L O C A T I O N
Mustafar Ashflats - Wreck of the FIV Frontrunner
A L L I E S
[member="Irajah Ven"] | [member="Pharazon Draken"] | [member="Rexus Wenck"]
E N E M I E S
[member="Choli Vyn"]
"They're pulling back," Natasi said into her communicator, her eyes not turning away from the wreck of the
Frontrunner. "Everyone, withdraw! The reactor is about to go!" She shoved Shorty away from his position, put her hand on his back to propel him away from the wreck. They dodged blaster bolts -- somehow -- ducking and weaving, occasionally tripping. Natasi went down when a blaster bolt nearly clipped her leg, sending a blast of powdery black ash and soot up in front of her. She slammed to the ground hard, her helmet skittering away. There was no time to pick it up now, and while her identity would now be visible, she wasn't sure anyone would care at this point. No one knew what an explosion of the
Frontrunner's reactor would do under these conditions. No one wanted to be the poor bastard who was standing to close when it went.
Shorty wasn't so lucky. He took a shot to the chest and went down hard on a rock. He was winded, a head wound gushed from where it hit the rock. Natasi stopped and shouted at him to "Get up! We're almost there!" He looked up at her, dazed, disoriented. Natasi was tempted to shoot him then and there -- like a wounded horse -- like the coward he was -- but she couldn't bring herself to do it. She couldn't leave him laying there, either. She dropped to her knees, pulled his arm over her shoulder, and struggled to her feet. He was almost twice her weight, and her legs and back shrieked a painful protest. She herself let out an undignified grunt. "Stand up, Shorty!" she ordered, looking over her shoulder at the
Frontrunner as flames continued to burst from its interior.
Lieutenant Mondel was almost certainly dead inside, along with those troops that couldn't safely be moved. She grunted again and propelled herself forward with everything she had. Another one of [member="Rexus Wenck"]'s men came scrambling towards them and Natasi shouted at him to "Help me! He'll live if we can get him to safety!" With the load lightened, they were able to double-time it to the nearest command speeder, where they hauled Shorty inside. The command tanks were not luxurious or medical transports, but he 'd be better off there than in a jolting, jerking tank that was taking fire.
"Thank you," Natasi told the other soldier, who simply nodded and continued on his way. She unholstered her blaster and continued moving forward, shifting around to the front of the command speeder where she would get an update on the battle. As she climbed in, static erupted from the speakers and the command display momentarily shimmered, flickered, and went out before coming back. She didn't need to look outside to know that the
Frontrunner's reactor had gone. The speeder jolted in the shockwave. She wiped the back of her hand across her forehead; blood smeared, the wound having opened again. "Dr. Ven will be furious," she muttered to the tank's communications officer, who looked back at her blankly.
Natasi popped the top hatch and hauled herself up to look out, her dark eyes sweeping the scene from behind soot-stained skin. Surveying the horrors of war that surrounded her -- from the savagery of [member="Rexus Wenck"] to the agony of [member="Pharazon Draken"], from the terrible whoops of satisfaction as Allied forces went down to anguished cries of despair as tanks and the men inside went up in flames -- Natasi's greatest wish was that she was not on Mustafar, but somewhere safe and quiet and warm. The horrors of war were overwhelming. But the words came unbidden to Natasi's mind as quickly as she imagined herself in her office, away from the ugly, sulfuric hellscape of Mustafar. She didn't remember where she had heard them before -- college, perhaps, some philosophy course. They would eat at her for the rest of her life.
"War is an ugly thing, but not the ugliest of things. The decayed and degraded state of moral and patriotic feeling which thinks that nothing is worth war is much worse. The person who has nothing for which he is willing to fight, nothing which is more important than his own personal safety, is a miserable creature and has no chance of being free unless made and kept so by the exertions of better men than himself."
It was a damning indictment that would hang over her head for the rest of this war.
She cleared her throat as she dropped down into the cabin again and sealed the lid. "Set course for the mining facility," she said grimly, wiping blood out of her eye. "If we cannot hold it, we will lay waste to it. Tell the others."