Cato Fett
Character
Mala's grace was manic and balletic. Cato rested white-knuckled over the lip of the drain gutter, bouncing his toes against the bricking, reaching and catching a skittering hold-out pistol the Squib had tugged from a boot holster. A cheap stamped forgery of a Trevel'ka copy of an Atrisian imitation Walkner-P48. Seven shot magazine in a stubby grip with a bad finish. He stowed it in his waistband. Three rifles and a short carbine slid over the roof gravel grade and went flipping barrel-over-stock. Voices in the artificial night rose with elaborate strings of cursing.
“Where'd that little shidfaced fehtin'suck fethsuck go!?”
“Aw hell. I think we killed Mayour.”
“Ah shid... Where's my piece?? Feth!”
One of them, second body in the middle of the grouping, had a waist-mounted walkie talkie. It blared and squawked. The watcher loosed an oath and answered, lacing a dozen foul phrases in his status update. He strolled and leaned against the blocky AC unit, speaking over the fan noise. Mala was a flat shadow trying to press herself deeper against the metal housing. Her eyes were bright in the low shade. Pleading.
“...No idea,” Said the lookout. “That's what were trying to do now.”
“Man. Ashina's gonna be pissed,” Said another, looking over the cadaver they'd wasted in their zeal to gun the Squib down. Familiar ozone stenches wafted with the smell of tar, rock, and body odour.
Cato exhaled, swung up one leg until his heel caught on the roof edge and pulled with the muscle at his thigh, knee, and hip. Second heel came round and his elbows dug against the gravel, hauling up into a ready crouch. The first lookout paused, glancing away from his handheld. Three solid 5.56 rounds hissed through his ribs and throat. He dropped, Cato rose, stalking up to the other two, gripping under his AMR rifle and timing cadence pulls of the trigger. Lookout two fell with holes pierced inside his heart and brow. Lookout three managed scattered blasterfire, hollering in bleak alarm. Stray bolts whined past the Mandalorian's shoulders until Cato stepped in. The rifle transformed from an ammunition platform into a makeshift close-quarters weapon.
Punched in, tipping the old E-12 aside, stock braining the lookout in the jaw and temple. His knife flashed. Mala had a brief glimpse of wicked fast, curt motions, slicing the gunner to virtual pieces at the throat, clavicle, and ribs. Aortic gouts of blood splashed onto the wet roof plane.
Silence invariably followed after the violence save for wet bodily shifts, liquids gurgling through wounded paths. Now Cato was rummaging for his own 'shinies', turning over each body and swiftly rifling. The lookouts favoured blaster-tech over slug weaponry, even utilizing a 'cooked' gas magazine to heat a low grilling stove shoved away under small trash lid canopy. He salvaged a spare, ancient smoke-screen canister one thug had taped his waist belt, skimming over a palm-aid datapad, a set of data-splints, a pressure-worn keycard to an apartment loft, painkiller capsules. One of them came strapped with a well-sharpened vibro-machete. It was a garage creation out of scavenged metals and Cato doubted it would last under fire, still collecting its sheathe off the corpse and belting it to a thigh.
“Huh.” Cato held up a small apple of chrome metal ridged with grip flanges and an electronic pressure switch at the stem. A thermal detonator. Potent baridium charge and if the faded lettering on the casing was correct, lined with bead-shrapnel. What an undercity hood was doing with one... He stood, pocketed it on his harness, then gestured for Mala. When her weight was saddled on his spine, he took out a battered set of micronoculars.
One hundred meters west, toward the tri-tower apartment complexes. Through rings of increasing foot soldiers and whatever hackneyed security measures 'Zel' had installed. Cato paused, revised the thought process. If Zel had accumulated enough materiel and monetary resources, then he could afford any number of anti-intrusion counter-measures funnelled through the Core's black market. And armed his inner cadres with weaponry outstripping the forward blaster-fodder laying in the way of rival criminal armies. For now, they'd take the high road. Cato set a jogging pace, slowly and racing in turn, navigating walkway roads stretched over the upper roof floors spanning out from the towers.
They stopped a moment. One roof had a slanted maintenance entrance providing needed cover. Cato sipped water from a tin canteen and looked at Mala down his shoulder. He seemed to run through a moment's deliberation. The hold-out pistol, with its shitty finish and checkered grip, was dangled in front of her nose.
