Leaning slightly forward, the old merc gave Dylan’s kit a quick once-over, going over the stuff he kept in his pouches; blaster rifle and pistol magazines, flash Grenades, thermal detonators, his individual first aid kit…
Making sure each and every member of the team was combat ready before deployment into
any combat operation they’d be deployed to, was among his duties as the team leader assigned over them.
Satisfied with the state of his team’s kit, Skif’s lips curled in a faint, lopsided smile as he reached for his helmet clipped to his warbelt. Trailing Dylan’s gaze, the man turned around as he heard a set of familiar footsteps approaching him and his team from behind him. The veteran merc kept his faint smile as their commander spoke to them.
”I would suggest you and your boys stock up on canteens for this trip. Mustafar isn’t a place for smoothskins.”
The old merc chuckled under his breath.
”Camelback’s topped off, with extra canteens in the kit, sir.” the veteran mercenary respectfully informed his commander as the latter’s gaze fell over each and every one of them respectively.
On top of carrying around several canteens topped off with purified water in their backpacks, they had their hydration packs underneath their jet-black assault packs on their backs, with the hose coiling above one shoulder and firmly tucked under the shoulder strap of their chest rig, keeping it in place.
The young demolition expert felt their commander’s penetrating gaze wash over him; his gaze fixed over him longer than the others. He could feel the unexpected tension rise slightly as the man took a step towards him, speaking to him soon after.
<”Yes, sir.”>
”You weren’t on Tython, were you? You haven’t faced the Maw…”
He shook his head.
<”No sir. I was still under training then,”> the young man said. He and his team, with the exception of Skif and Scalpel, had undergone the Hellion’s training programme in order to achieve the set standard for the Hellions.
Although he had gotten
some experience under his belt since then, taking up several contracts along with his squad, this was something going to be something he had never experienced before.
He could not venture a single guess as to what Lady Luck had in store for him. Would he survive this deployment in one piece? If he did, would all of his friends be as fortunate as him? Or would at least one of them lose a limb, getting wounded? Or worse, would they get killed in action? And even worse still, would
he be the one to die?
Unable to find any meaningful answers to all of those questions troubling his mind, were what scared him the most above all else.
”I hope you learn quickly. The Mawites aren’t Imperials, Jedi or Mandalorians.” He loomed over the boy with his piercing gaze.
The young mercenary gave a curt nod of his head in response.
<”Y-yes, sir. Will do, sir.”> the young lad said, never once forgetting manners as he talked to his commanding officer.
”If you need a human shield, use him. The others I need on this mission.”
His eyes would widen in mild fear behind the featureless, bright blue tinted visor upon hearing Jas’ suggestion to the woman to use him as a
human shield if she
needed one with a chuckle, and he wasn’t as vital for the upcoming combat mission unlike his peers in the squad.
Although he was
almost certain he was joking, the way he just so casually said it sent chills down his spine. He
didn’t actually mean that,
right? Unfamiliar with their commanding officer’s sense of humor, Skif would be the only one among the team of mercenaries to laugh.
The order to move out and pile into their gunships came shortly after that, in the form of a blood thirsty roar. Sprinting to their assigned craft with their commanding officer, the kid would fall into silence as he delved deep into his thoughts. The growing howl of the
Vanguard-Class Gunships became a background noise; extending his massive hand towards the kid, Tower pulled him into their landing craft, and helped Scalpel the same way as the kid settled down on his seat, right next to his battle buddy.
He knew some of his colleagues
revelled in a combat environment such as this, taking almost an animalistic pleasure in killing. He didn’t think of himself joining amongst their ranks, but was he really different from them? He very much enjoyed shooting vermin with his Pa’s old cyclic rifle to
kill time and have fun while doing so.
How different was killing a sentient compared to that? Another man, or woman?
An elbow poking his side would force that thought to be left unfinished.
With a quizzical expression emerging underneath his tinted helmet visor, the young man looked up from the durasteel plating beneath his feet, and at the visor of his friend, Aiden.
The techie leaned his head towards him.
<”Don’t think too much about it, man,”> he muttered under his breath, patting him over his left shoulder with a friendly pat. He was referring to what Jas, their commander, had -presumably- jokingly said.
Looking away from his friend, the young techie leaned his back against his seat, and got comfortable.
Dylan gave a curt nod of his head in silent response, leaning back in a similar fashion as they felt the gunship take off.
Although Aiden’s words were intended for what Jas joked about, he felt that the techie’s friendly advice also applied to all the questions in his mind. Skif had said something similar in the past, too:
Don’t think about it till your contract ends.
The young merc’s foot nervously tapped on the durasteel plating of the troop compartment, close to the rhythm of the
tune they were blasting from all their gunships. He grew anxious more and more as they got closer to their designated landing zone. Closing his eyes, the young lad would take in deep breaths to keep his anxiety in check.
Moving closer to the city in support of an artillery barrage, and escorted with a number of friendly fast movers keeping them safe, it wouldn’t be long for the pilots to reach their designated landing zone, he thought. The red light had already flickered on before that.
:: Don’t forget! The first objective is to get an objective! We set up a base of operations, and we move out from there! ::
His head in the game now, the kid opened his eyes in a clearer state of mind.
<Don’t think. Just do.> he had repeated himself over and over in his mind. It helped to prepare himself for the things he would do, and the things he would bear witness in combat. He gave a silent, curt nod of his head in response to their orders, acknowledging their task at hand. They had to secure a beach head in the city to begin combat operations.
Sure enough, not long after their commander reminded them of their mission objective, their gunship came to a hover over their landing zone, in a rappelling altitude above it. Standing up in the troop compartment at the gesture of the crew chief, they prepared to rappel down.
:: GREEN LIGHT! GET OUT THERE, ROCKJUMPERS! ::
"Go, go, go!"
Grasping the thick rope, the kid slid down the rope as soon as it was his turn; his feet touched the ground a mere moment after. Quickly making way for the others rappelling down, the kid reached for his rifle resting over his chest plate by its sling, and sprinted behind his squad lead in front of him.
Making their way rapidly towards a piece of cover nearby, the squad lined up across the wall, with roughly five meters of spacing between each team member as they all covered their assigned sectors.
<”Alright lads! Look sharp! This isn’t the Killing House anymore,”> Skif said; the dark gray eyes underneath the man’s helmet visor darted around, ever vigilant.
<”We gotta secure this sector to expand combat operations. Dylan!”>
Hearing his name shouted, the young man’s gaze turned swiftly, meeting Skif’s featureless helmet visor.
<”You’re up front. Get your mine detector out,”>
<”Copy!”> walking past the others at a brisk pace, the kid took up his position in front of his battle buddy.
<”Watch me for a sec,”> the particle rifle hung over his chest plate as he reached for the detector hanging from the side of his backpack. Pulling it free, the young mercenary flipped its power switch on and held the detector in his left hand. Grabbing his rifle with his right hand, he raised it before him; its butt-stock coached a handsbreadth below his underarm.
<”Alright, Acklay. Let’s get it done! Move out! I want ten meters spacing!”>
At their squad leader’s command, the team of mercenaries began to move at a brisk combat pace down the street, each member sweeping a sector in trained vigilance as they moved to meet the enemy they had come to fight. They had to keep the opposing force off the backs of their combat engineer companies while they fortified their landing zones.
After all,
the best defense was a good offense.
Darth Tennacus
