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When your mother is wanting you to stay home, but you are so eager to fill your role as a Knight.
Well, not like a Knight in Shining armor. I had become a little too large for... armor. I kept my distance from the city. The darkness of night would help me keep my large girth and thiccness from plain sight. Secondly, I had to really control the force I had. I thought about it pretty well. These other Knights, Dauntless as they were called, and others were part of an operation to go in sneaky-sneaky, and get slaves out. Considering I had been... separated from them for quite some time now, I looked from the distance. My bright blue eyes, as Mother always told me were cute and adorable, scanned the city from this distance. Seeing that forces were gathering towards this arena in the center. My furrowed brow looked over to them. It wasn't difficult to see them with my eyesight, but I could not hear a thing they were saying.
Well, mother said that I would know when chite hit the fan. Not sure what Chite, or a fan was, but it sounded like a bad term.
Gathering the force with me was not difficult. My size, and just who I was made it extremely easy to perform massive feats of the force. Per instance, I roared so loudly, you could hear me hundreds of Kilometers away. Or I could use what they called a Force Push, to be like one massive wall of wind that pushed pretty much everything down.
So, I thought I might help these guys a little. Maybe make it easier for them to hide in the night.
Closing my eyes, though anyone at ground level wouldn't be able to tell, The swelling of the force felt immense as I drew it within the location of the city. In fact, I concentrated upon the formation of clouds and air over head. Slowly, the air above them would grow darker as any form of Moonlight or celestial stars would be blocked.
One.. two... three drops of water fell from the sky. Followed by many more. Soon, it began to rain. Not just a sprinkle, but full on rain. Wet, heavy, plopping, rain. Pelting the city below. The sudden change in weather, would send many home. I could see others rushing to their hovels and domiciles in which to avoid the wet rains. However, those who didn't care, or were currently dealing with whatever situation there was, would find the rain could be difficult to see through. Maybe some would be soaked with water, or others would just feel the pelting of water on their armor and be fine.
A deep grin formed upon what lips I had. I was going to have so much fun.
A sudden flash raced down from the sky and struck a building that was taller than others. While I could easily see the light, it took a moment or two for the shockwave of Thunder to reach my ears. Eyes kept closed as I sent more energy into this storm. Causing one, two, three flashes of lightning to strike somewhere within the Arena. Hearing one after the other, the rolling thunder as the storm, was only just beginning.
As The Convoy carrying the fleeing Master Slaver began to get closer to the border, another android in the city, who had also come here to get paid, eyed it.
She had been dropped in two hours before the invasion of Thracior.
It had caused her pain beyond words. She'd made a mistake coming here. The horrifyingly lethal android had not experienced the raw brutality and cruelty she had witnessed here since Castagne, and seeing the horrors, slaves shot in the streets whipped beaten, tortured, far worse crimes commited behind closed doors by either the owner, or the slave on the order of the owner. Westenra found herself filled with hatred of this society that permitted this behavior.
For a split second, and with a shiver that traveled down an artificial spine, she found herself envying her homicidal sister Vera. Vera was in her element here. She could kill and torture with abandon, see all the cruelty, and revel in it. Westenra, her empathy programming deep and powerful thanks to her mother, was unfortunately able to imagine what every slave was going through. It had filled her with such terrible sadness. She had wanted to go into the streets and start gutting the Death Squad feths murdering almost randomly.
But alas, she had orders.
They knew that fething coward in charge would make a break for it. She had been placed on the least likely escape route as a study of the man in her Psychology Configuration had led her to believe he would be exceptionally paranoid during a decision to flee the city and would send the others on the easiest, fastest escape Routes to try and bait the Military into chasing them, while he took an obscure, circuitous path to freedom that would likely involve multiple blind spots from above.
Westenra, or rather, "Lynda" in this guise, that of an athletic, pale skinned woman with long, curly black hair in red and blue hoplite armor, had no intention of killing him. He would be made to answer for this, and all the innocent people he murdered.
However, as a homicidally insane clown put it: "A bruise here or a-a cut there...won't go amiss..." I would have added some really obvious laughter in parenthesis but I figured the quote was enough. I'm giving myself 90XP now, Thanks.
"Lynda" waited for the perfect moment to leap on to the Repulsor Truck. She landed on the front, her fist punching through the glassteel, ripping the pilot out of his seat and tossing him into a passing wall head first, killing him instantly, and getting into the pilot seat in a single fluid motion. The horrified female soldier in the seat next to her could only look in shock, agape.
The Android turned to her now piloting.
"Get out." The Android told her.
The soldier nodded, opened the side hatch to leap, only for the Android to grasp her neck with beskar strength.
"Not that way, Slaver."
The soldier didn't even get out a scream before her neck was crushed.
The Android had no sympathy at the moment. Anyone trying to keep this monster in power when they could see him defiantly ordering the burning of innocent people in the streets, even while the military was assaulting them, then they deserved what they had coming. The Android was only somewhat familiar wirh the concept of hell, and was not certain such a place truly existed, but if it did, the Android wanted both of them in it.
"Lynda" slowed down the truck as she turned a corner, then sped up. She heard a thud from the armored cabin behind her.
"Hey? What's going on? The Guidance system says we're going the wrong way!" A soldier in the back yelled.
The Android jackknifed the truck. It flipped and tumbled about violently for a few seconds before coming to a skidding halt on the road.
The Android pulled herself out of the pilot cabin and proceeded to the back of the overturned truck.
Before she could cut open the hatch, it was kicked out with heavy force. The Android was flung far from the truck, but soon rebounded, drawing her katana and shield from her back as she beheld her opponent.
He was huge. A behemoth of a man. Muscle bulges as big as apples. His mountainous abs were concealed by a black army uniform of Thracior's Special Forces. Of course, he wielded a large, pearl white claymore with a scrawl of The Sith Language upon it. She could not see his face, concealed by a red balaclava and beret.
"I really underestimated Orose. I knew the Feth was paranoid, but I didn't think he'd shell out for a Sith Relic..." she remarked, pink eyes blinking as she examined his skeletal structure for weak points with her X-Ray mode. Normally she would have used her pheremones to end the fight non lethally but she was of the opinion it would lower her to have true trash eating out of her hand.
Basic training had absolutely nothing on being on the battlefield. Like, nothing whatsoever.
Despite how much training the dauntless soldiers were put through, nothing could really mimic the feel of being dropped onto a battlefield for the first time, with actual stakes on the line. Those stakes only seemed to heighten for someone like Eva, whom was a medic for a squad that hadn’t ever faced live fire before. All she could hope for was that there weren’t that many injuries. And if there were, that she remembered all the information that they had thrown at her during medic courses. There was so much information, but at least she had two full medical packs on her back, safely tucked away in her medic backpack.
The large solider had tried her best to calm her breath and her mind as they got closer and closer to the ground, gripping the straps of her backpack tightly between her gloved fingers. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe in her training. Or that she didn’t believe she was ready to see a dead body from a bolt through the head. Or a mutilated one from some cocky private that didn’t watch his feet in a minefield. It was more the fear the unknown. Not knowing what around the next corner, or who might be prone on a rooftop, ready to snipe her squadmates they made a kriffing stupid mistake. She just didn’t want to see her squadmates, the ones she had trained with for months, die because they made a stupid, albeit unknown, mistake.
But that was part of the battle. They had made sure to drill that into their heads during the medic training. The fact that there would be injuries. That stupid mistakes could, and would, happen. And that their job was to keep those soldiers alive until they could get them some more proper help than they could offer with a few pieces of synthflesh and a bacta patch or two. They were there to keep the people alive as long as possible, not completely fix them. If they spent too long on each solider, more would die. Patch them up, get them to safety so they can exfil, move on. Don’t let your mind linger or you would soon be joining the bodies on the floor.
By the time their boots hit the ground, her mind had been set right. She hit the wall of the city right next to the rest of her brothers, and poured inside the moment the hole in the wall was cut. Eva stayed near the back of the squad, VAARS rife scanning the area as she awaited the lieutenant to give the order to move out. They were the playing the game now. Soon, she’d be asked to play her part too.
With frightening efficiency and brutality, the gun nests, which had been hampering all CIS progress throughout the entire area with the central park turned into a makeshift firebase, gradually began to go silent. Transmissions frantically requesting back up were jammed, and often the only warning the gun nests had were that people's necks started getting slashed from out of nowhere. This was followed by "Alice" often un cloaking and really starting it off by leaping on one of them from behind, sinking her fangs into the enemy's neck even as she violently stabbed one as much as possible.
She tossed her throwing razor through heads, punched through entire skulls with the aid of enhanced strength and disruptor gloves, whipping her parang and razor through limbs, chaining together a dozen different martial styles to evade fire, close the distance between her and the opponents, and crush them in a few bone breaks or knife slashes. Getting soaked in blood and gore, cutting weapons in half. By the time the laser knife came out, its flat red blade sputtering and unstable looking, the soldiers were fleeing for their lives, some firing while they retreated just to slow her down a few seconds. But she inevitably cartwheeled and flipped through their shots, caving their faces in or burning deep fatal trench wounds with the laser knife into their bodies.
One man fired a grenade round from an under barrel launcher on his rifle. One of her throwing knives had already been tossed precisely at the moment it exited the barrel, thanks to artificial senses and reflexes. The round went off as the knife pierced its head, taking out eight nearby. She jumped through the flames to continue pursuit, gutting them through the streets even as they fled from her.
When the various CIS SF teams finally managed to go through the entire park and declare it taken after getting the all clear from The Android, they found body after body of dead Tamiz Death Squad members, some with their faces cut off and nailed to a nearby tree with a throwing knife. Some were completely drained of blood.
These CIS teams were the best. They had fought in literally every type of hellhole imaginable. Seeing this, the willfully slashed beyond practical bodies, people impaled through the face or with their hearts ripped out and shoved into their mouths, this was not the worst scene they had ever come across...but it was up there.
At last the central park was seized, but there was no sign of the woman. She had left the vicinity of the park completely, having hunted down the last defenders of the makeshift firebase, in a flurry of punches, kicks, bone breaks, and slashing and stabbing.
Now that she had effectively singlehandedly destroyed one of the biggest problems in this area, she was pretty much casually completing her mission. The Death Squads were already starting to run when it became clear the CIS would sieze the world. She began to occupy her time savagely ambushing the squads on the street, collecting some of their special forces knives as trophies (Or weapons as necessary). The rail thin creature was a blood and gore covered horror when ever she came out of the cloaking field to kill people. She even indulged in a few of the rich nobles trying to flee the city. Had they owned slaves? Did it honestly matter at this point?
