Private You Can Run, But You Can't Hide

[Trace Xyston]

Trace guided his inconspicuous shuttle through the winding tunnels to Pad Twelve. This was...impressive, he had to admit. These domed cities were a great feat accomplished by the "Covies" (as New Cov's residents were frequently called). But Trace and the seven other Elghaseki in the vessel weren't here to admire the architecture. They were here to pull off an assassination.

Weeks ago, the Lilaste Order had launched a major offensive against their longtime enemy. Pirates. Over Ropagi II, and on the ground, hundreds, maybe even thousands of Lilaste soldiers lost their lives to the greedy, yet powerful band of marauders: the Dusate Pirates. However, amidst the chaos, one of the group's leaders escaped. And the Lilaste Order's founder, Laphisto , wouldn't let the criminal leave without facing vengeance.

So here Trace was, with Elghaseki Team Six, delivering long-overdue justice. But it wasn't just Trace's team. As much as he hated it, they couldn't track down the official all by themselves. So they'd hired another, who called himself Fulcrum . He claimed to be a detective. Well...they'd find out very soon.

Trace strapped his rifle to his back and lowered his visor, switching on night vision. He turned around in his seat as he landed the shuttle. Seven men, dressed in stealth armor (like Trace) prepared themselves. Green dots pulsed on their chests, placed there by the team's advanced HUD, so it was only seen by Elghaseki teams.

And of course, there was the armored detective in the back. For some reason, some higher-up had decided to pay the man not just for his detective services, but for fire support too. Blasted fool. The Lilaste Order needed all the funds it could get, and that fool had decided to waste some of it on an unnecessary resource? Whatever. The Elghaseki team could handle whatever threats were thrown their way, without the help of some average joe.

"Alright, is everyone ready?" Trace asked. It was more of a targeted question towards Fulcrum, as everyone in Team Six had better be ready without their leader having to ask.

 

[Fulcrum]

Tagging: Trace Xyston

The tension in the air was thick enough to cut with a vibroblade. Part of that, Fulcrum knew, was just jitters; he got them before every mission, and he suspected that the special operations soldiers that surrounded him were no different. But it was more than just anxiety. He was an outsider here. It had been evident from the moment that Fulcrum had stepped onto the shuttle. The quiet stillness in the air, the lack of any acknowledgement, professional or otherwise... and the fact that every seat had been taken. He had resigned himself to standing at the back of the shuttle, steadying himself for the landing by reaching up to wrap a four-fingered hand around a stabilizing strut.

It didn't bother him. Frankly, he understood it. Team Six was just that-- a team, bound together through blood, sweat and tears. To them, he was just another merc, a temporary intrusion in their lives that would be gone in a day or two. That was fine by Fulcrum. It would be easier that way.

When the man in charge-- Xyston, the twi'lek-- spoke up, Fulcrum knew he was being spoken to. The team around him had gotten ready without being asked to. The Sergeant's question had been aimed at him, and him alone. Thankfully, it was one he was prepared to answer.

"Affirmative," he replied with a simple nod. He had been ready since the moment he had stepped aboard. Blaster pistol loaded and holstered, suit sealed and vibroblade sharpened. The Kaleesh pushed himself away from the wall at his back, loping through the shuttle cabin on digitigrade legs so he could stand by the door-- but just out of the way. Whether the team would immediately exit the craft, or wait for their leader to deploy them, he couldn't say, but he would be ready to accompany them regardless.

 

[Trace Xyston]

Trace slapped the hatch's release, and it opened, revealing a dimly lit landing pad. Through the viewport, he could see a single office, maybe a dozen meters away. The lights were on, and a single woman sat there, looking at her datapad, seemingly oblivious to the ship that had landed outside. The Twi'lek glanced to the side. Fulcrum stood there, just out of the way of anyone that would be exiting.

The sergeant held up a hand, then pointed out of the ship. Rhomma, a fellow Twi, went out first. His job was to take out the woman inside. While it would seem unnecessary to some more...normal folk, Trace knew it was vital to the mission. Who knew? Maybe this woman was associated with the Dusate Pirates in some way, relaying every arrival to to her boss, and the official (Dlinka Greevurst). The team couldn't take any risks. They had to end this man while they had the oppurtunity.

Trace watched Rhomma casually knock on the door of the office, his pistol in the other hand. It was set to stun, as they didn't want to kill any bystanders. Meanwhile, the rest of the team was filing out of the shuttle, Trace at the head. He assumed Fulcrum would follow behind them, though that remained to be seen. When the door finally opened, Rhomma had his blaster jammed into the citizen's abdomen to muffle the sound. He fired and the woman collapsed. Rhomma caught her and placed her down on the floor. Passerby would think she had gone to the bathroom or something.

Rhomma came back to the main group of Elghaseki, holstering his pistol. Trace turned back to the shuttle's open hatch and waved towards Fulcrum, a gesture that would've said, "Come on!"

