Paging Doctor Dasu'r

[Nicair Claden]

[member="Drogh"]

Once upon a time this was a place of rehabilitation, or, it liked to pretend it was. The things that took place in the bowels of Kerebar Station for the Criminally Insane were far from the benefit of the "patients" within. Such atrocities took place the likes of which would make the dark gods of the universe turn their heads in disgust and shame. None deserved to be sequestered here, no sin deserves this hell. But I'm getting ahead of myself aren't I? The two of you haven't even had time to see the sights, all the facades put up could be quite enjoyable, pretty little lies. But soon enough you'll both see that inside everything pretty is a dark, ugly, piss stained core that will leave you running and no amount of your Mandalorian strength nor your blending into the shadows stealth can save you for long. Enter your crucible gentlemen, and be forged into something stronger, darker, and more wicked than before.

The man had never really heard of this Kerebar Station before it became the drop off point for a rather troublesome and disturbed cargo that sat next to him. What bothered him even more was that the transports he had tried to hire had either never heard of the place, or that was the story they told, or blatantly refused to go there even when offered a cut of the bounty. He assumed there would be a bounty, to be completely honest the once-human sitting next to him was so body strickenly terrified of going back to the station it seemed a very spiteful thing to simply take him there. The murdered family would like that, probably.

"We're going to do this nice and fast alright? In and out, I got more runs to do." The voice came from the pilot of the small craft the three were on, he was a young man but yet, aged before his time. Nicair could at least appreciate experience.

He could feel from the movement of the ship that it was turning around in the docking bay of the facility, they had arrived in the approximate location based on what were confirmed to be outdated coordinates in the sector. Something about the whole thing made him uneasy, maybe it was the odd smell that had already seemed to creep its way into the ship. It was a mixture of decay and a strong cleanser that just couldn't get rid of it. Like a morgue.

The ship shook as the landing gear touched the cold metal of the dock. The smell had by now permeated all through the small confines of the ship. The cargo-person became increasingly agitated as the steam hissed and the cargo door began to open.

"Please, if there is any mercy, sympathy, or love in your heart you will leave this place. You know what? Not even love, if you ever want to stick it to whatever it is you please again you will get the kark out of here."

Nicair responded by grabbing the man by the arm, there wasn't much muscle but what mass there was was about as strong as durasteel. Luckily Nicair's grip was about as iron as the beskar that covered his body and he wrenched the man's body up against the thrashing. He led the man to the edge of the now lowered hatch onto the floor of the dock. The smell grew even worse here and by the content of the space the man wasn't surprised. It was a mess. Damaged ships and scraps of loose metal and equipment littered the floor, a blackened substance dripped from the ceiling into a small puddle of sludge a distance to the mandalorian's right. It didn't take him long before warning bells began to sound in his head. But then again, they might not have been warning bells, it could've been the shock of the concussion blast that had just erupted on the back of his helmet. He'd need to wake up before he could tell the difference.

 

[Drogh]

The shadows are our friends, until they turn on us and eat us alive. Drogh was lost in his thoughts, dark twisted thoughts that clouded his mind. They were hazy, blurry, making little sense and yet some how had meaning. Pointless echos pouncing off his brain, Drogh focused on the matter at hand. There was a station, an old station that had a history that many would rather not speak off, a brutal past apparently stepped deep with cruelty, this was nothing special, not in the slightest. The past was mostly legends, rumors and stories passed around vaguely, ghosts talked off and such. Drogh didn't believe in such rubbish, yet it kept away many of the looters. As his ship and him floated around in the empty void of space, Drogh suddenly flashed into action, speeding towards the station. When the flash of light that glanced off his screen stopped, he came towards the station. It was a empty hollow husk, from looking at it, at this distance. A floating ball of metal in the emptiness of space, to be forgotten and discarded, by the stupid of course.

Drogh was not stupid, although perhaps foolish to believe that none had been here, before it shut down. Fear only goes so far, and profit is a powerful thing, often able to overcome all. Drogh wanted scrap, loot or what ever he could get his bony hands on, nothing mattered just the loot. Drogh was running desperately low on credits, drying up like the seas of Tatooine, if they even had those. As his ship drifted towards the empty husk ever closer, Drogh looked for a place to enter, a docking bay, anything. Drogh had poor space equipment, yet to his shock there was another ship already docked. This did not sway Drogh in the slightest, he would loot regardless, dawning him self in a second-hand space gear, encasing him entirely of the savage vacuum of space. It had thick -leather like clothing around him, with a crude yet effective mask covering his face, and a fairly small oxygen tank strapped to his back. Driving his ship as close as he could to the station without pumping into anything, he jumped out of the hatch and into space. Where he pounced on the metal ground.