Her Laser Knife in one hand and her throwing razor in the other, she once again came out of the cloaking field when she spotted another Death Squad far ahead with telescope mode. Curiously, she saw they had a Prisoner. He was disheveled, of middle age with grey hair that was puffy and peaked out ahead of his face, which had puffy, long sideburns. He was in a disheveled three-piece suit. He wore thin glasses. He seemed to be struggling, screaming something.
"Alice" tuned her audio sensors as she got behind the cover of a crashed starfighter.
"The Master will come! MAS-TER! I HAVE WOR-SHIPPED YOOOUUU! MASTER!"
The blood soaked Android raised an eyebrow.
One of the soldiers hit him in the gut with a rifle.
"Shut it, Feeld! We may have lost Thracior to Slave-Freeing scum like you, but you're still gonna burn for what you did to my men!"
"I need lives! I need lives for The Master!" The disheveled man screeched, his thick five o clock shadow, having bits of insect leg in it.
"You unleashed nests of poisonous, carnivorous scarabs on a lawful Slave Pacifier Team. You've been a a troublemaker for years. If we die, you die." (United: 2000 XP)
"The Master OF ALL LIFE IS AT HAND. THE BLOOD IS THE LIFE! MASTER! I SERVE YOU! I SERVE ONLY YOU! WELL, MAYBE THRACIOR ALSO, BUT MAINLY YOUUUU! MAAASSSTER!"
This got another punch to the gut.
"Do we have to go to the trouble of setting him on fire? Can't we just shoot him?"
"He killed Mentin and Kickinger! We watched our friends get eaten alive! HE BURNS!" The squad leader barked.
"ALL YOU SLAVER FETHS ARE NOTHING BUT MEAT BETWEEN THE MASTER'S TEETH!"
"Well you can be cooked meat for your master then!" The Soldier yelled.
"THE MASTER IS UPON US!"
"WILL YOU SHUT--" The Leader started to shout...
...only to be interrupted as the Laser Knife erupted through his chest.
He had enough time to look and get out a single word.
"...up?"
A feminine rasp from an invisible Android carried around the surprised, stunned soldiers.
"No. Down."
The soldiers fired, but The Android was already moving, fists combined with disruptor gloves digging wide, lethal trenches into their chest and skulls. The strange prisoner fell to his knees as the last soldier fell dead.
"Master! I am here!" He called out around him.
His eyes were greeted by two glimmering red dots in the air.
"Master?"
"Yes! You are the one that I have foreseen! The one to bring punishment to the slavers!"
"I have been having myself a nice tuck-in at their expense, admittedly..." The Android trailed.
"I slaughtered many slavers in your name, Master!"
"I know. I've never killed anyone with insects. I like your creativity. It pleases me."
"Oh, thank you, Master!" The Prisoner said.
"They called you an Anti-Slaver. Why?"
"I protested such a thing many times openly. I refused to own slaves. They...they hit me on the head one day...and I have been this way ever since."
"Do you even know what I am?"
"I know not. I care not. You are The Master! I AWAIT YOUR COMMAND!" He screeched, face with a crazed look.
"What makes me your Master?"
"I have seen it in my visions! Waking visions! I saw that you would come here, on guise of profit! That you would cleanse the filth where I failed! That you would eat the flesh of these evil wretches. And that you would come upon me in my hour of need, and take me into your service! I can be useful! I know things! Possess things! They are yours!"
This man technically was was not a slave. Still, something about hiswords unsettled the Android. She decided not to kill him.
After all, how often is it one encounters such a willing servant?
"Very well then. What do I call you?"
"Ren. Ren Feeld."
"What have you to offer as tribute?"
The disheveled man grinned.
"Follow me, Master! I have many things to show you!"
The Android grew curious, but remained invisible as it followed Ren through the city. She tried not to think about how she was protecting someone on a whim just because she needed a servant.
Operation: Dead Air Equipment:Scramblers, Picks, Mines, and two Heavy Blaster Pistols
While Nyx disrupted the Tantt ability to communicate, she managed to listen in to those that still futily sought assistance over the network. What she heard was not entirely what the droid would call... subtle. Nevertheless, provided the forces engaged in open combat could steer the clashes away from the more populated areas of the city casualties should be kept to a minimum. Several simulations were in progress as people outside of the control center sought to break in.
It was only a matter of time. Inexperienced in battle where they were the ones out classed, they still possessed cutting implements and thought of such straight forward means of breaking in. At least they didn't try explosives. It wasn't like these creatures could simply order replacement parts.
There was another problem, however. By this point they would have begun working toward that end as well. A sudden turn in the weather would hardly dissuade them. The giant antenna allowing for broadcasts was situated nearby, after all. Simulations indicated Nyx would need to deal with those people before worrying about the rest of the city.
Word of the Clan Father Ahrah Tantt fleeing Siyah was unfortunate news, but Nyx was not in a position to deal with another theater's physical problems. Certainly not on a world so bereft of proper technological progress as this one. Imagine being a droid trapped on this world.
After properly securing the terminals -- which had taken two full minutes to bring the code up to even a tolerable level -- Nyx turned from the console and toward the door. Her physical presence in this room would no longer be needed. Even if they possessed some manner of security bypass tools, there would be sufficient time to secure the override at the antenna prior to them coming close to breaking in from the control room.
What was only slightly less jarring than a metal woman falling from the heavens, shattering your roof, and killing you was such a being opening the door you were right in the middle of cutting open. That awkward little moment of wide-eyed recognition the situation had changed. The little hitch in one's breath. A complete collapse of higher-brain functions.
And then the complete loss of all brain functions as Nyx didn't suffer from any of that. A few high-pitched bolts slammed into the chests of those standing outside knocking them back. Then her hand grabbed the cutting torch supply and threw it down the corridor to the left. A single bolt detonated the cainster in a roar of smoke and flame. Best not to let more helpful bodies turn the corner and delay her further.
Meanwhile, the droid made its escape down to the right. A layout of the compound had been found on a 'secure' server on their network. It had been neatly labeled 'Complex_Map__Confidential.' Obviously, Nyx would treat it was very confidential information and share it with no one. It was, however, quite useful in mapping an efficient course from the control room to where the antenna stood.
Two people -- a technician and a guard from their garb -- scurried across a vehicular-wide path toward the broadcast channel in the midst of the downpour. Soaking wet or even covered in mud, one way or the other they knew what had to be done and at any cost. Their compatriots were counting on them. All quite noble. Much like their sacrifice.
Nyx shot out from a second story window overlooking that expanse; her arms crossed to protect her head from shards of glass obscuring her optical sensors. It was quite interesting to find glass in use at the compound. Obviously the wealthier among them were dabbling in techniques and materials they'd managed to recreate from the databanks they'd salvaged. Like many other things, however, the placement of such materials or the implementation of such technology were not optimized. Much of the complex still was exposed to the open air; windows would only serve to impede air flow, and therefore retain heat. A problem that particular room no longer suffered from.
Her metal chassis dropped down the ground with slightly dulled, but solid thud regardless of the wet dirt. As she straightened up, her optics in the cranial unit began to glow brighter. The two organics had whirled about in surprise. One held a rifle in their hands. The other a toolkit. There was no doubt which of them had to die first.
A few taps and the entry code snapped the doors open, which allowed Nyx to find drier conditions once more. The carbon scoring from the blaster would need tending later, but cosmetic affronts were not a priority in the field. For now, she would focus on locking the hostile units out of the communication grid and leave it in her capable control.
'Command, do we have confirmation of the Target's location?' Nyx again burst transmitted as she worked on the equipment.
The benefit of having a helmet that granted you tracking information within a 360-degree radius was that it wasn't easy to be caught off guard. So while wasn't exactly caught off guard by their CIS contact, he did wait for her to approach before he actually said anything. One thing was for sure, she was not what he was expecting at all. He'd expected some military type with a short temper from centuries of working with whatever mercenaries the CIS felt like hiring on that day, not what looked like a human female who couldn't be over thirty. If he was to hazard a guess, he wouldn't have guessed over twenty five. "If by that you mean, it was supposed to be a stealth operation, then yes it was. Until someone decided to send clearly armed troops through the streets."
And then it happened. At first, Shuklaar only looked up as the sky grew darker, and darker. Which was more than odd, weather reports hadn't quite stated this. "Shab, this rain's going to cause some problems with the optical camouflage systems," said Saram, turning and giving a nod in the newcomer's direction. Shouldn't be a problem at this range, but that wasn't on the reports. Either CIS intel seriously kriffed up, or something else is up." Almost as if on cue, the galaxy seemed to have a sense of humor as it were, lightning struck the city. There was silence between the two Mandalorians for a whole minute, before Saram let out an audible sigh, "What the haran kind of job did we sign up for?"
Shuklaar had no idea himself, but he did know one thing. Those speeder trucks were still going to have to be stopped, and they were still in a perfect position to do that. That was unless that lightning started hitting the edges of the city where by their last estimate the speeder trucks had about reached. " Argaty'irya 6, both remaining speeder trucks are out of LOS, over," crackled Viraen Kyrdol's voice through his helmet speakers. He sighed, they'd have to redeploy to cover all the exits out of the city, and that was if the CIS forces in the city didn't deal with them. As always, it was better to be better safe than sorry.
Saram gave the orders for them to redeploy and find better positions. She'd already marked out the position that she wanted him to cover, unfortunately that put him closer than he really wanted to be to the potential fleeing manics. Who knew, maybe they'd get lucky and the fleeing truck he was expected to stop would contain the idiot they were supposed to kill. Turning to their CIS contact, he addressed the few matters that needed to be addressed, "Two things. One, did you know anything about this storm, or are you as surprised as we are? Two, do you have a weapon? I only ask, because if we want to make sure these shabuire don't slip our grasp, you and I are going to have to watch that exit over there." He nodded at the exit to the city toward their right, currently only sparsely guarded given that the CIS troops in the city had made more than enough of a distraction.
There was a warmth to the light side of the force, the feeling of the sun on your skin, of the feeling of coming home to a home cooked meal. It felt right and solid, it was happiness. It was completely out of place in this arena, this place of slavery and death. This place stained with pain and terror in the force, soaked in the darkside. It wasn’t just this latest slaughter that hung in the air but weeks of fighting, of the crowds baying for blood. Weeks of the worst aspects of people’s personality brought to the for. The Jedi could feel it in the air, feel the pain streaming off the man in front of her. Yet, for every moment of darkness, for every negative emotion pressing on on her, the light answered.
