was back.
The Redline disappeared somewhere above and the compound started to shudder as the ship came in for landing. There was the sound of a thump, then an angry annoying whine as the engines spooled down. All was quiet, presumably as the pilot ignored all the post-flight checks and just turned the ship off as fast as possible because he was lazy. Where HAD Yan been this past week? Presumably letting the rest of his merry band of terrible individuals look after themselves (worst idea ever) while he arranged... something. Whatever, he'll be down in a minute.
Eriu smiles up at Muri, a curious look crossing her face as she sighs. The sound of the Redline brings her head up. "Mmmmm who are we expecting?" Her eyes tick over the assembled and realizes. "Yan?" Question mark. "Thanks King...it works for what we need and is a good fall back place honestly. There are other projects in the works," she explains and then notes the food being attacked - yes there is meet. Yes there are other things but she will wait as the fruity liquor in her hand is swirled nad sipped from.
B'haav gets a smile and a wave of fingers at. "Hey over there..got a preference of music or does this fit your taste just fine?" She asks of him, her smile growing as she watches Liz for a moment consume the very addictive alcohol with a slow consideration of someone fighting back the urge to join him.
A lift of King's brows accompanies Liz's entrance, because while he's been around for a little over one hundred and forty years, he's never seen anybody quite like the floating Bith. It's a sight to see, it must be said. Netep's arrival is met with a smile from the man and he dips his head in her direction. He's really gotta find his hat. "Miss Muri. Nice to see you again," he offers before he returns his attention to the gun he's fiddling with.
The lone bullet is slid back into the gun, the bolt is popped back into place, and, after a quick inspection of the springs, so is the clip. "Thanks again for letting me borrow this. Looks like it's been kept in pretty good shape," he notes to Eriu, giving the slugthrower a little pat.
"Likewise," Muri tips her carton. "Happy to point a path toward employment." She swivels on butt and kicks one leg after another out over the arm of the two-seater she's occupied and leans back to be cradled in the mini couch that's honestly about right for her size to nap in, anyway. The food is balanced on belly, greasy packaging be damned, and she sets to work mixing in a little extra sauce. Once the first bite is ready to go down the hatch, she wrestles a flask off hip and caaaarefully eases its lid free with a thumb.
"Hey B'haav," she 'points' at him with the flask over her head. "What uh...what did you ever do with your new friend?" Pause. "Y'know, the one what followed you home from the asteroid?" Hahahaaaa gross. Suffice to say, Muri hadn't stuck around long to find out, but stowed herself away again on the Hermi with her prizes.
There was a "Ding!" from the Turbolift as it arrived on the Crew Deck level from whence it came. Not an actual ding mind you, but someone literally saying the word 'ding'. Mark of a jackass, right there. And who else would do such a pointless thing but Zhu 'The Man The Plan' Yan? Here he was, all five-and-a-half feet of glory, The Jacket perf as always, plucking a strand of something out of his mechanical hand, probably his hair. Two years he'd had this arm-shoulder synth combo and he still kept trying to run it through that godawful messy hair that he would not let EJ touch. He was gonna lose it if he kept this up. The hair, not the arm. Already lost that.
"I'm baaaaaaaaaaaaaack!" announced Yan to the assembled trash. And also the actual trash. Liz, he means Liz. His arms were wide, as though demanding all bask in his radiance. "Did you miss me?"
The Barabel stares at the layout of meats and - nothing else is really important. Meat is important. Meat gets stared at for a long, long moment, slitted pupils growing wider, and wider still; when the bulding shakes from landing ships is perhaps what kicks off that feeding response:
Karr'roga's talons slowly, silently even, begin to extend until four more inches of glistening black terror is shown off and the creature just goes Barab. Slashing a large hand down at the table to snatch up the meat like it might run away, lowering his head and shoveling it into that fanged maw - throwing his head back to swallow (because molars aren't a thing for his kind) and tear-assing through the chow.
Then there's this floating Pussball screaming about liquor and the Barabel looks up, yellow eyes now nearly black in his feeding, and with irritation the heavy tail thuds down on the ground behind him, like the Bith might fight the Barabel for the fleshy bits. The best bits. A moment. Two. Then Karr'roga is glaring down at the meat again and - OMNOMNOM.
B'haav politely shakes his head. "This is fine, Eriu Jynx. I generally don't object to the music of others in their environments. It would be much like criticizing a chef for their use of spices in their own kitchen." He had been quite surprised with the scope of this base, and he may want to investigate more at some point, but for now he's just lurking on the periphery - content to stay in his shell.
"Oh, Baab?" He nods to Muri. "Well, with some effort and... Several awkward wrong-comms, I was able to track down and return him to his family. They were... I think, ultimately, grateful. Or maybe they will be. Turns out they have a strong tradition of burials in space..." He looks sheepish and a blush creeps up on his face.
Liz turns to look over the new mustached addition, taking yet another swig from his precious Namana Liquor. "YAS, you like the SLUG RIFLE. I have done much work to it to make it a proper killing implement. INDEED. There is no better armorer in the entire galaxy than myself!" He boasts, bulbous black eyes turning towards Karr and his meets. "Eww..." He offers in a tiny voice before motering himself further inside.
Looking at Liz is always an education, but definitely the nonconsensual kind. It's like being forced to look at slides of the most horrendous medical pictures from ancient earth that was before they discovered things like iodine and the fact that harlequin babies don't come from witchcraft. Looking at him is like taking three punches to the mouth and then one to th back of the head, and that's /probably/ why she flinches when she walks into the room and her corneas immediately make awful, lewd acquaintance with his visage. To her credit, the reaction is visceral and not at all on purpose, and hopefully the hand that quickly rises to her face does enough to cover that rude expression, but HELL, look at him.
She recovers (sort of) and makes her way toward the food, which is suddenly the least appetizing kind of sustenance she's ever come across, probably because everything she looks at is covered by a sheen of snot in her memory. The alcohol is what she makes a bee line for. Probably because it's usually the first thing she thinks about when she's not elbow-deep in guts. Let's give her the benefit of the doubt here. She doesn't seem to notice the sniffing barabel, although it would probably be more accurate to say that she knows enough to stay clear of him when meat is on a table and he might take it into his head that they need to fight over it. That would just be a mess.
She procures herself some sweet, sweet brain-death (alcohol) and nurses it like she's afraid there will be no more available to her ever. And then she takes a look around, eyes skating wherever the opposite of Liz' voice is. Muri is recognized. The man in the hat is recognized as well, and both get a little wave. Social obligations done, she takes a big gulp of something poisonous (still alcohol).
A hissing sound.
Where is there a hissing coming from? Is there a gas leak? Acid rain? Worse? Wait the doors are beginning to glow. Not like a new mother womb rich with children. Nor like the phosphorescence of Sullust Cavern Glowers. Not even like the cheery glow of even a death stick as one draws on it to inhale the delicious chemicals contained within. It's not the glow of a cheap Life Day decoration curiously like a multi-armed cook. Or Wookiee. Or blonde farm kid with too much eyeliner. No glow like the first rays of sun over the edge of the horizon. But there is a glow and it's very impressive looking. A good build, exciting for sure. Maybe it's exotic dancers.