[member="Nicair Claden"]

 

[Nicair Claden]

His consciousness returned in brief sensations and feelings. His hearing could tell him very little, only that the engines of a ship had started and drifted away somewhere nearby though it was hard to tell with the very distinct ringing in his ears. His helmet was equipped with sound dampeners but concussion based weaponry worked much differently than simply sound, it was much like a seismic activity condensed into a small bolt. Metal helmets, beskar included, were good at doing two things, keeping things out and keeping things in. What was designed to keep pressure stabilized worked very effectively to bounce the shockwaves of the concussion blast around in his helmet, much like a skull would do with the ancient ballistic weaponry that some primitive species still used. In short, he was incredibly disoriented.

Smell is one of the things that doesn't usually fail humans, at least at first. Sensory adaptation begins to take hold after awhile and as a result the acrid and quite unpleasant smell of decay and degradation didn't bother him as much. A new smell had arisen in its absence, however. The smell of body odor from multiple different creatures packed much too tightly together that it permeated the area. Sweat, fecal matter and basic living musk all have a distinct smell apart but when combined together have a very particular odor, simply walking the slums of Coruscant can show this to even the most nose blind individual. This displeased him as sweat meant living creatures, different kinds of metals usually meant blood, which entailed dead ones.

As his hearing began to return into a dull ringing that gave everything he heard a small echo he could only pick out one voice. It was mutter and more to itself than to him, but overall, it belonged to an individual that probably wouldn't be happy when Nicair regained control of himself. Such a thing would have to be dealt with in due time. His body orientation told him he was being dragged, quite haphazardly to boot as he was being tugged and pulled from his arm, to his leg, to even his magnetically sealed helmet.

Vision is sometimes something that is better left blurred. This wasn't the case. His eyes showed him much that displeased him as his driver pulled him through a corridor. Scrawled along the walls were languages that he had both encountered and some he had not, some he really didn't think were even a language to begin with. Gazing at the scribbles he could at least hope they were in blood and not something more vile. Broken bodies littered the area around him as his limp form was being pulled through. At one point he was dropped and came face to face with a human that appeared to have undergone a very experimental cosmetic surgery, one that would appeal to a more Rodian-like partner. The stitch work that criss crossed the face could have been done by a child, at least a child would have known to disinfect the area. He was grateful for his vision's momentary failure. Broken individuals sat hunched and cowering from nothing evident whispering to themselves. Whether they were assurances or damnations Nicair couldn't tell.

He wondered which one would be a better sign.

[member="Drogh"]

 

[Drogh]

In the emptiness and bleak place of space, one can feel quite meaningless, like nothing more but cosmic dust, blowing in the dead wind of space. Drifting with no value nor meaning or goals, just drifting. Many do not think about it. Few care and even fewer let it effect them, for even if there was meaning in life would we all just drop dead? Silly thoughts. Thought by billions of different spices every day. Drogh quickly put aside these thoughts for more pragmatic things, such as hoping the ship did not float off, which it didn't. Staying firm in the dead current of space, not swaying in the slightest. So as Drogh dragged him self across the grey metal ground of the station, encased in his dark leather-like suit, and masked by simple yet effective mask. It had no HUD, it was simply there to keep space from sucking his face off, and tearing his flesh into shreds, it could break easily, hopefully it wouldn't. Drogh noticed some thing in the corner of his eye, a small hatch. Not big enough for a ship, hardly big enough for a human, yet hardly doesn't mean "isn't". Drogh crept forward, on all fours more or less, dragging him self like a dead dog against the endless waves of space. As he got closer it became more clear that it had a small gap in between it.