Fulcrum

 

[Fulcrum]

Tagging: Trace Xyston

The assault on the unsuspecting spaceport attendant was unfortunate, but necessary, Fulcrum knew. In a place like this, there was no knowing who was in the employ of their target. Anyone could be an informant, and even a single pair of loose lips could sink their ship with ease. At least the operator was considerate enough to stun and set her aside.

Reassured that he was dealing with experienced professionals, Fulcrum followed the last soldier in line. With his shoulders hunched and head down, an instinctual hunting posture for a Kaleesh, the detective crossed the landing pad in several long, loping strides. He didn't need to be told twice as he caught up with the rest of the group, kneeling between two of the operators to keep his silhouette as low as possible.

The Mandalorian lifted an arm, forearm bracer held level, as a miniature hologram sprang into life from a small emitter. A three dimensional wireframe of the city's structure came into view, blue lines of light flickering as Fulcrum once again investigated the map. It wasn't the first time he'd looked at it, and no doubt, the soldiers had studied it extensively. Still, a last-minute refresher never hurt.

Silently, he gestured to the left supporting pylon of the landing pad. It was the thicker of the two, and contained the cargo elevator; while it would be louder and slower, it also had the benefit of no windows, as well as being off-hours. They'd be less likely to run into any pedestrians this way. Moreover, the field of cargo crates at the base of the pylon would provide ample cover for their dispersion.

He tilted his helmet to look at the leader, Xyston, to get his input. This was his rodeo, of course, and it was entirely impossible that they had an infiltration strategy to which he hadn't been privy. A lot of the exact details of this operation had been in flux, kept flexible in order to account for unforeseen circumstances.

 

[Trace Xyston]

Trace stood by Fulcrum's side, staring at the shimmering blue image. He'd seen it dozens, if not hundreds of times. And yet it was absolutely vital that he had every detail memorized, every alley, every building, every street. If he didn't, he'd pay for it with the lives of one of his teammates. When Fulcrum gestured to the cargo elevator, Trace closed his eyes in thought.

The elevator would be groaning and creaking loudly...but there was no one to hear it. He glanced at his chrono. It was in the very wee hours of the morning. Nobody would up this late. Trace nodded and walked over to the elevator. With a press of a glowing button, the door slid open, revealing a large room inside. The Elghaseki entered, and barely waited for Fulcrum before pressing another button to descend to ground level.

When the doors slid open again, Trace rushed over to the nearest cargo crate and crouched down behind it. The rest of his squad had also found a hiding place. The Twi'lek peeked around the corner of his box, into the street beyond. There was a single "Rent-a-speeder" shop standing to the side of the road, and its lights were off. Other than that, there were no structures for another hundred or so meters.

He looked back at Fulcrum and shrugged. It was up to the Mando, the outsider, to lead the team to their target. And Trace didn't like it one bit.

Fulcrum

 

[Fulcrum]

Tagging: Trace Xyston

The Mandalorian stayed close behind the squad as they filed into the elevator. Just as he had expected, the ancient machinery groaned and creaked, shuddering as it traveled down the length of the pylon. Fulcrum wrapped a four-fingered hand around one of the support hangers overhead, his clawed feet flexing to maintain his balance in the rickety cabin. He was much relieved when they finally reached the ground floor. Allowing the rest of the team to exit first, he took his own place behind a stack of cargo crates, waiting for the squad leader to appraise the situation.

Through his helmet, Fulcrum locked eyes-- or goggles, rather-- with Xyston. His shrug was met with a grim nod. He wasn't the leader type-- hell, he could barely manage himself, sometimes-- but the responsibility for leading these men through the city had fallen upon his shoulders. It was time to live up to the challenge.

Fulcrum lifted his hand, a closed fist, before waving it forward and pulling down twice. Follow me. Move forward. Hurry.

Darting from his hiding place, the Kaleesh jogged ahead. An open sprint would have been preferable, but there was no way that even the most athletic among them would have been able to keep up. Using the shop for all the cover it could provide, Fulcrum wasted no time in advancing towards the next building. The city would become denser the further that they got away from the landing platform. As it did, he stuck to the shadows, avoiding the open streets in favor of back alleys and pedestrian pathways.

It was late-- or early, depending on your consideration. The sun wasn't set to rise for another hour, but their window was shortening. Thankfully, it also meant that the bars would be closing, and that was what Fulcrum was counting on. Rent-a-cops were notorious for being undisciplined, and he had no doubt that one or more of them was already neck-deep in drinks at the local watering hole. From there, it would simply be a matter of following them back to base.

He hoped. Nothing was ever simple.

The bar was just ahead, further up and across an open street. The Kaleesh slowed to a halt, holding his palm flat behind him, instructing the squad to stop. Carefully, he leaned around the corner, peering at the unremarkable door of the local cantina.

 

[Laphisto]

GAME MASTER​

Fulcrum, Trace, and the squad were veiled in the alley's darkness, its somber tranquility a stark contrast to the lively resonance of laughter and glass clinks echoing from the bar nearby. The ambient light and distant hum of conversations seeped into the chilly night air, offering an allure of warmth and camaraderie amidst the ghostly silence of the city.

