With the Rodians having chased the team back to the skiffs, the crew of the Vagrant took back the advantage by destroying one skiff and driving off in the remaining two. The Rodian hunters' screams curdled into impotent rage as Roona's skiff carved through the mangroves, its repulsor wash flattening entire thickets of razorfern in their wake. Xander clung to the gunwale, watching their pursuers dwindle into emerald specks.
The Rodian hunters' screams curdled into impotent rage as Roona's skiff carved through the mangroves, its repulsor wash flattening entire thickets of razorfern in their wake. Xander clung to the gunwale, watching their pursuers dwindle into emerald specks.
The skiff's repulsors hummed unevenly beneath them, vibrating through the deck plating. Xander slumped against the gunwale, his fingers still curled tight around his blaster. A slow trickle of brackish water dripped from his sleeve onto the deck, each droplet spreading into a dark stain. He didn't seem to notice.
FL-AR3's photoreceptors dimmed to a muted amber as the droid methodically checked its own damage—scorch marks pocking its chestplate, one servo in its left arm stuttering with every rotation. "Efficiency reduced by 12.7%," it announced to no one in particular.
Spanner exhaled hard through his nose, pressing a palm to his seared ribs. His synth-leather jacket was blackened and stiff. "Anyone got a—" he started, then winced as the skiff hit a current. The Bothan doctor El'Jaameer was already moving, her golden eyes sharp despite the mud caking her fur. She peeled his jacket back with clinical precision, ignoring his bitten-off curse. "You're lucky," she murmured. "Cauterized clean."
Roona didn't turn from the controls, her grip on the throttle easing just enough to let the skiff settle into a steadier glide. Behind them, Pron's skiff followed at a ragged distance, its hull groaning under the weight of extra passengers. Koraz leaned over the edge, watching the mangroves blur past. Seng Windrunner sat slumped against the bulkhead, his breath shuddering with each inhale.
Roona pulled out the emergency medkit from her backpack. As a scout, often solo in unknown territory, she learned to have every potential contingency covered. The Bothan doctor used the kit to help repair the wound Spanner had received.
The skiffs lurched to a halt where the mangroves thinned into a skeletal graveyard of drowned trees, their branches clawing at the humid air. Roona killed the engines, letting the silence rush in like floodwater—no blasterfire, no screams, just the guttural croaks of distant swampfrogs and the persistent drone of insects.
The skiffs bobbed uneasily in the sluggish current, their repulsors idling with a low hum that vibrated through the deck plates. Roona's fingers tapped a staccato rhythm against the throttle—not nervous, just calculating. The Rodian's bulbous eyes swept the tangled wall of mangroves to their right, where the undergrowth grew so thick it seemed to swallow sound itself.
"Can we travel inland without leaving the skiffs?" Pron's voice rasped from the second skiff, his Sullustan jowls twitching as he eyed the impenetrable foliage. "Can we get past these roots?" He jerked his chin toward a gnarled tangle of mangrove knees protruding from the water like the skeletal fingers of some drowned giant. The submerged network would shred their skiffs' underbellies within minutes.
FL-AR3's photoreceptors pulsed once as the droid scanned the terrain. "Negative. Vegetation density exceeds navigational parameters for this vessel class by 83.6%." Its head swiveled toward the swamp's interior. "Alternate route improbable without foot traversal."
Spanner leaned over the skiff's edge, wincing as his ribs protested. "So we ditch the skiffs?"
"We don't want to do that," Xander offered. Pron quickly agreed.
The debate froze mid-sentence when the first distant whine of repulsor engines cut through the swamp's insect drone. Pron's stubby fingers were already digging into his thigh pouch before anyone else reacted, yanking out macrobinoculars with the urgency of a man expecting company—just not the welcoming kind. The lenses hissed as they telescoped outward, moisture beading on the ocular housing.
"One skiff," Pron grunted after a three-second sweep, his jowls twitching. "No—two." He adjusted the focus with a twist of his wrist. "Can't quite tell how many on each."
FL-AR3's head swiveled toward the sound, photoreceptors flickering through spectrum analyses. "Engine signatures match Rodian swamp skiffs. Probability of hostiles: 91.3%."
The whine of approaching repulsor engines crescendoed into a teeth-rattling shriek as the first skiff burst through a curtain of hanging vines—its bow riding high on a cushion of disturbed swamp water, Rodian hunters crouched low behind makeshift armor plating welded to the gunwales. Koraz didn't wait for identification. His first shot punched through the lead skiff's port stabilizer fin, sending it fishtailing into a mangled mangrove trunk with a crunch of buckling metal.
The hunters' return fire came in ragged bursts, their crimson bolts stitching erratic patterns across the water as Pron's second skiff lurched sideways for cover.
Spanner's blaster barked twice—the first shot went wide, but the second caught a Rodian square between his bulbous black eyes. The hunter's head snapped back like a broken marionette before his body crumpled over the skiff's controls, sending it careening unmanned into a thicket of razorfern.
The Rodians slumped over their skiff’s controls like broken marionettes, their emerald limbs twitching in final, useless spasms. One gasped wetly, fingers scrabbling at a blaster wound in his chest before his head lolled into the brackish water. The fight had lasted less than twelve seconds.
The skiffs lurched forward again, their repulsors kicking up brackish spray as Roona and Pron each guided them along the shoreline's ragged edge. The mangroves crowded in like silent spectators, their gnarled roots forming a labyrinth that made Xander's grip tighten on his blaster. "We could torch a path," Spanner suggested, already reaching for his utility belt.
FL-AR3's photoreceptors pulsed red. "Fire would alert all remaining Rodian hunters within a 4.7-kilometer radius. Probability of hostile convergence: 97.2%."
Koraz exhaled through his nose, the sound barely audible over the skiffs' groaning repulsors. His rifle scope glinted as he swept it across the shoreline. "There." He jerked his chin toward a break in the foliage—a narrow channel where the water deepened, its surface slick with algae.
The rustling came from a thicket of razorfern to their left—too rhythmic to be wind, too clumsy to be a stalking predator. Koraz's finger hovered over his rifle's trigger as the skiffs slowed, their repulsors kicking up arcs of brackish water. A twig snapped. Then another. Whoever was hiding had all the subtlety of a drunken bantha.
Roona's skiff carved through the algae-slick channel with predatory silence, watching for the faintest disturbance in the undergrowth. A flash of movement—too slow, too human—betrayed the figure crouched behind a tangle of mangrove roots. Their boot squelched in the muck.
Xander's blaster didn't waver as he called out, "Come out slow, hands where we can see them." His voice carried the practiced calm of someone who'd survived too many ambushes. The thicket shuddered, then stilled.
FL-AR3's photoreceptors narrowed to crimson slits, targeting scanners whirring. "Lifeform matches no known Rodian physiological profiles," it intoned.
"Last chance," Xander barked, thumbing his blaster's power setting higher with an audible click. "Come out now or the Rodians will peel you out of those roots one limb at a time."
The thicket trembled. Then, with the reluctant shuffle of someone who'd been crouched in swamp water too long, a male Mirialan emerged—his navy-blue jacket streaked with algae, one sleeve torn at the elbow. His hands, raised in surrender, shook violently enough to make his shadow dance across the mangroves. "Don't shoot," he croaked.
The Mirialan's green fingers trembled as he clutched at a mangrove root for balance, his polished leather boots sinking into the muck with every awkward step. Up close, the embroidery on his jacket screamed money—actual thread-of-gold detailing at the cuffs, now frayed and crusted with swamp scum. Xander's lip curled. "Get in the skiff," he repeated, jerking his blaster toward the deck. "Unless you'd rather explain your tailor's bill to those Rodians back there."