Maybe it's a Song-A-Long with a dramatic start. Think of all the famous singers suddenly coming in on a marathon of popular songs being covered with an amazing synth-pop background tone! Maybe Zhu Yan will display a secret talent for playing a string instrument and pop in with something absolutely mind blowing for the sheer amazing of it. This could be the absolute greatest moment in all of Shadowport. A monument of memories to shake the cores of the spirit and rend all to tears for the beauty of the moment. The largess. Maybe tonight is going to be a good night!
Nope.
The doors detonate inward in streamers of flame, molten metal and gouts of plasma that are joining the shape thermal charges being used to breech. A war holo scene of terror and fear, death and destruction, a rainstorm of durasteel reduced to liquid spraying like a Chad shower storm over the islands. Then Mandalorians. Bad enough - but it's Kora. Kora with GUNS. One in rich blues and reds the other in black and gold. Charging through the smoke and flames to cover points. A legion of two, some might call even such a pair an army unto itself. Cities have fallen to such numbers of Mandalorians laying waste to all that dare stand before them. They're here! Ready! Barrels lifted to unleash - wait... ... Now they're looking at one another. Looking back to those assembled. To one another. To their weapons and to one another again at last before,
<"There're no Fear Rider's here... Rathe..."> the dull rumble of Hadrix's voice over vox among the chaos. <"This is the wrong slab of drek ship hull being used by scumbags...">
Glancing back at King, EJ is lounging in that chair - used and refurbished with a throw over it. "Glad to help, as long as you put it to good use." The group at large is lounging and eating, drinking, and spewing food places because they just can not get enough of meat. Class here folks. Just a lot of clash. She is invested in B'haavs story when the sudden explosion causes her ears to pop and her drink to go flying as she is utterly shocked and remains unmoving - though curling up to protect vital areas as bits go here and there. Their front door no longer exists and her ears are ringing as the hull just manages to bounce the sound around a lot.
It takes her amoment to blink and clear her eyes as she makes out the muffled voices and sits up. "The kriff?!" She gasps out. Even her voice sounds tinny and far away. SHe rolls to her feet and stands, near stumbling to her feet as she stares at the mandalorians. "MY FRONT DOOR!" She declares with unbridled rage. She starts to point a finger at Hadrix and then Rathe. "You two.." she says, narrowing her gaze.
"It's much appreciated," King responds to Netep, smiling warmly. Then his eyes turn back to the Bith. "It's a fine piece. I'd fit a bigger bore to it, myself, but it'll get the job done," he remarks, hefting the rifle up and pointing it off to the side as he stares down the length of it.
Yan's arrival doesn't draw much of a response from King, because...well, King doesn't know who that person is. He just looks like a homeless gentleman asking for a hug. King is not going to hug him. He will admire the hair, however; King himself having a mane worthy of pride.
Then there's explosions and intruders. Or at least they look like intruders. They're big, be-armored, and toting guns around. Also, they were the source of the explosions. Stepping out of his chair, pressing his rifle to his shoulder, spinning on the back of his foot, and aiming the ancient weapon at them in a seemingly very practiced movement, King finally gets a good look at one of them. "How's it goin', Hadrix?" he asks, rifle not lowering just yet.
At the table is a king of terrible act going on that was made illegal in over six systems: A Barabel feeding on meat in front of an audience. Straight from the platter, baby. Those talons sprouted to drag a piece of slab off the platter and throw it into the air and JUST as it's about to enter the opened maw of Karr'roga?
The creature is thrown back away from the food, foot-talons digging into the floor and the largest actually biting. With hands raised before him, Karr'roga's glistening yellow eyes stare over at the flaming Mandos.
Mandos. Hardskins. Long, taloned hands lowering to his hips the heavy tail whips violently down against the ground to slap and thud in a display of aggression that crawls into his very bones. It's then that Rathe opens his mouth.
The Barabel seeming to wrestle with himself, fingers clicking together, and the heavy tail giving another slap - before Karr'roga stands straight. Slitted pupils thinning at the melted metals and light, instead, there comes that growl and hissing. "HARRRRDSSSKINSSS!"
The clawed hands gestures to them both, "They come to ssstrip for Usss." There is another slap of the tail, and another, a growing rhythm. "SSSTRIP!" Maybe he's high on meat, and fresh blood, but the Barabel's tail starts going. "STRIP! STRIP!"
Because they're strippers. Why else would Rathe say so?
One might expect the weak decrepit for of Liz diot to scream in terror and run cowering that the massive concussive blast that rocked open the 'front door'... Instead he didn't flinch, taking yet another long swig from his Liquor bottle as sparks and debris fell around him. He turns his chair around, almost uneffected by the two Mandalorian who enter, his bulbous eyes behind swanky reimstone research goggles glaring past them at the shaped charge that had just exploded. THHHHPPPPPT <<"What was that, Thermite? Baradium?">> He asks gaining a closer inspection. A long single finger reaches out to swipe upwards and sample a taste, his long slinky tongue squigling out of his mouth hole like a complete seperate entity. A snake that lived inside of him. "You need to work on your skills, kora. Utter Phewie..." He turns back and hovers his way back to his spot. "Sumi will hear about this!" He turns his head to Karr and his words leave him. "WHAT?!" He looks back rapidly to the Mandos.'
B'haav likely would have kept talking about the adventures of B'haav and Baab if not for the explosion. His first instinct, rather than taking cover, is to prepare for the fight... So he draws his vibro-dagger. Then, as the spots clear from his eyes, he sees the armored Mandalorians; he looks to the dagger, back to the Mandalorians, back to the dagger, and then to the intruders. Well, it's better than a fist, and that's just inconvenient. Having not seen Rathe without a helmet on, at least not as he can recall in the parlance of his now-sober mind, he can only assume that things are going down. While others seem to be using people's names, he's not planning on lowering the meager weapon until told to do so by one of the two authority figures he acknowledges in the room.
He does quickly scan over the room, looking to see if anyone was injured by the debris and shrapnel following the blast.
"Oh!" Netep chirps a note of upbeat surprise from her foodie nest, around a mouthful of noodles and questionable meat. She's at a terrible angle to be swallowing food/drink without aspiration, but she'll give it an honest try. So far, so good, just a few little coughs into the back of her hand. Another bite, then she hastily chews enough of it down to say "Of COURSE" Belatedly, to Yan, "We missed y---" Netep twists her head around and struggles to do half a situp to look over the back of the couch toward the Lift doors. "Do y'all hear that?"
BOOM
There are noodles and liquor and arms and legs spilling all over the place as Muri erupts out her cushiony cradle and hits the floor. What a mess. The explosion startled her so badly that not a peep could be uttered till the ringing in her ears is reduced to a low but constant whine and she hazards a peek over the back of the couch. Hadrix? HADRIX!!!!!
"Ke'dem," the blue-haired nomad spits an insult in a bit of the Olde tongue and holds both arms out to her sides with a brow-wrinkling squint of confusion AND concern. "I swear to the Four Judges, if you burned ONE LEAF out there....." and she takes one sorta shaky stride after another toward the Mandalorians and the giant HOLE they blew where once was a door. Accusatory index finger leading the way.