A tempered glance through the cracked door revealed the bar's interior, a world of soft illumination and echoed laughter. Aged wood and timeworn fixtures told tales of epochs past; every nick and blemish a testament to years of solace provided to souls seeking refuge.

Behind the counter, a bartender with seasoned hands and eyes deep with narratives unfolded, practiced in the art of mixing potions that dulled the edge of reality. Like the skyline of a miniature city, the array of bottles behind him gleamed in the muted lights, their contents offering escapes to realms far removed from the present.

Patrons, a mix of weary travelers, spirited adventurers, and local drifters, huddled around tables. Their souls etched with the silent ballad of the city's haunting lullabies convened. Low and hushed conversations wove through the air, a tapestry of shared experiences.

A Rodian, green skin shimmering with an ethereal glow, was deep in exchange with a human, his eyes reflecting the light of distant stars and uncharted galaxies. Nearby, a Twi'lek, her lekku elegantly inscribed with the artistry of her life's journey, sat immersed in the hypnotic melody strung by a lone musician.

The melancholy yet stirring tunes from an old guitar permeated the air, stitching every soul within its four walls into a shared tapestry of momentary escape. In this ephemeral sanctuary, the divisions of species and origins dissolved, bound by the universal dance of shared silences and uttered expressions.

In one shadowed corner, rent-a-cops, the disciplined uniformity of their attire surrendered to the bar's liberating embrace, immersed themselves in a loud and unrestrained symphony of laughter. The constraints of duty were momentarily forgotten, each raised glass a silent pledge to the ephemeral sanctity of the moment.

"I tell ya, Gav, this is the life!" One of the rent-a-cops declared, his words slurred, the rigid discipline structure momentarily forgotten amidst the bar's forgiving embrace. The other patrons offered a mix of amused smiles and disinterested glances; such was the nature of the cantina, a sanctuary where the judgments of the outside world were held at bay.

As the group observed, the soft murmur of conversations, the clinking of glasses, and the musician's haunting notes painted a living canvas of life in motion. Here, amidst the silent dance of light and shadows, was a world momentarily detached from the looming threats and silent battles that awaited beyond the cantina's welcoming doors. Each patron, a silent warrior, found solace within the bar's unjudging embrace, a fleeting sanctuary before the dawn heralded the return to battles unforeseen.

Fulcrum Trace Xyston

 

[Trace Xyston]

Trace followed close behind Fulcrum, dashing between the darker shadows, and avoiding the streetlights. There was a bar up ahead, and some laughter could be heard. The sergeant hefted the weight of his weapon to the other arm. Suddenly he understood the investigator's plan. Hopefully, some of the official's private security guards would be in the cantina at this time. When they went home, the team could follow them back to Dlinka Greevurst.

But that posed a serious question: What time would the rent-a-cops go home? And were any of them even in the cantina?

Trace turned around once he had his back against the firm wall of the speeder shop. Garz stood there, a sniper in hand. The sergeant motioned towards him. Are there any soldiers in there?

Garz aimed down his sniper's sights, his finger off the trigger. After a few moments of dead silence, the human's uniform rustled as he lowered his weapon. He held up a fist and unfurled it with two fingers. At least two.

Trace nodded in response. That would be plenty to follow back. He looked at Fulcrum and shrugged again, signaling that it was his call.

Fulcrum

 

[Fulcrum]

Tagging: Trace Xyston Laphisto

Fulcrum's gaze returned to Trace, watching closely as he communicated silently with his sniper. This, too, was familiar to him; it seemed that Mandalorians made use of many of the same hand signals and gestures to communicate meaning. He was surprised to find that it comforted him to speak in this way. Maybe it reminded him of home.

The Kaleesh looked from Trace, then back to the bar, then back to Trace again. Without it being voiced, he could understand the commando's concern, and he shared it. What if the two men inside didn't go home until after sun-up? This operation would only get more difficult with more daylight, and all of them camping outside for an hour wasn't the brightest idea. They needed to find another lead. Hedge their bets.

Fulcrum lifted his hand, pointing to two of Xyston's operatives, then down at the ground, then lifted his hand over his visor to pantomime looking.

Two soldiers. Wait here. Watch.

Having two was important. One man might miss something... and one man would be vulnerable to getting jumped. He knocked on the bottom of his helmet, then the side of it.

Sound off if they leave. We'll be listening.

They were trying to avoid using comms as much as possible, of course, which was a good habit-- but sometimes it wasn't possible. If the two rent-a-cops left, the two soldiers could communicate it by toggling their microphones. The burst of static would alert the rest of the team to movement while obfuscating anyone else who might be listening. He didn't expect anyone was-- military units such as these encrypted their signals-- but he couldn't rule it out.

Only time would tell if splitting their forces would be a good idea. Wordlessly, Fulcrum motioned for Xyston and the rest of the squad to leave with him. He proceeded further into the city, looking for any other sign of rent-a-cops walking the street. Even a patrol route could lead them back to their target.