Drogh got out his bony hands, yet the padding of the suit gave them quite a bloated look. Fitting his now fat hands, Drogh dug his fingers into the small gap, driving themtwo ends of the hatch apart , it was not easy. Drogh had to call on the small fragments of force he could control to aid him in this, yet with effort it was opened. And as he did so, bloody corpses flung out of the hatch, blasting into the space where their mangled corpses floated elegantly. This happened all to quickly for Drogh to think, yet a few seconds later Drogh knew this place did indeed have a real and true dark history, a one shed in blood for sure. As the corpses stopped their advancement into the void of space. Drogh now a strong fear gripping him, yet not choking him, dived down into the station it's self. Turning on a small light, poorly lit but clear enough to vaguely make out one's surroundings, Drogh was shocked. Death, ruin and decay splattered this long hall, darkness littered the grounds as all he could see was a dark abyss either end of this corridor. Vague sounds began to fill this place, dark and twisted words crept from the walls, Drogh readied his blaster. Then all fell silent, Drogh fell silent, the corridor fell silent, the world became a true black hole for Drogh, in this moment at least.

[member="Nicair Claden"]

 

[Nicair Claden]

Words floated towards him from what seemed a great expanse but in reality it was nothing more than a few inches. He awoke to the startling sight of his bounty staring at him, their faces close enough that their noses almost touched. Boundaries were something they'd have to work on.

"Wake up you stupid inbred kark filled suit of armor wake up!" The volume was about the shouting equivalent of a whisper filled with all the spite that that entails. Nicair shot a hand up to close the man's mouth as his eyes themselves shot to the nearby area for his helmet. His eyes hadn't quite adjusted to the darkness yet, the dull glow of a lone emergency fixture gave the only light that he could see. He stifled the man's words for a couple reasons, the primary being that his head ached and the sound drove nails into it. The secondary reason being everything he had seen as his body was being dragged came back to him in a flash, silence was safety.

"Helmet." His owns word shook his very brain to get out. As his eyes began to orient themselves he stared daggers at the man in front of him, using his hand to push their faces further apart. Once they were a suitable distance he lowered his hand from the cracked lips that it was resting on.

"Helmet? Oh yes, right here." He grabbed what had once been a round piece of darkness and handed it to the mandalorian. His helmet provided a reassuring feeling, even moreso when he put it back on. He allowed the HUD a moment to synchronize and the helmet to get a better reading on his internal systems. His heartbeat was slightly elevated, to be expected. On the plus side his headache was already beginning to dissipate.

"Where are we?"

"A vent shaft in the floor, I found it when you fell into it. You're very heavy you know that? I may have dropped you but luckily we found this place."

Nicair took a moment to truly let his eyes scan his environment. As the man said they were in a small enclosed area, a man Nicair's size could traverse it in a crouch or more comfortably crawl. Thankfully it was fairly clean, though something was dripping from the broken grate above them onto his boot. From his position he could figure that his prisoner had just left him where he landed. At least they were safe for the moment, though he felt like safe was a more relative term for "not in as much danger".

"I told you not to bring me here and what do you do? You get us marooned here by hiring that scum. You didn't pay him upfront did you? A nerf has more sense than you, you know that?" Once more Nicair's hand shot up to the man's mouth, though this time for a different reason. He could hear footsteps, and they were getting closer. He used his sitting position to push himself out of the immediate area of the grate so that anything looking down wouldn't be able to spot him, his prisoner followed. Words echoed down the corridor, bouncing off the once silent metal.

"Want to kill them."

"Soon brother, soon." The footsteps steadily approached the broken grate, Nicair's pulse began to increase, he didn't like his position.

"Down."

"Not just yet, let's give them a sporting chance." The footsteps began to walk away. He was too disoriented to tell if there were one set or two, the voices indicate two yet they were oddly similar in their sounding.

"What's that mean? What's going on?" His prisoner grabbed the front of his armor and pulled him close, his voice rising in pitch and hysteria.

"We're being hunted. We're going away from them." He pushed the man off and began a slow crawl in the opposite direction of the voices.

[member="Drogh"]

 

[Drogh]

The shadows are our friends, till they eat us whole. The darkness was rarely anything Drogh feared, there was a long list of fears, but the darkness was not one of them. Drogh embraced the darkness as a child, only true friend, yet a inconsistent one. Silence and darkness had swallowed the entire place, the small gleam of empty space glaring down from the hatch wasn't enough, it was pure queen black. The weak light did very little to relieve this darkness and his suit had no night vision to speak off. Drogh felt vulnerable and weak without his dark cloak, instead he was shroud in a dark brown cheap second-hand space suit, just able to withstand the vacuum. His face was clear as day, a pale one, bald to the bone and his eyes were dull, grey as stone. It was so dark, so empty, Drogh despite his thoughts telling him otherwise walked down the deep and dark path, his light barely showing a path for him. The ground was thick in dry blood, the walls were wiped with diseased substances, a long and wide trail with hand prints that scattered across the walls.