That only left two targets remaining. That they knew of anyway. The Mirialan—now shivering in the skiff's bow—had gasped out names between gulps of water Roona forced into his hands. "Seng and El'Jaameer made it," he'd rasped, "but Jask and—" His voice cut off as another tremor wracked his frame. Koraz didn't need him to finish. The math was simple: five abducted, three accounted for. Somewhere in this fetid swamp, two more sentients were either bleeding out or running for their lives.
The Final Push (Episode 22)
Moderator: GM Fang
Re: The Final Push (Episode 22)
Koraz's fingers twitched against his blaster grip—that itch behind his horns again, the one that tasted like ionized air before a lightning strike. His nostrils flared as he scanned the mangroves, the scent of rotting vegetation and blaster scorch suddenly too thick, too loud. "We're out of time," he muttered, more to himself than the others. When Roona's head swiveled toward him, he didn't meet her gaze. "The others—they're being herded. Right now."
FL-AR3's photoreceptors flickered from amber to red, processing the statement. "Premonition or probability?" the droid intoned.
"Does it matter?" Koraz snarled. He gestured sharply at the swamp's labyrinthine depths. "Moxo's boys are flushing those people toward kill zones. We don't have a chance to save them now."
After a short discussion, the team decided that the best escape was the Imperial shuttle they tracked here. And maybe a chance to deal with that dastardly Lieutenant Herkin personally.
The skiffs' repulsors whined as Roona edged them toward a gnarled mangrove cluster—the only cover available in this skeletal stretch of swamp. Xander's fingers moved before the others could debate, unclipping the recon remote from his belt with practiced ease. The palm-sized device hummed to life, its repulsors buzzing like an irritated insect as it hovered above his calloused palm.
"Herkin's shuttle," Xander said, voice low. The remote's holoprojector flickered, painting a wavering topographic map above the brackish water. A single pulsing dot throbbed fifteen klicks northeast—exactly where they'd planted the tracker on the Imperial shuttle. "Still broadcasting. No movement."
The skiffs cut through the murky water with deceptive silence, their repulsor hums dampened by the swamp's oppressive humidity. Roona and Pron guided them northeast with precision, adjusting course whenever submerged roots threatened to snag the hull. The recon remote darted ahead like a cybernetic dragonfly, its holoprojector casting intermittent pulses of light through the hanging vines.
The first glimpse of the docking platform came through the remote's feed—simple grey duracrete struts rising from the swamp. Three stormtroopers stood sentry near the shuttle, their white armor smudged with grime. One leaned against some nearby structure, his blaster propped lazily against his thigh while another fiddled with his wrist comm. The third had his helmet off, scratching at a patchy beard as he sipped from a canteen.
"Relaxed," Spanner muttered, watching the feed from his datapad. "Very relaxed." His fingers tapped a rapid staccato against the screen, zooming in on the shuttle's boarding ramp. "No visible damage. Engines look cold."
FL-AR3's photoreceptors flickered as it analyzed the feed. "Probability of operational status: 94.2%." The droid turned its head toward Koraz. "Recommendation: Neutralize sentries before alarm raised."
Koraz traced the edge of his blaster's trigger guard—not quite restless, just measuring the weight of the moment. "Three troopers. Easy." His voice carried the quiet certainty of a man who'd cleared checkpoints far more fortified than this. "We'll rush them and take them out fast."
The recon remote's feed flickered as it circled the docking platform's underside, revealing the rust-streaked ladder bolted to the duracrete support struts—ten rungs leading up, then another short flight of steps to the main deck. Perfect cover until the last three meters. Xander killed the remote's humming repulsors with a tap, calling it back to him. "We'll take the ladder in pairs," he murmured.
FL-AR3's photoreceptors flickered from amber to red, processing the statement. "Premonition or probability?" the droid intoned.
"Does it matter?" Koraz snarled. He gestured sharply at the swamp's labyrinthine depths. "Moxo's boys are flushing those people toward kill zones. We don't have a chance to save them now."
After a short discussion, the team decided that the best escape was the Imperial shuttle they tracked here. And maybe a chance to deal with that dastardly Lieutenant Herkin personally.
The skiffs' repulsors whined as Roona edged them toward a gnarled mangrove cluster—the only cover available in this skeletal stretch of swamp. Xander's fingers moved before the others could debate, unclipping the recon remote from his belt with practiced ease. The palm-sized device hummed to life, its repulsors buzzing like an irritated insect as it hovered above his calloused palm.
"Herkin's shuttle," Xander said, voice low. The remote's holoprojector flickered, painting a wavering topographic map above the brackish water. A single pulsing dot throbbed fifteen klicks northeast—exactly where they'd planted the tracker on the Imperial shuttle. "Still broadcasting. No movement."
The skiffs cut through the murky water with deceptive silence, their repulsor hums dampened by the swamp's oppressive humidity. Roona and Pron guided them northeast with precision, adjusting course whenever submerged roots threatened to snag the hull. The recon remote darted ahead like a cybernetic dragonfly, its holoprojector casting intermittent pulses of light through the hanging vines.
The first glimpse of the docking platform came through the remote's feed—simple grey duracrete struts rising from the swamp. Three stormtroopers stood sentry near the shuttle, their white armor smudged with grime. One leaned against some nearby structure, his blaster propped lazily against his thigh while another fiddled with his wrist comm. The third had his helmet off, scratching at a patchy beard as he sipped from a canteen.
"Relaxed," Spanner muttered, watching the feed from his datapad. "Very relaxed." His fingers tapped a rapid staccato against the screen, zooming in on the shuttle's boarding ramp. "No visible damage. Engines look cold."
FL-AR3's photoreceptors flickered as it analyzed the feed. "Probability of operational status: 94.2%." The droid turned its head toward Koraz. "Recommendation: Neutralize sentries before alarm raised."
Koraz traced the edge of his blaster's trigger guard—not quite restless, just measuring the weight of the moment. "Three troopers. Easy." His voice carried the quiet certainty of a man who'd cleared checkpoints far more fortified than this. "We'll rush them and take them out fast."
The recon remote's feed flickered as it circled the docking platform's underside, revealing the rust-streaked ladder bolted to the duracrete support struts—ten rungs leading up, then another short flight of steps to the main deck. Perfect cover until the last three meters. Xander killed the remote's humming repulsors with a tap, calling it back to him. "We'll take the ladder in pairs," he murmured.
Re: The Final Push (Episode 22)
The skiffs' repulsors hissed to a near-silent idle as Roona and Pron guided them behind the last stand of mangroves before the clearing. The foliage here was thinner, bleached pale by the reflected glare of durasteel landing lights. Koraz's horns scraped against a low branch as he leaned forward, his Model 53 blaster scope painting the docking platform in crosshairs. The stormtroopers hadn't moved—still lounging like bored security guards at a backwater cantina.
The skiffs erupted from the mangroves like blaster bolts from a barrel—repulsors shrieking, hulls slapping against the brackish water hard enough to send up walls of spray. The Stormtroopers barely had time to drop their canteens. Roona's skiff hit the docking platform's struts first, its hull screeching against duracrete as she threw the controls sideways.
Koraz's shot cracked through the humid air before the skiff even settled—a single, precise bolt that punched through the closest stormtrooper's chestplate with a wet crunch. The white-armored figure crumpled sideways like a marionette with severed strings. Pron's skiff slewed violently to starboard as the Sullustan wrenched the controls, his jowls trembling with the effort of keeping them from capsizing into the murk.
Pron's blaster barked twice—the first shot pinged off the stormtrooper's pauldron, but the second punched through his visor with a flash of molten plastoid. The trooper toppled backward, his blaster clattering down the duracrete steps.