Don't bork with her plants.
It took everything to not start shooting.
The Bryar had burst out of Yan's holster and into his hand, levelled at the door where CLEARLY they were under attack. There was an anger forming in his features, the wide-eyed pursed-lip glare of someone who was clearly not pleased that he hadn't at least gotten slightly drunk before he had to start shooting. Cover? What's cover? He was in space so open you could run through it whilst singing about the Germanic countryside. When the door burst in with the Sound of Mandos, Yan squinted and held his ground, covering his eyes with his free arm. His finger tightened around the trigger but did not pull.
Koras. Great. His expression morphed into the squinty open-mouthed gape of 'can you believe this sithspit?'
"Y'know, my day was going great. Really. It was." There was a clicking sound as Yan's thumb pulled back the hammer on the archaic-designed blaster. "But then the lunkhead and his stripper friend show up!" There was this idea that Zhu Yan and Hadrix Kora could be really good friends, bonding over their love of wholesale murder, but both of them were too stubborn to ever admit it. "So yeah, I'm thinking that /maaaaaaaaybe/ you lads have forgotten the whole 'The bounty's on the wrong head' thing! Yeah? Is that it? Yeah?" His voice was getting ever more shrill as paranoia ate away at his mind. Sumi Kora didn't get out of bed for six figures or a /good time/ so these guys were probably operating independently. His brain told him to shoot.
"Yes, I am willing to believe that." Naia tells Rathe in a deadpan that makes it very hard to tell whether or not she is serious because her face just doesn't lend itself to clarity. Of any sort. In fact, it's rather hard to be sure that she's actually looking at either of them, what with the lack of discernable pupil and eye white, but her face is certainly turned in their direction, and she takes a slow sip of her drink, head cocking in interest. This is probably shock. She should probably be more concerned about the explosion, but in fairness, it is possible that Liz has used up all of her shock for one evening. "Provided that you take off your pants." She modifies to the two standing in the wreckage of the doorway, looking confused. That's okay. Strippers are probably often confused? Unclear.
She makes no move to defend herself though. Frankly speaking, she's not in much of a position to do much defending in this situation. What's she going to do? Punch blaster fire? At least she can /attempt/ to die with dignity---a cocktail in hand and half drunk. As the universe intended. She will die as she lived. Surrounded by chaos, trying desperately to get drunk and listening to screamed conversations that don't concern her. Just like med school, really. "Soooo, are you going to take off your pants, or am I just going to imagine you doing it?"
<"Could be better, King... I wasted a fair amount of hyper-fuel on bad data hunting down the rest of the sleemo trying to hunt down Miss Jynx and Fatstasch over there after a run-in on Taris..."> Hadrix's plasma caster is still up, because guns are aimed at him. There's an instinctual growl, the red pulse in the right branch of the T-Visor flares, and the caster slooooowly moves from King to Zhu Yan... then slooooooooowly towards Eriu.
Zhu and Hadrix could be the best of friends. Hand in hand running through a field of flowers, firing wildly into a crowd of enemies cast to the winds of the ether and their souls purged by the power of their weapons levied against them. A glorious orgy of blood and violence.
<"I'm not stripping unless Zhu wants to explain to Narsai why he got the show and she didn't...">
The moment EJ shouts with rage and narrows her eyes at them, Rathe helpfully uses that left hand to point at Hadrix. <"Uhm. He did it."> Best excuse he has at the moment. She looks familiar, he's busy trying to not get shot at the moment though. All sorts of weapon barrels and blade looking his way right now. Karr'roga however, he gets center of attention for a moment. The Barabel is big, and familiar looking as well. The helmet tilts slightly to one side at the shouted request to strip coupled with the tail slaps.
Upon hearing Sumi's name invoked, once more he gives helpful point at Hadrix. "Again. Him." The visor sweeps. <"Oh. Hi B'haav, fancy meeting you here."> This is a blown op, Rathe's professionalism goes out the window in favor of smartassery. Neteps anger over plants. PLANTS?! That's just another indication towards Hadrix, this time with a jerk of his helmet. Zhu. Zhu gets his full attention for several long moments, that muzzle of the pistol barrel looks huge from here. He almost misses Naia's call to strip. <"Wait, that worked?"> Then the helmet snaps back at Hadrix. <"Really, you too. You know that was a..."> Rathe inhales, it's actually audible from inside the helmet, muffled, but audible. <"I may be rusty on Tactics One Zero One, Hadrix. But perhaps we should apologize, be on our way by backing out of the door you made?">
Fuming! Eriu is fuming as the others raise weapons and prepare for a stand off with the home invading knuckleheads. "Just because you have explosives does not mean you should not knock!" She hisses. She takes a step closer to them and another as she stalks closer to the two invaders. Growling below her breath about her door she rumbles out. "Should just shoot you." She quips.
She doesn't have a gun out but look at the people behind her. See how they stare. See how they consider. Her head tilts and the Hapan looks past them, through them at the wreckage they have left behind, the smoke and debris starting to finally clear as she gets her hearing back. Maybe the explosion coverd the first whir of the turbolift that announces the arrival of someone else.
But from the ding of the turbolift finally reacing their level from the landing pad out steps the group that Hadrix and Rathe had been tailing which LED them to explode their way into the Shadowport complex. "Yan." Says the leader. "Good to see you again. We have a score to settle."
"Ain't that just the way it goes?" King asks the big Mandalorian, his cheek still pressed to his rifle. It ain't coming down until their's do, and that's the ding-dang truth, son. "Might want to put them guns down, boys. Make pleasant conversation a mite more attainable," King suggests. "Just a thought."
Fortunately for the Mandalorians, a new gang of ruffians and thugs appears. The leader, named Javen (read: Star Wars for 'Chad' or 'Trice'), starts a'jabberin'. King doesn't abide jabberin' anywhere near a gunfight, so without much preamble, the Morellian squeezes the trigger on his rifle, sending a slug sailing through the air and tearing a fist-sized hole in the man's leg. "You get the drop on somebody, use it, son."
EJ's voice can be heard over this as she slow turns near Rathe. "Yan, did you not lock the landing pad door behind you?!"
"STRIP! STRIP! STRIP! STRIP!"
Thud. Slap. Thud-Thud. Slap. Thud. Slap. Thud-Thud. Slap. Oh, yeah. He's totally serious about the shouted demands, too. Why not? Explosions can be fun, exciting, even! AND HARDSKINS! Who else, but Hardskins? Blood-drunk on fresh meat, adrenaline, and the promise of seeing some Mando Meat - apparently - Karr'roga barely notices in the chaos the new arrivals. "STRIP, HARDSKINSSS!" It's the tone of Eriu Jynx however that causes the Barabel's demeanor to...change.
A tail slap on the floor, the last of its kind, instead turning to shove a damn table over in his excitement to try and vanish: Because actual predators try their level best to not attack head on. Because that's how you get shot. Except as Karr'roga flips the table, so will all the food come crashing down and roling across the floor - large tail vanishing in the blackness of some hidey hole.