The smell was blocked, yet some of it sought it's way in, creeping though the glass. Yet, a small flicking light shined in the dark depths of the corridor, was there hope to be seen here? As the light flickered as Drogh got closer, it died. And as it died, as Drogh crept forward, a "smack" hit him against the head, crumbling down he fell towards the blood stained metal floor. Drogh would not go gentle into any night, Drogh returned with a scream of rage and pain, some thing unexpected even from him, stirring a rumbling crowd that resided in the dark corners of the station, as thunderous steps could be heard, clanking against the metal. Turning around and getting up, only to be greeted with a savage swipe to the face, breaking the glass. He soon realized the doors were shut and he was trapped. The fighting carried on, the screams when quiet for a moment.

[member="Nicair Claden"]

 

[Nicair Claden]

"Do you hear that? Something's happening." Nicair heard it, it was faint but the sounds of yelling echoed off the walls, reverberated in the silence.

"That something's going to be dead soon." He couldn't afford to care much about anything else but himself at the moment. Trapped, stranded, still a little disoriented, all of these culminated in a survival of the fittest situation. Then again, an idea struck him. In what time he's spent here there was always a dull quiet. Everything that could be considered living knew to be silent or death would come for it. Screams meant something foreign, alien to this place. A spacer? Smuggler? It didn't really matter, something new could mean a ship. A way out. Nicair may not value his life very much but to die here? Amidst excrement and insanity? That was no way a mandalorian should go. No way a living creature should.

"You know this place better than I do, find me a room where I can download the schematics." Though his companion was thin, the two of them wouldn't be able to easily switch positions and eventually vents stop. They'd have to find a way back into the main corridors if they really wanted to get out.

"Probably the guard station. Go up through the floor up there and I'll see if I can find it." He had to contort himself in order to get into the proper angle to actually get up through the grate, his strain was compounded by his armor. He had tried to make it more wieldy but one can only go so far. In truth his "proper angle" was on his back so that he could leg press the grate open from underneath. The metal had been reinforced, apparently someone else had figured that the inmates- pardon, "patients"- could fit underneath the floor and didn't want them getting down or up that easily. Though with enough force, and a few popped vertebrae from being crouched down for so long, the grate gave in a sharp aching snap. The mandalorian twisted himself around so that he could gently lift the grate and move it aside with his hands.

He took a quick peek at the corridor he was entering before doing so. It was fairly bland in terms of what he had witnessed so far. Upon deciding that there was no immediate danger he pulled himself up and out of the vent, taking a few seconds to sit and listen before hoisting his forced compatriot up and out.

"There's the med bay. I know where we are. The station is a few bends past it." With that he began to swiftly walk down the hallway, to be stopped by an armored hand clamped around his neck.

"Never leave an uncleared room at your back." Nicair had wrenched the man's head so that his helmet was almost pressed against his ear. He didn't know the terrain, had no idea what was around the corner, and firmly decided he didn't trust the man he was with. In spite of this he let him go from his iron grip and nodded towards the med bay. Their steps were low and as quiet as they could be when pins could drop and make waves. They arrived on either side of the door before long. A nod and it was opened.

Now, Nicair was a practical person, very secular. Whenever he referenced gods it was in a sarcastic or jovial manner. What he saw inside the med bay almost had him pray to whatever god that would listen.

[member="Drogh"]

 

[Drogh]

Drogh carried the dead corpse of the man that attacked him by the hair, his pleas for mercy were replaced with screams of anger, Drogh smiled for a bit, relieving in the moment. Drogh was not unhindered in the slightest, bleeding, head trauma , dizziness and sickness began to swarm over Drogh like a plague. His suit was all but useless, heavy weight on a dead man. Dark whispers filled the halls, or yet the hall. The exit behind him was cut off by a door, that apparently was still functioning The halls did not grow quiet, they grew louder, the darkness spawned around him, yet he was greeted by nothing. Drogh knew the shadows enough to know he was being watched, not sure from where but certainly some where, it didn't much matter. Drogh confessed to him self, that he would die soon unless he found a way out very quickly, which was unlikely. Fear and dread covered him like the cloak he so desperately missed, empty. Drogh would not ponder on the possibilities of his own execution and believed that it was at least worth trying to get out alive. Dropping the dead body down from his bony knuckles, letting the corpse flop down, a subtle bang echoing down the hall. Drogh crept forward, ever marching on, in spite of all the madness.