“There’s more to treating someone than just alleviating their symptoms. I can’t cure him, I’m not trained to heal him, but I can take away his pain, leave him more comfortable till the medics can get here.”
It was a simple thing, to reach out, wrapping the man in skeins of the force till he was entombed like a mummy in strings of light, the force weaving through his flesh to lessen the pain and bring him a kind of peace. The Young Jedi could hear the difference in his breathing, the way his features relaxed. He looked more like he was sleeping than in imminent danger of dying. It wasn’t much, but Asaraa knew it was all she could do as she pushed herself to her feet, reaching down to dust the sand off her boots. A deep breath as she settled herself, letting her blue eyes travel upto the balcony where the freed slave was hefting his new blaster, staring down the scope at an imaginary target.
Her voice was soft, sad with the knowledge of what was coming as her hand fell to rest on the hilt of her lightsaber.
“You’ve got 3 platoons of trained and armoured men, people who know how to use their weapons, but more importantly how to fight. The slaves in this arena, the slave scattered through the city, they didn’t ask to be here. They don’t know the first thing about war, about how to handle themselves in a firefight. At the best they’ll be a distraction for everyone, at the worst a meat shield. They’re the very essence of innocents, we can’t justify asking them to fight for us.”
The Jedi closed her eyes, reaching out to the force, spreading her senses out through the city for a moment.
“You’re right, we’re the target, we’re gonna get hammered by everything that they can throw at us, but we’ve got reinforcements on the way. All we need to do is just hold the line till they get here. We can do that without asking a baker, a tailor plucked out of his home and thrown into an arena to fight for his death to die for us right? These are the people we came here to help, to save. What use is that if we end up killing them all in the process? Tell me where you need me, deploy your men as you want to hold this place but…I came here to save the innocents torn out of their homes. You’re right, they have a choice to fight for their freedom, but don’t we have a choice too, to let them die or not? To leave them with the scars of combat. Every one of us, we made a choice, we know what we’re getting into, what it’s like to take a life. They don’t, they’ll fight, they might survive but the person who emerges from the other side, they won’t be the same person. We’ll have killed the man we came here to save one way or the other.”
Astrid could only nod in response to his statement. Stealth. That was the word. Up close her armoured companion was even more of a mystery. The wolf didn’t seem too pleased with the fact that they couldn’t see his face. “It is not known who?” She quizzed him with a dumbfounded expression.
Before she could receive an answer, a prickle stood the hairs on the back of her neck to attention. The first droplets of rain splashed haphazardly onto the ground below, before their aim adjusted to begin the slow process of soaking anyone unfortunate enough to stand in it. Astrid’s face broke out into an unabashed smile as the blazing sun disappeared behind thick black clouds. Her light-sensitive eyes adjusted immediately to the dimmer atmosphere. When she turned to share her joy with the group, she was instead met with dismay.
“Rain is not bad. Rain is good. Much better for stealth.” Her first attempt at the word sounded odd in her foreign accent, but it got the message across. Her opinion didn’t seem to matter either way. Whatever this group was, it seemed to be a brotherhood of some kind. Astrid had unintentionally stumbled into something that, by rights, shouldn’t have been intruded on. But here she was. “We must hurry. Tracks they make will be covered by rain too.”
The rest of the group seemed to split off once the more feminine sounding of the two shouted out her orders. Astrid felt rather like a fifth leg as she stood and waited for her orders. She wasn’t even sure if she was supposed to receive orders, or if they expected her to get on with it herself. Just as she was considering breaking off to sniff out any scent of their potential enemies, the man piped up once more. In answer to his question, Astrid shook her head. “No. To both. I did not know of this storm, but it does not surprise me.” Astrid cocked a brow and tilted her head. “Do you not feel it? It is being created.” Astrid stepped forward to cast her eyes on the exit that he nodded toward. “By our brothers or theirs, I am not sure, but it is not a storm that is natural.”
She almost bristled when he asked if she had brought a weapon. It would make little sense to come to a battlefield without one but given her lack of armour or indeed the presence of a weapon on her person, it was understandable. “Yes. Please, do not be…” She didn’t have the word for frightened, so instead, she made a face that displayed a look of sudden horror. When her little scene had finished, she took a hearty step back from her companion.
It had been an age since the wolf had been allowed to emerge, so by the time the distance between them was great enough, it was practically ready to pounce. The change was almost sudden. The crunch of her bones, the haunching of her shoulders, the lengthening of her spine, face and fingers… The process wasn’t necessarily the prettiest thing to watch, but she was a part of the wolf as much as it was a part of her. In less than a minute, in place of Astrid stood an almost five-foot-tall, seven-foot-long snow-white wolf. The only thing that was remotely similar to the woman that had once been were the bright, unforgiving pink eyes. The beast dug its claws into the ground beneath, shifting the loose sand and dirt as it stretched itself. Astrid spoke, but this time her voice projected directly into her companion’s mind. As clear as if she were speaking on the comms.
“I will take the other side when no eyes are on me. Do not worry about how to speak to me. Even if you whisper, I will hear you from there.”
Gerwald was supposed to be monitoring the situation from the sky. The operation was supposed to be stealth in nature. Someone decided that was not the best way to go about it. Whoever it was, they were going to be facing reprimand later. Gerwald simply hoped it was not someone that fell under his command or purview. Perhaps he would get more information from Damsy Callat
later when they reconnected. Her value to him under a new face and new name within the CDF was important as long as the inquisition was ongoing. Gerwald had his own theories, and was conducting his own investigations. Kyyrk
still received regular reports of the Master's activity.
Dressed as though he were a native, Gerwald hoped he did not tower over the rest, not that it mattered. The primary target of the objective had made a run for it, and as far as Gerwald knew, no one was in pursuit. He stopped receiving regular communication after the objective had been blown.
A stealth run would see the Master Obsidian dropped off with two of his squires should they follow. Speeder bikes, heavily modified in their aesthetic to fit the world they had come to infiltrate would be their mode of transportation. The lupine locked onto the signal they would need to pursue, broadcasting his personal code across the dedicated channel for those who were supposed to be in pursuit as well. Hopefully he would not be mistaken for one of the villains. He certainly looked the part.
It started to rain... the force was at work.
Feth.
Rain would make it harder to know someone was being tracked, but it would also make it harder to track. The scent would change, be washed away even.
Odd.
Gerwald sniffed the air once more. He knew the scent of the felecat, and the scent which belonged to Redd was familial. There was another lupine, somewhere, and this was a scent he did not recognize. Redd would smell it, Morrigan would too. Perhaps it was a good thing he came to the surface. This little lost pack of shifters seemed to be growing by the day, though it was too soon to tell if this one would be friend or foe. Gerwald had learned of Lupine families which hated the Lechners. While he had not run into any yet, they were bound to be out there somewhere, unless they all died off.
"I am in pursuit," Gerwald called out to any friendlies who might be listening. "If there is anywhere you want me to push the target, tell me now."
Redd was hesitant to join Gerwald on this mission, but somehow she had managed to get dragged along. In fact, she was more than happy to stay at home base lying under a tree in the garden and feel the sun on her fur coat. To roll around in the grass and listen to the birds as they sung their songs and to feel the gentle breeze. Instead she was wearing clothes that were native to the land they found themselves on. Something she thought might have been relevant had it been a stealth mission, but apparently that objective had gone flying out the window. Like an elephant just thundering into a room, only to break every object in there and expect no one to notice them, even though they had probably destroyed the original form of the door frame to begin with. Which was why they were being dropped off with what was called speeders. Two of them.
Now she was wondering why they weren’t shifting instead of having to fly on these things. Didn’t these people know that their paws made less noise than these things? Golden-green eyes glanced over the machines, apprehensive about this approach and before she could even say a peep, Gerwald was getting on yet another death machine. A sigh parted her lips before she slid on behind the male lupine and her arms wrapped around the male’s waist as it began to rain. The female wolf drew in the scent of rain as she felt the wet drops fall upon not fur, but clothing made for its environment. Eyes drifted closed as wild, unbound hair blew back behind her as the speeder lurched forth. The rain became almost like tiny bullets, pelleting against whatever skin that was bared to the weather, not that it bothered her.
Each stinging bite was a reminder that if she got into conflict, it was going to be something of a bloodbath. Mostly her blood would probably be the one to spill, unless she could find a chance to shift. Which, her shifting times were right on par back to an adult’s timing. Including her weight, but mentally it was all a massive adjustment that was taking its time to even settle into. Mentally, she was still in that cage, being dragged around to act as another body for their battles. Although she wrestled with herself based upon that premise. She still couldn’t help but feel quite distant to her human form, even though Gerwald had mentioned that the two were one. Why bother standing on two feet when she was far more powerful as a wolf? Especially when she was in the middle of a fight.
The scent of rain carried more than droplets of rain and she caught the faint scent of another lupine. No… A soft growl rumbled upon her lips as she sniffed the scent again. It wasn’t someone that she knew, at least not from memory of all of the people that she had met recently. Fingers curled as she resisted the urge to jump right off the speeder, to shift and go chasing after this new scent. Even though it would have been dangerous to jump off the speeder, the danger wouldn’t have bothered her and she wouldn’t have thought twice about doing so. However they had originally arrived here for a purpose and she couldn’t sway from that path even if she wanted to. Teeth grinded against each other while golden-green eyes blended into a solid gold.
It was an itch that she couldn’t quite scratch and she closed her eyes for a brief moment. Drawing in a deep breath, she relied upon the physical senses of the stinging rain to pull her back and to feel the dampness of the clothing that clung to her skin. Upon the exhale, she opened her eyes and focused upon their current objective.
Sergei was getting more frustrated with the Jedi's ramblings. Did she really believe all the stuff she was saying? He hadn't had blind optimism like that since he was a raw recruit at home. Years ago, nearly a decade now. He appreciated the counterpoint and the wish to protect all the people of the city. But it just wasn't feasible, not with the enemy they faced. Sergei shook his head as she tried to cite his numbers.