 

[Laphisto]

GAME MASTER​

n the dimly lit city, it didn't take long for one of the rent-a-cops to decide it was time to call it a night at the bar. With a somewhat inebriated farewell to his comrades, he stumbled his way into the cool night air, his steps uneven as he hummed a slightly off-key tune under his breath. He ventured further into the city's labyrinthine streets, seemingly guided by the sway of his own inebriation. His unsteady gait took him deeper into the urban sprawl, eventually leading him toward a bustling cargo shipping platform.

As he approached the area, the once-distant silhouette of the cargo shipping platform gradually came into clearer view. The massive structure stood as a hive of activity, with workers scurrying about, loading and unloading crates from various ships. The rent-a-cop continued his meandering journey, seemingly oblivious to the intriguing surroundings.

However, just as his stumbling path led him closer to the cargo platform, the situation took an unexpected turn. From the shadows emerged a pair of Dusate Guards, their unique attire marking them as unmistakable. They approached the inebriated rent-a-cop with their weapons at the ready, causing a brief scuffle and an exchange of heated words.

The first Dusate Guard, a burly figure with a scar across his cheek, growled, "Who the hell are you, and what are you doing here?"

The rent-a-cop, his words slurred, retorted, "Ease off, fellas. I'm just heading home. Had a few too many drinks, that's all."

The second Dusate Guard, a younger and more suspicious-looking member, kept his weapon trained on the rent-a-cop. "You don't look like you belong around here. What's your business?"

As the rent-a-cop managed to mumble out an explanation, the tension slowly began to dissipate. "I'm part of the security detail, just like you guys. Got caught up with some old friends in the bar, you know how it goes."

Despite his words, he couldn't help but hurl a few slurred curses at the Dusate Guards, who, in turn, begrudgingly stepped aside to let him pass. They retreated to their concealed positions, their vigilance resuming.

Fulcrum Trace Xyston

 

[Trace Xyston]

Trace turned back to the rest of his squad after the Mando's signals, pointing to Fallsor and Sabriin to stay back. They acknowledged the sergeant's order, and watched the rest of the squad move off with Fulcrum. Trace had barely moved five steps before a man stumbled out of the bar, singing. The Twi'lek turned back towards the overwatch group, who's flashing green torsos were turned towards him. Good, they could watch the bar and their leader at the same time.

The sergeant gestured, and the men left their positions to follow the rest of the team. This one rent-a-cop was all they needed to follow. However, Trace had Fallsor keep an eye on their rear in case the other guards decided to go home with this one.

The unit followed the man a good dozen paces away, flitting in between dark spots and alleys, and always avoiding light. It was when they came to a busy cargo platform that the real trouble started.

There was practically nowhere to hide. The few crates that weren't being actively loaded by a worker were well within view of many others. This would be ... difficult.

Suddenly, before Trace could even think of a plan, two men popped out of some shadows before the rend-a-cop, demanding answers. Trace listened to the encounter, and started thinking. He didn't really want to deal with the soldiers right now, but he had to follow the rent-a-cop.

As he was observing his surroundings, he discovered (much to his dismay) that the men that were questioning the drunken bargoer were wearing the armor of Dusate guards. Apparently Dlinka had brought some of his boys with him to hide away.

With a grimace, Trace continued looking around. It was when he looked to the darkened sky that he realized he could go up. He seemed to be next to a warehouse of some sort. Trace tapped Fulcrum on the shoulder, and pointed up. Then, he fished in one of his vest pockets for his grappling hook, and fired it.

Quietly, the hook (which was more of an electromagnet) attached to the durasteel. Trace gave it a strong tug, then began walking his way up the side of the warehouse, still bathed in shadow. Once he made it all the way up, the encounter was over and the guards were once more on their ever vigilant watch.

Trace flopped onto his belly and crawled over to the edge of the roof, looking down and watching the rent-a-cop swagger his way back home.

Fulcrum Laphisto

 

[Laphisto]

GAME MASTER



Meanwhile, down below the platform, the dimly lit cargo dock was a stark contrast to the lively cityscape above. The noise of the bustling urban life was muffled, allowing the sharp, impatient commands of Dlinka, an imposing figure with discerning eyes, wore the burden of his criminal endeavors like a cloak. The various insignias embedded in his worn leather jacket told tales of exploits across the stars, but it was the mark of the Dusate Pirates, proudly displayed, that spoke of his most dangerous alliances. A tunroth skull over blasters, an emblem that evoked awe and terror in the star systems where it was known.

"Faster!" Dlinka barked, his eyes wild with a mix of fear and anticipation. "We need every spice crate on that ship before they discover we've left Ropagi II!"

In the frantic rush, a crate slipped from the grip of two pirates. The metallic crash echoed ominously, and spice scattered like stardust on the steel floor. Dlinka's reaction was swift; a hand, rugged and marked by scars of previous encounters, struck one of the pirates. "You fools! Leave it, we haven't got time. Move on to the next one!"

