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[SWAW] My Pile of Junk [S6 Kelb, Trek]
Trek,
Breaking Atmo on Ord Mantell was, as you might expect Trek, a bit of a chore in the Ebon Hawk. It's much smaller than the Starburn, and is in need of some pretty major retrofittings to make it a smooth ride. The squad strapped themselves down in the cargo bay, and the Sergeant has been briefing the squad on what to expect down there... Mostly just details on Ord Mantell, the importance of using their internal oxygen reserves, and other general tactics for fighting in the environment.
Did you strap yourself in with him, or did you observe entry from the Bridge?
Kelb,
Squall updated you on the information she grabbed from the file about your Abyssin target. Apparently he's been playing hermit down there for the last 2 months, and she's been busy pinging people down there for information on his whereabouts. He moves around a lot, but his last known location was nearby a small settlement neighboring a scrapyard called "Processing Plant 96". Apparently the workers there never bothered to name it... You can see the ramshackle houses as you fly towards the landing pad. The air here is a sickly brown, and you can practically already smell the place from inside the ship. This will not be pleasant.
Who's taken the helm of the ship?
Breaking Atmo on Ord Mantell was, as you might expect Trek, a bit of a chore in the Ebon Hawk. It's much smaller than the Starburn, and is in need of some pretty major retrofittings to make it a smooth ride. The squad strapped themselves down in the cargo bay, and the Sergeant has been briefing the squad on what to expect down there... Mostly just details on Ord Mantell, the importance of using their internal oxygen reserves, and other general tactics for fighting in the environment.
Did you strap yourself in with him, or did you observe entry from the Bridge?
Kelb,
Squall updated you on the information she grabbed from the file about your Abyssin target. Apparently he's been playing hermit down there for the last 2 months, and she's been busy pinging people down there for information on his whereabouts. He moves around a lot, but his last known location was nearby a small settlement neighboring a scrapyard called "Processing Plant 96". Apparently the workers there never bothered to name it... You can see the ramshackle houses as you fly towards the landing pad. The air here is a sickly brown, and you can practically already smell the place from inside the ship. This will not be pleasant.
Who's taken the helm of the ship?
Comments
Oren Rivas, the near-human who was Jaina's first mate. I can pilot the ship, I just don't often choose to. Squall could do it, Jazz, Pem and Macks could, well, land it. But why waste resources when Jaina's first mate needed work, right?
I let Trek's sergeant yammer on. All stuff we covered during the brief. I'm enjoying this, but trying to keep it cool. Professional.
When we hit the dirt, we will end up giving Processing Plant 96 a name. If those screwheads down there aren't smart, it will be "Graveyard".
I'd relinquished enough of what I might call 'the appearance of authority' by having to wear this ragged outfit of civilian clothing, so no, I didn't strap myself in alongside my squad like 'one of the boys.'
I stood up on the bridge behind this Oren Rivas man, hand wrapped around some strap attached to the interior hull for balance, as I watched the ground fly towards me. He didn't say much, but I suppose neither did I.
The color of the sky, that sickly awful brown, grabs at my gut and twists it in several directions. I've already got several private, little names for Processing Plant 96, and none of them nice.
The Hawk touches down after struggling with the guided on-world systems, and a voice comes over the comm. "Greetings folks," raspy old voice calls, "Torren Pictou here of Ord Mantell Processing Plant 96's landing bay. I got a landing request a few minutes ago from a Squall Onondb — take it that's you? Is there anything I can do for you folks today?"
It's kind of an open question to whoever's on the comm...
I covered this with Kelborn before stepping onto the bridge — I even ran her through the items Shai'n sent to my datapad. I'll let her speak up on the comms, her name will be on a manifest somewhere (mine won't), and explain the situation. We're scavengers, looking for a few parts, and that's all.
It galls me to wait, and let someone else take charge. My lip twitches into a sneer for the briefest moment.
I reply casually, "Hey there, Torren Pictou! I'm Captain Kelborn. Me and my crew're just lookin for some scrap. There's a few parts we need for a couple ships back home. Hopin we can scavenge up those parts here. That won't be any trouble, right?" I glance over at Lieutenant Ores and wink, letting him know I'm just "in character".
Yes, I can do grotesque accents. I picked that one up on the Outer Rim. Disgusting. But it has this knack for putting people at ease, normally because they assume you're an imbecile for talking that way.