"WHAT?!" Came the high pitched void of Liz'diot as a group of... who were they again? Came out of the Turbolift. "Wht is out base a battle ground for IMBICILES?" HE screaches as he dives under the counter to avoid fire. "Number One!, Number 2!" THere was a slight giggle from the disgusting Bith as he called for his B1 units who bust in from... somewhere not far awar. One armed witth a Stun Rifle. The other with a modified A280. "ROGER ROGER!" They sound in unision before picking targes and laying down blue and crimson bolts. Liz searches through the kitche cabinets, "Ohhhhh...!" He gathers up some baking soda and other materials and starts to mix something together in an old vegitable oil can. "YASSS. INDEED. MUWAHAHAHAHH!"
B'haav's head turns quizzically as the slightly-smaller-but-still-far-bigger-than-the-Balosar addresses him with a somewhat familiar voice. "Rathe?" Steel-grey eyes lower to the dagger and then look around. Granted, he only met the man briefly, but he seemed an alright sort. And he doesn't seem to be threatening the Shadowport... But the same can't be said for his traveling companion, so the Balosar remains ready, when a voice comes from the lift and the shooting starts.
You know where the best place to be is in a gunfight? On the wielding side of a gun. But B'haav brought a knife. So, seeing as they're now definitely under attack from one side - jury still out on the other - there is little choice but to bring his knife to it. He charges at one of the smaller-looking members of the gang, but his foot slips on a loose piece of meat that had been intended for Karr'roga's belly before the explosion, and his strike goes just wide of the man's neck and past his face. "E chu ta," B'haav mutters roughly, staring into the eyes of someone who very likely has a reason to kill him now, if he didn't before.
Ah, frink.
Muri comes to a halt alongside the Mando folk, just on the cusp of that melty gash in the wall where once was a door. Her plants will have to wait. She casts a long look over shoulder to the inbound crew of miscreants (look at this pot calling those kettles black) and her left hand trades the Tsiraki flask into her right for a moment so her /good/ set of fingers can get busy loosening the DL-18 from its holster. Her not so coordinated hand grips and regrips the flask like a grenade, prepared to part ways with the half-spilled contents if it will buy her a second to make a dash for more suitable cover and take aim.
SHE LOBS IT!
Such a horrible throw. The thing saaaaails through the air, leaving a stream of sweet and sour hooch in its arc, but rather than ping off the ugly mug of one of those fools, it bounces off the rim of Karr's upended table and then hits the floor a meter and a half short. Rolling. Rolling....spinspinspin....and stop.
"Drek," she whispers then gets to work being a moving target for this moment in time.
"Uh." There was only one single person in this galaxy who's ire Zhu Yan outright refused to risk. Her name had just been dropped. Yan flipped the Bryar in his hand until it was pointing straight up, his palm gripping the back of the barrel. There, no hostilities. "No stripping." Okay maybe there were going to be some hostilities, directed at Yan, by his so-called friends. "Y'all can wait until I leave and THEN the beefcakes can strip." And THEY can risk the ire of Narsai Ordo instead. Win win! Whoever said Yan cared about his comrades was a damn liar.
The arrival of the new motley crue had Yan staring at THEM as though this were just some ginormous prank being played upon him. He gave them the pointer knife-hand with his un-blaster-occupied arm, turned to look at EJ, and yelled, "I don't ev-" WHIPCRACK, that was the sound of a slugthrower going off and it was unfamiliar enough that it made Yan jump. "I don't even know who this clown is!" Because the day that Zhu Yan and Random Guild Members ripped the Fear Riders a new one was the most important day in Javan's life. For Yan, it was Tuesday.
"Frack it." The Bryar was flipped back to murder-position, aimed, and FIRED into the chest of one of the gangers. Shooting a Bryar modified for permanent charged shots in a closed room was a recipe for disaster, the rifle-grade bolt was loud, obnoxious, and set his ears ringing. Yan twitched his aim a hair, and FIRED again, into the chest of the swooper that was right behind the first body he left. "Leave the leader!" Pause. "I mean, it's not imp-" and good thing it wasn't imp-, because Yan was suddenly front row for a Sunday barbeque! "Who even ARE these guys?!" Ignorance, thy name is Zhu Yan.
Naia, for her sins, loses interest immediately. Either she's going to be shot, or she won't, but she doesn't have the emotional energy to give a shit about anticipating it. Bad things can be surprises too, and surprise is the spice of life. So she takes another gulp of her drink, and turns her head to look for somewhere to sit. She doesn't have any grilled brussel sprouts to worry about, or a blaster to wave at anyone. Sitting seems like the move. Sitting, and apparently imagination. Boo. Rathe's terminal comment catches her undivided attention though---the nautolan lets out this little sound of irritation. "Please don't. I sincerely don't want to be elbow deep in guts tonight. Just. Tell the barabel to eat your helmet and go." She's begging, here. Please. An eaten helmet she can deal with. An apology she cannot. She needs /so/ much more alcohol for that.
The next bit is just. exponentially annoying. Of course there would be more guns showing up. Because why not? Why not just send all of them and see what happens? She drops her dumb drink, because at this point, ducking for cover seems like the thing to do. She's not exactly equipped to do much else, frankly.
<"I knew it! I told you they were here! It was correct intel! Now you can't doubt me!"> Small victories, but they don't need to put down guns! No Tattooine Standoff. Hadrix's sudden excitement can be felt clear across the planet as he levels the e-11 sized flame rifle and squeezes the firing stud.
Not as grand as the explosions that had blasted the doors off the wall. Not as violent. But it's not molten metal, thermite -and- baradium being used. Simply plasma, the stuff of star flares. The room cast in brilliant multi-hued relief. It's been choked to stream rather than a conical emission.
A coiling serpent of flame that envelopes the man who came in talking when he should've been shooting and is now screaming as he is being cut like plasticine foam with hot wires running through it. Sending him to the ground in a flaming heap while Hadrix... he's suddenly having a great day.
<"Look lady, knocking would defeat the purpose."> Rathe mimes knocking with his left hand on an imaginary door. <"Do you expect us to just go 'Open up and learn about Mandalore!'? No!"> He's just taken in by the absurdity of the occasion. Besides, in his mind this really IS all Hadrix' fault. Suddenly! New targets for angry Shadowporters! <"See? They didn't knock either!!"> It is worth a shot, Rathe moves for some cover in the process of bringing up his Tracker to bear properly again. The Barabel does the worst magic trick ever for the moment. The Bith's giggle is downright unsettling he finds, the droids appearing even more so.
<"Later B'haav!"> Sometimes one needs to be polite, but firm. Naia gets a visor look during all the confusion. <"What?"> Oh right the Barabel hates apologies. <"Hey Kriff you there, then, Big Green!"> No apology, no problem! This just means he looks Little Green lobbing her flask through the air. There is no kaboom, he assumed there would be an earth-shattering kaboom. <"Since when did my mouth get that good?!"> This on the topic of Zhu talking about stripping. His HUD comes alive with shared data from Hadrix. <"First you blow a hole in their lounge, and now you light people on fire in it? I'm going to die here."> Rathe finally just shuts up, the former Vanguard goes about his business. Dropping one ganger rapidly, but he overcorrects for the second. That will teach him to banter when there is killing to be had.
