Xander and Roona found themselves in a desperate situation. They had been expecting a meeting with the Ortolan, Bep Borum, to give them the means to escape from the Black Sun and depart Coruscant. That wasn’t how things went unfortunately. Stormtroopers arrived. Cohr had reported them as part of the mission at the Kelerium Processing Plant and even planted stolen items in the hold. A desperate situation, indeed.
Above, the ISB agents descended metal stairs, their electrostaffs spitting violet sparks that cast jumpy shadows across Borum’s panicked face. The Ortolan shuffled backward, bumping into a Stormtrooper who shoved him aside with a grunt. Cohr remained statue-still, hands raised, but his yellow eyes flickered toward a rusted maintenance panel near the Archelon’s starboard thruster—a detail Xander would’ve missed if desperation hadn’t sharpened his vision.
Roona’s blaster lowered a fraction. She nudged Xander’s ankle with her bootheel, her Rodian snout twitched toward the panel. No words; just a micro-gesture with her free hand—'there'. The panel’s hinges were corroded, its durasteel surface streaked with carbon scoring. More importantly, it lay in the Stormtrooper’s blindspot, shielded by the Archelon’s bulbous engine housing. Xander’s pulse throbbed in his temples. One breath. Two. Then they moved.
They didn’t run—that would’ve drawn fire. Instead, they slid like shadows through the oily puddles, Roona’s lithe frame weaving between stacked cargo pallets while Xander used the steam venting from the Archelon’s landing struts as cover. Rain masked the scuff of their boots. Above them, the Stormtroopers’ comms crackled with static as they relayed positions, oblivious. Cohr’s voice carried over the din, smooth as polished cortosis: "You might want to conduct a secondary sweep on the dorsal hatch—suspects may attempt sabotage." A diversion or sincerity? Xander didn’t care.
The panel loomed, its edges crusted with grime. Roona’s vibroknife pried at the lower hinge, popping it with a muted *snick*. Xander’s fingers found purchase on a warped seam, muscles straining as durasteel groaned. A half-second hesitation—then they spilled into the maintenance crawlspace beyond, the panel whispering shut behind them. Darkness swallowed them whole, punctuated only by the distant thrum of the Archelon’s idle power core. The stench of oxidized wiring and stale coolant clawed at Xander’s throat.
Roona’s breath hitched beside him. "Move," she mouthed, antennae quivering against the ceiling pipes. Somewhere above, Cohr’s voice dripped with false concern: "Thermal scans detected movement near the starboard thruster array." Xander’s teeth ground together. His hand twitched toward his blaster—just once—imagining the satisfying *whump* of ignited fuel, the bloom of orange against Cohr’s smug crimson face. But the moment passed. The shaft was sealed. The shot untaken.
Roona saw Xander’s desire and reached out a hand to his shoulder. Her palm was slick with condensation, but the suction tipped fingers' grip was firm. She didn’t speak—words risked echoing through the ducts—but her meaning was clear: 'Not yet.'
The crawlspace twisted sharply to the left, narrowing until Xander had to turn sideways, ribs scraping against protruding pipe couplings. Somewhere above, boots stomped across the plasteel, the vibrations traveling down through the metal like a drumbeat. Roona’s antennae twitched—tracking.
A faint green glow pulsed from a fractured junction box ahead. Xander recognized the pattern: a faulty power relay, cycling on and off every seven seconds. Perfect. He reached out, fingers brushing Roona’s elbow to get her attention, then mimed pulling a wire. Her large black eyes gleamed with understanding. She unsheathed a vibroknife from her thigh holster and went to work on the access panel. The moment the casing popped open, rancid-smelling coolant hissed out, filling the shaft with a thick, oily mist.
Footsteps thudded directly overhead—close enough to hear the plastoid creak of stormtrooper armor. Xander held his breath. The mist curled around them, distorting their heat signatures, buying time. Roona’s knife twisted a final circuit, and the glow died. Darkness swallowed them whole. Then, with a spark, every third overhead light in the bay flickered out. The troopers’ comms erupted in static. “Power irregularity in Sector Aurek-Seven,” someone barked. “Possible sabotage.”
They slithered deeper into the ductwork, Roona’s antennae mapping the path via vibrations alone. The crawlspace emptied into a vertical shaft slick with industrial runoff. Xander’s boots skidded on the greasy rungs, the taste of corroded metal sharp on his tongue. Below, steam vents exhaled in ragged bursts, masking their descent. The shaft terminated in a grated opening overlooking Aurek-Eight’s service corridor—half-flooded, littered with discarded parts, and most importantly, deserted.
