Location: Csilla System, Edge of the Csillan Belt
Allies:
TK-818
Foes:
Qellene Tyliame
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Tren Chaar
Viscount Squadron, a family, forged in the fires of battle. To have survived the Stygian Campaign, striking deep into the heart of the sinister Sith Empire at a time when they were perhaps the ultimate galactic evil, was an incredible achievement. Though the pilots bore scars, both the reminders of physical wounds and the less tangible weight on their minds that came with enduring the horrors of war, they had managed to pull through. Yet now they were facing a grim truth: that the galaxy had no shortage of evil, and thus there was no rest for those who dared to fight against it. War would continue until it managed to wear them down.
Until they made a fatal mistake, one that would finally cost them everything.
As One Flight approached across the Csillan Belt, moving boldly through the wreckage of a dead world in order to assist their friends, they could not know that many eyes were upon them. Lurking amid the asteroids was a full squadron of Divine Eagles, patiently awaiting the opportune moment to strike. The Knyght pilots had killed all power to their craft, using the Force to enable trace oxygen to sustain them while their foes moved into the killing field. Without an energy signature, and with the heavy metals of Csilla's rubble confusing most sensor readings, they were almost undetectable, their gunmetal-colored craft blending in well.
Until One Flight reached that place where they thought they'd be heroes again.
It was, as a famous admiral once belatedly realized, a trap... and at the very moment that One Flight emerged into the little asteroid clearing where they had detected Three Flight's distress signals, the Mawites sprang it. Proton bombs, launched inert so that they nestled against huge asteroids, exploded as they were struck with beam cannons, sending out huge chunks of rocky shrapnel to batter the B-Wings and block any easy retreat. Then the Divine Eagles themselves closed in - from above, from below, from every side. They were here to kill enemy aces, as the Taskmaster had decreed, and they would use overwhelming force to do it.
Twenty-four beam cannons glowed as the dozen heavy fighters made their attack.
Elsewhere, a smaller-scale but no less desperate hunt continued to unfold. Perseus of Kasparov laughed madly as his beam cannons cut deep into his target's wing, like a boar spear wounding a squealing swine's flank. It was just a game now, a foregone conclusion, full of the thrill of the chase... and the sweet taste of his target's desperation, a spoonful of sugar on his tongue, experienced through the force. There was nothing the wounded Alliance fighter could do except keep trying to run, after all. Certainly nothing that could possibly so much as concern Perseus. He blasted through another asteroid and lined up a new shot.
The A-Wing's canopy shattered, rent open by his cannons. Not long now.
The only possible problem was that they were getting close to the edge of the Csillan Belt. To stray beyond its confines was to disobey the Taskmaster... and to likely receive a faceful of Alliance flak. But no matter; it would never come to that. The pilot had survived the canopy's destruction thanks to her pressurized flight suit, but his next shot would surely go right through her, and she would find a hole in the head more difficult to shake off. "Goodbye, little creature," Perseus crooned, his mouth set in a horrible grin. "You danced the dance well, but there was never any question of how this would end." He squeezed the firing stud...
... and missed as the A-Wing climbed into a series of evasive twirls.
Perseus rolled his eyes. Why did this pilot insist on prolonging the inevitable? He followed her, less gracefully, simply blowing apart - or plowing through - the asteroid fragments she had so artfully evaded. His onboard computer chimed a warning as the A-Wing launched missiles that must surely be its last. The weapons, unguided, plowed straight ahead. The Knyght laughed again; it was like a prey animal voiding its bowels as it felt the predator's jaws close around its neck, messy and useless and born of panic. Then the A-Wing rocketed hard to starboard... and came right back in his direction, pulling away from the path of the missiles.
Perseus stared. Was the pilot surrendering the foolish hope of reaching the Alliance picket line, choosing to die head-on in battle, or had the tension of the situation finally driven her insane? His shock cost him the instant he needed to react. Even damaged, the A-Wing was far more maneuverable than the powerful but bulky Divine Eagle, allowing it to pull off that hard turn. As the giant asteroid ahead fractured in the huge four-missile explosion, sending vast chunks of rocky shrapnel out in all directions, the Knyght realized that it was far too late for him to even begin the same turn. Even near death, with a half-broken ship, she'd outfoxed him.
"You clever little bitc-" A spear of rock passing through his cockpit silenced him.