Star Wars: Mark of the Hutts

[TomatoAssassin]

In the times of the Clone Wars...

The hutt clans find themselves neutral between the conflict of the CIS and the Republic. Instead, they find themselves prospering in regions where military presence is thin, and their syndicates can prosper.

However, they are not alone. A new criminal organization called "The Instigators" has risen from the turmoil of a feuding galaxy. Even the hutt intelligence has been unable to figure out who the mysterious figurehead is behind the startling rise of the organization. All that is known is that they've grown quickly, and violently, and threaten the Hutt's strengthened grasp of the crime market.

In an attempt to cut out the competition, the clans have nominated Jeroba Anjilliac to raise a force and wipe out The Instigators before they're too strong to challenge.

The Instigators based out of an active space port on the outer rim planet Herran 5. What Jeroba did not anticipate was that his superior forces would be met with a resounding clash as they battled with the elite veterans of The Instigators guard. A ragtag group of misfits, gathered from around the galaxy to form a dangerous force, the two crime syndicates soon turn the space port Maharin into a wasteland of rubble... a wasteland, neither side is willing to forfeit.

Our story begins as both sides sit miles away, holed in, playing a game of shadows and precision strikes, hoping to gain the upper hand. No one is getting reinforcements. No one has air support. But both sides cannot win.

[TomatoAssassin]

Maharin smelt like dust. Not dirt, like the soil where a plant might take root. And not ash, as if something might have recently burnt. Dust. Dust is the smell of something long since burnt, decayed, and become lifeless. Dancer liked it.

He'd sat this spot for nearly two days, watching the corner where his detonator packs lay. It had taken a couple weeks to form enough barriers that looked natural enough, that a wandering patrol might be funneled down this choke point. He'd passed up on two patrols already. He wasn't about to waste precious plasma charges on any rogue patrol of 5, or 8. If he couldn't get the double digits... well... it just wasn't worth even thinking about. Fortunately, another of The Instigators was out there popping head-shots, so hopefully they'd start bolstering their patrol numbers.

The rubble of the city stopped sound from traveling. Here in the heart of it all, it was silent save for the soft rustle of Dancer's respirator. Then, in the distance, a hard laugh... or a cough. Either way, it was a sound that stood against the dark silence that otherwise surrounded the Ubese. Undoubtedly, whoever made the noise received a sharp cuff to the back of the head, and the rest of the troop would proceed cautiously. Dancer started to wiggle on his perch in anticipation. His hand slid to his waist-side pouch and pulled out a detonator.

It seemed an eternity before the first of the party emerged around the far bend. A brute in a mandalorian helmet... no other mandalorian gear though... a scavanger... scum. Another merc followed, then another... and another.

Soon, the bend filled with 23 armed mercs, all shuffling quietly and slowly. The last of them breached the blast perimeter, and with the force that Dancer pressed down on the ignitor switch, the whole detonator might have snapped in half.

His breath caught in his throat.

Nothing happened. The mercs still approached, and Dancer's thermal charges sat there, not listening to his commands. A quiver of disgust ran through the Ubese. This opportunity was NOT going to pass him up.

Unslinging Tarrence from his shoulder, Dancer brought the micro grenade launcher to bare, and slide down the escapement from his perch, and broke into a sprint towards the approaching troupe. All it would take was a well placed grenade near one of his packs, and all the charges should go up.

The scout leader spotted him and quickly brought his blaster rifle to arm. The rest of the troupe followed suit.

The following seconds were blurs to Dancer. Blaster bolts flew bye, tearing apart the foundation he ran on, the cover he dove towards, and the air that was sucked into his respirator. Perhaps it was as the other Instigators said, and his name derived from his peculiar way of miming to communicate, but Dancer preferred to believe it was moments like these that accredited his namesake. Dancer slipped past the laser fire, untouched, until he was in range of his charges.

Tarrence's muzzle came up, and with a resounding THUMP fired it's one and only volley.