Roona melted into the cantina’s neon-soaked chaos first, her green skin blending with the flickering holographic ads for Corellian ale. The air reeked of spilled spotchka and fried nerf, the chatter of drunken dockworkers drowning out the distant commotion in Aurek-Seven. Xander followed, shoulders hunched beneath a stolen loader’s vest reeking of engine grease. His fingers brushed the blaster concealed beneath the fabric—still sticky with coolant from the ducts.
They lingered near a rusted dejarik table where a Twi’lek in oil-stained coveralls nursed a synthbrew. His eyes tracked the Rodian with undisguised suspicion. Roona’s antennae twitched—too interested. She nudged Xander toward the bar instead, where a human spacer argued over fuel prices with a scarred Nautolan. The bartender, a burly Dug missing an ear, wiped glasses with a rag that had never been clean.
Three hours dissolved into the cantina’s rhythmic pulse of clinking glasses and broken Basic. Every ship captain who strode through the mist-choked entrance was assessed and discarded: the Sullustan with Pyke Syndicate tattoos peeking from his collar, the human woman whose boots still bore Imperial Navy regs under fresh paint. Xander’s fingers drummed against his thigh—too many variables, too little time. Across the room, a Devaronian in patched flight leathers slammed back a shot of Whyren’s Reserve. His horns were shorter than Cohr’s, his gaze sharper. Still Roona instinctively knew he was not the one who could help them.
Interlude - Between Blaster and Betrayal
Moderator: GM Fang
Re: Interlude - Between Blaster and Betrayal
Then Xander’s wrist comm buzzed—three short pulses, the frequency scrambled. A jagged hologram of Bep Borum’s bulbous face flickered above his forearm, distorted by interference. “Don’t disconnect-bob,” the Ortolan hooted. Behind him, pipes hissed like gutted beasts. Roona’s blaster was leveled at the holo before Borum’s next breath.
“Speak.” She didn’t bother lowering her voice—the cantina’s din swallowed it whole.
Borum’s jowls quivered as he leaned closer to the holocam, his long ears twitching. “Cohr playing 'shah-tezh' with Imps,” he hissed. “Your GHTroc’s impounded now—but my freighter’s berthed in Aurek-Twelve. Prepped for hyperspace.” His bulbous eyes darted left, right. “Stormtroopers think they bagged you in the Archelon’s hold. Those ISB goons? Cohr fed ’em falsified thermal-bib scans. You’re 'supposed' to be in custody.”
Roona’s blaster didn’t waver. “And why we trust you?” Her Rodian vocal cords pitched the words into a venomous whisper.
“Cohr contacted us to smuggle-bob you off-off Corscant. Who-oloey else can you trust here?” His stubby fingers tapped something off-camera—a ship’s console. Aurek-Twelve’s docking schematics flickered in the holo’s periphery. “Meet at Service Conduit."
Roona’s blaster hovered a millimeter from the emitter. Her black eyes narrowed. “E chu ta. Ortolan grow spine overnight. What change?”
Borum’s jowls wobbled—not fear, but urgency. His stubby fingers stabbed the air. “Stormtroopers seize-bub Archelon—The Nebula Raptor waits three bays over. Full nav-charts, falsified transponder logs.” His snout twitched toward a flickering schematic. “Imperial customs-bob cleared it yesterday. Not even ISB checks twice.”
Xander’s fingers dug into his palms. Clever. Cohr had orchestrated the entire ambush—not to trap them, but to make their disappearance credible. The Archelon became the scapegoat, while Borum’s freighter slipped through unnoticed. Roona’s blaster dipped slightly, her Rodian pupils dilating as she processed the gambit. “Cohr tipped you off,” she breathed. Not a question.
Bep responded with a nervous nod. “Right-bib before Imps flooded bay. Said to watch for—” His voice cut off as the cantina’s door hissed open, admitting a gust of ozone-scented wind. Two stormtroopers lumbered in, their white armor streaked with rain. Xander’s spine locked. Borum’s holo winked out.
Roona’s grip tightened around her blaster under the table. The troopers scanned the room, their helmets tilting in unison toward the bar. The Dug bartender didn’t flinch, polishing the same glass with theatrical disinterest. Then, with a metallic 'crack', one trooper’s comm crackled: “Negative contact in Sector Aurek-Nine. Redirect to—” The rest dissolved into static. They turned and left, boots squelching on spilled liquor.
Xander exhaled through his nose. The Twi’lek at the dejarik table was still watching them. Roona flicked a credit chip onto the counter—too much for their drinks—and slid off the stool without looking back. The Dug snatched the chip with a guttural grunt, his missing ear twitching as he pocketed it, eyes deliberately avoiding the departing duo.
