Log:The Procurement of Dr. Pwibbols

The Procurement of Dr. Pwibbols

OOC Date: September 27, 2016
Location: Hutt District, Nar Shaddaa
Participants: Ambrosia Greystorm, Sar Yavok, Rake, Gren Delede, Atlan Eron

<<Alright, Delede, systems are working as intended, again. Head on back,>> Sar remarks through the closed channel that pipes through the Jawa.

The Old Man is standing the cockpit, chewing idly on an unlit cigarillo, eyes fixed on some readouts. Sar decided to task himself with some asset retrieval and picked his best pal Grenjamin (and a couple of others) to assist him, so the team is in a low orbit over Nar Shaddaa, watching the inner-system traffic. Waiting. And then waiting. And then waiting some more for one particular ship that may or may not be carrying a doctor whose initial intent was to sign up with the Resistance and slip away, unnoticed, to their lush base on D'Qar. Unfortunately, some gangmembers with a score to settle got between the altruistic physician and his goal.

The fucking older man makes his way back into the cockpit, and sighs. "You really need to learn to work on this hunk of junk for yourself. I'm not that great of a knucklebuster." He's forever bitching. If he wasn't bitching, you know that things are bad. "I miss this fucking moon. So much going on. This new slug being a prick, the many, many bars." Ah nostalgia. He slides into one of the pilot chairs, and looks over the scopes. "Just us, our blasters, and credits to be made. I forgot how boring being a Freedom fighter could be."

Rake was monitoring sensors, as well as monitoring the nav-computer. An unlit cigar is being chewed on in his canine maw. "Fuckin' hutts," he mutters. "Ain't good for nothin but target practice for the freshest recruits, if ya ask me," the Shistavanen mutters. "I'm gettin' too damned old to sit on my ass on D'Qar these days, keep hoping they'll give me orders somewhere that ain't so pleasant." A ship shows up on the sensors, taking Rake's attention away for a moment, but it turns out that it was another YT, an old one with a bad engine from the signature. "Half-wit smuggler, not our mark," he mutters. "Sometimes I wonder if I shouldn't of stayed retired, at least then I got in trouble from time to time."

"Yeah, got a chance to meet Eebua the other day," Sar says, moving over to the co-pilot's seat. He plops down with a grunt and pulls the cigarillo from his mouth. "Almost ended up gettin' shot down in his throne room, too." He smirks and tosses the unlit smoke onto the top of the command console.

"See anything that fits the description, yet?" he asks of his partner in crime, cycling through a few different screens chocked full of information.

The gang is currently looking for a ragged old Muurian transport carrying one super kidnapped doctor with a heart of gold.

"Not yet. You're sure it’s one of those slagheaps like old Fuzzbutt used to fly? Must not be a very good Doc." Delede focuses on maintaining their orbit, while avoiding the myriad of other ships in the busy trade lanes. But, he's still keeping an eye out, of course. "What the hell were you doing? You know that you're supposed to invite me when you do something stupid. It's my favorite entertainment." An annoyed eye is cast on Sar's direction for a brief moment.

Rake is favored with a look over his shoulder, and Gren chuckles. "Oh, Mr. Rake. If I'd known you wanted to get into trouble, you just should've asked. We're always happy to oblige. Next time I'm planning a mission that gets half of us killed, I'll sign you up." A grin follows this.

"Threatening him. Some of his goons worked Hex over real bad. Told him I'd make sure he ended up dead if it happened again," Sar says in a manner that's almost like that's not a ridiculous thing to say.

"I feel you there, Warrant Officer. Working the beat on this rock wasn't the best way to stay alive, but it kept me busy, that's for damn sure," Sar says. He's about to say something else when he taps the central screen, "There. Muurian hauler, designation 'Cunning Linguist'. Rake, point the sensors over that'a'way. See what it's hauling." Rake tests his Computer Use skill at a 100 difficulty.

Atlan E'ron makes his way up into the cockpit to stand off to the side and leans up against the bulkhead as he watches out the viewports and watches the piloty types doing that piloty type thing as he keeps out of the way.