- - - - -

Dancer stood before the crater, on a precipice, looking down upon his handiwork. Most likely his comrades would be upset by the fact that most of the useful gear was vaporized, but he was sure they'd understand. Anyways, nobody really ever yelled at him anyways.

The bombardier turned from his handiwork, and started the treck back to headquarters to report in. Pulling a thermal detonator from his pocket, he tossed it in the air, and caught it as he walked.

[Aegir]

Lorn sat on one of the armor plates of a small dropship...or a massive droid. It was at least tenn feet tall, whatever it was. Hell, with this degree of destruction, whatever it was was largely irrelevant. He would define it as "steel." He slowly ripped the top of his ration, surveying the area through his filthy goggles. He didn't see anyone, and if there was a sniper out there, the Rodian figured he'd have a fancy new hole in him by now. This was probably a good spot to take five. Cover to his back, probably friendly territory to his face. He could spare five minutes. He read the package. "Add water." Disgusting filth, these rations were. Tasted only slightly worse than the ground beneath his feet. Most of the men said they were better as-is, and that adding water was a complete waste of water. After all, they weren't likely to be resupplied for...ever. So he had to make do. But Lorn found that he couldn't choke down the nutrient bar without the moisture, and he poured a bit of the fetid contents of his canteen into the flat black bag. He had to wait a minute or so for the water to be absorbed and let his mind wander.

Somewhere out there, someone was carrying a power pack that would mean his death. He only had to avoid it for the rest of his life. Sounded easier than it really was. He looked down at his Death Hammer. Good solid blaster pistol. Crussk swore by them, and damned it the Trandoshan didn't change Lorn's mind. It hit like a brick made out of lasers and with the low-pitched thump noise it made after the trigger was pulled, it was a fair bit quieter than most, which was great in a situation like this. Lorn seriously hoped he wouldn't meet Crussk in these ruins. The Trandoshan was really the best being on Hutt payroll, in his opinion, and worth at least four of his masters. His thoughts were interrupted by a crunch on the other side of the his wrecked bench.

Ever so quietly, he crawled across the warped metal, trying to find a nice bullet hole. He took a careful step, heel first, slowly followed by the rest of the foot. Stable. Good. He spied a series of rips in the hull of whatever this thing was. Someone was using slugthrowers against it. That was in poor taste. Probably a Weequay. Lorn had nothing but contempt for the species. Being a slave isn't much fun, but there was no call to be unsociable about it. After all, a joke here and there makes the job infinitely better. Two being sat on the other side of the wreck. Both were fairly lithe looking, both wore nice body armor and one had a helmet. Lorn thought about it a bit. "Nice" meant "mostly clean" in his own definition. The helmeted one sat on an armor plate with an open suitcase, assembling what appeared to be a rifle. As it drew the scope from the case, Lorn's heart rose. He wasn't a sniper by any definition, but on the whole they had claimed enough men in the city that this rifle was worth the lives of twenty soldiers.

The other being took a bite of his ration. It made a loud crunch and Lorn suddenly felt justified in the anal-retentiveness he showed toward his dirt-seasoned gruel, which sat patiently on the other side of the twisted metal hulk. The one without the helmet turned to the other. It was a human. He could always tell humans from other species. It was a talent. However, he could NEVER get their genders figured out, and never really thought it was that important. "Do you think their food tastes better than ours?"
The helmeted one fished pieces of a trigger mechanism out of the case. Silence. The human continued. "I mean, it can't possibly be worse. They don't make them worse than this."
Again its compatriot was silent. "Fine. Hell with you then."
"I'm concentrating. Here."
The helmeted one handed something to the humans, who began affixing it to himself. It was a spotter scope. Like a single goggle that judged distance, wind speed, gravity, and planetary rotation.