Captain Kelborn sounds awful. I hate hearing it. Nowhere near as nice as Captain Dene.
"I got some small arms, and a wall o meat. Whole buncha kids signed up to look fer scrap. Some students. You know... interns. Free work, I call em." I chuckle, because I can't find another cover for this many beings piling out of a freighter. "We'll keep to ourselves. No Seps in this boat."
Welcome indeed...
What's the plan?
I look at Lt. Ores, "I hope your troopers can act like dumb students, not military, alright? Best I could come up with. I figure we chat with Torren or whoever."
The plan is to walk out, find this guy, drag him back. No need for subtlety. I'm working for the Empire. heh heh.
I let go of my 'life support strap' as the Ebon Hawk makes contact with the ground, and head down to the cargo bay; thankful to leave the beeping of various protocols clamoring for attention behind me, in the cockpit.
"Gentlemen." I announce to get my squad's attention, and I wait for it; they know this order. "We're going to perform a preliminary sweep of the Processing Plant. Exterior, surface level. At the moment we've no leads on our Abyssin friend, so keep your ears open and your mouths mostly shut — unless it's to feed one of these abo scum the banatha fodder that is our cover story."
I round up my team, have them file out. We'll let the troopers, who are all in civvies, be the first ones out, they can do what they do. I realize I don't look the part of a merchant at all, so I throw on a poncho over my armor and put my helmet in my pack. I've still got my blaster on my hip, and I go ahead and remove my armor below the waist, put it in the pack, too.
This is getting dangerous. Lugging these idiot troopers around is trouble. Like squashing a gnat with a speeder.
You set up a patrol around the perimeter of Processing Plant 96, and it seems like the place is relatively well fortified for such an establishment. You get the impression that they've been hit pretty hard by the separatists for some reason. The Sergeant eventually reports back to you with the full details: "Lieutenant, there's a militia complement stationed outside the Junk yard's entrance. They're claiming the area is destabilized due to terrorist activity in the region. Shy of that, it doesn't look like there's any foot traffic in the area. Orders?"
Kelb,
The troopers immediately went about establishing a perimeter — which caught the attention of some locals as "suspicious". Torren is sitting in a small mechanical shop next to the landing platform, and spots you step out of the ship. He waves, friendly like, and puts down a greasy converter he was working on.
What do you do?
Hah. Good intel, I'm starting to piece together some leverage I might be able to levy at the locals. Whether the threat is separatist in nature, or not, it's got them holed up and kriffing scared enough to form a militia. Well, there was a reason I brought my squad.
"OK. Follow up, and act natural for the Emperor's sake. You're more obvious than a Rancor in drag." We move out, heading towards the border between Processing Plant and the Junkyard.
On the way, I click on comms to inform Kelborn, "We're heading out to meet with their militia. I'd bet creds to poodoo that our Abyssin is tied in with them, or the so-called 'terrorist separatists.' I'll keep you updated. You do the same."
I mosey over. Alright, I don't mosey too well, it's such a waste of time. But I relax my shoulders, and try not to walk "military", because there is a style. I come up to Torren and give him a lazy smile, "Hey there, Torren." I offer a hand to shake. "How's the weather?"
I'll chat him up, then sort of work in, "You know, I knew an Abyssin once, named Frik Quaoor, said to look him up whenever I came to Ord Mantell."
You make your way out to the Junkyard, a good 15 minute walk from the facility proper. You can hear blaster bolts and junkyard processing sounds off in the distance. How much time have you spent in a warzone?
The roadblock is pretty obvious. There are high walls surrounding the junkyard, with the exception of this one road entrance, with a huge blockade and a small group of militia members standing guard. They look on edge. "Stop right there, please!" you hear their leader say as you approach, "that's close enough. This area's on lockdown, sir. Please head on back to the settlement."
How many people are with you?
Kelb,
Torren chuckles when you ask how the weather is. Torren is an Ithorian, by the way, clearly aged and dressed in the standard Ithorian robes. He seems like a pleasant enough old coot though. "Miserable," he grumbles jokingly, pointing to his rebreather, "but we manage." He looks up at you with what probably passes for joy in his eyes. He looks surprised when you mention Frik, and quickly averts his gaze...
"Now why would a nice young lady like you wanna be getting involved with a man like Frik Quaoor?"