Koraz didn't waste the distraction. He lunged up the remaining ladder rungs, his boots scraping against rusted metal as he pivoted onto the platform. The last stormtrooper was already bringing his E-11 to bear, but Koraz's Model 53 spoke first—a single crimson bolt that sheared through the white armor's chestplate like a vibroblade through flimsi. The trooper staggered, his blaster firing wild into the swamp before he crumpled face-first onto the deck plating.
The ascension pistol's magnetic grapple hissed through the humid air, its durasteel claw biting into the shuttle's hull with a metallic shriek. Roona's lean Rodian body snapped upward like a whipcord, her boots barely skimming the duracrete before she arced onto the shuttle's dorsal plating just as the hatch groaned open below. Three stormtroopers spilled out—not the sluggish sentries from before, but fresh reinforcements. Their blaster barrels came up in unison, scanning the platform.
Koraz's shoulder burned—a searing kiss of blaster fire that sent his Iktochi reflexes into overdrive before the pain fully registered. He pivoted hard left, his highly modified Model 53 already barking crimson retaliation even as the acrid scent of his own scorched flesh filled his nostrils. The stormtroopers' formation shattered under the sudden onslaught, their white armor flashing like strobes in the swamp's gloom as blasterfire crisscrossed the platform.
The stormtrooper never saw Roona's blaster bolt coming. One moment he was taking a bead on Pron, the next—his helmet erupted in a shower of molten plastoid as the Rodian's shot punched through the crown of his skull from above. His body crumpled forward like a puppet with its strings cut, collapsing onto the deck plating with a hollow clang.
Pron didn't waste the opening. His first shot sheared through the second trooper's wrist, sending the E-11 clattering across the durasteel. The Sullustan's second bolt punched through the man's throat before he could scream, the sizzle of vaporized flesh momentarily overpowering the swamp's fetid stench.
Koraz's blaster pistol barked twice—methodical, economical. His first bolt caught the remaining trooper square in the chestplate, knocking him back a step. The second drilled through his visor with surgical precision, leaving a smoldering hole. The white-armored corpse teetered for a surreal moment before toppling backward.
Spanner's boots hit the duracrete landing pad with a wet squelch, his ribs protesting as he helped El'Jaameer's injured Bothan frame over the skiff. Behind him, the Mirialan fugitive stumbled twice on the slick surface, his gold-threaded jacket snagging on a protruding bolt. FL-AR3's durasteel feet clanked erratically—its right leg joint seizing every third step as swamp water dribbled from its chassis in rusty rivulets.
Seng Windrunner's boots hit the duracrete with a hollow thud, his breath ragged from the sprint through waist-deep swamp muck. Spanner kept his blaster trained on the tree line—just in case—but the only movement was the distant ripple of something reptilian submerging. Seng wiped algae from his sleeve cuff with a grimace.
"Stay low," Spanner muttered, pressing them both against the shuttle's landing strut. A bead of sweat traced the fresh burn along his ribs as he craned his neck to track Xander's progress toward the nearby prefab structure—a rust-streaked Imperial relay station judging by the angular antenna array bolted to its roof.
Xander moved like liquid shadow between support pylons, his blaster sweeping each corner before his boots followed. The station's durasteel door hung slightly ajar. He paused at the threshold, listening—then vanished inside with a silent pivot.
FL-AR3's photoreceptors flickered to full intensity as the droid limped up the shuttle ramp, its damaged leg joint emitting metallic grinds with each step. "Boarding protocol requires clearance verification," it announced. Roona's blaster muzzle nudged the droid aside before it could start reciting regulation subclauses.
The first blaster bolt seared past Koraz's horns close enough for its heat prickling against his cheek as he threw himself sideways behind the landing strut. The durasteel rang like a gong where the second bolt impacted—naval troopers, not stormies.
"Cover!" Xander barked from the relay station doorway. His blaster snapped up and fired twice in rapid succession—suppressing fire rather than aimed shots—keeping the troopers' heads down while Roona slithered up the ramp on her belly, blaster extended.
FL-AR3's damaged leg joint whined in protest as it pivoted, its photoreceptors locking onto the troopers' positions with mechanical precision. "Hostiles positioned behind entry point at forty-degree azimuth," it droned.
The naval troopers barely had time to register their fatal mistake before the crew cut them down. Koraz's blaster bolt took the first one through the throat—a spray of arterial crimson painting the wall behind him. The trooper gurgled, clawing at his neck as he collapsed.
Roona fired another fatal shot. The last naval trooper staggered backward, his gloved hands clutching his sternum. Koraz didn't watch him hit the ground. He was already moving, his blaster sweeping the Imperial shuttle's interior for secondary threats.
FL-AR3's damaged leg joint emitted a high-pitched whine as it clambered over the troopers' corpses, its photoreceptors scanning for residual bio-signs. "Elimination efficiency: 92.3%," it announced. The droid paused, its head tilting toward a faint whirring sound emanating from the station's console. "Warning. Active transmission detected."
The skiffs erupted from the mangroves like blaster bolts from a barrel—repulsors shrieking, hulls slapping against the brackish water hard enough to send up walls of spray. The Stormtroopers barely had time to drop their canteens. Roona's skiff hit the docking platform's struts first, its hull screeching against duracrete as she threw the controls sideways.
Koraz's shot cracked through the humid air before the skiff even settled—a single, precise bolt that punched through the closest stormtrooper's chestplate with a wet crunch. The white-armored figure crumpled sideways like a marionette with severed strings. Pron's skiff slewed violently to starboard as the Sullustan wrenched the controls, his jowls trembling with the effort of keeping them from capsizing into the murk.
Pron's blaster barked twice—the first shot pinged off the stormtrooper's pauldron, but the second punched through his visor with a flash of molten plastoid. The trooper toppled backward, his blaster clattering down the duracrete steps.
Koraz didn't waste the distraction. He lunged up the remaining ladder rungs, his boots scraping against rusted metal as he pivoted onto the platform. The last stormtrooper was already bringing his E-11 to bear, but Koraz's Model 53 spoke first—a single crimson bolt that sheared through the white armor's chestplate like a vibroblade through flimsi. The trooper staggered, his blaster firing wild into the swamp before he crumpled face-first onto the deck plating.
The ascension pistol's magnetic grapple hissed through the humid air, its durasteel claw biting into the shuttle's hull with a metallic shriek. Roona's lean Rodian body snapped upward like a whipcord, her boots barely skimming the duracrete before she arced onto the shuttle's dorsal plating just as the hatch groaned open below. Three stormtroopers spilled out—not the sluggish sentries from before, but fresh reinforcements. Their blaster barrels came up in unison, scanning the platform.
Koraz's shoulder burned—a searing kiss of blaster fire that sent his Iktochi reflexes into overdrive before the pain fully registered. He pivoted hard left, his highly modified Model 53 already barking crimson retaliation even as the acrid scent of his own scorched flesh filled his nostrils. The stormtroopers' formation shattered under the sudden onslaught, their white armor flashing like strobes in the swamp's gloom as blasterfire crisscrossed the platform.
The stormtrooper never saw Roona's blaster bolt coming. One moment he was taking a bead on Pron, the next—his helmet erupted in a shower of molten plastoid as the Rodian's shot punched through the crown of his skull from above. His body crumpled forward like a puppet with its strings cut, collapsing onto the deck plating with a hollow clang.
Pron didn't waste the opening. His first shot sheared through the second trooper's wrist, sending the E-11 clattering across the durasteel. The Sullustan's second bolt punched through the man's throat before he could scream, the sizzle of vaporized flesh momentarily overpowering the swamp's fetid stench.