Lorn had had enough personal gloating over his soon-to-be ambush and drew his vibro-blade from his left boot. He gave the handle a couple of squeezes to ensure he had it, and drew his Death Hammer. The barrel had a ding in it that made a strange click when he shot, like something was catching, but beyond that it worked just fine. Fired straight enough too. He climbed over a bit of wreckage, completely exposing himself. The helmeted one was too engrossed in assembling his rifle, and the other one was trying to calibrate his scope.

His a sudden surge of hate-fueled adrenaline he attacked, swinging his vibro-blade at the human and unloading his pistol at the helmeted one, point-blank. The helmeted one, having essentially been executed, slumped forward on the ground at an awkward angle. The blade harmlessly bumped off of the back-plate of the human, who seemed utterly surprised. With a squeeze, Lorn heard a faint buzzing noise. The human knew he was here. No point in being silent about it. The human dodged backward a few times as the Rodian swung wildly with his blade. Lorn felt a tinge of sympathy as the human struggled with the buckle on his holster. Lorn aimed his gun at the human and fired three shots at its chest. the first one made a smoking crater, the second punctured the formerly-nice armor, and the third was for good measure.

As the human hit the ground, Lorn knelt down and sunk his blade into the human's back. Then he patted the body down, scavenging two power packs, and added them to his own pockets. Ammo would be more valuable than food at some point, he reckoned. He went back to the helmeted figure. Stupid helmets never fit Rodians. His ears and mouth always got smashed into the damn thing. If he wanted to first-base his equipment he'd at LEAST choose his gun. It had earned some love, and it may save him from being taken back to the Hutts. As he patted down the helmeted figure he found a small bag of power packs. Clearly they were going to invest in this sniper position. The figure made a slight moan and callously a blade slipped between its shoulder blades. Lorn checked the case. The barrel needed to be affixed, but beyond that, the gun was whole. Good. A quick twist and the gun was completed.

Trophy-in-hand, the Rodian turned to set back to the base when he had an idea. He went back to the human's corpse and found its ration. Taking a small bite he came to a sudden realization:

They DO make them worse than that.

[TomatoAssassin]

"You've got a death-wish, Dancer."

Dancer stopped, and let the dust settle around his feet. He turned his head and found the source of the voice, Patrolman Grease sat in a shadowed alcove, grinning down at the Ubese. His hair hung loosely over his face, and his skin glistened with sweat, the foundation of his namesake. The patrolman laughed.

"I swear, a bomb goes off in this wasteland, and next thing i always see is you skipping back into camp with half a bag of swag. We'd probably be rolling in rations and energy cells if you didn't vaporize everything you saw." Grease jumped down from his perch and landed quietly beside Dancer. When he straitened up, he met a rations pack being held in front of his face. "Well... perhaps you do your part," he chuckled, grabbing the pack. "Although i don't know if i should be thanking you, their rations taste just as bad as ours. Come on now, Top Man has called a meeting, all units have been pulled in."

Together the pair drew closer to HQ, and as they did, more units came out of the dust... although most kept their distance. Everyone knew what sort of ordinance Dancer traveled with, and nobody was too anxious to push their luck any further. Soon enough, men were disappearing into a solid concrete wall, like phantoms. Dancer couldn't help but hold his breath while passing through the shield. Inside the projection, a tunnel lead down into the rubble, and the contrast was painstaking.

Inside HQ, everything was spotless. With the rush of men entering the barrier, cleaner droids scurried around the corridors, cleaning up dust and mud. Top Man didn't tolerate cluttered quarters.

The main corridor opened into the rec room, and there men were dropping bags and a clutter of items in front of the Requisition Officer.

Salvage.

Most of it fried, broken, or useless. Everyone kept the good stuff for themselves. Official policy was to turn in all salvage, but with rationing so sparse, and ammo stores running low, nobody wanted to be left dry. Dancer dropped a bag half filled with pistols and energy cells at the officer's feet.

