Log:Unwanted Sensorship: Part 3
Everything goes sideways.
OOC Date: January 17, 2019
Participants: GM: Artemis, Usha, Hopp_Nooram, Hadrix_Rol
Ringo gasps as the blaster bolt tears through fur and flesh with equal voracity. The wound is apparent, a gaping circle in the Bothan's white suit that he never bothered to dodge by virtue of poor reflexes or just not caring anymore in the face of such wanton disregard for everything, this being the apex of a poor day, or some unrequited love for his misappropriated hotpot. He curls up over the wound, lurches forward, and is directed in to the street by the tender loving embrace of the well-mannered Coruscanti where he crumples up in to a heap. A low moan is uttered from his muzzle as the puddle begins to be tainted red like so much spilled kool-aid. With their primary contact left for dead, is it even possible to complete the task they've been assigned? Are the guards aware of something amiss? Will the group hold it together despite the differing approaches to tactics? Does the rain really taste like rainbows?
Outside, the sky darkens further as if the world itself had something to say about the actions of those within Ringo's abode. The water continues to fall from the heavens as well, forming rivulets that curl about the ground drawing curious, nature-inspired designs for those that are keen to soak themselves as they eye the phenomenon. A few members of the group have vanished in the ensuing commotion seemingly unwilling to stick around to see if the guards have noticed the gun fire and the bleeding Bothan outside.
To the Gand and the old man, Hadrix grunts, "Distract the guards." checking his repeater charge before looking to the others. "So, no suits, no ID's" leaving the old man and the bug regardless of what they say, "We have the explosives, we have guns, and we have the location of where to put the charges, yes?" he looks to Gripper and flashes a pair of hand signals and the droid is off, out the door and set to work. "Unless either of you know where to get the kit he was going to provide?" The helmeted head tilts as he is given a report, "Guards en route, either we drag the bothan back in, scoot now, or come out shooting. I opt for the second." and with that he checks out the door and then steps back into the night, glad of his sealed suit.
"I'm tired, Pinkie, I'm- I'm real tired of your shit!" Hopp grates at Usha, the old man enclosed in Mandalorian armor that hides his face (thankfully) and amplifies his voice (not better). "You know, you- you come in here, all lackadaisical, goin' off half-cocked, and next thing you know it, our best chance at pulling this off is dying in the gutter where you did him dirty drenched in some sort of rainbow rain that any penny-ante biochemist with an eye towards tyranny can guess is some sort of compliance-drug laced precipitation that's pissing down over that- that- I can't feel too bad here, the kid was always headed for a bad end. But- but- but that's not important. Let's just get out of here, we- the job's already kriffed to all hell, the best we can do now is blow some shit up or die trying, and- and- you know, I- blowing shit up sounds like the best option here." He's headed for the nearest exit that nothing else has gone out of yet.
This last dose of spice seems to level the Zeltron more than she was a second ago, and returning to back to some of her senses, Usha rubs at her nose and start to take a look around. "Maybe the kit is in plain sight?" she tears up the room unceremoniously, over turning the table, shuffling through his clothes, pulling the mattress off his cot. She's doing a rather sloppy job of it, not finding anything conspicuous UNTIL - oh no, false alarm. Just a few issues of Huttball Weekly and a glossy copy of this month's Furrylicious, the themes of which you can probably guess for yourself. "Of course," she rolls her eyes and instead follows Hopp out instead. "Let's just scoot. We don't have time."
The weather grows more inclement with every passing moment pounding the pavement with acrid, sulphuric scented air. Everyone, save Usha, is thick with its effluvial scent. Unfortunately for the Zeltron, her perception of things is quite the opposite in that the air is bright with floral and sweet scents reminiscient of the most tantilizing of her homeworld's tourist-oriented areas. Guards have begun to approach the area from most of the cardinal directions, scurrying in like mice in this prefabricated egg carton maze. Strangely, the rest of the carousing miners have vanished from the streets leaving it curiously vacant despite their obvious over-indulgence in the local watering hole's Snorg.
Once folks are out, Hadrix keeps close to Usha to keep her from growing distracted, heading in the direction of the mines with his droid hovering close. "Upon arrival we can gun the guards down if they stop us, if they let us past without argument, be prepared for an attempt at ambush." he keeps his repeater ready, prepared to fire at a moments notice.