I almost blush when he calls me a nice young lady. Really, I don't know why. I like Ithorians, they're so gentle. I was able to step foot on one of their herdships once, it was amazing, like a living forest inside a spaceship.
But I have to stay in character.
I shrug, "Relatives, an friends o relatives. He won't hurt me, he likes my sister's boss too much. I guess that means he is around here, hunh?" I look around, as if he's right here. But of course, it's a lazy look. "Can you help me out and point me to him? Please?" I consider a bribe, but he's Ithorian. I should let him suggest it.
None. The sounds of blasters firing off reminds me only of training practice. The sounds of processors whirring, however, reminds me of a past I'd sooner forget. So, I'm in a pretty foul mood already when this moron steps up in my path.
But I have to stay in character.
I hold my hands up defensively. "Hey now, woah, keep your blasters down. We're just here for some good old idiot-thrifting, got a few parts we need and this here junkyard seems like a fine place to find them. I don't suppose you can turn a blind eye this one time, as you can see, I didn't come here... unprepared."
Torren hums in consideration as you ask where Frik is, "Well, see... Normally I might give someone that information, but it ain't like you could do much with it today anyhow. Seeing as you're such a nice lady it'd be a shame to let you go home empty handed... See, I could tell you, but the Militia probably won't let you in the area... It's right dangerous in there. They haven't been letting many folks in on the count of the explosions of late. I'm short on parts, and they won't even let me in!"
Trek,
The leader stops and looks to his underlings, telling them to keep an eye out. He eyes your blaster, "son, if you think we're just gunna let someone in here 'cause they're packing, you've got another thing coming. You got papers? You don't look militia..."
"What parts are you needin?" I ask, making sure to drop the "g" sound. I wink, "Maybe I can find him and help you out, Torren."
Manipulating Torren:
(Rolled: 2d6-1. Rolls: 2, 2. Total: 3)
(+1 XP)
Torren laughs, "Well, Captain Kelborn, if you and your boys think you can carry a busted-down hyperdrive assembly, and some coils to boot, then can you tell me what they're eating for breakfast? I sure'd like to be eating that too." He shakes his head, "until I can get my lifter in there, I'm gunna be right stuck..."
He looks around for a minute, knowing you really want to know where Frik is. You can practically see the wheels grinding at a solution. "Well... I'll tell you what. You'n your boys seem right capable — if you think you can get up in there, and you ain't afraid of what might happen, then maybe you let me and my boys tag along? Frik and me... See... We're kinda friendly. So you take care of me and my boys while we get that Hyperdrive, and I'll bring you to see my buddy Frik. Ok?"
OOC: Act Under Fire if you want to say no, Kelb.
I shrug, again, like its a habit. Which it isn't. I hate shrugging, it's so non-committal. Sure, I do it sometimes, but I try to avoid it. "Sure, we can work somethin out. Say, Torren... how'd ya get to know him?" I'm hoping he's lying about being friendly. I don't want to have to hurt Torren. But if he really is friendly, then I'll need to do that, unfortunately.
Torren scratches his chin pensively at that, "well now... Old Frik came rolling in here a few months back — said he was looking for a way to avoid "Imperial Entanglements". Now I don't know anybody like that, but I sure as hell know where to find them... So I sent him their way. He comes by every week for supplies, and we have drinks. Not so bad a fella — just right private. Told me not to come up on him, you know? Gets real nervous."
"Papers?" I laugh, and it's not a laugh at his archaic abo slang, but one to fight off the rising irritation at this man standing in my way. "Listen. It sounds like a mess out there, and I respect your desire to keep your men at the Processing Plant safe. But, with all due respect, I'm not one of those men, and I'm not beholden to your authority. I'm a man looking for some specific scrap: a chromodynamic module with a tri-polymer plasma converter attachment, and several bundles of nyfoldic parallel rigging. If you have some particular fondness for those items, and you're looking to keep them out of my hand, that's one thing — and maybe we can talk creds."
I put my arms akimbo and stare at this man, very un-amused, and not entirely in character, "If you have any other reason, speak up now, and it better be blasting good."
Maybe, it's the fact that I'm not used to being shot at, or that I've got faith in my men; either way, there's not a speck of fear in my eyes, only mild loathing.