Koraz's blaster pistol barked twice—methodical, economical. His first bolt caught the remaining trooper square in the chestplate, knocking him back a step. The second drilled through his visor with surgical precision, leaving a smoldering hole. The white-armored corpse teetered for a surreal moment before toppling backward.
Spanner's boots hit the duracrete landing pad with a wet squelch, his ribs protesting as he helped El'Jaameer's injured Bothan frame over the skiff. Behind him, the Mirialan fugitive stumbled twice on the slick surface, his gold-threaded jacket snagging on a protruding bolt. FL-AR3's durasteel feet clanked erratically—its right leg joint seizing every third step as swamp water dribbled from its chassis in rusty rivulets.
Seng Windrunner's boots hit the duracrete with a hollow thud, his breath ragged from the sprint through waist-deep swamp muck. Spanner kept his blaster trained on the tree line—just in case—but the only movement was the distant ripple of something reptilian submerging. Seng wiped algae from his sleeve cuff with a grimace.
"Stay low," Spanner muttered, pressing them both against the shuttle's landing strut. A bead of sweat traced the fresh burn along his ribs as he craned his neck to track Xander's progress toward the nearby prefab structure—a rust-streaked Imperial relay station judging by the angular antenna array bolted to its roof.
Xander moved like liquid shadow between support pylons, his blaster sweeping each corner before his boots followed. The station's durasteel door hung slightly ajar. He paused at the threshold, listening—then vanished inside with a silent pivot.
FL-AR3's photoreceptors flickered to full intensity as the droid limped up the shuttle ramp, its damaged leg joint emitting metallic grinds with each step. "Boarding protocol requires clearance verification," it announced. Roona's blaster muzzle nudged the droid aside before it could start reciting regulation subclauses.
The first blaster bolt seared past Koraz's horns close enough for its heat prickling against his cheek as he threw himself sideways behind the landing strut. The durasteel rang like a gong where the second bolt impacted—naval troopers, not stormies.
"Cover!" Xander barked from the relay station doorway. His blaster snapped up and fired twice in rapid succession—suppressing fire rather than aimed shots—keeping the troopers' heads down while Roona slithered up the ramp on her belly, blaster extended.
FL-AR3's damaged leg joint whined in protest as it pivoted, its photoreceptors locking onto the troopers' positions with mechanical precision. "Hostiles positioned behind entry point at forty-degree azimuth," it droned.
The naval troopers barely had time to register their fatal mistake before the crew cut them down. Koraz's blaster bolt took the first one through the throat—a spray of arterial crimson painting the wall behind him. The trooper gurgled, clawing at his neck as he collapsed.
Roona fired another fatal shot. The last naval trooper staggered backward, his gloved hands clutching his sternum. Koraz didn't watch him hit the ground. He was already moving, his blaster sweeping the Imperial shuttle's interior for secondary threats.
FL-AR3's damaged leg joint emitted a high-pitched whine as it clambered over the troopers' corpses, its photoreceptors scanning for residual bio-signs. "Elimination efficiency: 92.3%," it announced. The droid paused, its head tilting toward a faint whirring sound emanating from the station's console. "Warning. Active transmission detected."
Re: The Final Push (Episode 22)
The shuttle's engines coughed to life with a shudder that vibrated through the deck. Spanner shoved the Mirialan fugitive into a jumpseat hard enough to make the embroidered jacket tear further. "Strap in or become wall decor when we pitch," he snapped, already moving to secure FL-AR3's shuddering frame against the bulkhead. The droid's damaged leg spasmed, hydraulic fluid leaking in thin, iridescent streaks.
The shuttle's engines roared like a wounded animal, their vibrations shaking loose rivulets of swamp water from the hull. Spanner's fingers dug into FL-AR3's dented shoulder plating as he hauled the droid backward into the passenger cabin. "Move it, rust-bucket," he hissed, shoving the combat droid into a seat designed for organics. The durasteel groaned under FL-AR3's weight. Seng and El'Jaameer quickly joined them in the passenger cabin.
The cockpit door groaned inward with a final protesting shriek of warped durasteel, revealing three more naval troopers hunched over the shuttle's nav consoles, their gloved fingers stabbing at flickering holokeys with increasing desperation. One's head snapped up as the door gave way, eyes widening at the sight of three armed intruders crowding the threshold.
Pron's blaster barrel tapped against the nearest trooper's temple with a metallic click that echoed louder than a shout in the sudden stillness of the cockpit. The Sullustan's jowls twitched in what might have been amusement—or maybe indigestion.
"Sit-rep," Koraz growled, his Model 53 not quite aimed at anyone specific but definitely present. The troopers' gloved hands froze mid-keypress.
One of them—a sergeant by the pauldron markings—swallowed hard. "Pre-flight checks," he rasped. "Just—standard procedure before—"
"Wrong answer," Roona interrupted. Her blaster muzzle pressed into the back of another trooper's neck.
Koraz leaned against the nav console, his horns scraping the overhead paneling as he thumbed the safety off his blaster with an exaggerated click. "Cozy ride," he mused, watching the troopers' shoulders tense. "Shame about the turbulence. How about we set back down?"
Koraz leaned between their seats. "Here's how this works," he murmured, his breath stirring the loose threads on the nearest trooper's epaulet. "You land us nice and soft back on that platform—no sudden moves, no coded distress pings—and you walk away with all your limbs attached." His blaster's power cell hummed as he thumbed the intensity dial up. "Otherwise, well..." The unspoken threat hung heavier than the swamp humidity.
Pron’s blaster pressed harder against the trooper’s temple. "Ever seen a Sullustan’s temper?" he asked pleasantly. The troopers stiffened. "No? Good. Keep it that way." His finger twitched—not enough to fire, just enough to make the barrel hitch against skin. The lead trooper’s gloved hands jerked back from the controls as if electrocuted.
The shuttle's repulsors whined in protest as it settled back onto the duracrete platform, the landing struts hissing as they absorbed the impact. The naval troopers stumbled out backward, hands raised. One of them—the sergeant—opened his mouth as if to say something, but Koraz flicked his blaster barrel upward in a silent *don't*, and the man swallowed his words along with his pride. They stood watching as the shuttle lifted off without them.
Pron's thick fingers danced over the nav console with surprising grace, punching in coordinates while Roona calibrated the shields. The shuttle lurched unsteadily before stabilizing. Xander slid into the systems ops seat with practiced ease, his fingers already pulling up a tactical overlay.
Koraz dropped into the gunnery seat, taking control of thee forward weapons system. "Guns are green," he muttered, cycling the twin-linked cannons through their diagnostics. The servos whined as he tested the weapon's aiming controls.
The shuttle's internal comm crackled to life with Pron's voice—half-buried under engine static. "Spanner. Rear gun turret. Come up and join in on the fun."
The shuttle's engines roared like a wounded animal, their vibrations shaking loose rivulets of swamp water from the hull. Spanner's fingers dug into FL-AR3's dented shoulder plating as he hauled the droid backward into the passenger cabin. "Move it, rust-bucket," he hissed, shoving the combat droid into a seat designed for organics. The durasteel groaned under FL-AR3's weight. Seng and El'Jaameer quickly joined them in the passenger cabin.
The cockpit door groaned inward with a final protesting shriek of warped durasteel, revealing three more naval troopers hunched over the shuttle's nav consoles, their gloved fingers stabbing at flickering holokeys with increasing desperation. One's head snapped up as the door gave way, eyes widening at the sight of three armed intruders crowding the threshold.