"Yeah they're not gonna let us past without argument," Hopp replies with a rasping chuckle, reaching a hand down to pull the Mandaltech blaster from its holster. The other blaster doesn't match it. "But you know, I- I kinda like that about you, kid," the old coot confers on Hadrix. "There's something sorta, I don't know, endearing about blind dumb optimism, I guess, but- but- just don't get too carried away with it, alright, too much of a good thing is a bad thing." Ping, ping, droplets make a constant white noise against the dome of his silver helmet.
Usha feels better the instant they step out of that dingy apartment. A rush of warm, nostalgia hits her as she takes deep breaths of that sweet, sweet air. Her cheeks are a rosy purple as she follows the group along. It's a good thing Hadrix is there to keep her on track, for she most certainly has to fight the urge to wander off in this dreamland of a minetown. "You know what guys, I can't explain why but, I have a really good feeling about all this. I think it'll work out just fine, and we all need to just take a breath and tackle each problem as they come." She heard that once from a holonet motivation speaker, and it's never been more relevant than today. How do you like her blind, dumb optimism Hopp?
A shrill whistle pierces the air as the trio are spotted by one of the pairs of guards: a Rodian and Human duo dressed in black, orange, and white fatigues over which hardened metal armor of remarkable quality for a mining operation. The human points menacingly in the direction of the obvious offworlders as if they needed to be separated from the non-existent crowd. Who would wander around in this weather unless they were being paid? "You there," the Rodian calls out, his voice whiny and lacking in force as his Human compatriot allows the whistle to dangle in his mouth. "What are you doing with those weapons?"
Utter calm, that's what Usha gets from Hadrix as he hefts up the rifle, "This." and opens fire, it's snapfire, innacruate, and he kicks the hell out of the ground, a wall, some rain... Suck it rain! Maybe they'll put their heads down, maybe they'll shoot back. It's a mystery, unlike what Hadrix is doing with those guns!
"Alright, let's just shoot 'em," Hopp grumbles under his voice when the guards accost them, and sure enough, there goes Hadrix. "We got 'em to shoot you with!" he yells back across at the guards, taking what's not really careful aim and blasting off a rapid burst of fire. "We'll- we're gonna kriffin' murder all of you, we're here to get revenge for the- for the soul of the planet! It ain't right what you miners are doing out here!"
As with every situation, Usha opens her mouth to butter her way out of this situation, but before she can even utter a word, shots are fired. "Darling, is that really nece-" It is only then that she realizes she doesn't have her weapon out, and like the slowest kid in gym class, she hastily arms herself with her blaster. It's like the say - in beer pong, the drunker you are, the better your aim. Such is the case when her blaster shot lands on the Rodian guard.
On the other side of the buildings, in an alleyway away from the fighting, a confused, portly human and a greasy looking Bothan peer at the body of Ringo. They exchange confused glances until Zogrud finally breaks the silence by peering up in to the sky with his mouth agape. It turns out that humans aren't so good at filtering water from their nostrils and immediately the tainted rain makes him question his mortality. Coughing angrily, he doubles over and hacks until a large, crunchy glob of something vaguely reminiscent of a cheese puff casts itself to the ground. "It never tastes as good the second time around," Zogrud complains to Rango. Rango squats down and pats Ringo on the shoulder, seemingly unaware that the other Bothan is nearly exsanguinated at this point. "Come on Ringo, let's get you back inside to sleep this off. I told you you shouldn't drink so much Snorg while you're reading those dirty mags." Instead of being roused, Ringo rolls on to his back. The wound's exposed. Both the guards gasp.
As blaster bolts fly, Pib's whistle becomes all the more shrill. Red-faced and puffy cheeked he clearly isn't going to stop blowing on the thing even as he and his partner pull out their blaster rifles to return fire. "What the f-" Greeli grunts as the Zeltron's bolts find his core and punches through a weak spot in the membrane that holds the plates together and seals out the air. He winces but strangely the effect of the injury is minimal at best and he does not appear to be a hardboiled sort. They both raise their weapons, not bothering to find cover, and return with a volley of their own. Tit for tat, Usha takes the brunt of Greeli's revenge as Pib shoots in parallel without much thought to the motivation behind his target choice.
Shifting to take the blaster bolt on his shoulder pad, Hadrix issues a grunt of effort as the bolt skitters off and any heat is delt with by the energy disbursing mesh in the plates as they do their work. There's still calm in his essence, but now an in-mix of sheer, unadulterated joy - the pleasure centers of his brain dumping dopamine, serotonin... hell oxcytosin and endorphins into him... Hell it's almost like he's been conditioned to all but actuall get off on this. If the others wondered about his past, there was definately military training there. His steps are measure and his repeater continues to roar, swings towards Mr. Whistle there. "Fire and advance, keep moving... Don't fall behind Ms. Pink."