The man sizes you up, looks over at his lackeys, like he doesn't believe what he just heard, but eventually closes the distance between you. "Listen. I'm sure whatever you're looking for in there is fantastic, and tri-polymery — but I was instructed to keep people like you out of this area because they lose their legs when they step in the wrong place. If you don't have a particular fondness for you legs, and you're trying to get rid of them, that's one thing — and maybe you don't — but if you want to get in there, you need me and my boys' permission..."
He smiles, his gangly teeth an off-white, "and right now, talking creds ain't a bad way to get that."
I nod, like I know. "Oh, he's a secretive guy alright. Not that I blame im. Any good way past that militia or whatever?"
I think our conversation's nearly done, but it doesn't hurt to grab what info you can.
I want to cut this man's tongue out. The impulse claws its way up my gullet and almost expels itself as vomit; but, instead, because this is how it's done, I swallow both and force a smile with teeth.
My voice is calm and chillingly pleasant, "Hmmm, now I think mister-militia-man that we're finally getting somewhere. So, here's how it'll go down. You'll give me a number, and I'll halve that number. Then, you'll accept to that figure, and we'll walk past. And on our way out, with the items we were after, we'll transfer creds over equaling that sum — oh, and what do you know, everybody will be in certain possession of their scalp, teeth and genitals."
I shoot a look over my shoulder to the Sergeant, asking him, "What do you think, sound good to you?"
Torren shakes his head, "I suppose that depends on how many credits you have on you... Most of those boys are just out to feed their families without working in a processing plant. They're easily bought out. We do live on a junk planet, after all..." He chuckles.
Trek,
The militia leader looks surprised at your sudden confidence. He narrows his eyes and names a figure — it's pretty ridiculous at 2-creds. You can easily negotiate him down to 1-credit, but getting him to accept half-now, half-later? That's going to be tricky. If you want to, go ahead and feel free to use that payment as leverage for a manipulate. Otherwise, dropping 1-cred right now will get you through.
What do you do?
(Rolled: 2d6+2. Rolls: 5, 2. Total: 9)
The leader lets you finish, bites the inside of his lip, then answers, "tell you what. You seem like a decently smart man, but I don't want my investment losing his legs in some sep attack. You take a couple of my boys to make sure you're not doing anything stupid, grab your poodoo, and he'll escort you out!" He offers you his hand, "We have a deal?"
Oh what a simple, stupid man. I love stupid men. "You drive a difficult bargain, militia-man, but I concede defeat. We'll take a couple of your boys," and I extend my hand to shake his.
I look over at Lt. Ores, see he's chatting with the militia. "Well, Torren, looks like one o my buddies is tryin to work somethin out. If I can get yer men in there for that hyperdrive assembly, I will. Thanks a ton, Torren." Then, I will turn and mosey up to Trek, see what he's done.
I wish we could just shoot our way in.
Kelb comes jogging up to Trek, and the militia members look a little confused about all this "we" talk — but the leader shakes Trek's hand, and says, "how many of your men are there? We can't be letting a huge group of people in... Our superiors will wise up."
I press my chin to my chest, stare at my shoes, and breath deep. I'm an inch away from burning a blaster hole through this man's eye-sockets. Quite frankly, it's the mention of 'superiors' that keeps my gun holstered; if this man isn't some self-appointed tax collector, and does in fact have people above him, that would sort of kriff-up our plans.
Maybe Kelborn will have more luck with him. He does seem like a base sort of fellow. "This man just agreed to let us in, Kelborn, but now I think he's having second doubts," I hiss through my teeth.
"Did you bribe him with what we discussed?" I ask in a suddenly clipped fashion, taking a more demanding posture, like I'm talking to Trek, but I'm letting these militia guys know who is in charge.
I turn to this guy, look at him, because I know a bribe happened. That's what Torren said it takes, so I bet Trek did that already and this guy is either jumpy or greedy.
"Let us in." I'm giving him an order, using Commanding presence.
Commanding presence
(Rolled: 2d6+3. Rolls: 5, 3. Total: 11)
"Sure. Choose your men. But, if you report this to anybody, that toll will be something else on the way back," I acidly retort, stepping past the man and his men, heading into the junkyard. I trust my squad doesn't need an order to know when to make a grand exit.
I give this militia leader, aka thug, a nod of "respect" and follow Lt. Ores. I've got a private little self-satisfied smirk. Bark at your troopers, all well and good. But when you hit the dirt, who runs things?
Trek,
Did you bring the whole squad with you?
