Log:Under Their Noses

Under their noses

OOC Date: July 1, 2024 (Optional)
Location: Asteroid Way Station - Deep space
Participants: Amal Jha, Airis, Bar'duur, Airis and Qutha Buvu Pah as GM

How long until Kessa's forces arrived was anyone's guess. What the residents of this battered old asteroid station knew for certain was that things would change, and likely for the worse, when they did.

In the broad passages shops, trade exchanges and moneylenders were packing everything they could and clogging up the halls in fits of arguing, fist fighting, more than one drawn blade and three security officers trampled to death when there was a break in the clogs and the masses surged with renewed hope and panic for escape.

What were people doing on station when the warnings came was ultimately their own business. Spoiled now for the wildfire of fear that was spreading faster than water over a bare floor. There was only one clear notion; people wanted to get out.

Fear was the enemy. Not that the Echani would have said so out loud. Rather, it was the maxim by which she lived her life. Years of service to the Six Sisters, as well as well over a decade of service to the Hutts had stripped what little fear Amal Jha had had. Now, there was only purpose. She stood not far from her ship, directing passengers and cargo onto her ship. If the rush of people noticed that she picked and chose who did and did not make entry onto the ship, well, there was enough panic to overlook it. But those whom the smuggler needed to remove from the asteroid were, in the crush, more or less making their way onto the ship. Those who fell behind would be left behind. They understood the rules.

Airis had heard of a contact on this small station that could become a new trade contract for hauling off some minerals to other planets lacking that resource. She would have drug Bar'duur along with her. However, whether he was there to meet the contact or for some other means was up to him. However, the meetup was not meant to be. The alarm went out and people were scrambling to get out. "Well.. shavit." she curses under her breath. She glances back to Bar, then to the stuff all around them. "Well. What now?" She inquires of him. A smirk toys at her lips, "We could see if any valuable loot is left behind."

The landing bays were, likewise, mad-houses. People shouting what they'd pay or do to get passage, people shouting and crying out against people trying to stow away aboard their ships and here violence was more prevalent than in the corridors. Merchants with bulk freighters seeing only financial loss from the inevitable approach of the Empire were selling space on their ships, or taking on goods they'd not have such easier opportunity to acquire save for in moments like this.

Pushing was the least of things being done to others.

An Ithorian was being aided along with one long arm across the shoulders of a man in something looking like an all-weather cloak converted into something like a hooded coat. Walking slow and seeming to find nooks and crevices in the crush of sentients fleeing the station. Eyes on the fallen, the other wounded, beckoning for others to follow him as he moves in a seeming bubble of calm in the chaos.

The shriek of blaster fire cuts through the din, blending with angered shouts and terrified screams. Near the mag-con shield for the bay nearest there was a single craft. Armored and arm to fend off pirates, now it blockades the exit, turrets trained on the bay while a voice on loudspeaker demands an exorbitant amount of credits to let the ships already buttoned up to pass.

A smoking place already exists now on the deck plating where someone with a 'less than legal' auto-cannon had tried to set up, to make a counter point that resulted in the revelation of the craft's armament.

"Keep loading," Amal offered to the quarren who stood beside her. "No cargo, just the legal stuff they can carry." The Wraith stepped away from the ramp, trusting that the quarren would get his point across, physically if necessary, as she began the process of fording her way through the stampeding crowds towards the ship that was blocking her egress from the asteroid. Which was the point of pain for the echani. The sharp white of her clothing was nearly lost in the press, likely a good thing, as the bodies served as both a hindrance and a cover.

It became increasingly clear by what was happening that finding loot or treasure was not the smartest idea. For a moment, a look of disappointment crosses her face in a way that she seems as if she is pouting. "What a pain in the backside." She sighs and then proceeds to duck and weave her way through the crowd to head back to the ship that she and Bar'duur came in on. The woman shows some prowess in how she moves, making quick, calculated movements to give her the best route through the crowd.

As Bar'duur sees the crowds, and the freighter blocking the exit, the horned man frowns a bit, his eyes scanning what he can see. Fortunately he's somewhat on the tall side, not compared to some species, but it helps. He grunts, unclipping his helmet. "I'll try and get up there, see if we can.. quicken this up a bit.." He says. "I doubt whoever that is, works for the station or has any actual authority." Then he's securing that helmet, and fire shoots from his feet as he flies up into the air, and over the crowd for a ways, until he finds he must make a landing where a spot has opened up.