They moved like smoke—first to the refresher corridor, then doubling back through the kitchen when the chef’s back was turned. Steam from bubbling stew pots curled around Roona’s antennae as she pressed against a dripping pipe. Xander winced at the scalding heat radiating through his stolen vest. The kitchen staff, a motley crew of Weequay and humans, shouted over the sizzle of frying meat, oblivious.
Roona’s elbow jabbed Xander’s ribs—go. They slipped out the service hatch into an alley choked with rotting vegetables and discarded packaging. The stormtroopers’ voices echoed three alleys over, their boots scraping against wet permacrete. Xander counted the seconds between each metallic footfall. Fifteen. Twenty. Distant enough. Roona peeled a discarded delivery manifest from a damp crate and pretended to scan it, her Rodian eyes tracking movement beyond the alley mouth. A protocol droid wobbled past, jabbering about misplaced cargo.
She crumpled the flimsiplast and led Xander through a gap in the wall where durasteel plating had rusted apart—barely wider than his shoulders. The passage's darkness punctuated by flickering emergency strips. They eventually emerged onto a narrow gantry above Aurek-Twelve’s landing bay, where the Nebula Raptor squatted between two battered light freighters. Its dorsal fin bore fresh plasma scoring—a hasty repaint job.
Bep Borum stood at the base of the ramp, his stubby Ortolan fingers drumming against his belly. Rain dripped from his drooping snout as he scanned the bay’s upper levels, ears twitching at every distant clang. Behind him, the Nebula Raptor’s engines cycled with a low, uneven whine—the sound of a ship prepped for a quick exit.
Roona’s grip on Xander’s wrist tightened as they crouched behind a stack of dented canisters. The loading bay stretched before them, a maze of flickering hazard lights and pooled rainwater. Two dockworkers in stained overalls argued over a cargo manifest near the Raptor’s starboard landing strut, their voices sharp over the hiss of steam vents. Too close. Too exposed. But between them and the freighter lay only open space—no cover, no shadows.
She jerked her chin toward the floor beneath the gantry. A maintenance hatch, barely visible beneath a puddle of oily runoff. Xander’s stomach lurched as she pried it open with her vibroknife, revealing a ladder descending into darkness. Roona went in headfirst, her boots barely touching the rungs as she slid down.
Xander’s hands slipped twice on the slick rungs before his boots hit a grille floor. Ahead, Roona’s silhouette moved with practiced silence, her antennae twitching toward a dim red light pulsing at the tunnel’s end. A service hatch hissed open under her knife’s insistence, revealing a sliver of Aurek-Twelve’s bay.
The Nebula Raptor loomed like a wounded thranta—its repainted hull streaked with rain, its ramp lowered in invitation. Bep Borum stood at the base, his blue snout twitching toward every sound, stubby fingers kneading his tunic hem.
Roona lunged into the open bay, boots splashing through puddles, her blaster tucked low against her thigh. Xander scrambled after her, lungs burning—until her heels dug into the permacrete. She froze mid-stride, muscles locked.
The IG droid clanked down the ramp, its photoreceptors sweeping left-right-left in mechanical precision. Red hazard lights glinted off its polished durasteel torso. Its right arm terminated not in a blaster, but in a wicked flamethrower, it's flame a faint blue as it idled. A sickeningly seductive female voice with an Imperial accent breaks the silence, "I will be very pleased to kill you all."
“Speak.” She didn’t bother lowering her voice—the cantina’s din swallowed it whole.
Borum’s jowls quivered as he leaned closer to the holocam, his long ears twitching. “Cohr playing 'shah-tezh' with Imps,” he hissed. “Your GHTroc’s impounded now—but my freighter’s berthed in Aurek-Twelve. Prepped for hyperspace.” His bulbous eyes darted left, right. “Stormtroopers think they bagged you in the Archelon’s hold. Those ISB goons? Cohr fed ’em falsified thermal-bib scans. You’re 'supposed' to be in custody.”
Roona’s blaster didn’t waver. “And why we trust you?” Her Rodian vocal cords pitched the words into a venomous whisper.
“Cohr contacted us to smuggle-bob you off-off Corscant. Who-oloey else can you trust here?” His stubby fingers tapped something off-camera—a ship’s console. Aurek-Twelve’s docking schematics flickered in the holo’s periphery. “Meet at Service Conduit."
Roona’s blaster hovered a millimeter from the emitter. Her black eyes narrowed. “E chu ta. Ortolan grow spine overnight. What change?”
Borum’s jowls wobbled—not fear, but urgency. His stubby fingers stabbed the air. “Stormtroopers seize-bub Archelon—The Nebula Raptor waits three bays over. Full nav-charts, falsified transponder logs.” His snout twitched toward a flickering schematic. “Imperial customs-bob cleared it yesterday. Not even ISB checks twice.”