"You wouldn't shoot an old man, would you?" Hopp demands of the guards, standing there like a Mandalorian scarecrow with a gun in one hand, and after his sanctimonious statement, long arms pull up again to squeeze off another pair of shots at the human. It's... something to see, the way he stilts around in the rain in the armored suit, bony frame unleashing what appears to be borderline random destruction on the environment and in this instance Pib happens to draw the short straw.
Oddly enough, Usha doesn't so much as wince when the Rodian's blaster bolt sears a wound on her leg. From the looks of it, it doesn't seem like she even noticed she got shot at all. She's the Zennest she's ever been in her life, a relaxed look of utter peace on her face. Two pops of her blaster and the Rodian falls dead. Confused, she looks over at Hadrix asking, "Why would I fall behind?" Oh I dunno Usha, maybe because your leg is BLEEDING as you move along! The Zeltron starts to move along for cover, but the rain ... it's so sweet. And she's so thirsty. Glancing down at her wound, her magenta hand swipes a bit of blood on her fingers, which she sucks off with satisfaction, "...delicious."
"RIIIINGO NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO," Rango calls out in to the dark, his fists held akimbo in the air, and his howl cast at the sky as if the gods themselves could hear his lamentation. "Come on man," Zogrud belches and grabs a handful of the other guard's shoulder. He reaches around and scratches at his rump before sniffing it. Satisfactory. The same finger finds its way in to his mouth and he suckles at it while speaking out of the corner of his mouth. "You didn't even like the guy." Immediately, he regrets touching the rainslicked Bothan and pulls his hand away, wiping his hand off on his moist trousers. "Yeah, but that's not the point," Rango agrees as he relaxes. Abruptly, his ears perk. Attention piqued. He turns to face in the direction of the blaster fire that manages to crest over the rage of the storm overhead. "Did you hear that?" Zogrud nods, readying his weapon. "Let's go."
Pib and Greeli seem oblivious to the shots that are punching through their armor, barely wincing as they stand and fire back at their assailants like two saints relying purely on faith to keep them standing through the hail. Unfortunately, the human's prayers go unanswered as he falls to the ground. Eyes vacant, he slumps on to his knees and then makes a macabre statue of flesh as he manages to remain balanced at the behest of his chest plate. Greeli continues to focus on the pink-hued target but he too finds himself fatally wounded before he gets a chance to return fire. At this point, Zogrud and Rango show up just in time to see Usha execute the Rodian. "PIB AND GREELI! NOOOOOOOOOOOOO" Rango calls out in to the dark, his fists held akimbo in the air along with his blaster, and his howl cast at the sky as if the gods themselves could hear his lamentation. "Dude," Zogrud cuts him off. "Just shoot at them." So they do.
"Shavit..." Hadrix continues to move forward, ducking down as more blaster bolts sail all around, "Lick your hand later!" his joyous mood tainted now by irritation. He wheels and begins back pedaling in the direction of the mines while his cannon spits plasma again, a hailstorm of bolts moving downrange, pelting at Rango now. Explore merc work, see what kinds of people are out there for the Order to deal with, report it to the Supreme Leader. Rabble! He's dealing with drunk old men and spice-heads in armored hooker boots... He was missing Ciferni's quiet resignation and Ten-Fifteens sneering derision more and more.
"Look kid, I don't know what kind of ideas you got about hand-licking but it- it's not something I really dabble in," Hopp replies to Hadrix, holding up an empty palm towards the other man and waggling his fingers. "Krif, I could use a smoke right now," muttered next before NOOOOO cuts into the conversation and his T-visored helmet twists towards the newcomers. "Well, I guess this is just gonna keep happening until every guard on this rock is dead, or we are." Raising his gun with a languid sweep, he pulls the trigger, and bork. Bork bork. "Oh." Pa-choo, ejected. Digging in his pockets, he comes out with a cig, stares down at it, unwilling to waste the thing but knowing it is not, in fact, ammunition. Delicate fingers shove it back into the pocket. A powerclip finally is drawn forth, clip, POW. "At this rate, we're the dead ones."
