Philosopher's Stone
What had been a regular old mission to bring relief to the recently liberated people of Tython had taken a turn for the worse. Of course it had to. There was no rest for the wicked, and imperial remnants from the Dark Empire seemed to crop up frequently to make their presence known. Phy had come with a diplomat of sorts, a cyborg man who seemed to have purposefully discarded his physical form. A strange notion given her situation. Now they were situated behind a barricade, alongside Galactic Alliance Defense Force personnel as a small band of imperials moved on one of many refugee camps. They had yet to breach the camp, fortunately.
That left plenty of time to formulate a plan on how to repel them. Phyla poked her head up above the barricade, only to be hit square in the forehead with incoming blaster fire. She crouched back down with a burn mark on her head, the plasma having singed her synth-skin but been ultimately deflected by the songsteel.
"Right. They seem particularly brutish," she noted in a frustrated tone, now upset that she had cosmetics to repair. "You haven't taken any noteworthy damage, have you, Mr. Threx?"
There had to be some option here...