<"Five 'undrood THOUSAN'! Don' care if it's from one or all! Put it down where I can drop my ramp and you all get to leave with time to spare!">

The voice over the loudspeaker was shouting again, drowning out others and causing the people trying to reach some of the ships shove past others while more than few begin moving with hands raised and pocket boots held up. Headed for the blocking ship with more concern for their lives over their pockets.

The small pack with the Ithorian come up to one of the log-jams in the paths to the ships, the hooded man at their head supporting the Ithorian attempting to convince others to move with him. A set of knuckles to the side of his jaw is the reward for his efforts, rocking the man's head back - nearly sending himself and his immediate charge spilling to the ground.

One of the ships that has taken all it can, or is willing to do, hovers on repulsors - attempting to turn and bring its own weapons to bear. Drawing attention from some of the blocking ships weapons. Panic thickens the air further, such that it is becoming a weighted thing, pressing down on all.

Amal kept to the shadows. If by shadows, she meant continuing to push and finesse her way through the crowd. With luck, those within the blockading ship were too distracted by guess-timating how much money was being offered, that the echani could continue to make their way towards the ship. It was slow, but not steady, as Amal moved to bracket the side of the ship, hoping to make for its flank, and the maintenance hatch she could see near the top of the ship.

The crowd is scared. They are not listening to any sort of reason. All they want is to get on board a ship and fly away. However, this ship is in the way. So, Airis comes up with an idea. With a new determination, she flip flops her way through the crowds a bit more, inching her way through the crowd and to the front of the line. For a brief moment, her eyes narrow on the ship, but then darts to her own ship, quickly inputting the code and rushing inside.

Bar'duur makes himself enough immedeate space to lift off, though that space is so fleeting that he's soon being pushed this way and that before he flies up higher, finally able to get a good look around while hovering for a time. Looking upward and along the ceilings, he jets upward and with a metalic *clunk* lands on a catwalk up above.

"We need to work together to get everyone out of here quickly. A little patience goes a," then Zalon's abruptly silenced by a punch colliding with his gut. It's likely due to the sheer height that prevented the blow landing in his face. The Lasat bows forward with a grunt and his arm drapes across his midsection as the pain radiates out from that blow. There he stands, even as the crowd moves around him and he takes a few further shoves from passing individuals. By the time that he's recovered, those responsible are already a few paces behind himself and the elder Ithorian has drawn closer. A nod is given and Zal begins to move forward, parting his way through the shoving crowd by utilizing his sheer size. A few more shoves send him reeling by a step or two, but now that he's prepared for the violence he seems better able to avoid it.

The figure lifting into the air and the catwalks causes a momentary gap when some of the crowd push back from the jetwash, only for that cavitation to be rushed back into with a fierceness born of desperation to find position to move. Some chasing the omwati heading up into a ship, scrambling to try and get aboard and find a means to escape.

Others continue to move forward, throwing credit pouches and purses into the pile, looking to one another and back to the freighter holding them hostage. <"THAT'S RIGHT! PUT DOWN THE CREDITS, GET 'EM ALL PILED AND YOU CAN GET OUT BEFORE THEY GET HERE!">

Green running from a split in his lip, helping nearby hands aiding in steadying him with a thankful nod for their efforts. The Zelosian looks to the Lasaat with an expression made lopsided by the swelling in his jaw, "S'bout as I got..." Looking to the crowd and then the ship he is trying to get his small pack towards.

"Any ideas, son?"

One of the freighter's cannons open up on a small, if heavily modified, shuttle that lifts with its shields still raising when the weapon cores through the cockpit screen and crashes the little ship. Rolling as it does and silencing a dozen voices when it finishes its tumble.

One would never call Amal Jha a turtle, but perhaps she was today, as, in the midst of the firing, the crashing and the death of all those who had attempted to bully their way through the blockade, the echani made her way to the side of the ship. She moved silently, making no attempt to bring attention, as she edged her way towards the rungs that were fixed to the exterior of the ship. Nothing to see here. Just a ghost.