"I don't expect this is filled with grenades and explosives, is it D-Man?" The officer cocked his eyebrow. Dancer pumped a fist at the officer, not subtle. "Yeah, i expected as much. Get out of here, hologram room at 24:00.
What is it Grease!? Where's your bag?"

Grease threw his hands up, "Oh come on man, i was on station in our territory! I didn't see anything besides dust and my own..."

Dancer moved towards the barracks wing, the sound of clutter fading behind him.

With as few men as were left, men picked and chose where they bunked down... because of that, most chose to bunk away from Dancer's bunk. In a second, the panel behind his bunk was opened and on the floor. Inside sat Dancer's stash. He chose not to rig it. Most of the men believed he was rigging everything, anyways, so nobody came snooping.

Proton grenades, proton bombs, null-burst projectors, frag mines, buster rockets, luit pyrocrackers, and so much more. Dancer had three more smaller stashes in the wastes... and those were booby-trapped.

After he added his new found plasma and frag grenades to his stash, he closed it back up and sunk into his cot. Dust puffed up around him and the cleaner droids started a rush into the room.

At 24:00 he'd have to be in the hologram room.. till them, it was sleep.

[Aegir]

(OOC: Fine, I'll do it then. But don't be pissed if its not what you want.)

23:45. Lorn rubbed his solid black eyes and slipped out of his bunk. He opened his unlocked footlocker and began to drag his stuff out. The only thing in there that anyone would be tempted to steal were power packs, and if he reported theft he could always get new ones. His vibro-blade was an obscure Rodian design and most people found that gave limited combat options. His blaster was old, with a battered muzzle and a paint job that had been done professionally by high explosives in close proximity. Of course he wasn't there when it acquired its custom look but he certainly appreciated that most people assumed it was falling apart. He started to slip into his combat jumpsuit, making sure the pads were all in the right place. It utterly reeked of him. Water rationing made bathing completely out of the question. The only godsend in this situation was the dust. It acted as a primitive form of deodorant, masking the dozens of stenches that were able to strip paint off of armor, crush the will to fight, and choke out Klatooinian vulture-wasps.

Hologram room. That was why he'd woken up. Lorn began to slip into his foul boots and tighten the straps. Something important, possibly. And with the dispatching of the sniper pair and the return of a mint condition rifle and ample ammunition, he'd been given the good eye by Top Man. Of course he'd aggrandized his accomplishments, but everyone did, right? In his story, the snipers were in position already and there MAY have been some white lies. Maybe a promotion? Maybe one that involved more job flexibility? Solo reconnaissance was the job you gave to people who you didn't expect to last long in a fight. Among many of the men it was considered an insult.

The Rodian began his walk to the hologram room and noted the cleanliness of the barracks. One hundred clean, well-made bunks and most would never be occupied again. A polished floor on a planet without a single building untouched by warfare. It was all stupid, really. It certainly wasn't their first barracks, and the condition of some of the salvaged materials supported the idea. Footlockers were mismatched, damaged, and overstuffed. It would have been funny if the situation weren't so desperate.

Less than fifty beings sat in the meeting room. Far too many of them were officers or non-combatants. Top Man stood in front of everyone in front of the projector. In a completely-expected ironic twist, Top Man was actually a droid. Not REALLY a droid. He was hiding elsewhere in the city, and used the droid to project his orders to the grunts. With the situation as bad as it is, they were taking in anyone who could hold a weapon who wanted to shoot Hutt-thugs. That probably included a few spies or an assassin. Without leadership, the entire force would crumble. And with the Hutts off-planet and an aerial stalemate, their leader had gone into hiding. Top Man was really more of a nickname given by slightly miffed underlings, but it didn't bother him at all.

The HKB-3 hunter-killer droid spoke in a muffled voice through a too-small speaker. Everyone leaned in to hear their orders better. You would think that with his orders being so important, Top Man could have spent more on vocal technology, but the crappy com system was undetectable to outside sources. It came across as meaningless static to outside ears. Hell, it sounded close to meaningless static to the correct ears.