"Three platoons, 120 commandos, against an entire city of bad guys. They literally outnumber us by orders of magnitude until the cavalry arrives, and unlike a preferable situation where I can draw out their forces and annihilate them over time, we don't have luxury of freedom of maneuver, or time. My men are trained for situations like this because this is literally the worst possible scenario to attempt what we are doing. We aren't your kind that has access to magical powers. We bleed just as well as they do, and while I can reverse anyone's home field advantage we can't ignore the numbers game. I need every last rifle, every last bit of help I can get to make sure as many survive as possible. People will die, it's war. My job is to keep that number as low as possible, and if I make a mistake doing that, it's my burden to bear. These people won't be on the front lines, but they will be fighting, here, in the safest possible location. We have defenses and cover for them to use and shield themselves, while the rest of my men are literally running and gunning outside for their lives. I am doing everything that-'"
Sergei was cut off from his comments to the Jedi by the sound of blaster fire and yelling from the walls of the stadium. One of his soldiers called out contact and began returning fire, his machine gun laying down a streak of super heated metal bullets as the rest of the Wolves on that sector returned fire. The slaves meanwhile were using the smaller rails to give them some cover and concealment as they began shooting back. The exchange didn't last long but it was enough for Sergei to know that the time for talking about this was clearly over.
"Seal all the smaller exits into this stadium now! Guard the main entrance and don't let anyone in unless they're us or I call down friendlies on approach!" His attention turned away from Asaraa Vaashe
as he opened his comms to the two squads on approach.
"3-6, 6 actual,"
There was a brief pause over comms as the soldier waited, and then heard the channel open with gunfire and blaster shots ringing in the background.
"3-6,"
"3-6 where in the blazes are you?!"
"6 we've been cut off! Phoenix is compromised! We're taking heavy fire and having to redirect on alternate ro-" An explosion sounded in the background cutting the platoon leader off.
"3-6...... 3-6, blast it Connors respond!" Sergei's blood ran cold. The most dangerous course the enemy could have taken was happening. Twenty of his men were being surrounded by the main body of enemy's forces. And Sergei had no idea how many of his men were up and fighting.
"Anyone in 3rd Platoon I want a sitrep!" Sergei roared into his comms.
"6 actual this is 3-6 Romeo, 3-6 is down I repeat man down! Sir we're pinned, they've got two platoons of bad guys chasing us, we've had to hole up in a building, I don't know how long we can hold!"
Sergei was losing control of the situation. The initiative had been taken, but now they were losing it, fast. His smaller teams had managed to avoid being pinned like this because they were small teams, that were much harder to track and were supporting each other. His element that had been sent to the palace to harass and hold the enemy wasn't that small, and because they were larger, they were easier to track. Easier to fix. Easier to kill. Sergei immediately got another response on the comms.
"6 actual 1-4 Bravo, we're moving to support 3-6. We'll force a breakout and cover their retreat,"
"1-4 Bravo 3-1 Alpha, we're right behind you, 6 mikes to target location, sending you approach data,"
And just like that Sergei had a chance to breath. His teams were keeping comms open, and they were responding in turn to each other's plights. Now if only this would work. Sergei yelled at Asaraa Vaashe
as he had a crazy idea.
"Jedi! You want to make a difference? I got men pinned down at a location three blocks from here! Two of my teams are moving to support them, but they have wounded, if you can get there and make sure they all make it here I'll be in your debt,"
This was how war was. You planned for as much as you could, but when the dice was rolled most plans went out the window. It was chaos. And thankfully Sergei had trained his men to practice this chaos on a mass scale. Unfortunately it didn't always work in their favor. Sergei knew it'd take no small miracle to get those men out. The platoon leader for 3rd platoon was down as well, unknown injuries. Sergei hoped it was something he'd recover from, but knew in his heart that the man had probably already given his life to the mission. Mentally he wanted to scream in rage, to go out there and tear these animals apart. But he knew he had to keep composure. He had a job to do. Sergei looked out from the top of the stadium and saw the lightning and the storm coming in. They might have an advantage now he thought. He turned on his night vision as the overcast ran made it extremely dark. The lightning coming in and striking lightning rods around the arena certainly didn't help the situation though. What the blazes was doing this? Sergei didn't try to think about it too much as they had more pressing issues. Just as he looked he saw another group of bad guys storm into the clearing, moving forward attempting to assault Sergei's position.
"CONTACT, WEST, 200 meters squads in the open!" He shouted into his speakers as he opened fire with his rifle. The firefight would erupt shortly as Sergei and the defenders began to engage. It would be a long night.
Rabbit
wouldn't be stuck there long as the mercs decided they would just finish them and move on, as they were getting reports of attacks all throughout the city. Including one group in particular outside the palace that was attacking the main garrison and doing their very best to keep them all off balance. That being said as the wannabe executioner raised his blaster to finish her off, four gunshots would echo through the alleyway.
Rabbit
would feel a shower of blood erupt over her, and the man standing on her toppling over. If she looked ahead she'd see five heavily armed, armored, and cloaked figures rushing forward to secure the immediate area around her. The soldier would clear the two remaining bodies around Rabbit, and then would speak quickly.
"Ma'am can you walk? We need to move. We can get you to a strong point nearby but we have to leave now!"
"Tex, three minutes!"
"I know!"
The soldier would notice the wound in her leg and make an executive decision, deciding that them moving was more important on her pride, or comfort. He'd speak calmly to her as he hoisted her up over his shoulders in a rushed fireman's carry.
"Just hold still and be as quiet as you can, we'll get you to a medic. Tom on point, slave pens!"
The soldiers would begin moving down the street again, a larger soldier with a machine gun taking point as the rest fell in behind him providing security. Their objective was clear, get their casualty to the slave pens so she could be seen by a medic, and possibly put back into the fight or given something to do to assist with while the uprising was happening. The team would hear the comms about their brothers and sisters being in a precarious position, but knowing they had a casualty as well they couldn't respond. Thankfully other teams responded for them, and Tex would breath a small sigh of relief as they pushed forward. They weren't far from the pens, and thankfully this area of town was much quieter as they'd taken the compound without any noise, and all of the other teams were raising hell elsewhere. As they approached the building, a light flashed from inside the window, blinking twice. The lead man flashed a return signal once, paused, then once again as they advanced. The doors opened and two soldiers pulled security as the group would rush inside. Once inside the two soldiers would retreat back inside and the doors would be sealed. The slave pens while quite sparse on accommodations were quite packed with slaves. Thankfully there wasn't that many soldiers inside guarding it, as the pens had security systems built in naturally to keep the slaves contained. That made taking the place a lot easier. A soldier with a red cross on his helmet would approach Rabbit
after the soldier carrying her put her down on the ground, as gently as he could in full armor. The soldier with the red cross would speak quickly but quietly as he looked her over.
"Hello, my name is Jason. Are you hurt? How many fingers am I holding up?" he held up a gloved hand with his palm opened as he did a quick examination to ensure that she didn't have a concussion. He would find the wound quickly but it didn't hurt to check her completely as a lot of times people were a lot more hurt than they realized. The team that had brought her here would acknowledge that the medic had things under control and would quickly leave, knowing that every second they wasted by standing around was more risk they were putting on their battle brothers.
TLDR
Sergei's men have taken casualties while falling back from their advance position and are now surrounded by at least 70 armed hostiles. They are in a building three blocks from Sergei's location and have wounded.
Two five man teams are moving to respond to this by attempting a breakout, and will arrive at the breakout location in approximately six minutes.
Rabbit has been recovered by one of Sergei's roving teams and is now being seen by a medic, will possibly be returned to the fight soon.
Fighting between Tamiz's defenders and Sergei's forces is escalating as they are now sending twenty to thirty men assault elements against the stadium and its defenders. Sergei's men and their liberated slaves can hold, but will require reinforcements when the main body of the enemy forces arrive.
Agonized screaming filled the air. Surviving Clansman scattered away from the collapsing breach as fast as they could, panicked and disorganized. Black acidic smoke flooded the area for a hundred meters, so thick it was hard to breathe. Light mortar shells were falling everywhere, killing anyone in the open. All over the city, alarm bells and sirens rose in pandemonium, adding to the confusion.
“Form up! Form up!” Cried Major Vidar Fennstrum as he walked up and down the line of crouching Carians. His call was repeated down the infantry file from platoon leader to platoon leader.
He double-checked his Vyper carbine by cocking it. His twenty centimeter long narrow bayonet was attached to its lug. Known by the Rangers as the cold steel, it was a reliable blade for both inside and outside combat with a serrated edge for cutting.
The Rangers had formed in position at the edge of the tree-line, watching in awe at the wound sundered in what had once been the gatehouse.
They received the command from the Colonel. Fennstrum sneered, as much as he hated the man that voice belonged to for his crimes, he had to admit there was something to the way he spoke. It was rousing and determined, matching the spirit of the Carians all around him.
“Advance!” Fennstrum growled to his company commanders on the comms and received affirmatives. “On the double. Stop for nothing. I’ll have the ass of the man who falters.”
His way of speaking certainly wasn’t as inspiring or sophisticated as Farlorn’s but it did the job.
Starting to jog, and then to run, the massed force of Rangers came down the open field, towards the breach, bayonets fixed to their rifles.
He looked to his right and left as three thousand soldiers advanced, in a long ragged line. He knew that Major Thorin was on the right flank while Lindemann was on the left. In the center was the Colonel, running alongside his men.
He only ever paused to yell encouragement and inspiration. He had drawn his noble vibrosword and brandished it high so they all could see it.
A strong ozone odor hung from the aftermath of the missile strike, results of the devastating chemical reaction. There was an electrical feeling in the air. Maybe it was because of the detonation. Maybe it was because of the mood that filled the hearts of the charging men.
They were halfway across when about a dozen wall guards reeled back from the strike, after vomiting from the shockwave or recovering from the sheer concussive blast. Long lines of tracers swept the fields in front. A Ranger next to Fennstrum fell with a loud yelp.
To counter, accurate snapping fire from the Sniper Company and the heavy weapons teams that had stayed in the treeline made them pay. Heads exploded in cooked blood or bodies were split in half from blaster assault canons or clansmen were blown off the walls by light mortars. Sniper-sergeant Markus’ wooden stock banged back against the permanent bruise on his left shoulder. It hurt. It always did. He liked the pain because he always associated it with a kill-shot. Eight times it banged against his shoulder and he counted eight kill-shots every time.
He had missed only one shot in his three years as a Ranger and it had cost him his left eye and most of the flesh on his right cheek.
He certainly wasn’t going to miss another one.
***
Captain Kilearn and B Company were the first ones through the gap. So thick was the air with smoke that they could barely see fifteen meters in front of them. He ordered the two flame troopers he had in his disposal to hose down the entire area before them.
They did as commanded. The sucking roar they made, like great volcanic beasts, drowned out the screams. Burning walking candles of fire staggered all around them, twisting and jerking in pain before they collapsed.