Rake nods to Sar, "Sure thing, Colonel," and he's on the sensors again. "Tweaking the sensors a bit to do a low-frequency ping so hopefully they won't realize we did a direct scan," he mutters. "Ain't great for discerning details, but if all we're looking for is life signs, should be..." He's watching the screen, shifting the unlit cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. "Got two biologics, one in the cockpit, one in the cargo bay. This might be our target," he says. "Doubt the pilot realizes we did anything more than a broad-spectrum scan of the system for monitoring space traffic." He glances over at Gren, chuckling. "Yeah, well Captain, I ain't real keen on dyin', but I'm even less keen on sitting on my furry ass twiddlin' my thumbs." A glance is given to the Pardu, along with a nod.

"Cunning Linguist?" Major Greystorm appears with a lean into the cockpit, scoffing at the scanners. "Wonder how many ways she can say 'oops' if this is our ship." And it'd better be, dammit. The groundpounder's getting increasingly antsy and impatient back in her seat.

"Let's go to work, Captain Delede," Sar says. "Atlan, Amber, find a chair."

"I'll try not to get you killed then, Rake." Atlan's arrival receives a glance, though not much more. Gren doesn't actually know the enlisted type. Ambrosia receives a nod of recognition. Still, the former Imp focuses on his flying, and glances sideways at Sar. "I'm taking us in for a closer look, because fuck if I'm not bored. Why don't you hail them? Do your best Hutt-threatening act. Scare their pants brown." And, without further ado, the Jawa's course changes, and the throttles are shoved forward. With a bit of a lurch, the tramp freighter is attempting to find a good intercept course on the transport. "Might not hurt to warm up a turret, if anyone is so inclined."

"I'm not," Ambrosia declines the warming of turrets and turns on heel to march back to her seat. She parks it in the seat nearest to the cockpit hatch then buckles herself in. Last time she was in one of these things they were boarded and she got shot in the ass. THIS time, she's doing the boarding and it's not a blaster she's apt to use. Although it HAS just received a much needed day at the spa. She pulls her old friend out of its sheath and spins it idly in hand.

Atlan E'ron shakes his head, "Sorry don't know how to use a turret boss." He nods in reply to Rake but makes his way into a seat out of the way, adjusting his sword as he takes a seat.

"Turrets are better suited for people with narrow shoulders," Rake says. "These YT's weren't really designed with real mean in mind." He lets out a gruff chuckle. "I'll stay on sensors, get me close enough for a focused scan and I'll tell you the height and weight of who's onboard. He pats the force pike that's collapsed on his side. "Of course, I do a focus scan and they'll know for damned sure they were pinged, of course flying right at them in a system as open as this, and they're going to know something's up anyway, and a Muurian transport has significant firepower." He looks to Sar. "So, colonel, maybe you're the best bet for turret duty, it seems. I can take up co-pilot duty."

"No," Sar responds to Gren. "Just keep it low and slow for now. See where they're going."

"Yeah, take over," Sar says idly back to Rake, standing up from his seat, eyes fixed on the sensor readouts piping into his co-pilot's console. "One of you get on sensors," he remarks to Amber and Atlan.

The Lt. Colonel moves to head down the hallway on his way to the turret ladder.

Atlan E'ron nods a bit as he moves from his seat to the sensor seat, "Although I could fly as well if that’s what's needed?" He adjusts the console to match how he likes to use the system.

"Fine, you old woman." Gren replies to Sar with an audible sigh, and a visible eye roll. He's not a fan of 'following' people. A squint as something draws his attention on the board, and then he's lowering their speed, and dropping back into the traffic....though he doesn't stray far from the Muriian transport. Atlan's offer to fly draws a squint, and a snort. A ground pounder fly when he's perfectly sober and alert? Over his dead, stinking body.

Rake gets up and takes Sar's place in the co-pilot's seat next to Gren. "These damned odd ships with the cockpit so far from center," he mutters. "Of course, I fly an overgrown starfighter these days, and a sleek scout ship prior to that, so anything with this much bulk feels like a damned brick with engines."