A bolt from seemingly out of nowhere wasn't exactly abnormal for announcing Emma's arrival, the svelt spy had been a sniper first after all. But this was not a high-powered blaster rifle this time, instead a sharp pair of bolts from a handcannon errupt through the chest of one lacky, dropping him to the ground and revealing the woman in the figure-hugging white bodysuit and black half-jacket approaching from behind. Emma Starflare had been shopping and clearly picked quite the moment to turn up.
Ice blue eyes blink, the Mandos were...unexpected, but the woman was already unslinging her blaster rifle from her back. "Hello Hadrix, it's been a while..." her accented tones speak smooth and calm while she holsters her weapon. Further greetings could wait, the blonde turns her attention to the shadowport members.
"Be aware," she offers calmly as she pops the cover on her optic. "There are more on the way."
Emma is not wrong but the group does not follow her as all chaos breaks loose and Jevan, the dutiful messenger goes down. The smoking opening in the front of the ship allows for the real threat to be known as two VERY heavily armed figures step in, one slightly shorter than the other. "Thats what we thought? Don't watn to talk this out or stand down? Could just give us our credits back." Credence suggests with a grin. There is a click of EJ's tongue as she uses the chair she jumped out of to use for cover, knives out and eyeing those suits of armor. She's going to need to aim really well but in stalk their lackeys and she gets another idea. Best to make use of what you have and the squishiest parts.
People cost money. Dizzy takes aim at B'haav but misses, this pissing her off as she curses at him in a string of pissed off sounds that most certainly are words in some language. She stars to stalk forward, heedless of those around her. Credence however keeps his ground and aims for the biggest in the room, landing his hit with a hearty laugh.
Knives flash and the lackeys are the focus of EJ's attack.
Sliding the bolt back to eject his spent round and popping another into the chamber, King doesn't seem to miss a step, even after all the time he's spent holed up in a cushy Coruscanti apartment. One of the lackeys fires a shot at him, but King steps to the side to avoid it; the red bolt zooming by, only a foot or so to his left. The trick's in watching their eyes, he reminds himself.
More enemies. What an introduction back into the life. King, rifle moving like an extension of himself, spins again, aiming back towards the door occupied by the Mandalorians.
A moment to find his target, a sloooow, steady exhale, a big grin, and he fires. King once had an exceptional ability to make enemies all over the Galaxy. This tradition will begin again today. Creed, distracted by attacking Hadrix feels the sharp bite of frontier justice. Right in the ass.
From the darkness of the where the Barabel hides, and the chaos that ensues - he watches. Violence is violence, pure and unfiltered. But the Barabel watches with slitted eyes and thermal pits, he watches...and watches.
Because Karr'roga is a killer, a predator, not a soldier. He watches and waits for the weakest link to be exposed, and oddly this time it's not Rathe's social-filter. Or Yan's hygiene. It's revealed when that Chiss swings and a misses - Dizzy. From beside a machine where the large Barabel hides, his rattling hisses silencing until...from out of nowhere, like a Guardian Force summoned by Zhu Yan himself: Karr'roga comes out of that hidey hole. There's a bellow of sorts, as claws swipe across Dizzy's torso and slash her open across the breasts, the terrible talons swinging twice more and these last two very nearly take off her head.
Liz pops up out of cover, his bolbous head just barely above the counter top. "EAT THIS, HU-MON SCUM!" He tosses the metal oil can. It twirls like slow motion in the air before landing righ in the middle of everyone. Not exactly on the side of the bad guys but not entirely on the side of the good. "Ah Phewie..." IT EXPLODES. A Blinding Flash and devistating sound erupt. Liz covers his eyes. "AHHHH." His ears start to ring. Even one of his dorids misses as they fire on the Lackeys. THe other repors, "I'm out of Ammo, dir." Liz can only respond with a strained and shouted. "WHAT?!" Because now he can't hear. Just the intense ringing from the explosion. It's okay. It's happened before. He'd dealt with explosives all his life.
B'haav is a bit... peeved. It's not that he wants to get shot, but he just tried to stab someone and they didn't even take him seriously enough to put a hole in him - his associates and the Mandalorians being far more appealing targets. It's frustrating. All the work he's been doing to make himself useful when the rancor droppings hit the fan, and he's not even noteworthy. Of course, someone else shoots at him, but he's taking umbrage specifically with the gangster who couldn't even respect him enough to return fire. He swings his vibro-dagger, striking just next to the shoulder with a clean slash; he is pivoting to swing back for another blow when the room goes white and boomy. All he sees is white and his ears ring as his knife goes wide of its intended target. "E CHU TA," he bellows in Huttese, as much for the frustration as for not being able to hear himself.
Muri yelps as the regrettably increasingly familiar feeling of blasterfire scores her to the bone through a jacket sleeve, from behind! What was that Emma said about more coming? OH WAIT they're here. Her blue head of curls vanishes momentarily from view when she jump/roll/flops behind her former perch and hunkers down in a smear of muja sauce-smothered noodles. The pistol comes up, tentatively aiming around the side of couch as she lays there on her 'good' shoulder. The right arm, by contrast, is held protectively close to her front because any and every motion crackles that scorched tissue and hurts like a bantha stomp.
"HEY DOC" she yells over the auditory chaos. "DON'T SUPPOSE YOU'VE GOT A HIT OF THE GOOD STUFF ON YAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH WHAT IN OBLIVYN'S DANK KISS WAS THAT?????!!!!" Why a flashbang, of course! Muri's in a fetal ball, hating life.
There was a beat as Yan processed the words from probably the least trashy member of the Shadowport (It's Emma, sorry EJ). Then he followed up with a profound, eloquent, "You're kidding me."
Suffice to say, she wasn't. More of the swoopers joined the party, led by... "I have no idea who the frack you guys are!" Yan yelled, completely and utterly confused, as he ran and skid into cover next to the unfamiliar squidhead. Racist. "Hi!" he said, super cheerful, sticking out his cold dead metal left hand for a handshake. "I'm Zschuryen," said Zhu Yan, his mouth outputting a word that sounded alien in Galactic Basic. "Yan's the first name. I think I'm your boss now. Block your ears." Dissing the handshake he JUST offered because he really needed to make this presumed doctor of his do some work, he poked his head over the couch behind which they hid, and the world went white.
There was ringing, a WHIPCRACK, the faint growl of a Barabel from very far away, and the stars left Yan's eyes just enough to see somewhere in the din there was a FIREFIGHT. BLAM. That was the Bryar talking, making a loud pointed statement on the opposite wall. "Frack!" BLAM. That time it went past the ear of the grumpy looking bloke. Plasma burns for everybody! "KARR'ROGA!" Yan yelled, far louder than he had any right to. It might be because he'd just been deafened. "RIP THEM IN TWO!"
Pain in her butt. This whole thing. From behind the bastion of her chair she hears a call from the other 'doctor' and ugh. The nautolan peeks out from behind the chair, but her expression is hard to read because of the whole 'face' thing. Instead, she pauses for a moment and then starts army crawling out toward Muri, muttering under her breath the entire way. And don't think she'd not seen the shell-head get the butt slapped off of him. Oh yes, she's going to have words. Muri is understandable, she'd been doing her best to duck and weave, but the beetle-brain out there. Oooooh.