Pron's blaster barrel tapped against the nearest trooper's temple with a metallic click that echoed louder than a shout in the sudden stillness of the cockpit. The Sullustan's jowls twitched in what might have been amusement—or maybe indigestion.
"Sit-rep," Koraz growled, his Model 53 not quite aimed at anyone specific but definitely present. The troopers' gloved hands froze mid-keypress.
One of them—a sergeant by the pauldron markings—swallowed hard. "Pre-flight checks," he rasped. "Just—standard procedure before—"
"Wrong answer," Roona interrupted. Her blaster muzzle pressed into the back of another trooper's neck.
Koraz leaned against the nav console, his horns scraping the overhead paneling as he thumbed the safety off his blaster with an exaggerated click. "Cozy ride," he mused, watching the troopers' shoulders tense. "Shame about the turbulence. How about we set back down?"
Koraz leaned between their seats. "Here's how this works," he murmured, his breath stirring the loose threads on the nearest trooper's epaulet. "You land us nice and soft back on that platform—no sudden moves, no coded distress pings—and you walk away with all your limbs attached." His blaster's power cell hummed as he thumbed the intensity dial up. "Otherwise, well..." The unspoken threat hung heavier than the swamp humidity.
Pron’s blaster pressed harder against the trooper’s temple. "Ever seen a Sullustan’s temper?" he asked pleasantly. The troopers stiffened. "No? Good. Keep it that way." His finger twitched—not enough to fire, just enough to make the barrel hitch against skin. The lead trooper’s gloved hands jerked back from the controls as if electrocuted.
The shuttle's repulsors whined in protest as it settled back onto the duracrete platform, the landing struts hissing as they absorbed the impact. The naval troopers stumbled out backward, hands raised. One of them—the sergeant—opened his mouth as if to say something, but Koraz flicked his blaster barrel upward in a silent *don't*, and the man swallowed his words along with his pride. They stood watching as the shuttle lifted off without them.
Pron's thick fingers danced over the nav console with surprising grace, punching in coordinates while Roona calibrated the shields. The shuttle lurched unsteadily before stabilizing. Xander slid into the systems ops seat with practiced ease, his fingers already pulling up a tactical overlay.
Koraz dropped into the gunnery seat, taking control of thee forward weapons system. "Guns are green," he muttered, cycling the twin-linked cannons through their diagnostics. The servos whined as he tested the weapon's aiming controls.
The shuttle's internal comm crackled to life with Pron's voice—half-buried under engine static. "Spanner. Rear gun turret. Come up and join in on the fun."
Re: The Final Push (Episode 22)
Pron's voice rang out, concern evident in the words. "Distress call went out before we shut them down. Devastator's going to be dumping TIEs most likely. I'm guessing we have about eight minutes at the most."
Spanner's fingers froze mid-button-press on the rear turret controls. "Eight minutes?" His voice cracked slightly—part fatigue, part disbelief. "That's barely enough time to get clear of the atmosphere."
Roona's fingers tapped a rapid staccato against the nav console. "Need distance. Now." Her voice carried the razor-edge tension of a vibroblade drawn slowly from its sheath. "Distress call painted target on us. Size of Hutt's ego." The shuttle banked hard, skimming the treetops close enough to rustle them like a passing tornado.
Koraz's finger hovered over the gunship's fire controls as he tracked the rapidly shrinking hunting lodge through the crosshairs. "Shame," he mused, watching the compound's torches flicker like dying stars. "One strafing run—just enough to ruin Moxo's decor." His thumb twitched against the trigger guard, phantom impulses dancing along nerve endings.
Xander's console erupted in a sudden cascade of crimson alerts before the shuttle cleared the third klick—blips swarming the tactical overlay like insects drawn to a corpse light. "Incoming," he snapped, fingers already adjusting the scanner's sensitivity. "Multiple inbound. Fast."
Pron's jowls quivered as the scanner lit up with fresh contacts. "Already?" he muttered, stubby fingers adjusting the sensor array. "They are practically on top of us. Must've been flying cover patrols—no way they scrambled this fast from the Devastator." His voice carried the tightness of a man recalculating odds mid-freefall.
Koraz didn't look up from his targeting display. "How many?" His thumb hovered over the laser cannon charge sequence, the twin-linked barrels humming as they cycled to full readiness. The shuttle's interior lights flickered red with proximity alerts.
Xander's fingers danced across the scanner controls, dialing up the sensitivity until the static resolved into six distinct blips—two tight clusters of three TIEs each, closing fast from starboard and aft. "Standard TIEs," he confirmed, though the words tasted bitter. Standard didn't mean harmless. Standard meant Imperial efficiency. TIEs were tiny and fragile; bare-bones, no-nonsense fightercraft. They were also blisteringly fast and shockingly agile ships. The Lamba-class shuttle had no chance to outrun them and escape. A fight was imminent.
The shuttle shuddered as Pron wrenched it into a hard port roll, the inertial compensators groaning under the strain. Through the viewport, Koraz caught a glimpse of the first trio—angular solar panels slicing through the humid air like vibroblades, their ion engines screaming. The lead TIE fired without preamble, its green bolts searing past the cockpit close enough to scorch the transparisteel.
Then a comm burst crackled through the shuttle's speakers with Imperial crispness: "Lambda-class shuttle, you are in violation of Imperial Code 47-9. Power down engines and prepare for boarding. This is your only warning." The transmission ended with the distinctive click of a channel being held open—a silent dare.
Koraz grinned, his serrated teeth flashing in the cockpit's crimson alert lighting. "Tell him we accept," he murmured, thumbing the comm. "But we prefer our boarding parties extra crispy." He turned to look over his shoulder where Spanner was seated in the third row.
Spanner's first shot went wide—a wild crimson bolt that streaked past the lead TIE's cockpit canopy, close enough to make the Imperial pilot jerk his controls in reflexive evasion. The sudden maneuver scattered the tight V-formation like startled mynocks, sending two TIEs veering wildly off-axis to avoid collision.
"Kriffing hells," Spanner hissed under his breath, knuckles whitening around the turret's firing yoke. The targeting reticule swam in his vision—part adrenaline, part the lingering burn-pain radiating from his ribs. He blinked sweat from his eyes as the lead TIE rolled into a punishingly tight spiral, its hexagonal wings slicing through the humid air with predatory grace.
Pron's thick fingers wrenched the control yoke starboard with a grunt, the shuttle groaning like a gutted bantha as it pivoted violently—nose swinging toward the incoming TIE formation. "Facing forward," he barked, sweat beading along his forehead. "Shields up front. They want a fight? They'll eat our guns first."
Xander's hands blurred across the shield console, rerouting power with precise jabs that made the overhead lights flicker. "Frontal array at 127%," he snapped, watching the energy graphs spike.
Roona's fingers clicked against the co-pilot station as she caught the telltale harmonic shift of their formation patterns. "Fly like hungry tookas," she muttered, pulling up a tactical overlay. "Predictable angles. Cluster here—" she jabbed at a converging point on the screen, "—then scatter."
The next volley of emerald bolts from the TIEs hammered the shuttle's forward shields in a staccato burst, each impact sending spiderweb fractures of dissipating energy skittering across the deflector display. Koraz's targeting reticle pulsed crimson as he tracked the lead TIE's erratic roll—his fingers twitched, and twin-linked laser cannons roared. The TIE's spherical cockpit erupted in a flash of white-hot debris, its shattered solar panels spinning wildly into the swamp canopy below.
"One down," Koraz growled, as the shuttle banked violently. Behind him, Spanner's rear turret whined with overcharge as he lined up his shot—the reticle danced across a TIE's port wing panel before he fired. A glancing hit sent the Imperial fighter into a drunken spiral, trailing smoke, but it recovered with a gut-wrenching twist that left Spanner cursing.