In the gloomy light, Trace Xyston could see the resentment burning in the young pirate's eyes from their concealed vantage point as he rubbed his reddening cheek. His older Twi'lek companion, adorned in the stolen armor of a Galactic Alliance soldier, was a testament to numerous skirmishes.

As the rebuked pirates moved, the younger one, voice tainted with bitterness, whispered, "He's been insufferable since we abandoned the storehouse."

"He's been on edge ever since " grumbled the first Pirate, a human with wild eyes and an ill-fitted blaster, whos voice echoed the naivety of a soul yet to be entirely marred by the pirate's path. his face souring like the betrayal of a loyal dog kicked one too many times he seemed resentful still rubbing his cheek from Dlinka's slap.

The second, a larger twi'lek with scars mapping stories of past skirmishes across his face, heaved a crate with his companion. "Credits still spend the same, no matter the boss's mood," he grunted. he wore what looked to be armor presumably taken from some Galactic Alliance soldier, the faction's insignia still painted on its shoulder if not faded.

 

[Trace Xyston]

From his concealed position atop the small warehouse, Trace could see the target. Dlinka himself. The rather intimidating man was barking orders to his men, telling them to load some crates on their freighter. They were transporting spice.

The Elghaseki scoffed as two of Dlinka's cronies dropped their crate, spilling sand-like powder onto the ground. The incompetent pirate was shown the consequences of such foolishness instantly, as Dlinka's hand impacted the poor man's face. The slap echoed.

Soon, the loaders left the mess in the middle of the dock and moved to the next crate. There was a rustle behind him. Trace turned to find Rhomma on his belly, crawling forward to get a view of Dlinka from above. A series of hand-signals from Rhomma came. Should I take the shot?

Trace signed back. Go ahead, set for stun. I'll worry about the goons.

He was not worried about the two Dusate guards that were guarding the alley. As soon as the rest of Team Six heard the shots from atop the warehouse, they would ambush the concealed guards and take them out quickly.

Trace propped his rifle up on a small ledge and aimed down the sights at the two younger pirates. A human and Twi'lek, struggling to lift a large crate of spice. The human would be first. The sergeant set his crosshair right on the back of the man's head.

There was a sharp noise from his side, and Dlinka fell. Trace immediately squeezed the trigger, dropping the human. His weapon swiveled a bit upward and fired again, felling the Twi'lek. Quickly, he took his eye off of the scope and surveyed the rest of the dock. Three more pirates were standing near the ship, pushing another crate of spice into the hold.

They all turned around when they heard Rhomma's shots. Trace grimaced and aimed down his sights again, aiming right at the middle goon. Before he could fire, however, three shots rang out from the alleyway below, each bolt headed for a different target. All three made contact. Two of the loaders collapsed instantly, while the last one leaned against the bulkhead of the ship, clutching at his lower abdomen.

Three of the Elghaseki from below rushed over to the pirate, rifles at the ready. Over their heavily encrypted comm, Trace ordered, "Do not kill him! We can save him for questioning."

The Elghaseki didn't change their stances, nor did they draw their aim away from the barely-alive pirate. But they were merely preparing for the worst. What if the man had a heavy pistol in his back pocket? Lowering their rifles wouldn't help them in that scenario. Instead, one of the soldiers approached the man and grabbed him roughly by the left arm, hauling him up.

The three came back to the alley, constantly alert for other pirates. Trace held a finger to his ear and said to the entire team, "Great job. Someone get Dlinka."

Laphisto

 

[Laphisto]

The motions of the Elghaseki were quick and precise. The pirates guarding Dlinka and even Dlinka himself were taken down. The wounded pirate, however, only spat in the face of the Elghaseki who had hauled him up. The weequay groaned in pain, taking a few strained breaths. Giving a small laugh," Oh, thank god, it is just the Lilaste order. For a moment there, I was worried. At least with you lot, I'll have a clean and easy death."

Grunting the pain, the man took a few deep breaths, thunder rippling in the sky as the rain slowly fell. Looking up the man blinked away the rain as it fell onto his face, turning to look down at the Elghaseki before him. "You know I almost feel bad for you, or at least I would have felt bad for missing your -" the man taunt was quickly cut off and turned into a scream. A large Spear had whipped past - or even scrapped against the Elghaseki holding the pirate- ramming itself straight into the man's left shoulder, pinning the man to the ship with a loud thunk.

An almost animalistic growl was heard as a large seven-foot-nine Tunroth dropped. Wielding a large halberd, the personal Energy shield rippled across his skin as the rain poured onto him. Standing up, the tunroth wore an almost tribal cloak with several humanoid skulls attached to his belt, the most notable being human, twi'lek, and mon Cala. Pointing his blade at Trace Xyston , he gave a small growl." you. your Lilaste order. I can smell your stench from here, boy. I'll be sure to leave you alive so you can deliver a message personally to your masters. " smashing a fist to his chest he shouted his last words" that I Ubbal Dusat will be the reckoning of your pitiful little order!"