Kelb,
Who from the Hawk joined you?
Nill hangs back with the others. Jazz is with me.
And why wouldn't I? Yes, fifteen men strong, dressed up as idiot-thrifts, but packing heat.
I'm taking point, scanner switched on to 'life forms' for the sake of it. When we're about a klick deep, I motion for the Sergeant to approach, and whisper to the side, "Get your charges hot. I want those five assholes crispy on my signal."
And then I glance over at Kelborn off to the side. No sense letting a good blaster stay cold. So I flick my chin slightly, towards my shoulder, and tap my blaster.
The scanner has shown you a few locations with sentient beings, most of which are behind you — but there are two groups of people, in separate locations, about 5 clicks ahead of you. The Sergeant nods in understanding when you give the order to go hot.
Kelb,
It's impossible to know for sure, but it looks an awful lot like Trek's up to something... Yup. He just tapped his blaster.
What do you do?
He wants to blast his way in? That suits me fine. I've got his back. All this dancing around was annoying anyway. I nod to him, reach under my poncho to unsnap the flap over my heavy blaster, getting ready. I guess Lt Ores wants a refund of his bribe.
Honestly, all I want is to scratch an itch, a bone-deep itch to teach these morons a lesson. My fist snaps up into the air, and in the same motion, I spin around — blaster in hand, firing.
If anybody had the time to see my face, in that moment, they see only a grotesque mask of joy; the backdrop of junk-tech and smog sky seeming never more fitting.
NB: We replaced Assault with SBF because I hate assault. That, and the Militia will definitely be fighting back.
(Rolled: 2d6+1. Rolls: 4, 1. Total: 6)
I'm backing Lt. Ores up (I have my blaster ready). I'll spend my bond to give him a +1 on that roll.
OOC: Options...
• suffer little harm
• take definite hold of it
Also, to be clear, I was using my Squad as a weapon.
So they spot you shooting, and it takes them a little longer to recognize what's going on — but they eventually pick up their blasters and start shooting back. A few of your squad mates take some blaster bolts, but their armor sucks up the serious damage. In the end, you take most of them out, and the few survivors turn tail and run (with some rather severe injuries).
Kelb,
Jazz got hit in the shoulder, and his armor (which is in need of some pretty serious repairs) failed to stop the bolt like it should have... He comes over to you post-fight, and looks a little peeved, "was that kriffing necessary?" You hear him mumble under his breath.
Both,
You get the impression they won't be coming back — they probably won't even report to their platoon. You scared the poodoo out of them.
In the meantime, you both suffer 2-harm. (We're going to use straight AW rules for harm, none of this vitality/wounds-track nonsense). Please let me know how much that is post-armor so I can roll harm.
Scum. I'm twitching to order my Sergeant after them, but the two 5-klick beeps on my scanner finally register as something worth investigating. The sooner we're off-planet, the sooner I'm stepping into a shower and forgetting this awful dump.
OOC: no armor, straight 2-harm.
(Rolled: 2d6+2. Rolls: 6, 1. Total: 9)
"Oh hush, scars are sexy, Jazz," I tell him. It's our little joke between us. Sort of the consolation prize for a mistake is a sexy lil scar. Well, it was funnier when we were having monkey sex all the time.
He's right, though. He can hear that in the tone of my voice. I'll bring out my lil med kit and put some bacta on his wound. "We are getting your armor fixed after this op. Number one priority."
That's 0-Harm coming at me, with Armor-2. Healing roll on Jazz coming up.
Healing Jazz (spending one stock):
(Rolled: 2d6+1. Rolls: 1, 3. Total: 5)
Jazz rips his arm out of your hand, and sticks a finger in your face. "Damn it, Kelb! Tell this Nerf-herding Lieutenant not to throw-down like an amateur! Not all of us have a damn death wish!" He's looking at Trek with fire in his eyes.
Trek,
The Sergeant steps up beside you, his blaster at the ready. Does the sergeant have a name, by the way? Jazz takes a few steps over to you, "you hear me, Imp? The only reason your ass wasn't blasted to hell by those green militia-men was because Kelb here had your back. I don't wanna get shot 'cause you're too stupid to set up a proper ambush!"