Ambrosia just chuckles to herself, listening to the guys grumbling among themselves. Yeah. This beats a day spent teaching kids to shoot or trying to herd a bunch of recruits through the woods in games of 'capture the helmet'. She picks some dirt out from under stubby nails with the knife tip, elbows on knees.

Sar Yavok climbs his way into the topside turret and buckles himself into the harness. He slips the headset on and powers it up, saying <<Alright, I'm settled. Anything going on?>>

Yes, Sar. Right now, as a matter of fact. The bulky Muurian freighter? Well, it's in the shit, now.

Looks like Sar and Co. aren't the only ones following it, as a pair of Headhunters swoop in and send a couple of warning shots across the transport's nose. Local comms, for whoever might be monitoring them, reveal a pair of angry Duros, shouting mean things.

<<<Sar. I'm done flying slow. I'm intercepting. Why don't we clean off the skulls? Maybe the target'll thank us. Hugs and prostate exams all around.>>> Gren did it Sar's way. Now he's doing it Gren's way. The throttle is punched, and the freighter rolls over and turns toward the Headhunters. It's not a great manuever, and while they're facing the right direction, and closing the distance...the firing arc for Sar's turret is not ideal at all. <<<What the hell, Yavok?! When was the last time you had this shitbox tuned up?">>> A sigh, and he glances at Rake. "Can you believe this turd? No forward guns, turns like a Bantha. I hate this ship." He's not above blaming his tools. "Hang on, Major."

"Well, things just got interesting," Rake mutters, trying to assist with the piloting, but the ship being oddly designed by his standards, he's likely more of a hindrance than a help. Instead, he decides to power up the shields, so hopefully this rust bucket won't get blown out of the sky. <<Shields up, but the angles aren't great. This ship is a piece of shit.>>

"The hell is a tune-up?" he asks himself, squinting. He sniffs and swivels the turret around, trying his best to get a lock onto one of the Z-95s. Unfortunately, Gren's a shit pilot, so the heavy bolts that Sar fires end up burying themselves in the side of a building.

The Muurian is not having a good time right now. After a heated exchange between its pilot and the bogeys, cooler heads have not prevailed, and the Headhunters have decided to get all shooty. They begin to pepper the hull of the un-shielded transport.

Things are going super well for everybody.

Some obscenities fly from the back as the 'turd' lurches a little too much for the Major's liking. Seems she agrees with Gren.

<<<Sar. You better be ready to light these bastards up.>>> Gren's voice is low, and serious. He's not joking around for once. His touch is not so light on the controls, now. He's flying the freighter like a freighter instead of trying to pretend it is a starfighter. A much prettier, if looping turn, followed by a flip over on it's central axis as a nice firing solution all prepped for Yavok's turret. He just has to make sure it connects. "I'm going to make sure he finds a better ship for us, next time. Piece of utter crap."

Rake mutters. "I'll take the secondary turret," he mutters. "I'm not the best shot, but I'm better than the hack firing at them currently." He looks to Gren, "Or you want me to man the controls here and let you shoot? Up to you, Captain. You're a better pilot and gunner than I am, so I'll let you make the call."

Sar Yavok does /not/ make sure that it connect, sending a lurching pair of turret bolts into a sign advertising LIVE NUDE DANCERS. He /does/ make a note of the location listed on the sigh, however. Before it explodes.

As far as the Muurian transport is concerned, it's on its last legs. What was supposed to be a low-impact, no-combat, transport run has turned into a real bad deal. For the third-party pilot.

What's worse, at least for the crew of the Jawa, is that one of the Z-95s has broken off from its pursuit of the Muurian, and turned its sights onto the YT-2400.

Pew pew pew. Oh no! The Muurian's going down! The lofty freighter lurches and sways, its engines flaring into and out of life, and it begins to veer slowly in the direction of the planet.

Oh, this is MUCH better. Ambrosia's stomach heaves the other way as they swoop up and around in a prettier fashion. Hateflyinghateflyinghateflyyyyying...Her knife gets properly sheathed and hands grip her harness.