Behind, more Rangers were storming through the breach. With bayonets attached, they butchered any dazed survivors that struggled their way out of the rubble.
“Gate secured!” Killearn reported. “Gate taken! Pushing up to secure a beachhead!”
Lieutenant Syna took the left street with his platoon. At the end of the street, a large group of clansmen had taken cover behind a wooden, screaming battle-oaths at the top of their lungs. Solid fire sluggers began to fire down at his platoon as they scattered for cover. A trooper was struck in the knee and he dove behind the cover of a rubble slump, yelping in pain.
The clansmen were simply just spraying randomly down the street. Chosen for their loyalty over their skill, they were ill-trained and clearly ill-disciplined. They were burning through their reserves at a honestly terrifying rate. Syna could just wait them out and they would run out of ammo before they were even aware they were low. But he didn’t have time to spare. Colonel Farlorn expected great gains to be made in the first hour.
Their job here was to make as much noise as possible and reinforce any insurgent elements that may need help. They had to draw as many forces away from the citadel, pin them to the western city, and eradicate them from the face of this world.
“Sergeant Menhil, flank right and go around them,” Syna shouted, pointing to an alleyway that opened up to the right of the street. “Take Siltor, Etta, Talia, and Pardus with you. We’ll hold them here.”
“We don’t know the streets.” Sergeant Menhil shouted back from behind the corner of the alleyway.
“Just find a way! We can’t stay here!”
Menhil nodded.
“We’ll give you covering fire. Suppressive fire!” Syna ordered. A dozen Rangers rose out of cover and began to unleash a barrage of blaster-bolts down the street.
They rose and began a barrage of blaster bolts down the street. Unlike the Tantt, this time this was accurate, drilled and disciplined. They were constantly aware of their ammo count and instead of full-auto madness, they selected accurate burst fire. Several clansmen were cut down and the rest were sent ducking.
It gave enough room for Menhil to get his four troopers out of cover and ducking behind the alley. They dashed fast as they could down the stone flagstones. Menhil stole a look to the sky. Dark clouds were beginning to gather, underlit red by the fires raging around the city. The sounds of battle seemed so distant even though he knew it was just on the other side of the block. The alley opened out into a wide yard with a pillared stone colonnade along one side. On the far side of the yard, the mouth of the adjoining street was blocked by a massive avalanche of rubble.
Something moved in the darkness of the colonnade. Menil’s weapon was up and aimed at the shape. “Your hands up! Identify yourself! Out of there. One wrong move and we’ll blast ya to hell.” He barked.
“Krak!” The figure shouted in a panic. It came out into the open. It was dressed in poor leather rags. It was a woman, old scars were lashed across her face. Without them, she would have had a soft elfish face. From those scars, Menhil knew instantly she was a slave. She had an old makeshift slugger auto rifle lashed on her chest.
“Resistance fighter. I am resistance fighter. I fight for freedom.” She spoke in a heavily accented basic. It was clear that she was far from fluent in the galactic language, learning it only when her cells had heard rumors of off-planet intervention.
“Hold fire, I think she’s right.” Menhil and the others stowed away their blasters.
“Terima kasih kepada ceser.” She said relieved in her own tongue. “You are sky people right?”
“Sky people?” Menhil asked quizzically.
“Yes, you come from sky to help us.”
“I don’t think she knows about the Confederacy, boss,” Pardus said. “The slaves wouldn’t know about the Galaxy at large. We came from off-world so they think we came from the skies.”
“Nevermind that.” Menhil took a moment to think about his words. “There is a… place with lots of slavers just down that street.” He pointed where they had just come from. “Do you know where we can go to get behind them?”
“Yes, know a way. Many evil masters there. Chief Master there.” She pointed to a boarded door at the end of the dark colonnade. “Through oban. Long narrow beyond. Go...” She paused, searching for a word she did not seem to understand. She loudly groaned out in frustration as her mouth kept opening and closing like a fish out of water.
Suddenly she turned and ran back into the colonnade.
“Think we’re supposed to follow her, sir,” Talia suggested. To confirm, the insurgent stopped at the door and waved at them with the universal sign. ‘Follow me.’
‘Yeah, I think you’re right.”
“Sir, I would advise caution,” Siltor spoke out. “She could be a spy for the Tantt or faking it.”
“Good point,” The Sergeant agreed. “Siltor, keep an eye on her. If she becomes a threat or a liability, tell me at once.”
“Yessir.”
With the strange sky warriors behind, she kicked the door savagely several times until it gave way and splintered open. It was some kind of storage shed, unlit apart from the light of the fires slanting in through a small high window. Old furniture was piled up against the walls. The insurgent led the way forward, the Rangers behind her carefully edging their way in. Their blasters were up and scanning, searching for any movement.
Pradus was the first to hear the whining. He was about to comment on it when it became a loud keening. Menhil was veteran enough with good ears to know that sound.
“Down,” He shouted and everyone ducked down as low as they could. The resistance woman looked at them quizzically before she understood. She dove to her belly, her hands over her head, praying to whatever deity was supreme on this planet for deliverance.
The mortar shell landed just on the other street numbing force and noise.. The ground trembled and quaked. The shockwave was so great that the window shattered. A pair of shells fell nearby, one falling in the yard they had just occupied. Then, silence. Well, as silent as you could get with blaster fire echoing all over the city.
“Anyone hurt,” Mehil asked as he rose back to his feet, dusting off his trousers.
The other soldiers sounded off that they were all fine.
“Syna, do you copy,” Menhil activated his comm-bead.
“Yes,” There was the background noise of the constant fire. “Where are you? Taking your bloody sweet time while we’re pinned down here?”
“We’re making good progress, sir. Were those our shells?”
“I was asking the same thing. No, they’re not. The clansmen have at least some light pieces they’re using to suppress us.”
“Copy that, will advance with caution.”
“Hurry it up, the Major’s asking me already what’s taking so long!”
“We’ll double-time it.” He switched off the comm. “You heard me. Let’s go.”
“Where’s the local?” Siltor noted the absence. “Where did she go?”
Menhil heard a whining noise behind him, animalistic and terrified. He turned and saw the fighter curled fetally below a dusty wooden work desk, cradling her rifle like it was a child. He signaled for the others to stay back. He approached slowly and kneeled next to her. Her eyes seemed fantastically big and wild now. The pupils were heavily dilated and frantic. Her mouth was constantly moving, muttering insanely.
“The gods are angry. The gods are angry. They are angry I am against my masters!”
“Woah, Woah,” Mehil whispered softly. This poor lady. How old could she be, he wondered now? She couldn’t have been an adult for very long. From the way he had seen her hold that rifle before, it was very clear it was the firm time she had held one. She hadn’t been trained much if any in the ways of war and what she might face. Mehil remembered how traumatizing his first experience of artillery was. Just ducking in a shell-hole, hands over his head as he sobbed, feeling his bones seemingly shatter under every strike. It had truly felt like the thunder-blows of a god.
“Safe, safe, safe.” He repeated, hoping that she at least understood those words. “Gods not angry. They are proud that you are fighting masters. It is not them. They are punishing your foes.” He paused. He wasn’t exactly wrong, was he? The Carians would punish the slaving bastards.
“Really?”
“Yes, it’s true. Now, please, come out. Guide us to the stronghold.”
“Yes, yes, yes I shall.” She crawled out of her little cubical. She hesitantly looked around, waiting for the next shell to land. It didn’t. Bending down, she snatched back up her rifle and led the Rangers to the other side of the room. There was a door on the far side. Pulling broken tables aside to clear it, they slowly opened a small wedge. Menhil took a quick peek through the gap. He looked back to his men and made a few hand signals. He looked back at the shaken resistance fighter. “Stay back.”
Mehil counted down from three and when he was done, he took a step back, took a deep breath, and kicked the door open. It let out into a dingy alley that was running with sewage from a broken drain. Siltor and Etta took the left while Talia, Menhil, and Pardus took the right. Down the long winding alley, no hostiles were seen. “Which way?” He asked.
She pointed left. Moving quickly down it, every blaster covering every possible angle the foe could be. The sounds of battle were beginning to get closer. They turned right up a steep cobbled street and then the fighter immediately darted left into a covered alley between two boarded premises. The alley led through into a ramshackle clutch of overgrown walled gardens behind the tenement row. She suddenly disappeared left through a corner.
“Wait!” Menhil hissed and ran after her. He silently cursed whoever had trained the fighter. She clearly had little training in squad cohesion and teamwork.
The Five Rangers caught up with her on a small narrow street with vehicle garages to each side that opened up to a much larger street. Mehil saw her with her back to a corner. She waved them over.
“Well?” Mehil asked.
“Many masters there,” She jerked a thumb around.
“Move back,” Mehil unslung his blaster and took something out of his pocket. It was the pin-mount of a small shaving mirror. He hooked it over the muzzle of his weapon and pushed it around the corner. A turn of the wrist and the mirror slowly revealed the other side of the doorway. He saw quite a number of them that were dug in behind a series of barricades made from an overturned cart and two burnt-out cars. They were blazing away down the street with their bolt-action slugger rifle. “About twenty-two hostiles, I count.”
“Nothing we can’t take,” Etta muttered.
“Correct,” Mehil grinned. “Fix the Cold Steel.”
At once, the other four Rangers expertly snatched out their long seven-inch sword-like bayonets and attached them to the lugs of their Vyper rifles.
Mehil touched his comms. “We’re behind them. Attacking in ten seconds.”
He stole a look at the fighter. “Stay back, this is our fight.”
He grabbed a grenade of his webbing and after waiting for two agonizingly long seconds, he hurled it around the corner and quickly turned around, showing his back to the explosion. There was a dull consumptive crump as it detonated, followed by shrill screams.
“First and Only!” Menhil oathed as the Rangers dashed around the corner. Eight bodies lay twisted, bloody and broken on the street from the grenade. Firing on full-auto, the five cut down about a dozen before the Clansmen started to fire back. Pardus was stuck directly center in his light chest armor plate and was thrown back onto his arse, swearing loudly at the pain but continuing to fire. The shot had broken two ribs but it didn’t penetrate. A glancing round grazed Menhil’s cheek, drawing blood.
“Crush them against the barricade!” Menhil commanded. Quickly dashing down the short distance between them and the Tantt as they continued to fire on full-auto until they were dry, they sunk their bayonet’s into the foe.
