A Crash Landing and a Junk-World (Galaar/Voroll)

[Galaar Tal'Verda]

Galaar was surprised, he was relatively unharmed by the events other than the pain previously stated. His visor snapped toward Voroll as he spoke up and then passed over to the other cadet who appeared to have a broken arm. He was closer too. Galaar wandered to the unnamed Cadet and reached to the back of his belt to pull a Tac-Med pac. The clone instantly went to splinting the seemingly broken arm. He was no expert, but had been given combat aid. "Haven't been in a situation like this since we were attached to Skywalker's Legion. Its a mess, hopefully there'll be caf somewhere on world, eh?" After dosing the broken-armed man up with a pain killer he gave him a pat on the shoulder before limping to Voroll.

"Let me patch you up, ad'ika."

@[member="Voroll"]

 

[Voroll]

Voroll let the blood fall to his hands, rubbed them both together (despite being covered by a black bodysuit) and placed one of them over his face, so that the blood ‘painted’ it. It would not have worked anywhere else, since his armour was just as red as that leaking from numerous cuts on his forehead. The hand mark covered his nose, some of his right cheek, lips and fingers spread over to his left eye and brow. After checking himself in the reflective, and broken sheet of whatever it was in the cabinet door, he turned to @[member="Galaar CC-252"] and imitated a bloodthirsty roar, although childish and quiet; hands outstretched and knees bent as if he were some uncivilised being from the fringes of the galaxy.

He laughed, even when in a situation such as this. And set himself down when Galaar came to patch the cuts up. After the blood had been wiped away and the three cuts atop his forehead cleaned, the clone applied a spray-bandage to each, which stung at first – visibly shown and sounded by Voroll – before moving on.
“I’m fine everywhere else.” He said, lightly tapping the spray-bandages, unsure of the reason why. “Are you sure you’re alright?” Standing up from whatever he sat on, Voroll moved back over to the almost-broken Cadet, and hauled him up from the ground. He pushed his good arm over the Empath’s shoulder and began to walk with him, only for a moment, before both realised the more-damaged Imperial Knight could walk fine.
“Where do we go from here?” Turning to Galaar, since he clearly had more military training than anyone left alive.

 

[Galaar Tal'Verda]

"First step, get off the slaggin' ship. Second step, make contact with whoever, 'cept those pirates that we can." The Mandalorian Clone turned and looked at two who seemed to become his charges. He drew his rifle again and then moved toward the slanted door. Sadly, the crash had twisted the metal of the bulkhead. He gave a low, tedious groan and placed his armorweave gloves into the slit the door left and yanked sideways at both angles. The door slowly budged with a screech making an entrance big enough for the clone and his strill to squeeze through.

The hallway on the outside would be strewn with rubble and the soft fizzling noise was slowly growing louder and a yellow smoke was visibly filling the hallways. It had an acrid, deep stretch that did not sound healthy in the least.

"We really do need to move our shebs."

[member="Voroll"]

 

[Voroll]

It was unlike Voroll to argue against good, shared, logic. So he did not. He followed the Clone out, past the removed metal of the bulkhead and into the hallway; although the two Imperial Knight Cadets had to go one at a time. That was not much of an issue, until the silence fell following the strill and Clone’s departure felt a faint, bubbling hiss. It seemed to be more noticeable the closer Voroll got to the metal walls but from what he could tell, the other Cadet did not notice it.
When, finally, Voroll crawled out from the small space, the yellow smoke drifting through the hallways was thickening, enough to nearly obscure anything below the shin, especially at this end of the hallway – since it seemed to be at a lower angle than the other side. The bodies and boxes that were previously there were blanketed by the gas.

Truly the Empath had never witnessed this before nor seen the effects the yellow gas had on the beings, dead or alive, in the lower portions of the crashed starport. It could not be engine coolant, or fluid superhe–but maybe it was. Perhaps some form of liquid, toxic or harmless, had landed so awkwardly on whatever the starpot had crashed into, that it began to leak; leading to the possibility that such intense heat literally started to evaporate it into thick vapour, capable of anything. It would explain the bubbling, the hissing, but not the colour.
He did not want to find out what it really was, nor did he ask [member=Galaar Tal'Verda] the questions that ran through his mind. All he wanted to do was get off this damned boat and get back to the safety of Fel Space.
The last to leave the medical facility – where more death had occurred than had been saved – his moral attitude tried to persevere amidst the tyranny that ate away at him: leave them and find safety for yourself. Dead weight, they are. You will only kill yourself trying to help them. He hoped these other two were not thinking the same things. The Cadet he may be able to tell, but with the Soldier, nothing was certain. He knew nothing of true intentions.