<<<Sar. You're literally the fucking worst.>>> Gren snaps over the comms, before unbuckling his harness. "Take the helm. I've got this.>>> He dives through the heaving hatch past the heaving Major, and quite quickly jogs up the corridor, and slides down the gun well into the bottom turret. Ass is barely in the seat before the guns are humming. This all would've been -very- heroic and awesome...except the burst that he manages to get away? It disposes of what was once a storage container. It stores nothing now. "Oops."

Rake wasn't used to flying a ship of this class, but flying defensively was pretty much the same in any vessel. Jerk right, bank left, throttle up into the turn, down in the bank. <<Just don't ask me to line you up on anything. I can't see shit to the port side of this piece of shit. Why would anyone design a ship with the cockpit so far off center?>> From the co-pilot's seat he manages to at least keep from getting the Jawa shot to hell. <<Next one of these runs, we'll take the Sithspit. It's at least got pilot-controlled weapons as well as a gunner station. And I can fucking see any other ships out there.>> He continues to chew on his cigar as he flies the bird.

Surely later tonight, or in the morning, when all this mess is over and she's nursing a strong one, Greystorm will likely find this entire situation fucking hilarious. Right now, she's questioning why she couldn't accept the advancement of years as gracefully as others and just stay home, bouncing grandbabies on the knee...if she had any. Maybe there's one on the way? She hadn't pestered Jax much about it lately. Not that she WANTS a small, squalling thing to cradle and love, no, but it is fun busting her son's balls. A long, deep breath calms her belly as the Jawa seems to steady out a little bit and a Gren goes blurring by. "I like this arrangement best!" She cries out, for what it's worth.

<<Oh, hey, that's actually not bad,>> Sar remarks as Rake takes the yoke. Sar whirrs the chair about and pulls back on a lever or two before squeezing down some flashy button. Pewpewpew. A trio of bright red bolts bury into the side of the pursuing Headhunter and send the Z-95s spiralling into an overpass. <<You two need to quit yer bitchin',>> Sar remarks, <<Everything's going fine.>>

The Muurian transport collides into the ground, sending chunks of duracrete flying all over the Hutt District. A plume of smoke spills from the twisted metal, but the sturdy design of the vessel indicates that the occupants may very well have survived.

<<Delede, get back in the cockpit. Warrant Officer, Major, meet me at the boarding ramp.>>

<<<Fuck's sake. I never get to kill anyone anymore.>>> Gren complains, as the Headhunter is dropped without his help. He's still bitching as he climbs into the pilot's seat, and prepares the freighter to make a possibly hot landing. <<<Copy. I'll sit tight while you check for survivors, and extract. Bring me a drink if you can.>>>A glance at Amber and Rake. "Don't get killed. Keep him alive if you can."

<<Roger>>, Rake says as he waits for Gren to get back to the cockpit before he gets up. "If they're still alive, they're going to be banged up bad enough that they aren't going to put up much of a fight. I'm more worried about the locals," he says to Gren. Then, he's moving towards the back of the ship. "This thing is a piece of shit," he mutters as he heads towards the ramp, pulling his carbine from the sling on his back.

Rake brings up his Modified QuickSnap - 8608, the short-barreled weapon charged and ready.

<<Sit tight, my ass,>> Sar barks into a comm console in the wall. <<Set us down, Captain, and go get that Headhunter's attention. Don't want to eat a strafing run while we're digging.>>

The Jawa is maneuvered into position, hovering above the street just a dozen or so yards away from the crashed Muurian. "Alright, Dagger, let's go find us a doctor. Warrant Officer, you're on point." He'll wait for the two of them to jump out before he follow suit.

Heavy boots clunk down onto the street and his sawn-off EE-3 carbine is slid from its holster, his light eyes scanning their surroundings.

"'Bout time..." the Major releases her harness with a flick of the thumbs and shrugs out of it with haste. "Have some faith, Captain," she remarks back at Gren with a sardonic grin and heads aft as well. One hand reaches up over her shoulder and releases the vibroblade from its mount. Once the Jawa thumps into position, she nods at Sar with a "My pleasure," and motions for Rake "After you." Ambrosia Greystorm draws her Vibroblade - 3750.