Eventually Naia makes it to Muri's side---she scans the woman, locating the burned shoulder, and turning her so that she can inspect it. "Gross." She comments before commencing with the healing magic. Which is more first aid, but whatever. She slaps some bacta on that puppy. Bactaaaaa. It's a life-saver. Literally.
<"Emma! It's been far too long!"> Hadrix's tone is joyous to put it at its most mild of descriptions even with blaster fire now all around. Smoke, liquid fire. It's all such a wonderfully mad situation and Hadrix is turning to the new arrivals being announced by Emma when a bolt takes him in the arm, coring through armor plates and frying bone, sending his limb to hanging limply at his side.
The big man turns, arm flopping wildly to swing behind him, trailing smoke as his externals click on - but the sound isn't human. It's purely rage now. Plasma is swung about wildly as he stalks towards the man who shot him. Not thinking right now.
Fury and doom. But not accuracy. Dizzy as well as the screaming of cooked bone and marrow strikes him, the Massive Mandalorian stumble steps and slams down to the ground near Naia, coming up to a single hand and knees while the other hangs uselessly.
Celebration time can be spent getting the hell out of dodge before he gets stripped by this motley crew... or he can turn around to find new arrivals in the door that -Hadrix- made. Rathe does not touch explosives, bad things occur. Now he has new challenges. At least the arrival of the new angry swoop gangers means he's facing away from a wayward flashbang, though his visor immediately polarizes, and audio cuts out as a result anyway. Yan yells instructions, and Rathe is a little concerned with the fact that he could be a 'them'. Hadrix took a hell of a shot, Rathe shifts, but suddenly he's got bigger problems in his face right now. No time to be fancy, so wordlessly he blasts one lackey in the face, and another in the gut. He bellows into the vox <"Take cover, and disengage Hadrix! Medical over- kriff nevermind."> His tone had gone from Akaan Baar'ur angry to faint concern.
More targets coming, Emma's rifle is held in sling and flush against her body while she raises her blaster pistol and squeezes down the trigger...right as a flashbang grenade falls short and goes off right in their faces. For all her 'professionalism', her eye drifted to movement and she was momentarily disoriented, her shots going wide on her target as she gives an audible cry of frustrated pain.
It hurts. It stings. It burns and as the lackeys move in after their bosses who have their targets, EJ is there to slam the gun up before the lackey can shoot at his back as he skids into cover. She growls at the figure and is looking like she might be smiling. A wink is offered to the man and he blinks before she is sliding back to the side and thrusting the knives acrost that short distance to take advantage of small points of weakness in his armor. She is qiuck on her feet, keeping herself out of his way while she comes about and more shots are fire. Yan is luckily in cover while others are being healed.
But Dizzy is moving into line of sight for the figure that could save the day presently as she is the only one healing. Karr moves his big hulking frame and the shot aimed for Naia's head slams into him and sends him down smoking. She curses again but then there is a dark chuckle as the smell of burning lizard starts to fill the air. "No matter. I got the next one."
Credence croosn out, "Yaaaaaaaan come out of hiding!"
Things have popped off in a very concerning way. Another loud report echoes from King's rifle, but his aim is just a touch off, sending the slug to bury itself into a bulkhead. King's moustache twists as the man frowns. King doesn't like missing. It makes the man downright upset.
The Barabel's eyes hone in on Dizzy. All that matters is Dizzy. Dizzy is the target, Dizzy is the only target, and there come magical words that cause yet another violent change over Karr'roga: Zhu Yan issues a command.
The primal brain of the saurian locks in on Dizzy, and those terrible talons curl; ready to tear the woman right in half. Because that is what Zhu Yan wants done - her, in half. When she raises her bolter towards Naia however, there is a violent growl - hurling himself in front of the red-yellow bolt of energy aimed at the Nautolan and Hadrix Kora. Instead of Naia's head exploding? Slinging his rifle strap across his body, his hands disappear into a pair of pouches on his gunbelt. When they slide back out, he's sporting a mean-looking set of metal knuckles across them.
"What do you mean you didn't bring more Ammo! Go find some!" Liz shouts at his dorid, a long lanky finger digging inside his wax filled ear hole trying to unplug the ringing and defness from the previous blast he set off. That's when a blastbolt rips through his chair and the diminutive Bith screams in agony. "OWWWWWWW!" THe force of the shot sends him and his chair back into the wall. He looks down, one of his none working legs was completely obliterated, singed, and other wise a bloddy destroyed mess from the debries for his now wrecked hover chair. "Well... not like it worked anyways." HE looks to his remaining droid. "KILL THEM!" That of course was an irony because the one B1 remaining on the fireld had a stun rifle. "ROGER ROGER" HE aims towards the loudmouth, Creed, and fires yet misses.
B'haav thought the thug would get the message. But nope. The Balosar watches the barrel point elsewhere and steps in front of it. Naturally, this movement and insanity distracts the lackey and he twitches a bit, pulling the gun to the side further and missing the deathwishing B'haav. B'haav is tired of this disrespect, and is quite put out as he slams his vibro-dagger home into the gunner's chest, twice. The second goes deeper, finding the heart, and the figure crumples. "Honestly, it's just rude! How do you all deal with this?" He calls out to nobody in particular, seeking the next target and seeing all of the injured. Quite a lot more blood than the last time he looked.
"I JUST WANTED TO EAT DINNER AND FIND MY BEES" Muri laments aloud, too loudly, complaining her way through Naia's ministrations.
But bees?
"Sure as shavit won't find'em /this/ half of the g'damn base now..." Which might be helpful, actually, should they have scurry-fluttered their way back to the Atrium where they were SUPPOSED to bee.
Hee.
The large frame of Hadrix hits the floor nearby and Muri grimaces. The walking, talking flamethrower is out of commission! As is the mighty Barabel who crashes to floor. Muri rolls over and spits some return fire toward the possible ring leader. THe dreaded lack of response from her weapon the second time she pulls the trigger says it's been awhile since she really /checked/ her charge on that powerpack. A swap is necessary and she tries to flatten herself to ground much as possible, hoping the lump that is Karr'roga is thick enough to be 'taller' than she in this prone position. *CLICK* ammo reloaded.
It was at that point that Yan's life was abruptly terminated as Credence, of the Clearwater Revival swoop gang took aim and cored out the part of Yan's head where a brain would normally be. In his's case it was about the size of a walnut and had a THIS SPACE FOR RENT sign on it but that's basically semantics at this point. And so ends the life of Zhu Yan, a complete and utter tool. No one will speak at his funeral, Meeyuri will use his corpse as fertilizer if Karr doesn't eat it first, EJ will celebrate her newfound freedom with Namana and a sensual evening with King, Liz will blow up the Whale, Hadrix and Rathe will turn his name into a punchline for suicidal behaviour, Emma and Bav will realize that joining him was a terrible mistake and go and do something meaningful with their lives, and Naia will breathe a sigh of relief that she doesn't have to actually do any work. Good on you Naia, Most Valuable Player award.