Against the Rangers trained in the likes of melee by Hark, Fennstrum, and Farlorn, at this sort of fighting, even despite the slaver’s superior numbers and the occasional proper fighting blade, they stood absolutely no chance. Pradus, ducking under a swinging mace, fired two shots point-blank into its owner’s belly. The hostile dropped, hard. At his side, Talia rammed her bayonet right into the back of a defender too busy to turn around to meet the sudden flank. She ripped it out and ripped into everything around her, emptying the last few rounds left in her mag.
Mehil broke a skull with a mighty swing of his long blaster rifle, and then stabbed the muzzle, with its bayonet, into the solar plexus of another attacker. He fired once. A Clansman with a curved sword charged Menhil screaming, and he blew it’s legs and belly out with his last rounds, but the momentum of the charge threw the body into the sergeant. Instinctively thrusting out his rifle, his bayonet was swallowed up by her sternum and came out the other side. Too deep. No time to pull out. Using his free right hand, he drew his blaster pistol as he saw four more clansmen suddenly rush out of a burning building to the left.
They saw him almost at once. Menhil, his right arm shaking from the effort, swept the bayonet stuck corpse to cover his left flank. There was a deep, meaty thump as the first rifle round impacted right into his improvised shield and two more as he fired.
His first shot struck one of them in the forehead, demolishing its head completely into a red crater. His second and third tore apart the body of another. One of the clansmen fired back and the round hit with such force that his rifle and his shield was ripped away from his hands. His fourth, fifth and sixth replied, blowing out the guts of. His sixth and the shot that followed up close missed the last one but it caused the shooter to flinch and throw off the aim of the it’s shot. Menhil felt the bullet whizz close by his neck, even feeling the air warping around the bullet. He aimed and pulled the trigger. His eighth was the dull clack of dry metal.
The clansman pulled back the bolt and rammed it back in place. There was no other choice. With a cry, Menhil drew out his survival dagger and charged. But he would never close the distance in time and he saw him raise his rifle. Unlike last time, he wouldn’t miss, Menhil knew for sure.
So, this is how it ends. What a stupid kriffing way to go. What a stupid kriffing way to end his four long year career as a soldier, he thought.
There was a single loud crack of a solid shot bolt action rifle. His head jerked sharply to the left as a bullet went right into his ear and came out the other. The clansman crumpled into the heap. Mehil glanced back down the street where they had come from and saw the fighter standing in the middle of the street, wisps of white smoke emitting from the end of the barrel of her makeshift gun.
A clansman officer amidst the hand-to-hand chaos aimed to fire at the exposed fighter with her pistol.
Mehil was quicker.
With a flick of his knife wrist and a brief swiish in the air, there was a very deep meaty thunk as his blade lodged itself between the slaver's ribs. Then she turned around and limped forward a few more steps before dropping onto her knees. Thin blood jetted from the wound and gurgled from her slack mouth. She gasped for air and stumbled several steps back, dropping her pistol. She turned around and limped a few more steps before she gave out. She hit the ground, knees first, then fell flat on her face, her torso propped up like a tent on the hard leather grip of the knife. It was at the moment, with the death of the only person holding the whole thing together, did the Tantt realize it was all over.
It was also at that moment that Syna and his men suddenly appeared over the barricade, screaming at the top of their lungs. The few remaining clansmen were impaled between bayonets from both sides. Within ten seconds, dozens of clansmen lay dead on the street.
Mehil was breathing hard as he sat down on the curbside outside the burning house. He ripped a rag of cloth from one of the dead next to him and used to clean his bloody bayonet. Nearly everyone in the flank team except him had been injured in some way. Pradesh with his broken ribs. Siltor with a bullet wound to her thigh. And so on. During the fire-fight before, Syna had lost one of his men from a very unlucky ricochet. Four more wounded.
All around him, the battle continued to rage on but it was in these moments that he liked to gather his thoughts, to put himself at peace before he would have to unleash his emotions in the next engagement. Most soldiers liked to fight with little emotion, not Mehil. He let it advise his actions but never dictate it. He kept it within that furnace and tempered it for when he needed it the most. To bring out the warmonger inside him.
“Took you long enough,” Said a voice. He looked up and saw Syna smiling.
“Meh,” Menhil shrugged. “Still got the job done.”
“Pretty well from what I see. Just cut them down, didn’t you.”
“Had the element of surprise and her.” Mehil gestured toward the fighter who standing back on the mouth of the alley, leaning on a wall.
“Who’s she?”
“A resistance fighter and she’s with me.”
***
Infantry forces were swarming into the west city, driving a burning wedge half a kilometer wide.
The reeling clansman foe was beginning to re-organize from the devastating first strike at the gate. In burning and ruined homes, they began to make their stand against the invader. But it was disorganized and many enemy warriors, their morale at the breaking point from just the senseless violence unleashed upon them, were beginning to doubt the cause.
But those that chose to resist, resisted. They were the most stubborn ones that the Rangers were forced to face down. One on one, they would have been a worthy match for the forlorn children of Caria.
Fennstrum’s main push along the main gate highway was being met by the first wave of the rapid mechanized response force of the Tantt. Ten rumbling half-tracks that bleached out black smoke as they advanced down the main way, beginning to open fire on the Rangers at the end of it. They were mounted with rapid assault cannons, sponson slugger machine guns on each side, and a hull-mounted repeater blaster cannon.
“Off! Off! Get off the road!” Fennstrum ordered, ducking low as tracers spat over his head. The assault cannons banged out rapid shot after shot. A pair of Carians to his left was blown to shreds by a shell and another to his left was cut down by a stream of bullets as she ran for the cover of a side-building.
While crude and barely functioning, the Tantt war-machines were forcing them back. Several soldiers were killed during the retreat. Behind their tail, moved about five hundred Clansmen, seeking to retake what ground had been lost and maybe even eject the invader from the city. The foe gained three hundred meters of the highway back.
But then Fennstrum turned back and countered back with fresh reserves, armed with anti-tank rockets or infantry cannons. Long bizarre corkscrew wake patterns shot down the road after the rockets as they were launched against the armor. Most of the first rank was utterly destroyed, left burning and ruined, forcing the next dozen half-tracks to slow down in order to maneuver around the wreckage. Seeing their chance, infantry hidden by the Major in the side-streets and buildings suddenly charged out with flamers or satchel charges. Flametroopers hosed down the open-top vehicles, cooking the crew inside alive. Combat pioneers hurled their charges and made them nothing more than twisted blackened steel. Regular infantry or insurgents that had joined the fight without anti-tank weapons simply just swarmed the armor like colonial insects, dragging out the crews onto the street and butchering them mercilessly.
Despite this success, through his Marco-binocs Fennstrum saw more mechanized forces rushing down the highway. Until he had armor, he could no longer advance, only hold his current position.
“Lord Kriff it,” He spat.
***
In a long narrow paved square, the tide of filthy, frightened bodies moved east in slow, choked patterns. A statue of the slave overlord had once been erected on a marble padlestool but the Rangers, with the help of some ex-slaves, had tied ropes around its neck and torn it off. It currently lay broken in the square, battered from a thousand directions by passing slaves.
The Rangers' destruction and advance had ripped through much of West City, driving refugees and slaves unwilling to fight en masse. They were confused, terrified as their city burned all around them, tired, and hungry. Many eyed the foreign Rangers with mistrust or just blatant hate. Out of nowhere the invader had just shown up, tore down their walls, and evicted them from their homes as they burned them to the ground. However, just as many cheered the Rangers on, people of other tribes forcibly integrated into the Tantt or slaves that had suffered greatly under clan rule. For others too veteran to wars of conquest, it was just another overlord to serve and keep your head down.
Lieutenant Malkie Strum was on the ground. He organized distribution points where food and water could be given to those most in need. He directed down safe places for the elderly and exhausted to rest without disturbance. Had medical APCs drawn up and parked to tend to the wounded. Of course, he had his men scattered about to make sure no-one made any trouble.
To be admitted, Strum had not yet drawn blood with his silver bayonet. He hadn’t been in an actual full-blown battle yet and outside of training, had yet to fire his blaster in hate against a foe. At best, there had been a skirmish during Xam’chi however it had ended by the time he arrived on location and took command. But he didn’t mind. Honest. He didn’t mind not getting into combat. In fact, if given a choice, he would most certainly avoid it.
He did not like war. Not a single bit. It was too messy and dangerous for his tastes. Involved too much death and suffering for his taste.
It seemed strange for a soldier like him to avoid combat as much as possible. Some would even call him a coward. Well, if being a coward meant he stayed alive as long as possible, then call him a coward. He liked living unlike the insane crazy bastards all around that fought like they had nothing left to lose. In a way, he had to admit, they had nothing to lose but not him. As much pain and sorrow as there was in this cursed Galaxy, among that there was joy, happiness, hope and love. He wanted to feel those things as much as possible. Where others were made hollow from the Great Fall, he made attempts to try to fill that hole.
He certainly couldn’t do that if he was dead. So he avoided combat, if possible. Of course, one day he would have to fight. He would have to risk his life and kill for appearance’s sake. He would rue that day and try to avoid it the best he could.
His cheery face was quite unlike the drab reserved nature of the other Forlorn. He was quite the administrator and the people person. That was why the Major had assigned Strum to this task of the day.
He snapped out of his reverie as he heard the deep rumble of engines. He looked up to see the APCs drawing up on the other side of the yard. He saw a figure spot him and wave him over. Strum strode through the crowd, bumping into several figures. No one made eye contact. He’d seen that shocked, war wrecked, fatigued look before. Every single Carian had worn that look after the Fall.
An old woman, stick-thin and frail, stumbled in the crowd and went over, spilling open a shawl full of possessions. No-one stopped to help. The refugees plodded on around her, stepping over her reaching hands as she tried to recover her possessions.
“Holy! Are you okay ma’am?” Strum helped her up. She was as light as a bag of twigs. Her hair was shockingly white and pinned back against her skull. She muttered something under her breath. He stooped low and picked up her fallen goods: some beads, some silver coins stamped with word’s he didn’t understand, and a faded picture of a young man. Strum took an extra second to look at it. The young man in what looked like a newly pressed uniform. At once he knew what faction that uniform belonged to. He sighed.
It was unlikely her son was going to make it through. The Colonel had yet to give orders explicitly saying to prioritize taking prisoners. Strum, however, did silently pray to The Lord that he would repent for his sins and atone by giving himself up without resistance.
The woman disappeared back into the crowd and Strum suddenly had a strange feeling that he would see her again, however impossible it logically could be.
Shrugging the strange feeling - probably just the hot winds sweeping in, he decided - he continued onwards.