"You don't understand though," Usha says, distracted by all the glorious treats the gods of the planet have blessed upon her. Swiping more of that syrupy blood on her hand, she offers it to both Hadrix and Hopp to taste. "Here, just try it. You /have/ to try it." It's not said as a suggestion, but a demand, as she shoves her hand obnoxiously in their faces. Is this a weird Zeltron kink thing? At this point, she's hardly paying attention to the action, not looking where she's shooting, which is why her shots so clearly miss Rango.
Hadrix's shot is remarkably clean, glittering as it is so sweetly against the backdrop of orange-hued clouds and torrential rain, until it careens in to Rango's fur and leaves behind little but dangling sinew and bone. The pink of organ meat is visible behind the sucking wound to the ribs. The lung is damaged and the Bothan wheezes but seems otherwise no worse for wear as he continues to squeeze the trigger on his blaster. "You've been shot, Rango!" Zogrud exclaims, glancing sidelong at his companion in a vaguely distracted as they continue to play Rambo in front of the trio of interlopers. "No, I haven't," Rango retorts. "I don't hurt at all!" "Yes, you have." "No, I haven't." "Yes, you have." "Maybe I have! Let's worry about that later!" The duo continue to return fire. Their blasters find their marks, squeezing between heavy plate or just punching hard enough to leave impact marks as the armor tries to disperse the kinetic energy to less than lethal levels.
The shot from Rango takes Hadrix clean in the head, armor plating melting and running down the cheek guards and neck like rivers of durasteel and densiplast mingling in pools on his shoulders. Part of his face exposed, though what is visible is red, puffed, and while identified as flesh, it's hard to tell what area of his face it is. Gunning as he falls, Hadrix's repeater stitches red lines into the air, far flung from the targets as he stares up into the sky, dazed and fighting going into shock as he attempts to crab-scramble backwards to get his bearings once again.
"Heh, they sound like you two," Hopp comments causally to his companions when the new two guards show up and start bickering among themselves. "'Just shoot em, worry about it later, don't think anything through'," and now it's a mocking, higher-pitched tone, imitating both the guards and his companions at the same time. This stops abruptly when Hadrix is shot straight in the face. "That's not good," Hopp hisses, sucking air over his teeth. "Pinkie, this isn't good. It's- we're the dead ones! I was right again and I'm not happy about it this time!"
Her leg wound. The raw insides of Rango Lancaster. The red on Hadrix's cheek. The world around Usha is sanguine sweet, washed over by honey rain drops. She can hardly keep herself from being distracted and yet her hunger for more reigns in her focus. Pew! The first shot misses Rango, ricocheting off something or other. The second shot hits, making even more of the syrup ooze out. "Well we sure as kriff won't make it to the sensor now. We're gunna have to book it back to the port. Take a ship somehow..." Licking some more blood off her fingers she glances over her shoulder at the backpack, "I still have the mines. We could probably use them to help get us out of here."
"Ohh ho ho ho ho, oh god," Rango guffaws with a wheezing slant as his shot strikes the trooper in the face and his lungs finally give out. Doubling over before his body is finally unable to retain the rigidity of his muscles, the Bothan falls to the concrete in a mound of grease-slicked fur like a discarded, dirty mop. Zogrud Prokbutt bellows. The sky crackles overhead as if it has heard his warcry and opened the gates to Valhalla to give the portly man a celerity he has never known before due to diet and general slothdom. Charging forward, his shout echoes that of his companion as he haphazardly shoots towards the skeletal Hopp with reckless abandon. "RIIIIIN---RAAANGOOOO" Zogrud belches out carrying with him the scent of cheese, Snorg, and briny sweat.
"Well it's not going down like that," Hopp growls to himself with unexpected resolve, the old coot reaching into his utility belt's fanny pack and whipping out his medical kit, closing in on Hadrix's beefy frame like a praying mantis, all long limbs and malintentions. "If nothing else I'm gonna get- I'm gonna fix you so you can- I need you to kill these people," hissed at the other man, pulling out an empty syringe. Empty... syringe. And then he jabs it into Hadrix's wound and starts drawing blood. "You got high levels of aggression, kid, like, mega-high, and if Pinkie doesn't make it out of here there's gonna be a new opening on the market for aggression drugs, alright," he rambles at his 'patient'. "So just hold still for- okay, got it. And uh. Yeah you- you- see a doctor if you don't die out here. Maybe you'll die out here." He's storing the blood away, rearing up quickly to get clear of the bulkier fellow. "I don't know! I- I gotta think of the future!"