Rushing forward, the large creature swung his blade at the closest Elghaseki. The sharp end of the blade aimed to smash into their chest piece and send them hurling off to the side. He didn't have any specific target, merely running to the closest man and then the next, brute forcing himself through the spec ops team

 

[Trace Xyston]

"Great job team, let's g-"

A scream pierced through the night air as a spear wedged its way through the prisoner's shoulder. But Trace wasn't looking at the pirate who was in agony on the ground. He was completely focused on the massive Tunroth descended from above, landing right in front of the three Elghaseki in the dock. The massive creature lunged forth, bringing his gigantic halberd down on Garz. The unfortunate warrior had his chest armor nearly shattered from the impact, and he was swept aside. He slammed into a durasteel generator to the side of the freighter, slumping down unconcious.

Ignoring Ubbal's words, Trace yelled into the comm, "All soldiers, open fire and retreat!"

Immediately, a bright red blast screamed from Rhomma's sniper towards the Tunroth, striking him in the lower neck. It merely dissipated against the pirate's tough skin. Kriff. This would be very difficult. What could he do? He could try to call in for reinforcements...Commander Tarian's battalion was usually always ready for rapid deployment. But still, it would take hours for them to arrive to New Cov. Hours that Trace and his team didn't have. So they just needed to run.

Hopefully they might be able to lose the monster in the middle of the city, where it would be more populated. It might result in innocent lives lost, but that wasn't Trace's problem. He just wouldn't be able to tell his brother and sister about this.

Meanwhile, the three other Elghaseki that were in the alley fired their grappling hooks and perched atop the freighter, giving them the high ground against the Tunroth (though just barely). Rifle fire lit up the night, seeming extra bright due to the rain. Still though, Ubbal marched on, now trying to take on Fallsor. The younger Elghaseki member fired his grappling hook up to Trace's warehouse and narrowly evaded a crushing blow from the Tunroth.

The rest of the Elghaseki began to retreat through another alley, which was leading away from where Trace had his shuttle parked. They would have to regroup sometime later, but for now, the main mission was to evade Ubbal.

Trace himself looked away from the terrible scene when he realized Garz was still down there, sitting against the generator. His eyes widened as he turned back to find Ubbal laughing as he watched the Elghaseki retreat. Setting his jaw in determination, the sergeant leapt from the roof, firing his grappling gear towards Garz. The wind whipped past him as he flew towards the fallen soldier.

He tucked himself into a roll as he hit the duracrete ground. Before he rose to his feet, he grabbed Garz under one arm, and grappled back to the warehouse. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the Tunroth walking towards him, taking massive strides, and extending an arm. Trace wasn't going to make it. His teeth clenched tightly as he hoped for the best, watching the monster's comically large hand almost close in around him...

A loud noise rang out, and the hand hesitated. Hesitated just long enough for Trace to get back to the roof. He didn't look back as he sprinted away from Ubbal, firing his grappler again towards a nearby street light. He didn't need to look back to know that Rhomma had distracted the beast long enough for the sergeant to escape with a wounded comrade.

"Team Six, this is Sergeant Xyston. I've secured Garz. All Elghaseki report in and regroup at the cantina," Trace said, already headed to the small drinking hole.

Laphisto

 

[Laphisto]

Ubbal Dusate stood amidst the chaos, his towering frame casting a menacing shadow under the flickering lights of the dock. A mix of fury and amusement played across his rugged features as he watched the retreating figures of the Elghaseki. He let out a guttural laugh, rumbling through the air like distant thunder.

"Run, little warriors, run,!" he bellowed into the night, his voice echoing off the durasteel structures around him. The sight of the fleeing Elghaseki, particularly the daring escape of Sergeant Xyston with Garz, only fueled his desire for the hunt. Ubbal knew the streets of New Cov like the back of his massive hand, and the thought of a chase through its intricate network was invigorating.

Flexing his enormous hands, Ubbal cracked his knuckles, each sound echoing like the boom of distant artillery. He began to move, his steps deliberate and earth-shaking, each footfall causing ripples in the puddles that dotted the ground. His thick, leather-like skin, a canvas of tribal tattoos and battle scars, glistened in the neon glow, emphasizing his fearsome visage. "This is far from over," he muttered, his eyes glinting with a predator's focus. "The night is still young, and the hunt has just begun."

Ubbal moved through the disarrayed courtyard of the shipping dock. His massive halberd gripped firmly in his hands. As he approached the dying pirate he had previously speared, the dim light cast grotesque shadows over the scene. The Weequay pirate, bleeding and barely clinging to life, tried to lift his head, his eyes wide with fear and pain. "B-boss! Oh good, you're here! I was just about to call you and tell you about dl—" His words were abruptly cut off as Ubbal's halberd descended with a swift, brutal force, slicing through flesh and bone. The pirate's head rolled in the mud, leaving a gruesome trail.