“Not a shiny,” Cato explained. “Emergency only. Safety is here. You look down the irons, here and here, line them up so they're level. Squeeze, don't pull. Think you can handle it?”
[member="Mala"]
“Where'd that little shidfaced fehtin'suck fethsuck go!?”
“Aw hell. I think we killed Mayour.”
“Ah shid... Where's my piece?? Feth!”
One of them, second body in the middle of the grouping, had a waist-mounted walkie talkie. It blared and squawked. The watcher loosed an oath and answered, lacing a dozen foul phrases in his status update. He strolled and leaned against the blocky AC unit, speaking over the fan noise. Mala was a flat shadow trying to press herself deeper against the metal housing. Her eyes were bright in the low shade. Pleading.
“...No idea,” Said the lookout. “That's what were trying to do now.”
“Man. Ashina's gonna be pissed,” Said another, looking over the cadaver they'd wasted in their zeal to gun the Squib down. Familiar ozone stenches wafted with the smell of tar, rock, and body odour.
Cato exhaled, swung up one leg until his heel caught on the roof edge and pulled with the muscle at his thigh, knee, and hip. Second heel came round and his elbows dug against the gravel, hauling up into a ready crouch. The first lookout paused, glancing away from his handheld. Three solid 5.56 rounds hissed through his ribs and throat. He dropped, Cato rose, stalking up to the other two, gripping under his AMR rifle and timing cadence pulls of the trigger. Lookout two fell with holes pierced inside his heart and brow. Lookout three managed scattered blasterfire, hollering in bleak alarm. Stray bolts whined past the Mandalorian's shoulders until Cato stepped in. The rifle transformed from an ammunition platform into a makeshift close-quarters weapon.
Punched in, tipping the old E-12 aside, stock braining the lookout in the jaw and temple. His knife flashed. Mala had a brief glimpse of wicked fast, curt motions, slicing the gunner to virtual pieces at the throat, clavicle, and ribs. Aortic gouts of blood splashed onto the wet roof plane.
Silence invariably followed after the violence save for wet bodily shifts, liquids gurgling through wounded paths. Now Cato was rummaging for his own 'shinies', turning over each body and swiftly rifling. The lookouts favoured blaster-tech over slug weaponry, even utilizing a 'cooked' gas magazine to heat a low grilling stove shoved away under small trash lid canopy. He salvaged a spare, ancient smoke-screen canister one thug had taped his waist belt, skimming over a palm-aid datapad, a set of data-splints, a pressure-worn keycard to an apartment loft, painkiller capsules. One of them came strapped with a well-sharpened vibro-machete. It was a garage creation out of scavenged metals and Cato doubted it would last under fire, still collecting its sheathe off the corpse and belting it to a thigh.
“Huh.” Cato held up a small apple of chrome metal ridged with grip flanges and an electronic pressure switch at the stem. A thermal detonator. Potent baridium charge and if the faded lettering on the casing was correct, lined with bead-shrapnel. What an undercity hood was doing with one... He stood, pocketed it on his harness, then gestured for Mala. When her weight was saddled on his spine, he took out a battered set of micronoculars.
One hundred meters west, toward the tri-tower apartment complexes. Through rings of increasing foot soldiers and whatever hackneyed security measures 'Zel' had installed. Cato paused, revised the thought process. If Zel had accumulated enough materiel and monetary resources, then he could afford any number of anti-intrusion counter-measures funnelled through the Core's black market. And armed his inner cadres with weaponry outstripping the forward blaster-fodder laying in the way of rival criminal armies. For now, they'd take the high road. Cato set a jogging pace, slowly and racing in turn, navigating walkway roads stretched over the upper roof floors spanning out from the towers.
They stopped a moment. One roof had a slanted maintenance entrance providing needed cover. Cato sipped water from a tin canteen and looked at Mala down his shoulder. He seemed to run through a moment's deliberation. The hold-out pistol, with its shitty finish and checkered grip, was dangled in front of her nose.
“Not a shiny,” Cato explained. “Emergency only. Safety is here. You look down the irons, here and here, line them up so they're level. Squeeze, don't pull. Think you can handle it?”
[member="Mala"]