The second TIE formation streaked by like a swarm of enraged hornets, their ion engines howling through the thick Rodian atmosphere. Xander's fingers danced across the comm panel, triggering a focused energy pulse that crackled outward—the lead TIE's transmission dissolved into static mid-sentence, its comms now as useless as its pilot's situational awareness. Koraz didn't waste the opening. His cannons lanced out, shearing through a TIE's starboard wing with surgical precision. The fighter spiraled into the canopy below, exploding in a silent bloom of fire muted by distance.
Spanner's turret whined as he pivoted it, tracking one of the remaining rear attackers. His shot went wide—the TIE jinked violently—but the follow-up blast tore through its spherical cockpit in a burst of sparks and vaporized metal. One less problem.
Then the shuttle lurched violently, throwing everyone against their harnesses. Pron snarled a Sullustan curse as warning lights flooded the cockpit—the lead TIE had threaded a perfect shot through their rear shields. Engine output plummeted by a third, the displays bleeding crimson diagnostics.
The shuttle's wounded engines screamed like a gutted rancor, their sputtering thrust slowing them to a dangerous level. Koraz's targeting display flickered—half the systems glitching for a second from the TIE's lucky shot—but he didn't need diagnostics to know the math. Three TIEs left. Their speed advantage had just tripled.
Pron's fingers locked around the control yoke with a grip that threatened to warp the durasteel. The shuttle shuddered violently as he forced it into a spiraling climb, deliberately bleeding speed to keep the remaining TIEs dancing in their forward arc—where Koraz's cannons could chew them apart. "Hold them there," he growled through clenched teeth, sweat beading on his jowls as the inertial compensators screamed in protest.
Roona's fingers flew across her console, overlaying tactical vectors with practiced efficiency. "Pattern Gamma-Seven," she barked, watching the TIEs adjust formation like trained mynocks. "Split here—" she jabbed at a convergence point, "—then strafe engines again." Her voice carried the cold certainty of someone who'd survived too many dogfights to underestimate Imperial pilots.
Koraz's cannons roared, twin bolts of crimson lancing out to bisect a TIE that dared linger too long in his killzone. The explosion painted the swamp below in flickering orange, but the victory was short-lived—the remaining two TIEs broke formation with eerie synchronization, their solar panels tilting to skim the shuttle's belly in a razored pass that made the hull shriek in protest.
The TIEs struck in unison—twin blades slicing upward from beneath the shuttle's blind spot. Their guns chattered emerald death, stitching a line of fire along the Lambda's ventral plating. The shields flared once, twice, then collapsed with a sound like shattering glass. Warning klaxons howled as the shuttle bucked violently, throwing Spanner against his seat's restraints hard enough to taste blood.
Xander's voice cut through the cockpit like a vibroblade—"Shields down!"—just as the shuttle's port engine coughed a plume of black smoke. The Lambda listed violently to starboard, throwing Koraz's next shot wide. Emerald bolts from the remaining TIEs punched through the unshielded hull, tearing a jagged line of molten durasteel along the cargo bay doors.
Koraz's targeting reticle pulsed crimson—not a lock, just a suggestion—as the last TIE screamed past their bow in a blur of hexagonal wings. He exhaled through his nostrils, let the ship's shuddering roll carry his cannons into alignment, and fired. The bolts sheared through the TIE's starboard wing joint, sending it spinning away with the elegance of a drunken dancer. The resulting fireball lit Pron's sweat-slick face orange through the viewport.
The last TIE's cannons spat emerald fire, the bolts carving a molten line across the shuttle's aft section. The impact sent Pron's controls shuddering—alarms wailed as something vital in the engineering compartment gave way with a sound like tearing flesh. Koraz tasted ozone and burnt wiring, the cockpit vibrating with the strain of overstressed systems. Through the rear cam feed, Spanner watched the TIE tighten its turn for another pass—its pilot doubtless smirking behind that black Imperial visor.
FL-AR3's voice crackled through the comms, distorted by damage but chillingly precise: "Structural integrity compromised aft of frame seven-eight. Probability of surviving next impact: 12.3%." The droid's assessment hung in the air like a death sentence.
Roona didn't flinch. Her fingers danced across the nav console—not fleeing, not panicking—reconfiguring. "Vector Lambda-Nineteen," she snapped, eyes locked on the tactical overlay. "Now." Pron saw it too instantly, wrenching the shuddering shuttle into a brutal corkscrew that made the hull groan like a dying man. The TIE overshot, its pilot's reflexes momentarily outpaced by the unexpected maneuver.
Spanner fired as it passed and the last attacker exploded—a starburst of shrapnel and superheated gas that painted the shuttle's rear cams in molten hues. The TIE's shattered cockpit canopy tumbled past their starboard flank. Spanner exhaled through his teeth, his ribs screaming protest as he unclenched his fingers from the turret's firing yoke. The smell of scorched wiring and spilled coolant flooded the cabin.
Pron didn't celebrate. His thick fingers wrenched the shuttle into a slow descent, the remaining engines howling in protest. "Debris field incoming," he barked as twisted durasteel fragments pinged against their hull like hail. Xander's display lit up with damage reports—half their systems bleeding crimson diagnostics. "Shields remain offline," he confirmed. "Port engine at 23%."
Pron's hands trembled against the controls—not from fear, but from the shuttle's death throes vibrating up through the yoke. He kept them low, skimming the swamp canopy so close that streaks of algae and mud splattered across the viewport. The Lambda's remaining engine coughed, spitting black smoke that curled over the wings like a funeral shroud.
"We're not punching hyperspace like this," Xander growled, watching fuel percentages tick downward on his display. His fingers twitched near the emergency power reroute controls—useless now with half the conduits melted through.
FL-AR3's photoreceptors flickered as it processed their trajectory. "Probability of reaching designated hyperspace jump coordinates: 0.7%. Alternative escape method required."
Koraz unbuckled his harness with a snarl, horns scraping the overhead panel as he stood. "Then we disappear," he said. "Find someplace safe to dump this wreck and look for another way off planet. It's too bad we weren't able to take out that jerk Lieutenant."
Roona's fingers paused over the navigation console. Without turning, her voice carried a Rodian's dry precision: "Maybe did eliminate him." She mocked a firing motion with her hand shaped like a blaster.
The words hung in the smoky air. Koraz's claws flexed against the overhead rail. "Explain."
Xander tapped the console with a knuckle, his eyes never leaving the scanner's flickering readout. "That blaster Renn was carrying—Imperial issue." His voice carried the weight of someone piecing together a puzzle they didn't like the shape of.
Pron's jowls quivered as he adjusted their descent angle, skimming the shuttle over a stretch of open water. "Anyone could be lugging Imperial hardware these days," he muttered, the shuttle's wounded engines sputtering in agreement. "Pick a fight with one patrol, walk away with their sidearm. Doesn't prove anything."
Roona's antennae twitched as she turned in her seat, her large black eyes reflecting the shuttle's console lights. "Herkin never at camp," she said, her voice cutting through the engine's rattle. "No records, no sightings—just Renn. With Imperial gun. Now Herkin not here. Where Herkin?"
The shuttle’s damaged engines whined like a wounded animal as Roona’s revelation settled over them. If Herkin was on the Star Destroyer, his shuttle wouldn't be here. He was no where to be found. Could he be lying dead in the swamp from Roona's blaster shot? Koraz’s eyes narrowed. "Herkin was Renn," he repeated, voice dripping with cold amusement. "Of course he was. That arrogant bastard couldn’t resist playing his own game."