People are chasing her as she gets to the ship. Her original plan has gone to pot since people are so desperate, they chase her right on board the ship! "Well. Not getting any grenades." She fusses. In order to prevent getting trampled, she has to pull out all her acrobatic skills. The woman goes all parkour in the hull of the ship, racing to the cockpit and sealing down the cockpit.

A figure might be seen, by anyone paying attention, dropping from above that troublesome ship, and then a flash of bright torchlight jets from the bottoms of the figures boots, and the light shines from the polished chromium parts of power armor. Bar'duur lands gently atop that ship, right near a maintenence hatch, which he moves toward to press his entry, reaching to activate his gloves along the way..

Again Zal's given a harsh shove and this results in his practically being forced into a narrow alcove as more of the crowd surges by. He feels his annoyance rising. Down that path nothing useful can be found. He remains in the alcove for the moment as his eyes drift closed and he seeks to center himself again. His breathing levels out after a few long moments and he finds the calm within the turbulent sea.

People are trying not to be crowded into the wreckage of the downed shuttle, where fires are starting to burn and smoke is billowing up. Atop the freighter is a view of the crush of panic over the edges, an invisible wall where people stand to - fearful of the turrets opening up on them while the line of those willing to dump out credits and what look like gems and jewelry are making their way.

"S'a good idea..." Qutha notes, back to the wall against the edge of Zalon's alcove - those whom have moved in his charge holding near, eyes wide. Destitute for the need to be unseen as potential targets. The elder Zelosian nods again, looking to the freighter and back, "Ye git any plan.... ye let me know, ayuh... We'll see what kin git doin'..." Mouth a hard line when he looks back again.

Aboard the ship where Airis has barricaded herself in the cockpit, the sounds of people fighting for space as they crowd up the ramp continues. Some bang on the hatch, the bulkheads, demanding to be let in. Screaming for her to make a break for it. Anything, any chance. Anything but sitting still.

Amal lifted her head, as she caught sight of the flare of jets, though they were on boots and not the jetpacks she was more accustomed to working with. Whether friend or foe, she'd soon find out, as she began to climb along the exterior of the ship, moving at speed to get to the hatch as quickly as was safe. If fighting would be required, well, she would soon find out.

Though the hatch Bar'duur finds is locked, it's a basic lock, so he tries some simple bypass techniques he's picked up. He's no slicer, that's for sure, and this time he can't get it open. Muttering might be heard from his helmet vocalizer, light curses in Zabrak, and the like.

The words of Qutha are met with a moment of disbelief out of Zalon. One moment he was taking a brief time to center his mind. The next there's a familiar voice acknowledging that fact. Again the gold eyes of the Lasat drift open and Zal's attention drifts promptly toward the source of the familiar voice. Despite everything, the sight of Qutha brings a surge of hope to Zalon and a smile can soon be seen blossoming over the alien's purple face. "I thought with the ship being stationary and on repulsors, a nudge could be given to push it out of the mag field". For obvious reasons, such a plan wouldn't work. Namely people scurrying on the hull of the ship.

The smile fades though as Zalon's attention drifts from Qutha, the elderly Ithorian, and then back toward the burning wreckage of the shuttle. His attention doesn't last for long on the flaming debris. Soon his attention turns toward the aggressive freighter and Zalon steps forward from the alcove. "They need help," he says while pointing a hand toward the hovering freighter. This gesture is intended to conceal his true intent. He continues pointing, concentrating. He reaches out through the ever moving currents of the Force as he spies one individual in particular near an external hatch of the ship. Zalon's eyes drift closed for a moment, even as his concentration persists. He speaks in a murmur then, likely intended for no one in particular, "They need help," he repeats.

The hatch's locking mechanism is in his mind and he can practically feel the release beneath the touch of his large fingers. His fingers twitch once as he gives the locking mechanism's handle a soft tug. The external hatch before Bar'duur hisses as the maintenance hatch suddenly unseals and pops open.