I wiggle a pinky finger in my ear. "Ah, that's better," I sigh contentedly, flashing Jazz a broad, toothy smile, "You know why that's better Jaster Ordo, exile of Mandalore? Well, it's better because for a single micro-second there I thought I heard you questioning my decisions. And as we all know, acting under an Imperial mandate, my decisions are the decisions of the Empire — the Empire who, if you can summon no other reason to implicitly and wholly respect, for its might or its breadth or its fundamental moral righteousness, is entirely within its power to cease your paycheck. And, well, if you weren't getting paid, I'm sure none of your friends would be either."
Then, a quick glance over my shoulder at Sergeant Elsso Pester, "You think that's better?"
I watch this escalate, and realize how right Nill was about Lt. Ores. This is a horrible idea, this job, this whole thing. "Lieutenant Ores, Jazz. Guys, let's stay frosty here! There could be more milita coming, so let's do the job, then we can have our fun later."
I'm putting on my helmet and if I can manage it, my grieves and shin guards. It. Is. On.
We're heading in for our mark hard and heavy now.
The Elsso chuckles under his helmet — the laugh modulated by his comm system — and relaxes his stance a bit. It's clear he's got your back here.
Jazz does not seem phased by your indifference, or your speech. "Don't think just 'cause you're some big important Navy officer that I give a poodoo for your stupid Empire! If it's so high and mighty, then why the hell did you hire us to take down one kriffing guy and his lackeys?" He raises his eyebrow, waiting for a response, but...
Kelb,
Jazz's eyes narrow when you tell him to get back in line. You can tell he's peeved off by the lieutenant. He huffs a loud sigh, and brings his rifle up to the ready position again. "Fine. We'll move out — but we aren't done, Lieutenant."
I've wasted enough oxygen on this cretin; the next time I open my mouth for Jaster Ordo, it'll be to order his execution. With a roll of my eyes, I start heading off towards one of the bleeps. "Keep your men in check, Kelborn," I lazy call over a shoulder, before whispering to my other, where Sergeant Pester walks in step, "I want a few men on point with their eyes open. Give this scanner to somebody you trust."
And as I lean to hand it over, the blaster-burn on my right shoulder flares with pain. Sithspit and Emporer's wrath. The adrenaline is wearing off and now I can feel that lucky shot. I hiss once in agony and attempt to muster some dignity in the face of it all.
"Lieutenant," I call to him as he's walking off. "I need to take a look at that shoulder." I'm keeping my tone civil, but I fully expect him to get that looked at.
I turn on a foot and remain stationary. "As you wish, Captain," I retort spitefully through the pain, keeping my chin high — Kelborn can cross the distance herself if it means so much to her. I don't particularly care to recognize how childish I'm being, not right now.
I move up to treat Lt. Ores in a curt demeanor, trying to mask my irritation at him by "being professional". I'll do exactly like I said, try to heal up that shoulder, spending a stock.
As I'm applying the bacta, I say low, for him to hear, "My men are in check, Lieutenant. They're making sure we will be successful. I admire how you command your troopers, don't get me wrong. But Jazz is my subordinate, and if we're going to," I put on the bacta with a bit of emphasis, my fingers probing into the wound, just to get his attention. "continue to work together, we should respect each other's teams. I think that's a good plan, sir. Don't you?"
There's a hint of intimacy to Kelborn's whisper; it's so close to my ear, and I'm in agony, and she's forcing her power over me. It's remarkably like sex.
Except, I'm not used to being on this side, and all I can feel is loathing — and an intense desire to see her bleeding. Which, I probably needn't add, has me aroused. "It sounds like a respectable course of action," I spit through clenched teeth as another smear of bacta is applied. "Are you quite done?"
I notice his, ahem, attention and finish up with the application of bacta. Then, I step back, answering in a clipped voice, "Yes. I am. Let's get our mark and get to work."
This guy may be more into oblivion than I am. I think he'd rather bring it than see it, though.
It is some time later when you come up on a small formation of junk that Torren guided you towards. His crew are all riding on the lift with him, and they're a little anxious from the fighting earlier. Torren pulls you both to the side and whispers, "So this is where Frik set up camp... He's kinda paranoid though, so y'know... You may wanna watch your step."
Kelb,
Jazz has been distant since the fight with Trek, and he's outright refused medical treatment — not like there was much you could do for him, since the wound was largely cauterized by the time you got to it.
Trek,
Sergeant Pester points out a few lifeforms and other blips on the scanner to you, "It looks like our friend isn't alone."
What do you do?