Carbine in hand, Rake moves to the front, "I get it, put the biggest guy in the front," he mutters, though not overly serious about it. "I need to get one of those, if you get killed, can I have it?" he asks Sar with a toothy grin before moving towards the ship, weapon set on stun so he didn't accidentally kill anyone who didn't need killing."

Rake flips the mode toggle on his Modified QuickSnap - 8608, switching it to Stun mode.

"Your sniffers a hell of a lot better than mine is, Rake," Sar admits. He looks down at the EE-3 and remarks, "Well, I was gonna give it to one of my kids, but I guess you'd probably put it to better use." He wanders on behind the big pupper and says, "Areas bound to be covered with scrappers in a few minutes, so we're on a timetable.

Up ahead, the scene looks grim. The crash site looks a whole lot worse in person. Shards of metal are dug deep into duracrete, smoke is billowing out of the frame, and the howl of a not-yet-dead engine rips through the eerily quiet city streets. So far, their goal is uncontested.

"I feel like we just left this shithole," the Major mutters lowly after her boots clunk off the ramp and onto the quieter pad of ferrocrete. "Place smells like falumpaset farts. Can y'taste it, Rake?" Yup. Home sweet home. She surveys the crashed transport, moving in step a polite meter or so behind Rake and keeping an eye on the nearest pieces of debris they might dive behind if there's a sober welcoming party. Her knuckles flex over the grip of her weapon. It's had a dry spell. Getting thirsty. They're getting close now, so she drops her voice to a barely audible whisper into the com. "You watchin’ my ass back there, Lt Colonel?"

Rake moves forward then pauses. Ears perk, and he sniffs at the air, cybernetic eyes moving to the horizon. "Dammit," he mutters. "Swoops coming, several of them, and they're coming in fast. We better hurry, get Gren ready for evac," and with that said, he's actually running to the downed freighter, carbine held at the ready. "Major, there's a rifle on my back if you need it to keep those bastards pinned down. You're probably better with it than I am anyway."

"Always, Major," Sar responds, not missing a beat.

"Now, hold on, Rake; let's do this smart-like," Sar instructs. "No need in getting into a gunfight if we can avoid it."

"Let's set up some sorta ambush. I'll go post up round about there," he says, gesturing to an alleyway, "And y'all can work y'all's way up from downrange. Just keep pushin' til they fall back."

Confident in his plan, the Lt. Colonel moves to said alleyway. Unbeknownst to him, however, that alleyway was occupied by an overly-affectionate couple, made up of Chadra Fan and a Dug wearing a wig. "Oh, shit! I'm sorry!" Sar cries out, only to be drowned out by the duo's screams of surprise. So much for stealth.

Rake wasn't going to be hiding, but he was crouching a bit and his steps pad along in silence, searching for the best place to get good aim at the incoming traffic.

Rake flips the mode toggle on his Modified QuickSnap - 8608, switching it to Kill mode.

SWOOSHSWOOSHSWOOSH. The gang of five swoops comes speeding into the area, all of them swerving to a halt as the approach the crashed transport. The leader, an angry-looking Duros dismounts from the bike and barks something in his native tongue. The other four hop off of their bikes aswell and begin to move toward the downed ship.

Meanwhile, in the alleyway, the mismatched alien lovers nearly run Sar over as they attempt to flee from sheer embarrassment, backing the Corellian man out into the open.

"Hey!" shouts one of the gang-bangers. "That guy threw me in the pen one time! Time for some payback, fellas!"

The gang's leader looks none too pleased, but isn't doing anything to stop his boys from getting some retribution. All of the ruffians raise their blasters and take aim at the Lt. Colonel, firing away. Luckily, Sar's a spry man and he manages to tumble out of the way and behind some much-needed cover.