[member="Nicair Claden"]

 

[Nicair Claden]

Nicair had assumed that much like other facilities of this sort, that the male and female wards would be separate. Based on his surroundings he guessed he was in a male section. To a certain degree he was correct, only, someone or something had tried to change that, through brutal surgical means and what he could only describe as implantation of birthing organs. Not much bothered Nicair, certainly not enough to elicit an uncontrollable change of his facial expression. He couldn't hold back a slight cringe at the sight before him. It put him in a state of complete unease. What could have done something like this? The technique was barbaric and there was immeasurable knowledge on the subject as well as equipment that would have made such archaic methods practically illegal. Not that legality really mattered anymore. From what he could gather any matter of right and wrong, legal or illegal went out the airlock to be replaced with sheer survival as well as... this. Whatever this was. Whatever damaged mind thought of this was almost fascinating to Nicair, how far gone were these creatures locked away in here that they would even attempt such a thing. Putting his thoughts aside he backed away, grabbing his companion on the shoulder as he did so. For some reason every instinct he had was telling him not to turn his back on the scene before the door was closed, fused closed and he might be able to lessen his discomfort enough to leave without blowing the station.

"Kill them now?"

He barely registered the words, in fact he only figured out what was said after he had rolled forward and spun to face the voice. In his sight was his charge being stabbed through the abdomen by what appeared to be a torn piece of metal. The makeshift weapon brought most of what was inside out as it sheared through soft tissue and muscle. The body was held aloft as the man looked down in confusion and shock at the protruding piece of durasteel, dripping blood. With a vicious swing the man was thrown from the blade the Nicair's left and smacked into the wall with sickening cracks, landing on the ground in a broken heap. What strength gave a creature the power to do such a thing? He knew not what lay inside the man wielding the weapon, but he felt that the sheer size of him may be able to accomplish the task. The throw had revealed a monster of what had once been a human man at some point in time, what it was now was something very different yet strikingly similar. It had the general shape of a human, only more general mass. Arms like thighs, thighs like small tree trunks, veins twisting and snaking through the figure, wrapping in unnatural patterns, pumping and pulsing with each heartbeat. The primary head was completely hairless, as was the rest of the body. The proportions of upper head to lower head were distorted, as if the ratio was weighted towards the jaw leaving the top of the head in a cone-like shape, he felt confident enough to assume that the primary head had the more primitive brain. The word primary was used because there was more than one, branching off of the left shoulder was in fact another right shoulder on top of the left and a head on top of that. The closest thing Nicair could think of to create such a thing is a disastrous cloning attempt using, what he assumed, just as archaic a method as what lay behind him.

"Yes brother. Kill them now."

[member="Drogh"]

 

[Drogh]

Drogh was hurt. his mind clouding with a blur of blood. Reality was a struggle, this place was for the insane, till the insane brought their insanity down on this place. Empty dead corridors, the smell got only worse as a foul odor of rot and decay swept pass Drogh like a wind. No, it did not go it stayed and in fact the smell go only stronger with each step. Drogh for a moment laughed to him self in such odd way, he thought of how adverts on Coruscant would have smell as a psychical thing, luring the consumer to the prize, a pie for example. Oddly this felt the same way, the smell luring him to what ever lay beyond the dark damp corridors of this place. The blood got more intense, thicker and more red. Sure there were light glances of other colours, but the majority of it was red. Being a human, Drogh hated red blood, the blood of aliens was easy to deal with, it wasn't 'your blood'. But the blood of another human, felt oddly personal like his own was being split. Rarely did Drogh ever have these collectivist thoughts, but it was unpleasing , although it rarely fazed Drogh much. Drogh wasn't so sure why he was following this path, he knew he would find some thing he didn't want to see, yet did that matter? No, the human curiosity is far to strong to be overpowered with thoughts like fear or regret, we desire to know all even if it will make us scream. We wish to know how we will die, even if it brings us depression. We wish to know when and how our world will end, even if it will bring despair. Our crusade for knowledge makes us terrified, and yet powerful. We do not cling to foolish tradition, nor the comfort of one planet. We welcome the darkness, the horror of the galaxy, we hug it firmly even if it stabs us. Yet Drogh found it. It was disgusting, some kind of totem to a god, or some thing. Bodies pilled on each other, in a gruesome and clumsy fashion, pillars erected of broken metal and stone, as bodies impaled on them lay lifeless.