A small nod when the currents in the Force are felt, the Zelosian's head turning towards the ship. "Ayuh, that they did... Funny how things work out, reckon." Another nod for the lasaat before Qutha starts to move again, finding little places where he can start to move, where the ebb and flow of the crowd allow for it. The Ithorian's arm over his shoulders again. Shoved back when he attempts to speak his way past. A 'whoof' of air from his lips when a fist makes contact with his gut. Eyes closing but he continues to try and make his way with the others following. Though their progress is minimal. So as such that he begins searching inward for a means.

With the hath open atop the ship the passage below is exposed. A narrow service passage running the spine of the ship. From within, somewhere forward, a split second ahead of the loudspeakers, <"Come on now, either I get paid and we all go or I go and you all welcome the imperials!" One of the cannons swivel towards the thickest knot in the crowd, <"And maybe I leave them some to clean-up for my troubles!">

More begin moving to drop off what they have at hand by the side of the freighter, some seeming even less likely to get passage now with their funds ready to be tossed away to another.

As she came up, Amal saw two things. A humanoid in heavy armor at the hatch, and the hatch popping open. Who was responsible didn't matter, she had no way of knowing, beyond what she could see. What did matter, was that the hatch was open, and she wasn't hindered by the bulk of heavy armor. She took advantage of the open hatch, large enough for someone to get through with a vac suit, so that was to the positive, and the armored humanoid doing the bright thing and looking before he leapt, and launched herself, making a feet first diving entry into the ship, hands drawing the pair of blades from beneath the fluttering duster, the sound of boots likely too loud on the decking as her weight came down. She at least managed a scan of her immediate surroundings.

The horned man in the power armor had never even been to this station before, one minute you're heading somewhere to trade cargo, the next you find yourself in a stuffy crowd of panic and violence, and well.. you just gotta' make do with what you've got. The Zabrak curses louder and growls in frustration, finding no access here, no way in to end this madness.

His helmeted head turns up, and around, taking in the top of the ship, about to resport to more desperate measures, just before the hatch pops open and he is completely shocked. "What.." He says, before he moves forward to climb inside, finally spotting Amal Jha, he pauses a moment as though to make sure she's of the same mind. He gets an answer of sorts as she drops down into the ship. He had stopped to peek down inside, and now he's doing so again, waiting just long enough for Amal to step aside, so he can drop down after her with just a puff of jet from his boots to cushion his fall. "Forward." Emits from his helmet vocabulator, as he moves toward the cockpit.

The freighter's turret swivels and this only serves to cause a fresh surge of panic. The same panic that causes some to surge into the group that to pair of hooded monks-apparent work to escort. When one of those monks takes a blow to the gut, Zal's quick to grab hold of the offender by the shoulders. "No," he states calmly and decisively as the Lasat practically plucks the offending Nikto up by his shoulders and simply tosses him up and over the crowd by a few yards. It would be almost comical if it weren't for the dire situation.

After that maneuver, a Weequay surges forward with a fist raised. Being honorable doesn't mean allowing the opposition a free strike. The Lasat's massive hand juts outward and he puts some of Master Garo's insistence of learning many martial art forms to good use. Wrruushi would be too violent given the strength disparity between the Lasat and Weequay. Teras Kasi would suffice. The heel of an open palm strikes the Weequay squarely beneath the sternum and the brute strength of the Lasat is enough to send the aggressor toppling back, gasping and sputtering for the oxygen driven from his lungs.

A nod is given and Zalon moves to ensure that Qutha's prepared to continue, along with rallying their wards to keep pressing forward toward their destination. A YZ-775 medium transport that has otherwise remained sealed and with a particularly vigilant R2 unit working to keep it that way.

More shouting can be heard within the ship as the captain continues to bark his demands and threats to the people who have no choice but to mill or acquiesce. The pile of funding growing and the desperate now trying to find an open ship or a pocket of safety away from the sporadic bouts of holdout fire, fists, blades and the particular movements of the lasaat who seems set on keeping the pace in his vicinity.

Oddly enough a number of people all shuffle to one side when the zelosion barks out an authoritative, "Make a hole!" headed towards a green-gray tinted YT-1500. Many moving as if trying to reclose the gap and finding themselves unable. Some, the wounded, the small, the frightened, being tapped by Qutha as he continues to lead his gatherum through the inexplicable gap formed.

