| Location | Station interior
| Objective | Survive, rescue, survive again.
“...I’ll just pick up the pace, then.”
That, of course, would not come without tradeoffs they may be ill able to afford. Nobody on this mission was under any illusions that any part of it would be easy. After all, they were because Corazana of Ukatis needed help. A Jedi needed help. No meek and helpless victim, that. He’d never uttered the words “...or die trying” in his communication with the woman, but he was pretty sure everyone knew that was implied. Still, for all the distaste with Mandalorian culture which had shaped so much of his life, Haliat had always taken a certain pride in the pragmatic simplicity which his people could bring to a problem.
When all else failed, even the Force, sometimes you just needed old fashioned grit and resilience…backed by a sufficiently grotesque volume of firepower. And that may yet prove the case for the rest of Sarissa Squad coming up behind him. So long as they kept formation on the move, they were the nearest human equivalent to a main battle tank. But while the plan had always been for Hal himself to move apart from the formation, scouting ahead to warn of large concentrations of undead and navigate them around unanticipated obstacles, the plan had also been to stay relatively close that he might fall back within the shield wall if required, perhaps even deliberately lure groups into range of their guns to ease the path forward. But no matter how well trained the warriors involved, that sort of coordination came at the cost of speed, and speed was clearly required. Thus, that safety would have to be abandoned for the moment.
And so, pausing only to share both his own personal beacon and Corazana’s comm link trace as nav points that the rest of the squad could follow on their interlinked HUDs, he was off at a run. And at that pace, it didn’t take him long to run into trouble.
In truth, Haliat suspected that he should be grateful for his initial good fortune, particularly given that it had likely been siphoned from others. When he did first find his progress impeded, it was only a pair of attackers he had to contend with, the bulk of the horde likely bent on the task of getting to the survivors deeper inside. Also, whatever other dangers he may need to be ready for, subtlety was not among them. The Nite Owl immediately declared his peaceful intent upon seeing he had been spotted, assured that he wished only to render aid, but no audible response was required to see that this was in vain. Even before they began furiously shambling toward him, the unnatural bend of their stance was enough for his survival instinct to scream warning.
Only as they turned in his direction did it become apparent that one of them clutched a blaster. Luckily again, while this pestilence could evidently reanimate dead tissue, it could only manage a grisly parody of the body's original capacity for grace and fine motor control. The creature's attempt to bring the weapon on target was slow and clumsy, incomplete by the time Haliat’s own pistol had left its holster and obliterated his assailants brain case. The second shambler was on top of him a moment later, but its grasping hand was taken off at the wrist with a swipe of his beskad before it could make contact, immediately before the butt of Hal’s gun thundered against the side of its helmeted skull. This would have done no more than disorient against even a living opponent, but no matter. The strike staggered the creature just enough to allow the Mandalorian a second sword stroke which took off a leg at the knee joint.
Free of the usual requirements for continued survival and seemingly incapable of pain, the former Imperial soldier regarded this twin loss of its extremities with an appalling indifference and dragged itself along the deck relentlessly, intent only on inflicting harm or spreading its plague further. Its mobility was catastrophically impaired enough to render the actual threat negligible, but sadly, that did not mean Haliat was in any way safe. Already he could hear more distorted humanoids voices closing in accompanied by the sound of footsteps, chaotically disordered but intense and myriad.
He had to keep moving. Dousing the downed monster with a dismissive spray of his flamethrower and leaving it to expire in its own time, on he pressed. He moved with the best combination of speed and deliberation he could, allowing his eyes and ears to seek out diversions around what sounded to be the largest concentrations of the undead trying to box him, sending the squad regular updates on location and enemy contact while always trying to maintain the general direction of his quarry.
Still, the undead engaged him repeatedly in their threes and fours. Each time, skill tenacity and equipment saw him intact and on his way again, but more than once did he have cause to be thankful that he did not have a single square inch of skin exposed. But forward he pressed. Ever onward, ever closer, with living aid hopefully not far behind.
Fight well, damn you. If Jenn is not simply out of her mind, if you're truly worth placing me and mine at risk to pull your skin out of the fire, then fight well. Do not allow me to go through all this just to put your corpse back at rest.
Valery Noble
Aris Noble
Azurine Varek
Kahlil Noble
Mahsa
Zaiya Ceti
Nulgath Zardai
Amelia von Sorenn