Blink. 'You are not children! You are not individuals! You are barely raw durasteel! We will forge you! We will put an edge to you! You will be the knives to cut out the cancer at the core of the galaxy! You will be the hammer to the anvil! There will be order! There will be the First Order! You are the first order!' his first memory. Yelling. So much yelling. There are others around him, his age. The ones who don't stop crying are taken away. He hears sounds, he doesn't know what they are. He will when he's older, he doesn't know that. He hears them all the time on the ranges. He only makes the connection, year and years later on his first combat drop. A fist crashes into his temple and he flies off of his feet. 'NINE OH FOUR! GET UP! GET UP YOU SCUMMER! LAY DOWN WHEN YOUR DEAD!' a foot in his ribs, the force cracks two and sends him skidding across the polished floor. He turned six today. Figures in white armor come at him, they have syringes... They jab him and he only knows rage, and bloodlust. Syringe... There's a syringe, a man in armor. The ragged wet hole where Hadrix's right eye was snaps open, goop and blood pouring out of it, and his suit systems engage, bringing up his holo display, causing the remaining glowering red eyelet of his helmet to glow to hellish life. Hadrix is up then, with a kick of his legs and a twist of his torso, his monolithic bulk up and moving as he brings his repeater to bear, mouth open - his voice and the roar of the cannon too close to discern the difference as he sprays plasma fire like a demon from the darkest of Corellia's hells.
"Like hell will I give that space up to you!" Usha momentarily growls at Hopp when he threatens her business. The proximity of all this juicy, visceral death takes over her senses again. "Look, this job is /over/. Crinking hell look at him! He doesn't have much more fight left." There's a hunger to her voice when she says that. As if she can't wait for Hadrix to kick the bucket so she can drink up whatever's left behind. The urge is so strong that another round of missed shots at Zogrud are wasted. "You guys can go get kriffed. I'm bailing here soon before more of them come for us."
Zogrud's rage is as focused as a spice-addled gizka rummaging about in a junk pit and his choice of targets is seemingly random. Haphazard shots miss the emaciated man caged in Mandalorian armor only to find blaster bolts directed at his own portly self finding equal success in hitting their target. The dance continues, a light show of ill-coordinated lights and bereft of the strategy of a planned assault. Instead, pure chaos finds the muzzle pointed towards the temporaly challenged trooper only to misfire at the last possible instant. "What the," Zogrud pauses and points the blaster towards himself. Click click click. The trigger doesn't work."
The repeater running dry, stalking forward - it's just him screaming at the remaining guard. Blood pouring down the side of his face and over his chest the big trooper doesn't realize what is going on at first. His HUD reticule is over the man, the weapon telemetry reports there should be hits... No fuel. No bolts. Stupid. Ammo. Need ammo. Hadrix engages the clip release, the sizable barrel drum slamming into the ground and rolling to the side, trailing tibanna smoke as the enraged trooper slams a fresh one in place, scooped from his ammo belt in a movement almost too fluid for a guy his size. He is still going forward, and he only realizes how quickly when the barrel of the repeater slams into the chest of poor Zogrud. Hadrix sniffs, horks, and spits a wad of phlegm, snot, and eye-jelly dragged from his sinuses into the guard's face, and then opens fire at point blank, erasing Zog's torso and flinging him back like a rag doll.
"Look," is all Hopp says to Usha when she starts ranting about Hadrix's condition and the state of the mission and... really some weird things about Hadrix's condition. A bony gloved finger points and follows the path of the other man's journey there, just watching, his gun hanging limply at his side, eyes wincing under his helmet at some of the more grisly bits. "You sure you wanna piss that off right now? I'm- I'm probably just following this guy wherever he goes for a while, alright- you- you do what you gotta do though, Pinkie."
Nothing sobers you up like know that you barely made it out of a hairy situation, only to see that reinforcements are on the way. Usha stops from sniffing and tasting her environment to pausing suddenly upon seeing more armed guards appear at a distance. "Heads up, we're about to get more company." Flipping the backpack to her front side, she rummages through the mines to pull out a different device - the transponder. She looks at it the way one's mother might interact with Siri and with a frown says, "Do any of you know how to use this thing?" Not waiting for a response, she simply start pushing at random buttons and turning random dials, hoping that something will trigger the signal for help to come.