With a graceful and terrifying motion, Ubbal pulled his spear from the man's shoulder, sliding it back into its sheath with an almost reverent care. He then brought the blade to his mouth, licking the blood from its edge with a sinister satisfaction. A low, melancholy chuckle escaped his throat, echoing hauntingly in the stillness of the night.

Climbing atop the towering shipping containers with surprising agility for his size, Ubbal surveyed the neon-lit city below. The rain added a glossy sheen to the urban landscape, making the lights shimmer and dance like phantoms in the night. He sniffed the air, his keen senses searching for the faintest trace of his quarry. Then, with a fluid movement that belied his massive size, Ubbal descended into the streets. The hunt was on, and the city of New Cov was his hunting ground. The night air was charged with the electric thrill of the chase, and Ubbal Dusat was the predator at its heart.

Trace Xyston

 

[Trace Xyston]

Trace landed hard on the gravel road, laying Garz down gently and fishing around in his vest pockets for either a painkiller or a stim. He found a syringe labeled "PK" and inserted it into his comrade's right arm. After tossing the empty tube away, and catching his breath, he activated his comm and said, "Sergeant Xyston here, check in."

A crackle...and a whisper. "Sir, this is Rhomma. My krffin' gear malfunctioned and I have to walk. I can see the monster atop some cargo crates. I can't risk being seen with my grapple gear. I have to head into the city," he reported.

Trace grimaced and replied, "Affirmative. I'll head that way."

Another voice joined the channel. "Traxus here. I'm with Fallsor, Sabriin, and Kai. We've settled on the roof of some four-story building closer to the main city."

"Alright. That is our new rendezvous point," Trace said. Just as the channel closed, Garz started to stir. The sergeant looked up to the other Elghaseki standing there, weapon at the ready. "Jaman, scout ahead. I'll hang back with Garz to make sure he's good to go. We'll be right behind you."

With a nod, Jaman fired his grappler towards a streetlight in the distance, and he was away. "Come on, Garz. Let's go."

Laphisto

 

[Laphisto]

In the shadowy labyrinth of New Cov's alleys, Ubbal prowled with lethal intent. The city's neon lights cast a spectral glow on the slick, rain-drenched streets, creating an almost otherworldly hunting ground. He moved with a predator's grace, his massive form blending into the shadows. moving with a stealth that belied his massive frame, his senses sharply attuned to the slightest disturbance.

The intercepted communications from the Elghaseki team crackled in his ear, a technological advantage granted by his enigmatic benefactor. This benefactor, a figure shrouded in mystery and power, had equipped Ubbal with advanced gear far superior to standard pirate tech. Among these was a state-of-the-art comm interceptor, a sleek, black device attached to his ear, almost invisible as it blended with his thick, anomalous-shaped skull. It allowed him to tap into various frequencies, turning the Elghaseki's communications into a tool against them. Every report and check-in became a beacon leading Ubbal to his prey. It was his benefactor's way of ensuring Ubbal stayed one step ahead of the Lilaste order he had been paid so handsomely well to keep at bay.

The device buzzed softly, translating the scrambled signals into clear audio. Each transmission from the Elghaseki team painted a vivid picture in Ubbal's mind. He could almost see Sergeant Xyston's grim determination, the concern for his comrade Garz, and the stealthy movement of Jaman as he deployed his grappler. But it was the message about Rhomma that sharpened Ubbal's focus. The malfunctioning gear was a weakness, a crack in the armor of his adversaries that Ubbal was all too eager to exploit. He adjusted the device, fine-tuning it to zero in on Rhomma's specific frequency, ensuring he wouldn't miss a single whisper.

As he moved through the city, his massive form was a shadow among shadows, barely discernible in the dimly lit backstreets. His eyes, burning with a hunter's intensity, scanned the environment. He knew Rhomma would be attempting to move undetected, perhaps using the cover of the bustling night markets or the maze of narrow alleys to evade pursuit.

The city around him was alive with the typical nocturnal activities – the distant sound of music, the occasional shout, and the steady hum of hover vehicles. But above it all, Ubbal's ears were tuned to the subtler sounds – the rustle of clothing, the softest step, the change in breathing that signaled fear.
The wet ground underfoot did little to hinder Ubbal's silent approach. His steps were calculated, each movement a testament to his experience as a hunter. The rain added an extra layer of sound to the night, a steady patter that masked his approach. A sudden flicker of movement caught his eye — a reflection in a puddle, a shadow out of place. Ubbal's heart raced with excitement. He was close. Very close. He paused, his towering figure looming in the darkness. The thrill of the hunt was palpable, a heavy tension around him. Ubbal relished this moment, the sense of power and control. The streets of New Cov were his domain, and he was its undisputed master.

As Ubbal navigated the shadowy corridors, his every sense was attuned to the hunt. The soft buzz of the interceptor guided him, a beacon in the dense urban landscape. He could almost feel Rhomma's presence, a phantom just out of reach, always moving, always evading. Then, a subtle shift in the air, a faint sound out of place — Ubbal tensed, his instincts screaming. He spotted a figure darting through an alleyway, a fleeting shadow against the neon backdrop. Rhomma. With a predator's precision, Ubbal closed in, his massive form cutting through the night like a specter. His heart pounded in his chest, the primal excitement of the chase coursing through his veins. He could see Rhomma now, close enough to strike.