Spanner wiped sweat from his brow, wincing as his ribs protested. "So we weren’t just rescuing prisoners—we were stealing his personal hunting stock." The realization twisted his stomach. The Rodians had been brutal, but Herkin—Renn—had been worse. He hadn’t just wanted captives; he’d wanted prey.
Roona's tapped the console. "Herkin not just sell to Rodians for credits," she said, her voice rising over the engine's noise. "Too much risk. Too little profit. Clan Oonta pay well—not enough to justify smuggling off an Imperial warship. He wanted experience. Sick man." She paused for a moment. "Dead man."
Pron dipped the shuttle low, its wounded belly continuing to skim the mangroves so close that the wake of their passage sent ripples through the stagnant water below. The Lambda groaned as it disappeared over the jungle below. Behind them, the wreckage of the TIEs still burned in the distance, their funeral pyres smoldering against the darkening Rodian sky.
------------------------------------------
Unused XPS (earned 25)
Spanner - 25
FL-AR3 - 25 (+40)
Pron - 35 (+40) (spent)
Koraz - 35 (spent)
Xander - 25 (spent)
Roona - 30 (spent)
Vagrant Group Funds - 3373 credits
Archelon Group Funds - 5591 credits
Gear: quick sale value in ()
3 Geonosian Rifles hidden in cargo hold for Nyn
4 Blaster Pistols (200 ea)
Spanner's fingers froze mid-button-press on the rear turret controls. "Eight minutes?" His voice cracked slightly—part fatigue, part disbelief. "That's barely enough time to get clear of the atmosphere."
Roona's fingers tapped a rapid staccato against the nav console. "Need distance. Now." Her voice carried the razor-edge tension of a vibroblade drawn slowly from its sheath. "Distress call painted target on us. Size of Hutt's ego." The shuttle banked hard, skimming the treetops close enough to rustle them like a passing tornado.
Koraz's finger hovered over the gunship's fire controls as he tracked the rapidly shrinking hunting lodge through the crosshairs. "Shame," he mused, watching the compound's torches flicker like dying stars. "One strafing run—just enough to ruin Moxo's decor." His thumb twitched against the trigger guard, phantom impulses dancing along nerve endings.
Xander's console erupted in a sudden cascade of crimson alerts before the shuttle cleared the third klick—blips swarming the tactical overlay like insects drawn to a corpse light. "Incoming," he snapped, fingers already adjusting the scanner's sensitivity. "Multiple inbound. Fast."
Pron's jowls quivered as the scanner lit up with fresh contacts. "Already?" he muttered, stubby fingers adjusting the sensor array. "They are practically on top of us. Must've been flying cover patrols—no way they scrambled this fast from the Devastator." His voice carried the tightness of a man recalculating odds mid-freefall.
Koraz didn't look up from his targeting display. "How many?" His thumb hovered over the laser cannon charge sequence, the twin-linked barrels humming as they cycled to full readiness. The shuttle's interior lights flickered red with proximity alerts.
Xander's fingers danced across the scanner controls, dialing up the sensitivity until the static resolved into six distinct blips—two tight clusters of three TIEs each, closing fast from starboard and aft. "Standard TIEs," he confirmed, though the words tasted bitter. Standard didn't mean harmless. Standard meant Imperial efficiency. TIEs were tiny and fragile; bare-bones, no-nonsense fightercraft. They were also blisteringly fast and shockingly agile ships. The Lamba-class shuttle had no chance to outrun them and escape. A fight was imminent.
The shuttle shuddered as Pron wrenched it into a hard port roll, the inertial compensators groaning under the strain. Through the viewport, Koraz caught a glimpse of the first trio—angular solar panels slicing through the humid air like vibroblades, their ion engines screaming. The lead TIE fired without preamble, its green bolts searing past the cockpit close enough to scorch the transparisteel.
Then a comm burst crackled through the shuttle's speakers with Imperial crispness: "Lambda-class shuttle, you are in violation of Imperial Code 47-9. Power down engines and prepare for boarding. This is your only warning." The transmission ended with the distinctive click of a channel being held open—a silent dare.
Koraz grinned, his serrated teeth flashing in the cockpit's crimson alert lighting. "Tell him we accept," he murmured, thumbing the comm. "But we prefer our boarding parties extra crispy." He turned to look over his shoulder where Spanner was seated in the third row.
Spanner's first shot went wide—a wild crimson bolt that streaked past the lead TIE's cockpit canopy, close enough to make the Imperial pilot jerk his controls in reflexive evasion. The sudden maneuver scattered the tight V-formation like startled mynocks, sending two TIEs veering wildly off-axis to avoid collision.
"Kriffing hells," Spanner hissed under his breath, knuckles whitening around the turret's firing yoke. The targeting reticule swam in his vision—part adrenaline, part the lingering burn-pain radiating from his ribs. He blinked sweat from his eyes as the lead TIE rolled into a punishingly tight spiral, its hexagonal wings slicing through the humid air with predatory grace.
Pron's thick fingers wrenched the control yoke starboard with a grunt, the shuttle groaning like a gutted bantha as it pivoted violently—nose swinging toward the incoming TIE formation. "Facing forward," he barked, sweat beading along his forehead. "Shields up front. They want a fight? They'll eat our guns first."
Xander's hands blurred across the shield console, rerouting power with precise jabs that made the overhead lights flicker. "Frontal array at 127%," he snapped, watching the energy graphs spike.
Roona's fingers clicked against the co-pilot station as she caught the telltale harmonic shift of their formation patterns. "Fly like hungry tookas," she muttered, pulling up a tactical overlay. "Predictable angles. Cluster here—" she jabbed at a converging point on the screen, "—then scatter."
The next volley of emerald bolts from the TIEs hammered the shuttle's forward shields in a staccato burst, each impact sending spiderweb fractures of dissipating energy skittering across the deflector display. Koraz's targeting reticle pulsed crimson as he tracked the lead TIE's erratic roll—his fingers twitched, and twin-linked laser cannons roared. The TIE's spherical cockpit erupted in a flash of white-hot debris, its shattered solar panels spinning wildly into the swamp canopy below.
"One down," Koraz growled, as the shuttle banked violently. Behind him, Spanner's rear turret whined with overcharge as he lined up his shot—the reticle danced across a TIE's port wing panel before he fired. A glancing hit sent the Imperial fighter into a drunken spiral, trailing smoke, but it recovered with a gut-wrenching twist that left Spanner cursing.
The second TIE formation streaked by like a swarm of enraged hornets, their ion engines howling through the thick Rodian atmosphere. Xander's fingers danced across the comm panel, triggering a focused energy pulse that crackled outward—the lead TIE's transmission dissolved into static mid-sentence, its comms now as useless as its pilot's situational awareness. Koraz didn't waste the opening. His cannons lanced out, shearing through a TIE's starboard wing with surgical precision. The fighter spiraled into the canopy below, exploding in a silent bloom of fire muted by distance.
Spanner's turret whined as he pivoted it, tracking one of the remaining rear attackers. His shot went wide—the TIE jinked violently—but the follow-up blast tore through its spherical cockpit in a burst of sparks and vaporized metal. One less problem.
Then the shuttle lurched violently, throwing everyone against their harnesses. Pron snarled a Sullustan curse as warning lights flooded the cockpit—the lead TIE had threaded a perfect shot through their rear shields. Engine output plummeted by a third, the displays bleeding crimson diagnostics.
The shuttle's wounded engines screamed like a gutted rancor, their sputtering thrust slowing them to a dangerous level. Koraz's targeting display flickered—half the systems glitching for a second from the TIE's lucky shot—but he didn't need diagnostics to know the math. Three TIEs left. Their speed advantage had just tripled.