For those that have been lost in a blood rage, sending viscera everywhere to create a curious impressionist tapestry against the egg carton colored walls of the prefabs that make up the city, the Zeltron's warning is a wakeup call. Sure enough, there is something in the distance coming along and the constant rumbling and shrill whiny of grinding gears implies that it's not just something fleshy: it's mechanical. With the storm looming overhead and the rain continuing to come down, it's nearly impossible to make out what is on its way. Fortunately for Usha, the transponder is not a complex thing and it gives off a friendly, blue-hued beep periodically. Blue is for trust. Whether or not she should put faith in its abilities is something else to be ascertained but it at least looks as if it's doing something meaningful.
Threats eliminated, Hadrix turns towards the others, "Half the crew has dropped out, the connection was a slug rat that you" he points at Usha, "Shot. This op was crinked at the get-go." chest heaving as he works for control, "I'll be lucky to get my eye re-grown... and all this for a smuggling pipe-line for drug rain..." he snarls and reaches into his med-pac, spraying a numbing agent over the exposed part of his face (hey can you see a couple teeth??) and then follows it with a glob of some sort of anti-biotic putty that molds to the raw flesh and holds there. The big man is already on the move, heading to narrow spots as he hears the grinding gears. "Kriff... They have armor - Evac - re-assess. They didn't tell us they had kriffing armor down here with the guards." he moves to grab Usha and keep her moving. He looks now to Hopp as he starts looking for a clear point, away from patrols, remembering odd bits of language forgotten after leaving the creche. "Ca'nara at ve'ganir utrel'a, ruug'la jag" - Time to get clear, old man.
"You're either dumber than you look or damaged in the head," Hopp replies tersely to Hadrix's use of Mandalorian, stilting along as quickly as he can after the other two, looking left and right and over his shoulder, evaluating whether he might have a better shot on his own out there. "You're the one who- who turned the kid on us and gave him a kriffing reverse mohawk," he grates to the other, before turning his ire on Usha, "and then /you/ had the brilliance to shoot him in the gut! And don't even get me started on- I'm getting started on that- no." Deep breath, deep breath. Thin chest rising and falling under the armored plates. "I got to level with you kids, this job isn't worth dying for, I- I don't want to go out sober and I don't trust whatever's up with the rain to get me properly high. You two nitwits got a lot of life ahead of you, okay, so- so put your differences aside to get me out of here." A beat. "And yourselves too."
"Oh, yes. And you fixed up my mess by opening fire at the guards without thinking!" Usha makes a sweeping gesture at the dead bodies around them, keeping on eye on the horizon for approaching reinforcements. As she's dragged along, an accusatory finger points at Hadrix's half-blown face, "Pot." A thumb at herself, "Kettle." She moves along quickly with the rest of the group, clutching the blue transponder and looking to the sky for any sign of hope. "Will you shut up and take some of this then." Her trusty spice pouch is thrust into Hopp's hand, like mother's milk used to calm the whiny baby.
Bursting from the cloud cover, the rickety shuttle careens out of the storm against a backdrop of orange-hued lighting and pounding rain. Beezo expertly pilots the craft down in an aggressive arc all white-knuckled and puckered orifices. "Looks like these kriffing idiots didn't manage to get it done," Quartermaster notes as he peers at the HUD from the copilot's seat, "and they stirred up the whole carking nest." Pointing at a large red blob that moves carefully between lines that indicates that the machinery is taking care not to damage buildings as it hums along. "Not unexpected." That final piece is punctuated with a sigh and a resigned motion that has him on his feet and wandering to the rear of the craft. As the shuttle drops down a few meters in front of the fleeing trio, the craft's back end opens, engines still hot as the craft remains hovering above the ground. "Let's go bucket brains." Quartermaster lingers as he did in the beginning with hands hooked on a support rail in the hold. Hanging listlessly, he seems perfectly at home with the motion of the craft as a seamaster would be aboard a waterborne ship. Needless to say, no one's getting paid on this trip. "Where's everyone else anyway?"
"He was afraid, you can use fear, ruug'la jag, would've been easy to twist. Gutshooting him kriffed that proper." Hadrix steps onto the ramp and into the hold. His blaster cannon is still held, ready to be pulled up if needed. "They jumped op." quietly memorizing the lines of the ship, the faces of Beezle, Quartermaster. Everything for the report. As far as he is concerned the op was successful. Smugglers were foiled in opening a pipeline, the location of a decom'd Interdictor has been found - and he has information to provide intel.
Once everyone's on board, the shuttle closes up shop and zips up in to the sky.