Can't blame Jazz. I'd be pissed, too. Fourteen pulled this same thing on a couple missions. One of the big reasons I broke off to do my own thing. Funny how the boot's on the other foot, now.
Sucks.
Creds heal all wounds, right? I'll settle up with him later, give him part of my cut, something.
To the Sergeant I respond in private conversation, "Let Kelborn and her squad go first. If Frik is as paranoid as claimed, well, let's just say I respect her team well enough to let them eat blaster. You've permission to return fire. Otherwise, wait for my command."
And then to Kelborn, "Captain, we've signs of... quite a few men up there, along with our Abyssin friend. Just thought you might want to know. Whenever you're ready."
I motion my team forward, edging close. Torren gave me a heads up on traps, so I'm looking for that. I'm trying to get a read on the sitch.
Reading Situation:
(Rolled: 2d6+2. Rolls: 4, 6. Total: 12)
What's my enemy's true position?
What's my best way in?
What should I be on the lookout for?
If you can follow the path the swoops used — single file — exactly, then they'll spot you before you can get to the place: that's your best way in. You could probably use Trek's sensors to find another way around the proximity sensors — but nobody wants to be the fool that steps on a landmine; and with no other cues to guide you, it could get gruesome really quick.
"Lt. Ores," I say low, getting his attention and giving him intel without broadcasting it. I point out to the shack, "He's hiding in there. They have prox sensors set up along all approaches but one. It's a death trap." I pause, letting that sink in.
"Here's what we'll do, Lieutenant. You get our troopers moving along the path to draw their fire. Jazz and I will come in from above, and either extract the target, or create enough chaos for your men to get in." I pause, checking understanding. If he agrees, then I'll point out the path for his men to follow.
My plan is this: I'm going to give them enough time to draw fire, then Jazz and I will jetpack in to the roof and crash down.
I'd argue, honestly, but then I'd be burdened with creating a new, better plan — I don't have one. So I settle for, "Just don't kriff it up, Kelborn."
And then I motion my squad forward, out in front of me, down the path. But, we're not stopping. If my squad is going to die, it's going to die getting me what I want. Frik's head.
I'd say this is the perfect opportunity to fire off your leadership move.
Kelb,
Let's see how that diversion of his pans out.
(Rolled: 2d6+2. Rolls: 6, 6. Total: 14)
• make a hard advance
The first part is covert, heads ducked and blasters drawn. I've a wall of troopers between me and the shack, but I'm not waiting behind, I'm going in with them. If the Abyssin and his scum-lickers notice us, well, I'll order cover fire, but we're not stopping until we get to the shack and blow that door open.
I've got one eye on the scanner. If there's any chance of a clear-cut across the mine field between us and the shack — if it even looks sort of clear — I'll order a full charge.
The scanner reveals a decent path for you to take, and you order the full charge. It looks like you'll have no trouble getting in there. What are you going to do when you get there?
Kelb,
You and Jazz both spot Trek and his men start the charge through the minefield. You're using your jetpacks to get through to the shack, right? Give me an Act Under Fire to get the drop on them.
OOC: Trek, feel free to assist, given that you're distracting the people in the shack from the aerial assault.
After Trek moves up, I'm hanging back with Jazz. I drop into Mandalore and say quiet, not on comm, "Jazz... I'll fix this. Alright? I am stringing him along. I've got this."
Acting Under Fire:
(Rolled: 2d6+2. Rolls: 1, 2. Total: 5)
Jazz may be mad at me, but he has my back (spending Bond for +1)
We got this intel from Squall, she's been my eye in the sky (spending Bond for +1)
Squeak!
I ensure one trooper is sent out to their speeders, sabotage. The Sergeant handles everything else, ordering four of his men to flank out while we storm forward. This is business as usual. Cue explosives, followed by a dramatic entrance, backed by smoke, debris, and shouting troopers.
You come crashing up to the door just as Kelb and Jazz come crashing down on the roof — but it looks like Frik had some advance warning, and the whole place has been barricaded up. Pushing through would be relatively easy work for your boys, but you spot a blaster bolt come flying through the wall (obviously a blind shot). They're on to you.
OOC: Trek, if you want to sabotaging their escape no muss, no fuss, feel free to spend a hold to make a hard advance. You can also either spend another hold to make that hard advance, or seize entry by force (if you want to save your hold for that eventual escape).