Or not, for you see, Yan had a hitherto and unforeseen connection to a mystical power that granted him flashes of the future. It was a powerful thing, forceful if you will, and it guided all of his actions in a manner most elusive. It told him, if you stick your head out here right this very second you are a dead man so maybe hide a little bit more so that doesn't happen. So he did that, and a second later a blaster bolt dug through the wall where Yan's head was about to be. This power, this mystical energy field that controlled so many destinies, had many names, but it was known commonly as sheer balls-to-the-wall paranoia.
The downside of this is that he missed EJ's knife rampage. I mean, that might well be a good thing, Yan wouldn't be any good right now with all the blood leaving his tiny walnut-sized brain.
"Why?!" erupted Yan from behind his cover. "You're walking around like some big shot with a nasty case of testicular rancoritis and all the brainpower of a lemming. I don't even know who you are, I've never met you, I'm definitely not gonna remember you when you're dead." Would have been effective if you were looking at them, Yan. Now they just know you're hiding behind the couch. He popped up, the Bryar went BLAM and damaged EJ's precious walls, and then it went BLUT as it had no energy to give. "Sithspit," he grumbled as he basically fell back behind the couch again, fishing in The Jacket for a power cell.
Well, to Naia's credit, she has the decency to leave his helmet on, although when he thumps down next to her, her tendrils flex in what is possibly aggravation, and she scoots closer to the hulking Mandalorian to take a look at his body. The wound is a nasty one---one that looks like it should be no big deal, but the burn spread and the damage to deeper tissues is gnarly. Very bad. The nautolan hisses, and forcibly rolls the large man---by virtue of some kind of godzilla strength that medics all seem to possess when adrenaline takes over---slightly upward so that she can rest part of his shoulder on her knees to take a better look. She's poking in the wound a little bit too, to decide if he's got any bone burn, even as she scans him with her med pac. She does not seem to like what she sees.
"Next time you should try ducking. Or dodging. I'd accept a weave." She tells him, more to keep her mouth moving so that it can focus her brain. It's an ugly wound though. She starts placing bacta patches, because in this situation there's really nothing else she can do until she can get him back to the med bay and really take a look in there. But from the smell alone she's kind of worried which makes her very gentle. "Okay. I hope you're awake. Please don't fall asleep." She says, patting his helmet as if that's going to somehow comfort him. Pat pat pat. And then she goes back to slathering him in patches because /HELL/.
The shot at Karr'roga gets her attention---there's this moment where she freezes in surprise and possibly dismay, but it's not enough to make her stop. For all the good it does---something about this wound is absolutely pear-shaped. Probably bone burn or someting equally terrible. She does her best to keep him awake though. "Man, you really mucked yourself up. That's going to be a great scar if anyone ever gets to see it. I mean I know you guys are weird about that, but. Silver lining?" Because you usually don't open with 'We're going to have to scrape bits of it off, Jim.' "Okay, I think you're done for now. We're going to get you behind that comfy chair. Wonderful, right?" Not asking.
Shock is setting in, the wound is numbing up and he's trying to get ahold of where he is at the moment. Is he going to lose an arm? The left one. That's a terrible irony. But there's a passel of enemy to be put on fire... Need to get up. Not allowed to get killed either, he's under orders - and they're orders he's hell bent to follow.
Then he's being rolled, slathered in bacta... Patted on the helmet. What in all the hells of galaxy is going on here? Coughing and looking to his wound, then the nautolan. It's the wrong face, but it's not a bad face.
This is all so unpleasantly confusing.
Targets fall one by one, Rathe is constantly shifting his aim as he reads his HUD for threat assessments. In the meantime, his minds eye replays just how much damage Hadrix has taken and he almost turns his head back towards the man. That's serious bone damage there. He forgets he is on vox when he mutters. <"Great. If I live through this, I am going to die from acute Sumi, Narsai, and Karys poisoning."> One of them is bound to shoot him, or worse, lecture. He's shifting to turn towards Hadrix but the HUD flashes Naia is in process according to the diagnostics Hadrix's armor flashes him.
That leaves some killing for... he notes the Barabel is down, and hard down. Completely missed the pad and hit a building down. Rathe does the dumb hero thing and drops the Tracker on it's sling to dangle across his chest. He slides to one knee into the big beast, on his way he already blindly one handed the auto-injector from the medpac bolted to the armor of his right thigh. He doesn't need to scan Karr'roga to figure out where to stabilize. Rathe medically stabs Karr'roga deep and hard, no bedside manner here. <"Take cover!"> For Rathe is already leaping for his own cover, he cannot keep folk alive if he gets hit here. She' going to kill him if he gets back home, maybe... Or maybe Hadrix is in for a quiet talk and some sorcery (one can hope, really).
Kar's dive was grizzly, members of the team were down, Zhu was shouting and the only other person Emma knew was a professional soldier with certainty had been hit hard. Things are pretty much going as terrible as they almost always seemed to.
Especially since she'd accepted the contract with Shadowport.
Eyes sweep the room, assessing threats and targets before they narrow at the woman blasting the Barabel off his feet. That one.
Twisting around and rolling low, a smooth frag grenade rolls across the floor, coming to rest beneath Dizzy right before it detonates and -ends- the swooper utterly.
Dizzy goes down and Credence loses his cool. Yan speaking madness to him is not intimidating - has the opposite effect. The figure of the well armored mercenary swoop gang leader is aiming at that couch and waiting as her blood boils and there is a low growl building continuously at the back of his throat. Eriu turns just as the shot goes off and she can not reach out to stop him. Instantly she flips the knife at him and its skims off his armor as she twists her other hand forward. The second knife flips in the air and slams beneath his arm before he can turn. She is just as riled as he is and her blood is up as the lackeys are going down with one left.
He does not seem like he wants to stick around and gives B'haav a look and turns. Running out the door if he can get away in time as the last rounds of this encounter are starting to wind down. Lots of bodies. Lots of damage. Eriu is PISSED beyond measure. The Hapan looks livid not only because those she cares about got lit up tonight but her POOR DAMNED LOUNGE!
Stomp stomp stomp stomp. King's marching towards the big bad, that frown still creasing his lips. He's upset about a lot of things. Most notable being the fact that he's in the middle of a giant gunfight and he doesn't have /his/ guns. The rifle is fine, but it's not the pair of lovingly crafted Morellian Weapons Conglomerate .48 Enforcers that he's toted around for nigh-on a century.
Creedance gets a helluva shot off, but King closes the distance, slapping the man's weapon to the ground before he drives an uppercut home, sending his helmet sailing off of his head. Then King's grabbing the fellah by the collar of his armor and throwing him down onto his stomach. The Morellian, turning and taking a few steps forward hefts a leg up and brings the heel of his boot down onto the back of poor Creed's head. Then he does it again.
His boot now sunk into a pile of...well, what used to be the man's noggin, he lifts it and gives it a shake, flinging a chunk of Creed's childhood memories loose.
"Anybody got a shoeshine?" he asks, matter-of-factly.