Without hesitation, Ubbal lunged forward, his powerful muscles propelling him with terrifying speed. His halberd, a deadly extension of his will, swung down in a graceful arc, the blade gleaming under the neon lights, a deadly arc of silver in the dark. The weapon sliced through the air with an almost metallic hum, aimed directly at the Elghaseki with every ounce and intent to slice the man in half. his eyes gleaming with that predatorial gaze, lip curled in a vicious snarl

Trace Xyston

 

[Trace Xyston]

POV: Rhomma

Staying ever-silent, Rhomma continued on through the labyrinth of alleyways, keeping a vigilant watch in all directions. The rain provided some comfort to the battle-hardened soldier, but he tuned it out. Experienced warriors knew that relaxation in a situation like this would mean death. The Twi'lek renewed his grip on his blaster as he pushed his back against a rusted durasteel wall. His gaze drifted left, to the intersecting alley that he was about to enter.

Breathing hard, Rhomma brought his rifle's sights to his eye and turned the corner abruptly... His grip softened. Just a vagrant slumped against some crate. The Elghaseki half-turned, then paused, stricken with guilt. As his eyes slowly tracked back to the man, his hand left the barrel of his rifle to feel in his utility vest.

His ration bar was still there. Could Rhomma need the bar in the future? Yes. However, it was obvious who needed it now. The warrior holstered his blaster and headed into the alley, kneeling down by the vagrant.

"Hey, I've got something for you," Rhomma said, gently nudging the man's shoulder.

The human struggled to turn his head, so Rhomma stopped him. "It's a ration bar. Eat it when you feel like it. Have a good night."

Just as he stood up, however, something caught his attention. One of the neon signs, reflected in the rain drenched duracrete. Rhomma squinted...a shadow eclipsed the sign. The Tunroth was back for him.

Rhomma's teeth clenched tightly. He couldn't fire his grappler, or even think. Reflexively, he dove to the ground, hopefully out of the way of the pirate's halberd. He controlled a slide on the slick ground and spun himself around to face the monster that was Ubbal Dusate. The Elghaseki put a death grip on his blaster and squeezed the trigger furiously.

Bright red blaster bolts flew, reflected on the duracrete and challenging the vibrance of the neon signs. Just like before, the bolts merely dissipated against the pirate's tough skin. The only thing left to do?

Run.

His boots splashed on the ground as he rounded another corner, racing towards wherever the music was the loudest. The Elghaseki could lose the monster in a crowd. He didn't have a chioce. Fighting the monster on his own would be suicidal; his teammates were his best chance.

Tapping the comm on his ear, he said between heavy breaths, "The bastard's after me!"

Laphisto

 

[Laphisto]

Under the flickering neon glow that bathed New Cov's rain-slick streets, Ubbal Dusate's frustration was almost tangible. The swing of his halberd, meant to end the chase, only met the cold duracrete, sending sparks flying into the wet night. The sound of metal striking stone echoed down the alley, a harsh reminder of the pursuit's stakes. Ubbal's growl of irritation cut through the city's noise, a clear signal he was far from giving up.

Missing Rhomma didn't deter Ubbal; it fueled his determination. The blaster fire that Rhomma sent his way in desperation might as well have been raindrops for all their impact against Ubbal's tough skin. Each shot that fizzled out against him only highlighted the desperation of Rhomma's situation.

The moment of kindness Rhomma showed to a downtrodden vagrant caught Ubbal's attention but did little to soften his approach. As Rhomma melded back into the city's shadows, hoping to disappear into its heartbeat, Ubbal turned his merciless gaze towards the vagrant. This brief pause in the chase was merely that, a pause. Silently, Ubbal approached the figure huddled in the alley.

The act was far from quick as the man's screams echoed in the alleyway as Rhomma fled from Ubbal, a brutal demonstration of Ubbal's ruthlessness. The vagrant's life was extinguished as effortlessly as snuffing out a candle, a scream of begging for mercy to let him live before pain rippled from the ally and a loud crack of bone being smashed against duracrete would be heard. Followed by an eery silence. The rain fell, filling most of the night's sound as Ubbal disappeared again into the shadows.

Rhomma's panicked voice over the comm only spurred Ubbal on. The fear in his voice was like a beacon in the darkness, pulling and egging Ubbal further into the pursuit. Whenever Rhomma looked behind him, he would see the tunroth walking towards him, halberd scrapping and sending sparks flying into the air, illuminating his presence, followed by a deep predatorial cackle in the night air. he seemed to be playing with the twilek at this point, excitement filling his face in a malicious smirk

then he was gone. the sparks no longer being seen, and the sounds of his clawed feet smashing into the rain puddles were no more. the tunroth seemingly disappearing from sight, almost as if he was but a nightmare in a child dream a figment of the mans imagination.

Trace Xyston