The bodies were not fresh, tissue rotting and flesh decaying. The skeleton was not naked, still covered by a thin layer of rot. Decay overwhelmed Drogh, as he vomited down on the metal wall. This rarely happened, usually death was casual and normal, but this was different. Drogh didn't why or how but this felt different, murder usually had meaning, and this certainly did, but the meaning was so bizarre or vague that it confused Drogh, and disgusted him. Then a scream echoed out, bouncing off the walls, like a banshee hordes swept out from the shadows, their claws and bony hands reaching out for Drogh. Drogh ran, as the horde of darkness followed by.

[member="Nicair Claden"]

 

[Nicair Claden]

Nicair didn't know why he did it, why he thought for a moment that his fighting skill would be enough to stop or kill such a thing as was before him. He just knew how much he would have relished the feeling of killing it with his bare hands. No blades, no blasters, nothing improvised. Just his fists, knees, elbows, feet, shoulders, head, joints, and anything else on his own body that he could use as a weapon. The rush of feeling the life leave something between your hands was something far beyond compare and the pride of knowing that one's own body is a weapon is beyond measure. Would that his pride hadn't gotten in the way, because the creature surely did.

His walk towards the monstrosity was slow and measured, his hands were up by his chest, he wasn't going to overestimate the strength of the beast, but surely a well placed blow from an armored fist would have the same effect against flesh and bone. After the first strike, Nicair doubted that was truly what the thing was made out of. He had spent long hours hardening the bones of his extremities, it had been years since he had sprained or even jammed one of his fists. He didn't give his body enough time to feel the pain from his right hand before he followed it up with a left knee. If he hadn't rolled through he would have ended up landing on his rear end. Also something that hadn't happened in a long while. The pair laughed at him.

"More! More!"

The Mandalorian had fought larger and stronger enemies before. Target the joints, the knees, pressure points. No amount of muscle spared the pressure points. With a determined grunt he shot forward on his right knee as a wrestler would, only he spun counterclockwise, his left leg shooting out in an arc around his body towards a straight blow at the Twin's knee. As he expected the knee caved backwards only there was no cry of pain. Such a blow could tear ligaments and tendons, only, it hadn't. As swiftly as the knee had bent it had set itself right again. The Twin's foot shot up into the Mandalorian's armored stomach, it struck with enough force to knock him a few inches off the ground and off his feet. His grunt didn't even seem real coming through his helmet as he landed on his side. To be fair it was less of a grunt and more of a wheeze but that was neither here nor there.

The hand that clamped around his shoulder had a grip of beskar as it hoisted him into the air so that he was face to face with the creature.

"Don't take him just yet, brother. This one has fight. To the hallway with him, so that he may take flight."

Whether it was the sickness of the rhyme that caused him to black out once more or the collision with the outside wall he'd have to decide when he regained his senses.

[member="Drogh"]

 

[Drogh]

The flashlight flicked as Drogh ran, the dark swarm of madness and blood chased him. Their dark hands reaching out, shredded skin and extended nails. To carve into the flesh and tear it whole. Drogh was terrified, use the force perhaps? No, the force was untamed to Drogh, it was wild, ungoverned and uncontrollable, it just taunted Drogh in these desperate moments, teasing him with power only to be denied. It was pointless to reach into there, yet the weight of the darkside was still felt, the darkness shrouding over him, consuming him, making this experience all the more worse. Drogh rushed past the everything, their screams behind made it all the more clear he was not safe. They wanted blood if nothing else, to drag him down into that pit of disease and death. Drogh came to a stop, a sudden stop as he quite comically smashed his face against a metal door, he was dazed if for but a second, as the large mob behind him grew in number and speed. Drogh had managed to keep a surprising amount of distance between him and then crowd, yet it wasn't enough, they would tear him apart before Drogh had a moment to scream. Drogh had nothing, not a single thing, no escape he just let him self slide down on the door, letting his fate come.