Pron's fingers locked around the control yoke with a grip that threatened to warp the durasteel. The shuttle shuddered violently as he forced it into a spiraling climb, deliberately bleeding speed to keep the remaining TIEs dancing in their forward arc—where Koraz's cannons could chew them apart. "Hold them there," he growled through clenched teeth, sweat beading on his jowls as the inertial compensators screamed in protest.
Roona's fingers flew across her console, overlaying tactical vectors with practiced efficiency. "Pattern Gamma-Seven," she barked, watching the TIEs adjust formation like trained mynocks. "Split here—" she jabbed at a convergence point, "—then strafe engines again." Her voice carried the cold certainty of someone who'd survived too many dogfights to underestimate Imperial pilots.
Koraz's cannons roared, twin bolts of crimson lancing out to bisect a TIE that dared linger too long in his killzone. The explosion painted the swamp below in flickering orange, but the victory was short-lived—the remaining two TIEs broke formation with eerie synchronization, their solar panels tilting to skim the shuttle's belly in a razored pass that made the hull shriek in protest.
The TIEs struck in unison—twin blades slicing upward from beneath the shuttle's blind spot. Their guns chattered emerald death, stitching a line of fire along the Lambda's ventral plating. The shields flared once, twice, then collapsed with a sound like shattering glass. Warning klaxons howled as the shuttle bucked violently, throwing Spanner against his seat's restraints hard enough to taste blood.
Xander's voice cut through the cockpit like a vibroblade—"Shields down!"—just as the shuttle's port engine coughed a plume of black smoke. The Lambda listed violently to starboard, throwing Koraz's next shot wide. Emerald bolts from the remaining TIEs punched through the unshielded hull, tearing a jagged line of molten durasteel along the cargo bay doors.
Koraz's targeting reticle pulsed crimson—not a lock, just a suggestion—as the last TIE screamed past their bow in a blur of hexagonal wings. He exhaled through his nostrils, let the ship's shuddering roll carry his cannons into alignment, and fired. The bolts sheared through the TIE's starboard wing joint, sending it spinning away with the elegance of a drunken dancer. The resulting fireball lit Pron's sweat-slick face orange through the viewport.
The last TIE's cannons spat emerald fire, the bolts carving a molten line across the shuttle's aft section. The impact sent Pron's controls shuddering—alarms wailed as something vital in the engineering compartment gave way with a sound like tearing flesh. Koraz tasted ozone and burnt wiring, the cockpit vibrating with the strain of overstressed systems. Through the rear cam feed, Spanner watched the TIE tighten its turn for another pass—its pilot doubtless smirking behind that black Imperial visor.
FL-AR3's voice crackled through the comms, distorted by damage but chillingly precise: "Structural integrity compromised aft of frame seven-eight. Probability of surviving next impact: 12.3%." The droid's assessment hung in the air like a death sentence.
Roona didn't flinch. Her fingers danced across the nav console—not fleeing, not panicking—reconfiguring. "Vector Lambda-Nineteen," she snapped, eyes locked on the tactical overlay. "Now." Pron saw it too instantly, wrenching the shuddering shuttle into a brutal corkscrew that made the hull groan like a dying man. The TIE overshot, its pilot's reflexes momentarily outpaced by the unexpected maneuver.
Spanner fired as it passed and the last attacker exploded—a starburst of shrapnel and superheated gas that painted the shuttle's rear cams in molten hues. The TIE's shattered cockpit canopy tumbled past their starboard flank. Spanner exhaled through his teeth, his ribs screaming protest as he unclenched his fingers from the turret's firing yoke. The smell of scorched wiring and spilled coolant flooded the cabin.
Pron didn't celebrate. His thick fingers wrenched the shuttle into a slow descent, the remaining engines howling in protest. "Debris field incoming," he barked as twisted durasteel fragments pinged against their hull like hail. Xander's display lit up with damage reports—half their systems bleeding crimson diagnostics. "Shields remain offline," he confirmed. "Port engine at 23%."
Pron's hands trembled against the controls—not from fear, but from the shuttle's death throes vibrating up through the yoke. He kept them low, skimming the swamp canopy so close that streaks of algae and mud splattered across the viewport. The Lambda's remaining engine coughed, spitting black smoke that curled over the wings like a funeral shroud.
"We're not punching hyperspace like this," Xander growled, watching fuel percentages tick downward on his display. His fingers twitched near the emergency power reroute controls—useless now with half the conduits melted through.
FL-AR3's photoreceptors flickered as it processed their trajectory. "Probability of reaching designated hyperspace jump coordinates: 0.7%. Alternative escape method required."
Koraz unbuckled his harness with a snarl, horns scraping the overhead panel as he stood. "Then we disappear," he said. "Find someplace safe to dump this wreck and look for another way off planet. It's too bad we weren't able to take out that jerk Lieutenant."
Roona's fingers paused over the navigation console. Without turning, her voice carried a Rodian's dry precision: "Maybe did eliminate him." She mocked a firing motion with her hand shaped like a blaster.
The words hung in the smoky air. Koraz's claws flexed against the overhead rail. "Explain."
Xander tapped the console with a knuckle, his eyes never leaving the scanner's flickering readout. "That blaster Renn was carrying—Imperial issue." His voice carried the weight of someone piecing together a puzzle they didn't like the shape of.
Pron's jowls quivered as he adjusted their descent angle, skimming the shuttle over a stretch of open water. "Anyone could be lugging Imperial hardware these days," he muttered, the shuttle's wounded engines sputtering in agreement. "Pick a fight with one patrol, walk away with their sidearm. Doesn't prove anything."
Roona's antennae twitched as she turned in her seat, her large black eyes reflecting the shuttle's console lights. "Herkin never at camp," she said, her voice cutting through the engine's rattle. "No records, no sightings—just Renn. With Imperial gun. Now Herkin not here. Where Herkin?"
The shuttle’s damaged engines whined like a wounded animal as Roona’s revelation settled over them. If Herkin was on the Star Destroyer, his shuttle wouldn't be here. He was no where to be found. Could he be lying dead in the swamp from Roona's blaster shot? Koraz’s eyes narrowed. "Herkin was Renn," he repeated, voice dripping with cold amusement. "Of course he was. That arrogant bastard couldn’t resist playing his own game."
Spanner wiped sweat from his brow, wincing as his ribs protested. "So we weren’t just rescuing prisoners—we were stealing his personal hunting stock." The realization twisted his stomach. The Rodians had been brutal, but Herkin—Renn—had been worse. He hadn’t just wanted captives; he’d wanted prey.
Roona's tapped the console. "Herkin not just sell to Rodians for credits," she said, her voice rising over the engine's noise. "Too much risk. Too little profit. Clan Oonta pay well—not enough to justify smuggling off an Imperial warship. He wanted experience. Sick man." She paused for a moment. "Dead man."
Pron dipped the shuttle low, its wounded belly continuing to skim the mangroves so close that the wake of their passage sent ripples through the stagnant water below. The Lambda groaned as it disappeared over the jungle below. Behind them, the wreckage of the TIEs still burned in the distance, their funeral pyres smoldering against the darkening Rodian sky.
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Unused XPS (earned 25)
Spanner - 25
FL-AR3 - 25 (+40)
Pron - 35 (+40) (spent)
Koraz - 35 (spent)
Xander - 25 (spent)
Roona - 30 (spent)
Vagrant Group Funds - 3373 credits
Archelon Group Funds - 5591 credits
Gear: quick sale value in ()
3 Geonosian Rifles hidden in cargo hold for Nyn
4 Blaster Pistols (200 ea)