Kelb,
You come crashing through the roof with Jazz, and the whole place is turned over... Someone tipped them off. Frik takes one look at your jetpacks, and the armor under your poncho, and knows exactly what's up. He's bolting for the window while his friends in here (five in total) spin around to deal with you and Jazz. It looks like Frik is about to try his luck out in the minefield.
"Freeze, Frik!" I yell in Basic at him, bringing my rifle up to bear.
I'm using Commanding Presence on him.
Commanding Presence:
(Rolled: 2d6+3. Rolls: 3, 3. Total: 9)
Commanding presence: when you give someone an order or a warning, roll+hard. On a hit, they choose:
• They do it, following your order or heeding your warning.
• They freeze.
• They back away, hands where you can see them.
• They attack you.
On a 10+, take +1 forward against them as well. On a miss, they do what they like and you take -1 forward against them.
OOC: Spending 2/3 hold.
• make a hard advance
It'd wouldn't be any fun unless we did this with a little bit of style, so we're pressing forward quickly and violently. A few troopers on the outside of the squad's formation fill the air with the sound of blasters, suppressing fire back at the shack, while others break down the door.
I would feel sorry for whichever of Frik's cronies is on the other side of that barricade, but who do you think I am?
Sithspit. I can hear Kelborn and Jazz crashing through the roof, and her rather intimidating voice issuing a command at our Abyssin mark. This only prompts orders to HURRY IT UP!
Frik spins around, brandishing his blaster, and screams, "go to hell, Aruetii! You'll never take me alive!" He starts shooting, and Jazz doesn't hesitate. That's when the door crashes open, and Trek's men are at the threshold.
Trek,
The door comes flying off the hinges, and the barricade they had up gets thrown clear. It's a small shack, and you won't be able to fit all your troops in there. Frik is firing wildly at Kelb and Jazz, and his friends are doing their best to keep you and your troops out, but it's clear you'll overpower them.
This is what the room looks like:
I'm so sorely tempted to just kill that sack of poodoo, but I know what comes next, and it's going to be well deserved. I'm pulling up my rifle to stun him. I already hate this guy. And he knows who I am. Not good.
Please seize him by force, Kelborn.
I stand at the threshold, arms behind my back as my squad pours into the shack. I've every faith they'll do their job; whether Kelborn and her Mandalorian foot-licker can handle their own, well, we'll see.
SBF
(Rolled: 2d6+3 . Rolls: 3, 2. Total: 8)
Impress or dismay
Trek,
Since half of your squad is covering the flank, you're effectively even matched here. The first trooper through the door got tagged before he could get a shot off, and fell to the floor dead. The barrage continued, pinging on the armor of your squad, and resulting in a few grazes that will require some medical attention.
OOC: Your squad is at 2-harm currently, you suffer -1harm for staying out of the heat.
Kelb,
You and Jazz both switch to stun instinctively, and bring down the hurt on these guys. Frik reaches for the window, but you manage to tag him with your stun-gun before he can open it. The rest of them go down one at a time as Trek and his men pour in — but that girl over in the corner, a Weequay girl with a DL-44, comes up on you guys and shoots Jazz right in the gut before he can get a shot off.
Jazz groans in pain as the fighting dies down, and he paces over to a wall where he can lean. He doesn't look so good, but you've taken the target alive. Trek's men come in and secure everyone before they have a chance to react. Trek, you notice, is the last one to enter — when the fighting is well over.
What do you do?
OOC: You both suffer 2-harm before armor (no gang size differences). Please roll your appropriate harm moves (after armor).
(Rolled: 2d6+1. Rolls: 5, 6. Total: 12)
0-Harm
(Rolled: 2d6. Rolls: 5, 3. Total: 8)
Once they're down, I head over to Jazz. "Jaster, you look like hell." I'm looking at his gut, trying to get him to let me pull off the chest piece. It's bad, I know it's bad. Jazz, don't die on this piece of poodoo planet!
I'm going to blow two stock to try and stabilize him.
Healing Jazz:
(Rolled: 2d6+2. Rolls: 4, 4. Total: 10)
I brush my shoulders off and walk through the door, taking quick survey, then stalking towards Frik. He's stunned on the ground, drooling a smidge. It's disgusting. "Well, well, well..." I begin, because who wouldn't gloat, "Frik Quaoor, aren't you in a bit of a spot."