[member="Nicair Claden"]

 

[Nicair Claden]

By the taste and dryness of his mouth Nicair could guess he hadn't been out for very long, though his back would ache for more than a few minutes. That's when he noticed it, the sound of onrushing feet. This dead station come back to life? Some new challenge rearing its head? Something else here to use him like a ragdoll? Things only moved in groups when they were after something, the only thing that would raise even a little interest was something new. The scream he had heard before? His rising to his feet was paired with a forced grimace and a stiff body. All he really had to go on was a blatant guess to start. At least the sounds of running were a constant.

"Something new means ship. Something new means ship." He wondered where those words were coming from before he realized he was actually muttering them to himself. He stopped when he turned a corner and before him was a thick metal door that was ringing like a bell from the vibrations of running feet. He readied the hunting blaster attachment on his shoulder, the Y reticle beaming out from his helmet, it moved with his head. Reaching out with his right hand he pushed the button that would open the door.

He saw a wave of bodies, some naked, some more clothed if but slightly. There weren't that many, but there were enough to raise enough concern that his reflex was to immediately back up. That was when he noticed the figure sitting down facing towards the onrush. Something new accepted his fate. Nicair didn't like that. With hands and a body trained to near peak human speed, granted slowed down by his armor, he reached out and grabbed the figure by the shoulder and pulled him back. In a rush that made his sore neck throb he turned his head and fired the shoulder blaster into the control panel next to the door forcing it to close and quite effectively lock itself. Oh how the bodies thumped against it as they found the threshold suddenly closed. Like a sickening drum.

"Stay awake, I need you alive."

[member="Drogh"]

 

[Drogh]

Drogh let the light peer in in those few seconds, letting out his anger, fear, dread and doubts, yet this was stolen from him. In a moment of peace, in a moment of death Drogh was yanked away from it with a violent force. Drogh had barely a moment to panic or yell out in a defiant rage. For a brief moment Drogh was totally confused and dazed, yet it took only a second or two for Drogh to understand what had happened. He had been saved, by the other people that came here. What Drogh originally thought would be a problem became, a different problem. A blaster bolt shooting the control panel happened, taking him off guard as sparkles flung though the air making Drogh spasm violently, his muscles twitching with shock, only to twist his stern face towards the man. Usually Drogh would of had a ghost like appearance, a wraith in a dark shadow, yet this was lost, he looked like a unlucky spacer, granted with no hair and an extremely pale pigment. Yet as he got a good sight of this man, Drogh began to think he him self was mad. This man was clad in beskar, yet it had oddities, large overbearing horns, pelts scattered across the armour. Drogh felt uncomfortable to say the least.


Drogh was then bombarded with demands "stay awake". Drogh responded with his thick underworld Coruscant accent "Kark off." Perhaps more of a Nar Shadda term, but you know every insult in the galaxy living down there. As Drogh got his footing, standing up clad in his thick leathery suit, bleeding from the head, giving a nice red stain to his otherwise pale bald head. Drogh looked the man dead in the eye, saying bluntly "What do you want?"

[member="Nicair Claden"]

 

[Nicair Claden]

"To not die here. That work for you?"

(OOC: I'm keeping things short so it feels more real and like an actual conversation and not to be terse. Hope that's alright.)

 

[Drogh]

(I can't tell you how to write, do what you like.) Drogh's attention drew to the banging on the doors, the mindless banging and bashing, muffled screams and shrilling cries of anger drowned out against the door. Drogh then faced his mask "friend". Drogh took hint of the sarcastic comment, humor still not gone. Drogh got up, moving with no grace in his heavy and cumbersome suit. Drogh once again looked him straight in the visor saying. "We find a way out, we live." Drogh peered over the shoulder of this brute, seeing another bleak and black pathway before them, a corridor, the reak of rotten flesh and defiled corpses still ringed, but it was a way forward, and no one was screaming. Drogh pushed him self away from the man, straining his eyes to see if anything was beyond the blinding darkness, just emptiness. Drogh knew some thing was out there, lurking in those shadows, and they almost certainly had seen the two, or were at least lurking towards the sudden sound of noise.

Drogh pointed his frail finger, bloated in glove saying, "We go there, call me Drogh, your name stranger?"

[member="Nicair Claden"]

 

[Nicair Claden]

"Nicair. We go that way we take a left. There's nothing good to the right." Sudden images of what he had seen in the medbay flashed in his mind's eye. He'd do anything not to have to see that again, not the mention the Twin that was probably stalking the two of them as they spoke. It wanted a game, it was going to get one before this station completed a rotation, and the Mandalorian wasn't sure he could even be on the winning side as the banging echoed down the empty hallways.