"Yeah, maybe," Ambrosia agrees with a less than reassuring tone. Her strongest playing cards are in hand, although the little fossil of a blaster is comfortably close at her hip. The Major glances behind as there're no longer eyes on her tush, or back. "Let's just hope the doc's okay. Better make this quick." Like Rake, she's dropped her stance to slink along. Slinking's a little slower going than it used to be, thirty years ago, but she's still got it! And there wasn't a Hex here to muck it up and get her set on fire. Life is good.

Until it isn't. Poor Sar. She's kept to a fairly steady line of the debris field and so stays there, hunkering down a bit while she trades the blade for "Let's see if that kid's worth his salt," she grumps, eyeing the modifications so prettily crafted into her DY-255.

Ambrosia Greystorm puts her Vibroblade - 3750 away. Ambrosia Greystorm slides her Modified 'Torch' DY-255 - 4474 out of its holster, bringing the weapon to bear.

With incoming fire, aimed at Sar, Rake pops around a crate and with a quick double-tap, drops one of the swoopers with his carbine. It lacked the power of his rifle, but it was easier to maneuver in tight spaces. <<One dickbag down, but we gotta make this quick. Bound to be some of the local Hutt's goons on the way now that there's been weapons fire as well as a crashed freighter on his turf.>>

"Shit, shit, shit," Sar says, landing behind a duracrete divider. The Lt. Colonel manuevers and presses his back to the thing, hefting the heavy handcannon in his hand. He breathes out a slow breath and moves to pop up from behind his cover for a moment so that he can fire some shots down-range. One goes wide, but the other finds its mark; smack dab in the chest of one of the gangmembers.

Ambrosia eyes the swoops appraisingly as she takes her aim at the nearest mynock-for-brains. Not that her cells were all that much more intelligent, mind you, but come on - At least she hasn't got her skull tattooed with what appears to be a Sarlacc ... no. Nevermind. Greystorm pulls the trigger on the eyesore. "You still alive, boss?" she drawls into the com.

• Pew*Pew*

Rake pops up again, firing a couple of rapid shots at another of the Duros swoopers. Of course, the Shist was a big target, and he drew fire from one of the bastards as his shot cores into another. Not enough to kill, but it was going to leave a scar. "Next time I kill a stormtrooper, I hope he drops a carbine. How come they get all the good shit?"

Heeey....fires pretty good. Mouth twisting into a grin, Greystorm Sr peers around the smoldering edge of her shelter and pops off another couple shots at bald bodies that remain yet standing. "I hear they get better funding," she laments.

<<Yeah, I'm fine,>> Sar remarks into the comm, staying low and doing his best to duck the blaster fire that's tearing into his surroundings.

The last of the gang leader's lackies goes down in a heap as Amber vents his noggin, and the scarred Duros sneers, hefting his e-11 and sending a few burst towards Amber and Rake, shouting obscenities at the pair of them.

Luckily, Sar's managed to close in on the guy. The Lt. Colonel vaults some fallen debris and run him the heck down, and tackles him to the street, jamming his trusty sport knife into the alien's ribs a couple of times. Things are going very well for all (the good guys) involved.

Until the barrel of the Duros' e-11 ends up pressed against Sar Yavok's gut and the trigger is pulled. There's a flash of revelation as the Lt. Colonel realizes what's just happened, but shock soon sets in and he rolls limply off of the Duros onto his back, eyes staring blankly at the Nar Shaddaa sky, hand clutching at the new hole in his stomach.

With Sar in melee range, Rake can't risk taking a shot with his blaster, so he just drops it and rushes forward pulling and extending the forcepike as he ran. A quick twist in the air as he leaps from a running jump, and the large Shistavanen impales the swooper, displaying a reason why the weapons are considering so scary. Blood splatters his fur and face. "Bastard," he says as he yanks the pike out.

"Sonofabitch..." Ambrosia peeps a glance around at the bloody melee. A flash of genuine concern ripples across her sweaty face. Sar's on the ground? "Rake, if you'll kindly start hauling our hero back to the ship, I'm going to get us a doctor." (And hope that the doctor doesn't need a doctor) A momentarily shaky hand holsters her weapon and she closes the distance between self and ship with cautious but steady steps. Her left hand yanks the sport knife free and tosses it into her right as she eyeballs a suitable way inside. Well. There /are/ some tears in the hull to choose from.