Major Erach was standing on the engine bay of the MTAT-1.
“Strum? How’s it going?” Erach asked casually as he stared out into what seemed like a slow shuffling river of people.
“Sir, the evacuation is going as planned. There are thousands of them. It’s jamming up the east-west routes. You can’t go this way.”
“No choice, Strum. The highway is blocked for the moment. We’ll have to make way.”
“I think I’ll be able to divert the crowd, could take some time though, sir.”
“Do it. It’s better than nothing but make sure it’s quick. We got forces stranded in a blood arena east of here. They're up chit creek and we’re the paddle.”
Strum was about to turn around and order his men to find barricades to divert when a refugee next to him collapsed to her knees. Just as he was about to react, the crowd started to scream. Somewhere in the crowd, a man’s head burst in a puff of cooked blood. Something very warm splattered on Strum’s face, giving him a strong metallic taste in his nostrils and tongue. He put his hand up to his face. It felt wet.
It came back with blood all over it.
Some of it was in his mouth.
He heard the blaster fire, shrill, and rattling.
Surprisingly, he didn’t panic or even worry, turning his attention back to the chaos unfolding, his training setting in. Erach was shouting, demanding what was going on. Rangers stood up out of the open bay of the carriers, looking around in confusion or jumping off, blaster in hand, ready for action.
Not even twenty meters away, through the panicking crowd, he saw a classman, shooting indiscriminately on full-auto with a stolen blaster. The killer had dragged back the dirty rags that had been concealing his uniform. He’d snuck in amid the refugee streams like a predator coming through in the thick of a herd.
Strum drew the blaster pistol he had only ever used during training. Bodies jostled around him in pure hysteria. So many people were being trampled, crushed underfoot by the stampeding crowd. Several times he had an angle on the shooter but he couldn’t risk the shot, not without striking one of the civilians around him
What was he doing? What was he doing? Didn’t he just think about how much he didn’t want to die? But so many people around him were dying. That gift was taken away from them. He was the only one who could stop it.
Sturm was screaming for them to part but he couldn’t even hear himself. One voice against thousands.
Gunfire cut down four more shrieking people in front of him. It made a gap. He realized he recognized the face of the gunman. Without a second thought, clutching his pistol in a two-handed grip, Strum pumped the trigger of his pistol and felt it kick, crackling loudly after every shot.
It seemed that The Lord did not answer every prayer.
The shooter had been terminated. The situation was now safe. However, this fact did not spread fast enough around the stampeding crowd. Hundreds of Rangers were forced to disembark their APCs to contain the panic. There was no way now that the convoy could proceed until the chaos had subsided and that could take hours.
“Get me comms with the Colonel,” Erach moaned. “He’s certainly not going to like this.”
***
“What do you mean you cannot advance?” Farlorn hissed into the comms with no small amount of annoyance in his voice. Elsewhere along the front, his men were being bogged down. The Tantt began to recover from the devastating strike at the gate and the follow-up storm assaults. As good as the Rangers were in his eyes, engaging against a foe superior in both numbers, morale, and engaging them on their own land would be hard going. Several insurgent cells had been relieved, sure, but the main bulk of the forces that required reinforcements were deeper still in the city.
“Yes, sir. It’ll take almost two hours to clear the crowd. There’s no controlling it now and we certainly can’t just drive through them.”
For a single horrible moment, Farlorn actually considered the latter option. He actually weighed the political fallout with the victory. He was famously ruthless and calculating, but even he wouldn’t do that. “Try to make it as fast as possible. One, out.”
He put down the comm-horn and stared at the unfurled map of the city in front of him. According to reports, Major Lindemann’s push had encountered heavy resistance. His troop spearhead swiftly moved up to support an isolated rebel force but had been met with enemy elements well dug into the warehouses, where bales of hay were stacked, on the far-right flank. Forced for half an hour to endure a series of fierce, close-range fights through the echoing interiors of the barns, he had elected to pull back. The foe had entrenched themselves deeply in those barns so Farlorn had decided to release his flame troopers from the reserves, deploying them under Lindemann's command. So far, the week before had been a very dry one. The fires spread quickly and could not be stopped. Every single warehouse turned into a furnace for those inside. White-hot flames licked against the sky. The crackling of the fire was louder than the screams from those inside.
Dozens attempted to break out of the burning buildings but all were cut down by the Carians waiting outside. No-one survived.
But despite all of this, it had been too late. The resistance cell was wiped out just before Lindemann’s forces could reach them. They made the clansman pay. No prisoners were taken in that district on that day. It would not be the last of its kind.
Farlorn’s mood was already black. Then he heard that Fennstrum’s forces had failed to secure the highway. It was none of his fault, of course. It turns out that infantry forces fighting armour forces can be a decently difficult thing. But he needed that highway. He was currently receiving distress signals from a large Confederate insurgent force, penned in at a large fighting arena. They needed help and needed it now. He had hoped that a rapid extraction could be done with his carriers but with the current situation, that could not be possible for hours it seemed like.
“Sir, you have to see this,” Bellary, his command adjutant suddenly spoke from the balcony of the house Farlorn had taken for his command station. Farlorn stepped out and Bellary pointed to the sky. A dark blue-purple stain leached into the sky like a giant bruise. It spread rapidly across, billowing through the clouds like blood through the water. One by one, the stars went out. A solid sheet of freezing rain smashed into the city, threatening to overwhelm gutters already filled with blood.
“How? This wasn’t forecasted.”
“Sir, I’ve never seen a weather system like this before! It just appeared. It certainly isn’t natural.”
Farlorn’s stomach dropped. There could be no other explanation. As far as the intelligence he had received on the Confederate elements in the city, he knew that there were force users among them. He didn’t understand their strange powers well but he understood that none of them had the power to create something like this.
He witnessed blinding forks of lightning, crimson like blood, were cast down from the heavens. They struck the power of a god, crushing entire buildings under their great weight.
None of this was normal.
Farlorn realised his hands were gripping the balcony railing so hard that his knuckles were turning white. He released them quickly and did his best to wipe the look of shock off his face. A commander appearing unsure was the worst thing that could happen right now.
All the comms were going insane from his field leaders inquiring to the strange nature of the sudden, seemingly irrational, storm. He was forced to spend several precious minutes calming all of them down, shouting if needed.
The battle was to continue despite the suddenly unplanned weather conditions, he ordered. Though extra caution was to be expected. He would ask high command later about the nature of the sudden event, he assured them.
He massaged the bridge of his nose with his fingers. Why did all of things have to happen under his watch. For a few minutes, he was silent, his eyes closed. The command staff around them made sure to make as little sound as possible and if anyone called, they answered back that Farlorn would be with them shortly or did what they could. It was not wise to disturb the good colonel as he went through the dozens of scenarios and options he had at his disposal. Eventually, he opened his eyes and turned to Bellary.
“Get me Hark. I want her to take her best pathfinders and maybe even a few snipers from Markus. Her orders are to use the sudden downpour as stealth cover to advance towards the arena as fast as her units can move without detection. She is to reinforce whatever elements that still remain and set up direct communication with me. If she is unable to establish such, she is to be considered to act with my authority, provide her with Delegation Code Vermilion Zero Two Eva in case they dare question my proxy. Her main priority will be to preserve as many Confederate lives as possible - Confederate, I must emphasise. Civilian or makeshift insurgents are to be considered secondary and not necessary for victory - until larger reinforcements can arrive. They’ll likely have wounded fighting this long, so take a corpsman or two.” He paused for a moment and cast a look out of the balcony. “Got that?”
“Yes, sir. Sending it now.”
“Thank you Bellary. After that’s done, could you go down to the logistical boys and fetch me a pot of tanna tea. All this stress is beginning to give me a rather tiresome headache.”
***
Using the shadows as best as she could with her camo-cape wrapped around as much of her body as possible, Hark moved undetected. Behind her, two and a half dozen of the most elite Rangers sneaked their way down the war ruined road. All around them, the battle continued as the Carians blazed their way in the ranks of the Tantt, caring little for their own losses as long as they made the slaving bastards pay. But the street they were on was silent, as if the war had never happened and it was simply just a late night. Hark was a short and stout woman with short sloppy black hair and a weather-beaten face. To most, she seemed unassuming and looked like the type of aunt who would give you sweets when she came visiting. She was anything but that, being the best-damned Pathfinder the entire regiment. Farlorn trusted her senses more than his own.
Before her orders from Farlorn, Hark had her pathfinders be deployed as scouts in order to assess the strength of the Clansmen foe and where their line was weakest. Under this new order, she was to gather the best that she had under her command as well as what marksman special company could offer and slip through the frontlines. Farlorn had covered their breakthrough with an all-out assault along the highway and a light mortar barrage to keep them ducking. In Hark’s opinion she didn’t need it with the rain already cutting down visibility to near zero, but the Colonel had been insistent on holding all of the cards. He never took uncalculated emotional risks. That was simply his way, cold, logical, and ruthless.
In a way, the scout-master liked Farlorn for that. At first, most of the men hated him with a burning passion. A reputation for genocide will do that to you. In fact, he had been forced to survive on more than one occasion a fragging or “accidental discharge” that so happened to be aimed in his direction. But through sheer dint of determination and his numerous victories, he had gained their respect. He didn’t need men to like him, only accept the fact that he was their commander and obey his commands. Even if Hark never liked Farlorn, she would admit there were few other than him ever worthy of commanding the First and Only.
There was the odd fire-fight or five, when circumstances demanded, but then it was strictly hit and run if she could. If possible, she made sure there were no witnesses or had their attacks be purposefully sloppy as to trick the foe that they were simply slave rebels. They were working the shadows and staying alive. Hark had lost count of the clansman throats they had to slice through that night with their silver bayonets.
Down the end of the street, they began to hear over the rain, the dull hollow bangs of sold-shot rifle fire.
Pathfinder Gavin up ahead stopped suddenly and made a signal with his right hand. Scuttling forward, keeping as low as possible, she moved past pathfinders Eckell, Larkin, Colm, Milo, and Sniper Malkie. She reached the street turn and used the shadows cast by a burning church hall to blend into the scenery.
“What is it?” Hark asked the stealther who was almost just as good as she was.
“Here,” He took a pair of marco-binocs from his pouch and handed it to his commander. “Above at the junction.”
She looked through the marco-binocs. Unlike the tribalistic feral foe, Confederate forces had access to advanced technologies of war. Such an example was the marco-binocs, considered throughout the Galaxy to be cheap and easy to manufacture, would be near impossible to understand for the Tantt. However, like all good scouts, Hark trusted her five senses over some tech, no matter how advanced. For now, she was glad she had them. It cut through the haze and the rain like it was never there.