[member="Drogh"]

 

[Drogh]

Drogh glared down the hallway, twisted footsteps echoed down, a sound of bumping blood or bleeding drums. Drogh could sense the fear coming off from the Mandalorian. What ever it was, it is unwanted and unloved. Drogh didn't much trouble him self with the fears of others, yet it did trickle down to Drogh, a coldness came to him like a ghost whisper. Some 'thing' was here, Drogh wasn't sure what it was, or what it looked like, but he could feel burning eyes on him, like blasts of fire. Drogh walked slowly, expecting the Mandalorian to follow suit.

[member="Nicair Claden"]

 

[Nicair Claden]

"There's supposed to be a guard station down the left corridor where I can download the schematics to this place." Nicair took a strategic position on point, a couple steps ahead of his companion. He was the one with the beskar'gam, if something happened, when something happened it probably had less of a chance of killing Nicair. It was one of the selfless things he did from time to time, but in a survival situation two is better than one loner. After seeing what the Twin creature could do to him alone... Nicair was what some considered a "sociopath" or "psychopath", in truth he had never been to a psychiatrist to have his mental quirks analyzed, at least not those particular ones, but what he knew was that his sense of what others called fear was more replaced by a heightened sense of self preservation. He hadn't always been that way, there was once a time when he would fight and die for the vod standing next to him. Those days have passed. The man saw any other living thing like a tool, this stranger could prove useful and if Nicair had to put himself on point to find out just how useful then so be it.

The turn in the corridor seemed to take ages to reach as the both of them were walking at a slow pace, their minds doing everything possible to make their footfalls as quiet as possible. Nicair held a hand out behind him to indicate a stop. Corners. Corners are dangerous. He took a moment to listen for the most immediate sound of life, breathing. He held his own. There was nothing save a distant echo of something dripping and muffled murmuring. He gave a peek around the corner, nothing showed up in his HUD's viewfinder. Nothing moved, no signs of life. He turned his head back to his companion and nodded then crouched down and snaked his way around the corner, returning to a standing position once he had cleared it.

"Up there, right side." He kept his voice quiet and said as little as needed. Someone like him almost always had an air of hypervigilance. When that hypervigilance was proven correct and there were in fact literal monsters in a 360 degree area around the person, one practices adequate caution. Not that there really is an adequate.

[member="Drogh"]

 

[Drogh]

This man, despite his appearance was no fool, in fact Drogh recognized his skill with the shadows, although he was no master. Drogh had heard a odd mumbled sound in the distance, as he crept forward, it got only louder. But it was faint, what ever was making that subtle sound 'might' not be in same room. Was it worth taking the chance? Was it worth being torn to shreds by what ever laid before them? The answer was simple, yes of course it was. There was no progression with out risk. Drogh began to follow the Mandalorian, he did so we a grace and speed that the Mandalorian lacked, clouded with his thick and heavy armour. Strong yes, but slow. It would mean only a slightly slower death if one of those swarms were to catch up to them. The Mandalorian should not put faith in armour, for it is fickle and can breed weakness if you rely on such things for to long. But despite this, Drogh knew this man wasn't weak, in fact a constant sense of uneasiness drew off him into Drogh. Drogh did not trust this man, and Drogh would believe he was smart enough to do the same. Why the man saved him was beyond Drogh, what could Drogh offer that the Mandalorian was lacking? Drogh missed his dark cloak, missing it with every inch of his soul, he felt fat, sluggish and slow. He was still quick on his feat, that is true, but he lacked that wraith like element that he enjoyed so very much.

Unlike his Mandalorian counter part, fear was all that Drogh had. The Mandalorian was a brute, no doubt. Fear was considered a weakness, fear is pathetic. Drogh would disagree, fear was a strength, let it control my mind, behavior, and watch as those too stupid to recongise fear die before you. Those who are reckless, those who are arrogant and those who just stupid to the point of insanity. Drogh wasn't sane, and perhaps could have ended up here or a place like this, if it wasn't for Drogh's ability to not be seen. Drogh had problems, no doubt. Not the usual kind of mental illness, oh no. The Dark-side was his venom, his one gift, his one curse. The amount of pain it had caused him, the voices ringing in his ears like bells and drums. He could hear them right now, one telling him to kill, the other to hide.

[member="Nicair Claden"]