Sar Yavok lies on the street, eyes drifting closed as the threat level is descreased to a nice zero by an angry Shistavanen. The Colonel takes a few ragged breaths and offers a nod to the Warrant Officer, despite not being asked any questions. Perhaps it's simply an indication of 'Yes, drag me somewhere that isn't here'.

Amber's entrance into the crashed freighter will be unhalted. The inside of the transport looks decently held-together. Inspection will reveal that the pilot was DoA, but, fortunately, the doctor that they seek is fine, if not in need of a few stitches and a new pair of pants.

Rake looks down at Sar, shaking his head. "He got you good," he says as furry hands reach down. "This is gonna hurt," he says as he hoists the man up and over a shoulder in a fireman's carry. "If you want to use a knife, do so from stealth when you have a clear shot for their neck. Otherwise, get a bigger damned knife instead of that little pig-sticker," he mutters with a grunt. "You're gettin' fat, Colonel."

A low 'hmph' seems to echo louder than necessary in this dying ship as Ambrosia nudges over an up-ended case of luggage with her plastisteel toe. "Looks like there's been a permanent delay to someone's travel plans!" she lets her voice ring out, baiting, listening...Nothing.

Leather creaks as she hikes a leg up and nimbly climbs over a dislodged seat, heading first for the cockpit. Ooh. He dead. Slender fingers flex irritably over the polymer grip. No fun, no fun...crows feet deepen around squinting eyes as she peers through the flickering lights. Yes, definitely dead, a push of a finger to the squishy bruise bulging from carotid confirms. "Sorry," she pats the ashen cheek less than gently and then traces her steps back a ways to search for the doctor. What did the sensors say? Lifeform in the hold?

She stomps that way. "Doctor Pw..." she shakes her head lips fumbling to butcher the pronunciation, no doubt. "Pwibbols?" Step, step, step. "Doctor Win? Paging doctor Win or Pwibbols..." Holding her breath, the Major edges on inside the hold, stooping to a knee for balance while her other hand flicks the blaster from its holster to shine a tac-light on the situation. "Oh. There you are." Pwibbols, it is.

"It worked when I was a /youngrmnnn/," Sar says, the last few syllables devolving into grunts as he's hoisted onto the big dog's shoulders. "We humans don't age quite as well as you Shistavanen," he admits through gritted teeth. "Hell, just look at the Major. What I wouldn't give to have seen that ass twenty years ago."

The Jawa, having managed to shake the remaining Z-95 off into the side of a building somewhere, touches down where it dropped the team off, ready to touch off and get everyone back to Sar's apartment, where bandages and alcohol await them.

Rake just chuckles. "Yeah, but Humans tend to live longer, at least those that don't go getting themselves shot in the gut on a regular basis." He grunts, "I just try to keep myself in shape."

"Here, come on out, it's all right," Says the somewhat scary looking middle-aged monster poking her head in on the Ithorian's sad accommodations. A shrug of her hood and gadget rearrangement later and Ambrosia reveals a more normal looking, human face. "My name is Major Greystorm, I'm with friends. We're here to get you off this moo--" With hand extended, she turns her head to glare at someone NOT there. "You couldn't have /handled/ it twenty years ago!" she retorts all snippily into her shoulder. "But at least we know your line's not dead."

A minute later, two figures emerge from the fallen Muurian - Ambrosia Greystorm and a trembling, slower-moving Ithorian clutching a case of somethingeranother to its chest. He? She? Greystorm can't remember what the dossier specified and honestly, she can't tell. What she DOES know is that a strong drink and a shower is just a short flight away now, so "Let's go, Doc, come on! Before they're on our ass again." One hand rests lightly against the Doctor's back and they push forward into a trot. "I've got a man down." And up they go, into the Jawa's belly.

Hopefully it's a smoother ride home.