THZZWAAPPP! The B1 advnaced, taking down the fleeing gang member. Someone to interrogate late and then space for experimentation. "YASSSS." Came the voice of Liz'diot who was busy chugging an entire bottle of Namana Liquore to stave off the pain from his clearly shot off leg. Amputation was fun, wasn't it. Now he was even more crippled, if such things were even possible. "Here Barabel. You barbarric Lizard you...." He rips off his leg, only hanging on by a thread, and tosses it towards him. It small and tiney. Lanky, gross. It's not at all very meaty or apatizing. THe Drunk Bith opens up a hatch in his hover chair and starts trying to fix the thing. It sparks as he pulls wires from it. "Ahhh Phewie... Feted HU-MONS."
B'haav shakes his head and wipes the blade on the body of his first kill before putting it away. He takes a moment to look around, noting that all the wounds had bacta patches, or medics tending to them. He does look over to see that his Hapan friend is alright, and - while plenty of others are not - for now, that's enough. He kneels beside the two unconscious lackeys and binds them hand and foot. They will, one way or another, yield information. B'haav Adasta, or another, will see to that. And he does not remotely need a drink.
FRAG GRENADE!
Muri reflexively curls into a Muri ball(tm) the second the explosion rips through the air...and gang member. The sound effects of the fallout are bad, but compared to the rest of the gore in their viscinity - some casualities being her own people - it's just par for the course. Is this sauce or blood? Bile or booze? So many stains, Netep might have to burn this outfit. And it's best to not think about her hair right now.
"Head...headcount!?" she calls, seeing way too many bodies on the floor. And pieces of them. The sudden addition of one more piece - a certain Bith's leg - draws a horrified glance from Muri to the one-legged Liz. And back to the leg. It's just too much.
A sudden retch and spew of what few bites of takeout she managed to eat earlier keeps her on her hands and knees. She adds to the mess, a couple gag-splatters in a row, then just goes crawling off somewhere. Anywhere.
The human body is a pretty magnificent thing, built in with safeguards for self-preservation. Especially when it came to one's mental health. It's not every day one waxes philosophical about anatomy but when it came to serious, serious bodily trauma it bears a bit of explaining. You see, Creed's shot had gone through the couch and through Yan's leg behind it. What had come next was indescribable pain, and the body went into autopilot. First order of business, turn off higher brain functions. This removed Yan's ability to process the pain he was undergoing, and dulled its sensations. Of course it did this by shutting off his consciousness entirely. With that happened, the next instruction was to relax his muscles. So he did, and he collapsed to the floor like an opened bag of tubers. The hole going through his leg was sizeable, having charred straight through the bone and most of the connecting muscle, and leaving some really nasty plasma burns around it.
Also, for those of you still doubting, there was ample evidence on display now of Yan's dishonest tendencies, seeing as his pants around the entry and exit wound in his thigh were literally on fire. It would be a miracle if he didn't lose the leg entirely.
Doctor Verkru daily waxes philosophical about anatomy, and absolutely needs a drink. Every drink. All of them. In a row. She's moved to Karr'roga in an attempt to assess his medical situation, but as always, he's a hot mess of scales and friable tissue that does not lend itself to suture or any means of physical intervention. He's going to need the tank, that's for sure. She's already secured Hadrix behind a chair, and so he's safe for the time being. She's already slapped a cursory bacta patch on Yan as well, though she's so focused on triage that she's not doing much in the way of socializing---sorry boss. This squid gets hyperfocus. Right now she's looking over Karr'roga's wounds and trying to see what she can do for the horrifying mess that is scaled flesh. Just in general, but definitely when it is injured. "Looks like you're going to have another handsome scar to show the ladies." She comments.
This day. It has been just... It's been a day. No other way to word it. The shots are dying down and his arm is screaming. It's still attached? Hadrix looks at the limb slathered in bacta with armor and fibersuit peeled away. Still attached, still hurts to blazes though; but he looks to Naia and offers a bob of his helmeted head before slowly lumbering to his feet.
<"Rathe... We need to get back to base. All cleared up here... Dizzy."> how would you feel if you were half-killed by a shot to the arm? Pulling his grenade belt and slinging it, with a one handed fumble at the clip, to make it into a make-shift sling for his arm, he turns next to Emma. <"It's good seeing you Emma"> wavering some on his feet again.
<"Hopefully better conditions next time."> stumble step. Yeah... He's going to be in trouble.
There is a moment in every Vanguards life where he is just completely mystified. In Rathe's case it's becoming like a daily habit. King's ultraviolent beatdown just has him staring through his visor. He can appreciate the urge for violence, it's why he never finished medical school and became a War Medic instead. But that piece of beating showmanship... It reminds him that he needs to get out of here before people start getting their memories back. So he backpedals towards Hadrix while reloading his Tracker. He slings it up and over his shoulder and checks on the man with his left hand this time, keeping his right hand and wrist free.
He actually taps the big mans helmet with his gauntleted hand. <"Hey. Sleeping Ugly. It's time to go, you look stable enough."> Indeed, for Naia did at least stabalize Hadrix. Rathe adds a few touches quickly to support that kriffed-up arm. He tries sotto voce <"Get up, or we're gonna re-gre-t iiiiiit"> Then Hadrix is up on his feet and sort of ready to move. So Rathe helps rigs that sling for the bad arm fast, and gets under the good arm. <"Quick, before someone sees the plants.">
Explosions, blood, claws, and muddied boots. Quite a day! Emma's weapons are stowed, the caps on her rifle's scope closed as the weapon remains unwielded. She frowns, turning to look at the injured and then folding her arms over her chest as she approaches Hadrix. "Better circumstances indeed..." she smiles, a nod given. He'd pull through, she knew that much. On to Zhu and his injuries, the blonde moves to tilt her head. "At this rate, we're going to be negotiating a raise."
Once more we see our heroes...nope thats not right. Mercenaries? Maybe? Naaah lets go with deceptively compentent misfits have once more seen the day through.
Lets not talk about the missing front door and the various new markings that just add to the character of the decerpit old hull. Its definitely going to need an overhaul after this. Once Eriu has a melt down. The smell alone will singe the nose hairs off a bantha.
Such devastation. Heroics at their best! Impromptu allies! Loss of limbs! What else could possibly go wrong? Everything. Absolutely everything. Lets not forget the blatant heroics of a psychologist turned crazy man with a vibrodagger. Or perhaps the horticulturalist with her helpful yelling and blaster bolts. Or the tentacle headed doc who just really does not want to be present anymore. Lets not forget the new face in the crowd, or Moustache in this case who is good with a pair of knuckles. Our helpful lizard friend who took that hit and went down a roasting piece of meat - just like that which he consumes. Flashbangs? Oh yeah, that's that now one legged bith over there. An assassin with a late arrival but a lot of big badadboom in the end. The hapan still seething due to the damage done to her home and people. And the unforunate leader who has likely just lost an whole nother limb! Wait..two more? Oh right. That wrong turn Mandalorian and his stripper friend. Good thing they were here.
It is never a dull day in the realm of Shadowport when friends come calling and old enemies decide that their bit of flesh is due. Nothing is sacred
Next up on Shadowport - redecorating and febreeze in bulk, we can make this work!
These are the figures of Shadowport (+2). All hail!