She saw a corner house. Blaster-fire was pouring from the windows onto dark shapes on the street below, hugging whatever cover they had and shooting back with long thin needle-like rifles. She watched for a solid minute. When the assaulting force tried to make a push, they were cut down in the streets like dogs before they fled, yelping back into safety. Dead littered the street in droves.
For sure those were Confederate forces. They could be only ones using blaster-rifles and shooting with such discipline.
Hark opened up her comms to Confederate wide-band, setting it close range, “This is Pathfinder-Master Hark of the First and Only Carian. Confederate elements confirm that you are in the building. I have twenty soldiers. We are on the down the street to your… west. Please advise on how we can assist.”
TL;DR
3,700 Rangers are storming through the west city. The initial storm assaults were extremely effective against the Clan, who were too busy reacting to the internal act and the guard garrison at the gate being hit hard by the missile and the survivors butchered by the attacking Rangers. Farlorn plans to relive the stranded insurgent elements, confront the major Tantt combat formations, and destroy them.
However, the clan reeled back shortly after and began mounting counter-attacks. Despite the technological advantage of the Rangers and their skill, the foe has numbers, knowledge of their environment, and a fanatical devotion to their masters. The Rangers continue to attack but casualties are beginning to mount and the advance has slowed to an unacceptable pace.
It was during this period that several morally questionable incidents occurred with POWs. Farlorn had “accidentally” forgotten to tell his men explicitly that shooting slavers were bad.
With First Battalion’s Major Fennstrum attempt to secure the highway needed for the fast extraction of Sergei’s men at the arena countered by a massed mechanised assault and the blocking of the carriers by streams of refugees streaming out of the city.
With the sudden rainstorm created by Garza, Farlorn decides to use it as cover to deploy twenty elite pathfinders, three medics, and two snipers in order to assist Sergei’s men. He has given clear orders that their priority are Confederate forces and that the locals are to be considered secondary objectives. If the latter has to be used or disposed of in order to facilitate the main missions, then so be it. They are unimportant in the grand scheme of things.
Operation: Blindman ( Orose Tantt ) Equipment:Scramblers, Picks, Mines, and two Heavy Blaster Pistols
Within the central processing units of Nyx a map of the surrounding region was displayed along with known troop movements, enemy positions, and civilian activity. As the organics would put it, the city was a mess. Worse, the Tantt's actions were more coordinated than she had hoped given the sabotage to their communication network. While not versed in dealing with an enemy like the Confederate armed forces, they must have be prepared for these circumstances however unlikely it would have been for the local resistance to manage it.
There would still be some inefficiency or isolated groups, but it wasn't quite as debilitating as Nyx had hoped. Nothing said that more than the armored vehicles and artillery hitting the populated areas. Perhaps her orders to not kill the innocent had been unclear. Or more than likely they were being commanded by someone with a higher authority...
Nyx strode through the outside of the compound as the rain pelted against her metallic chassis. If the enemy Commander had placed themselves on the rear line of battle, perhaps she could accomplish two objectives at once. So far no word on the location of Orose Tannt had come back, which only supported the idea they were no longer tucked away inside their office. This was not so surprising, in fact. There were two kinds of leaders when it came to those that suppressed others by force -- complacent cowards, and dictators. This one was the latter. With him elsewhere security on the compound would be lighter.
It was a pity Nyx could not have brought her railgun rifle along. While able to hit targets at distance with a pistol, the physics weren't there for a kill. Blaster bolts dissipated energy like anything else. Most fighters didn't have to concern themselves with that, however, being well within the effective range of their enemies.
The rear gate had been no more bustling with armed men than the tower. It would be better if they would stop increasing the amount of cleaning necessary later, however.
Once clear of the facility, the droid shot off into the distance. Softened earth helped muffle the thunderous footsteps of a massive, metal frame as it sped forth. It also reduced friction necessary for sure footing, but as a droid rapid and minute adjustments to her posture and footing overcame such a simple complication. Organics took for granted all the subtle intricacies of movement; such was not the case with a droid whose input could be manipulated in real time and with several orders of magnitude greater accuracy.
Nyx would begin at the read and move forward. If she had to dismental the artillery, armored vehicle depot, forward operational base, and any armored convey in order to find Orose Tantt then that was precisely what she would do. The sooner they fell, the sooner the enemy's will broke -- or their effectiveness dropped as emotion took control and the rational command of their leader was robbed of them.
The cool night wind rushed through the cloak of Ryk as he and his platoon made his way through the quiet streets of Siyah. They kept to the shadows, avoiding intersections and the big streets where patrols would be likely to cover. Luckily, their Hnsi guides seemed to know the layout of the city well, and the buildings flashed by quickly as the entire platoon snuck through. After several minutes of discreet movement, they finally reached their objective; a large square, completed by a bubbling fountain in the middle. After the guides signaled that they had arrived, Ryk took point himself, squeezing past the guides to get a good look at their destination. The ground was finely cobbled with tiles of dried clay, dyed in reds and browns that created a fascinating pattern under the moons of Thracior. The entire situation seemed oddly peaceful; the fountain, the cool breeze, and Ryk felt a slight sense of peace.
That feeling lasted for less than an instance, as footsteps echoing loudly over the square snapped Ryk out of it. Looking through the scope of his rifle, he spotted a patrol of Tantt soldiers making their way through the square. A louder, droning noise telltale of some sort of engine began to grow as well, and as Ryk adjusted his scope, he could see an armored speeder driving slowly behind them. There were about forty Tantt soldiers on the ground, and the speeder carried two more; a driver and a gunner manning what looked to be a large repeating blaster cannon. They were outnumbered, Ryk knew but also had the advantage of surprise. That, and Ryk felt he could count on the superior training of his men compared to some outback world militants.
Wordlessly, Ryk signaled this information back to the two sergeants that were at the front of the column with him, who then began to relay it back across the line. Picking up his rifle once more, he stared at the patrol through his sights. The armored speeder would be a problem -- they didn't have any self-propelled munitions, and that repeating blaster cannon could do a huge deal of damage if not eliminated. However, Ryk was trained for situations like these, and he moved the blaster to aim at the head of the gunner of the armored speeder. Ryk breathed in, and then breathed out, steadying his grip. Then, he fired.
The blaster bolt flew across the square, briefly reflecting brightly in the fountain's water before hitting its targets square in the forehead with a scorching smack. The report of the blaster echoed across the square, and now the Tantt turned in alarm and began to shout, their own weapons raised and pointed at the platoon's position. Now was the time to finally make some noise.
Lesya moved with the marines, quiet as a mouse and her disguise wrapped tightly around her, she would come to a stop and watch Ryk Gaelir as he moved up to assess the situation the commotion of the approaching group of armed men, as well as the sound of the speeder, caught her attention. Almost on instinct, there was a soft clicking sound as her right arm disengaged the concealment system and her arm folded back on itself, in the place of her hand and wrist was the emitter of a weapon and with it began a soft hum of energy as it began building a charge, she would simply wait until the first shot was fired then move, she crept up near Ryk and very briefly showed her right arm so he would be aware what was coming.
When it came she moved quickly, no hesitation at all she wheeled around a corner opposite Ryk and took aim with her right arm down the street toward the column of soldiers that were frantically trying to follow the report of the shot that had taken out the gunner on the speeder, the mystery shot was soon to be the least of their worries as the hum from her arm grew louder and finally launched from the emitter a powerful plasma bolt that ripped through the air with an unmatched velocity and seemed to scorch the air itself, upon contact with the speeder it and anything nearby erupted into a column of smoke, fire, and debris raining down in all directions. Lesya herself stumbled back several steps from the recoil of the weapon before quickly diving behind cover as blaster fire began raining at her position, back into cover she retracted the plasma cannon and with both hands pulled out two long blades from under her cloak, these slavers were not ready to face something like her.
"No, I..." Shuklaar started to say but then stopped himself. He didn't know how she could feel it, maybe it was a force thing, and she was force sensitive. Either way, he had no clue about where it was coming form. On hearing her mention that it was likely from a force sensitive, friendly or hostile, he just sighed. "Hopefully one of ours." What happened next, however, Shuklaar was not prepared for. Not in a shabla million years. Scared wasn't quite the word. Shocked, perhaps. Confused, definitely. Taken by surprise, one hundred percent. He did his best not to look surprised, which his buy'ce on was remarkably easy. Only with his companion being force sensitive, and him not having a Ysalamiri on his person, he was quite sure that she knew how he felt without him saying anything or having to see his face.
"Understood, you need a distraction or something, just uh...say something, I guess," said Shuklaar, casting one last glance at the wolf that had replaced the young woman that was there only moments ago. No amount of effort was ridding his mind of the sea of emotions at seeing what he saw. It wasn't something he expected to ever see. A sharp whack to his buy'ce served to clear his mind, if only momentarily. He tried his best to focus on the task at hand, watching for any sign that a speeder truck was about to come bursting through the exit they were supposed to watch. Without a further thought on the matter, he activated his armor's Akar optical camouflage system. The system blinked and flickered twice as it tried to calibrate to operate in the rain, and then just continued to flicker.
Sighing, he decided that the flickering, distortion and visual artifacting was better than trusting his own natural abilities at this distance, which were certainly not what they once used to be. He was tempted momentarily to drop to a crouch, raise his PPC-01 and rain hell on the few nervous guards at the entrance, but decided against it. That would only distract Saram and the others, not to mention their CIS contact. He began looking around to see if he could find her, when a voice crackled in his comms. The person on the other end did not identify himself, but the transponder code interlaced in his comms signal resolved a moment later as a Gerwald Lechner. Which...meant absolutely nothing to Shuklaar. On the plus side, he was definitely CIS, not a merc working for them either. Honest to Manda, CIS.
Shuklaar took a moment before answering the man, "This is Kyrdol, Strill Securities team lead, if you can push that truck to the second east exit, we've got an ambush waiting." He knew Saram and the others would have heard both Gerwald and him, and decided that he didn't need to redundantly inform them. He wasn't quite sure how to relay this to Astrid, and was hesitant for a moment, but then turned the volume on his helmet's annunciator all the way down and then said in what would be the same volume of a whisper, "We should prep for company soon, and...do you know a Gerwald Lechner?"
The Monster
Asaraa Vaashe
Anakwor Farlorn
Nyx N1X3
Rabbit
Aselia Verd
Allya Vi'Dreya