Eyes follow, curious, afraid, those with weapons that would seek to force their way towards the same craft shifting as though waist deep in wet duracrete.

Aboard the freighter spates of laughter break out, muffled voices jeering those having to give up their money while the shadowed figure in the cockpit barks his threats into the comms unit.

Amal was already on her way, as she began to run at speed towards the cockpit. If anyone decided to pop out of the closed hatches, she would simply have to deal with them after. The cockpit was the most important obstacle. And there was a humanoid in heavy armor behind her. Perhaps they would assist. That was not Amal's immediate concern, as she hit the hatch at speed, familiar enough with most ships in her years as a smuggler that she turned immediately towards the pilot. Whether she caught him unawares, or he turned to face her did not matter as the crimson-edged blades lashed out. Once a bare miss, the next two finding heart and throat. A well placed kick pushing the blood-spurting body off of the pilot's seat. Not in time to avoid a jet of red on her white jacket. Damnit. A all day cleaner was going to be getting paid very well when she got back.

Bar'duur follows Amal, looking back, toward the other hatches, he can't remember if he's been on a ship like this before, but then Amal is slicing up the baddie. There's a simple nod, good. Then he's moving forward to push the dead meadie out of the way, sliding into the seat and getting hold of it. He can't find the door controls, so he focuses on shifting the vessel out of the way, allowing people to get to their ships at least. "Better prepare for incoming people." He mutters.

The throng of people that Qutha gradually picks up along the way requires some minding. That's where the Lasat in the modest traveler's attire comes in. The hood remains up and he does his level best to keep his face concealed, but the Lasat's rumbling voice does call out with gestures and loudly spoken directions for the group. This in turn permits them to avoid some of the congestion and more hostile problem areas. Maybe it's just his great height offering him some insights into the direction to direct and guide.

The moment the ship is moving to get clear movement in the bay is immediate. Ships that had been waiting lift off and rush for the way out. Several with sparks flying from their sides when they grind against one another or the edge of the bay opening. One of the smaller craft sent spinning out of control once free of the grip of gravity.

"Take some wit'chee. S'goan git might bit crazy." Called over his shoulder while Qutha moves, nearing his ship which stands with its ramp starting to open, holding with less than a fingers breadth of an opening - shaking as if in anticipation for the craft's master to finally arrive.

Within the freighter, things are starting to become... hectic. But there are options. Stand and fight. Pilot the ship out of dock... Set autopilot to fly out and dip out the emergency egress on the side of the cockpit.

You know. Options.

Once the ship is moved out of the way, Bar'duur sets it down so he can disembark, and get back to his own vessel, having had quite enough of /all this/. He takes the random people who found his ship along with him and drops them off on Nar Shaddaa.

"I would suggest a self-destruct, if such a thing existed." That was all Amal had to say, as she resheathed her blades, stepping past the body she had left on the floor to make for the emergency egress from the cockpit. She had a ship of her own to get back to. "Or leave this hatch open, let the ship vent to space." Whomever was on this ship no longer deserved to live. Such was the Wraith's judgement, as she pushed open the hatch and dropped down, to make her way back to the 1300 on which she can come in.

The call from Qutha is received with a stern nod from the Lasat. Then that same instruction is relayed to his own herd, "We're moving for that ship," he says of the sizeable transport with a gesture. This of course does draw many others hoping to get onboard. Others who the master of the ship will scrutinize heavily before they ever come aboard. He'll defend that boarding ramp with his life if necessary.

The needy people begin to ascend the boarding ramp with the Lasat standing with a blaster in hand. He's set for stun, as per usual. It only takes three people being dropped by stun blasts for many to fall into line. Those that were blasted are likewise helped aboard once there is an opening to do so, but the message of disorder and violence against fellow passengers is dealt with swiftly under such circumstances.

Where words seem to fail, a stun setting sends a clear enough message.

The ship's free of cargo and that means that there's substantial room for passengers. Soon enough the ship - operating under the false name and credentials of Corellia's Gambit - has its cockpit secured with a Jedi Padawan at the helm and his trusty R2 unit there to assist him. The ship has been sealed and soon the so-called Corellia's Gambit takes off and begins to make the push toward lightspeed as soon as possible through the use of a pre-calculated pathway.