Xander’s fingers dug into his palms. Clever. Cohr had orchestrated the entire ambush—not to trap them, but to make their disappearance credible. The Archelon became the scapegoat, while Borum’s freighter slipped through unnoticed. Roona’s blaster dipped slightly, her Rodian pupils dilating as she processed the gambit. “Cohr tipped you off,” she breathed. Not a question.
Bep responded with a nervous nod. “Right-bib before Imps flooded bay. Said to watch for—” His voice cut off as the cantina’s door hissed open, admitting a gust of ozone-scented wind. Two stormtroopers lumbered in, their white armor streaked with rain. Xander’s spine locked. Borum’s holo winked out.
Roona’s grip tightened around her blaster under the table. The troopers scanned the room, their helmets tilting in unison toward the bar. The Dug bartender didn’t flinch, polishing the same glass with theatrical disinterest. Then, with a metallic 'crack', one trooper’s comm crackled: “Negative contact in Sector Aurek-Nine. Redirect to—” The rest dissolved into static. They turned and left, boots squelching on spilled liquor.
Xander exhaled through his nose. The Twi’lek at the dejarik table was still watching them. Roona flicked a credit chip onto the counter—too much for their drinks—and slid off the stool without looking back. The Dug snatched the chip with a guttural grunt, his missing ear twitching as he pocketed it, eyes deliberately avoiding the departing duo.
They moved like smoke—first to the refresher corridor, then doubling back through the kitchen when the chef’s back was turned. Steam from bubbling stew pots curled around Roona’s antennae as she pressed against a dripping pipe. Xander winced at the scalding heat radiating through his stolen vest. The kitchen staff, a motley crew of Weequay and humans, shouted over the sizzle of frying meat, oblivious.
Roona’s elbow jabbed Xander’s ribs—go. They slipped out the service hatch into an alley choked with rotting vegetables and discarded packaging. The stormtroopers’ voices echoed three alleys over, their boots scraping against wet permacrete. Xander counted the seconds between each metallic footfall. Fifteen. Twenty. Distant enough. Roona peeled a discarded delivery manifest from a damp crate and pretended to scan it, her Rodian eyes tracking movement beyond the alley mouth. A protocol droid wobbled past, jabbering about misplaced cargo.
She crumpled the flimsiplast and led Xander through a gap in the wall where durasteel plating had rusted apart—barely wider than his shoulders. The passage's darkness punctuated by flickering emergency strips. They eventually emerged onto a narrow gantry above Aurek-Twelve’s landing bay, where the Nebula Raptor squatted between two battered light freighters. Its dorsal fin bore fresh plasma scoring—a hasty repaint job.
Bep Borum stood at the base of the ramp, his stubby Ortolan fingers drumming against his belly. Rain dripped from his drooping snout as he scanned the bay’s upper levels, ears twitching at every distant clang. Behind him, the Nebula Raptor’s engines cycled with a low, uneven whine—the sound of a ship prepped for a quick exit.
Roona’s grip on Xander’s wrist tightened as they crouched behind a stack of dented canisters. The loading bay stretched before them, a maze of flickering hazard lights and pooled rainwater. Two dockworkers in stained overalls argued over a cargo manifest near the Raptor’s starboard landing strut, their voices sharp over the hiss of steam vents. Too close. Too exposed. But between them and the freighter lay only open space—no cover, no shadows.
She jerked her chin toward the floor beneath the gantry. A maintenance hatch, barely visible beneath a puddle of oily runoff. Xander’s stomach lurched as she pried it open with her vibroknife, revealing a ladder descending into darkness. Roona went in headfirst, her boots barely touching the rungs as she slid down.
Xander’s hands slipped twice on the slick rungs before his boots hit a grille floor. Ahead, Roona’s silhouette moved with practiced silence, her antennae twitching toward a dim red light pulsing at the tunnel’s end. A service hatch hissed open under her knife’s insistence, revealing a sliver of Aurek-Twelve’s bay.
The Nebula Raptor loomed like a wounded thranta—its repainted hull streaked with rain, its ramp lowered in invitation. Bep Borum stood at the base, his blue snout twitching toward every sound, stubby fingers kneading his tunic hem.
Roona lunged into the open bay, boots splashing through puddles, her blaster tucked low against her thigh. Xander scrambled after her, lungs burning—until her heels dug into the permacrete. She froze mid-stride, muscles locked.
The IG droid clanked down the ramp, its photoreceptors sweeping left-right-left in mechanical precision. Red hazard lights glinted off its polished durasteel torso. Its right arm terminated not in a blaster, but in a wicked flamethrower, it's flame a faint blue as it idled. A sickeningly seductive female voice with an Imperial accent breaks the silence, "I will be very pleased to kill you all."