"Vvvvv-vvv-vvvvvv...Orders are as follows: Hutt vvvvv-stubs have arrived on-world and the Hu-vvvv a shop that their mercs can spend their credits in-vvvvvv. Its the Hutt way to try and hook vvvvvv things they don't need so they can get their credits back. Said credits are in a vault inside their base. If we steal them, we vvvv break the resolve of their army. If they aren't being paid, they'll likely go home-vvvvvv. Men who aren't being paid, vv supplied with their booze and drugs of choice have no reason to risk their lives, and the Hutts won't pay them twice. I have assembled a team that I think can sneak inside vvvvvv base and make the steal. We don't need to possess the credits, only deny them to vvvv enemy. Lieutenant Dorn will brief you further-vvvvvvv. Over and vvvvvvvv."

A fairly large being in a suit of full body armor stood and gestured to the projector. A 3D image of the known whereabouts of the enemy stronghold showed up. Through the helmet, a synthesized voice spoke. "We have chosen seven of you for this mission. We don't know how to infiltrate the base, so that's something you must work out for yourselves. It will be dangerous. There will likely be traps, patrols, snipers, and guard animals. We have the code for the vault that its in, and we know roughly where the vault is, but you must get to it yourself."
Lieutenant Dorn turned to the hologram and pointed inside the middle of a large tower that had seen far better days. "The vault is in here. I have activated seven of your comm units. If yours is displaying a blue light, stick around for further instruction. Personal instructions will be given as the situation warrants. The rest of you: DISMISSED."

Lorn looked down to see a blue light on his comm. His heart soared. He figured that they had less than three weeks until the rest of the force crumbled. Food and ammunition were a rarity, and most carried the pain of lost comrades on their backs as though their bodies were still stacked there. Lorn figured that this was really their last shot to stick it to the slug-lords. He sighed. One last trip to the Requisition Officer before this thing was absolutely over one way or the other...

[TomatoAssassin]

The light on the comm held a steady blue. Dancer's eyes fixed on it, while his hand rolled a pair of thermal detonators in it's palm. The other six Instigators in the room eyed him warily.

Lieutenant Dorn looked up from the hologram and eyed the men. He looked at every troop separately, catching their gaze for a moment than moving on. Dancer looked up to make eye contact, then returned his gaze to the blue light.

"You guys are it, huh?" Dorn's chuckle rasped through his helmet. Dancer glanced to the left and saw Grease grinning back at him. Beyond him sat a Rodian... Torn? Lorn? Dancer couldn't remember, considering he was fresh into the group. The Lieutenant cleared his throat, "Alright boys, let's get this over with. You know the goal, you have the specs, you have the know how, but i'm seriously questioning if you have the nutmeat for it.

That being said, it's probably best if you get to know each-other. I doubt most of you have ever met. Bunch of antisocial misfits. You've all been working on solo reconnaissance until now, and that's why you've been chosen. Each of you has displayed a select skill set, and now you need to learn to use it to benefit as a group.

Alright. You, stand up." A trandoshian of thick build stood up. On each thigh was a disruptor pistol, and slung across his back was probably the biggest hammer Dancer had ever seen. It certainly looked disproportional to his body. "This is Kerissh. He's our hammer. I've personally never seen anybody take so much pleasure in swinging a mallet, but i'm not going to argue against something that seems to work so well." Kerissh sat again and stroked the handle of one of his pistols.

"Now this is Geets, or as i understand, most people call you Grease." Grease stood up with a grin and paraded a bow to the rest of the troops, his hair leaving a bright shine on the counter as it brushed by. "Grease is our cover boy, our scope man, our sniper. Personally Grease, i challenged Top Man's selection of you. Lets hope his judgement is better than mine." Grease sat back down with a bit more reservation than before.

"Next we have the Rodian, Lorn. Stand up soldier!" Dancer flinched with how quickly the Rodian came to attention. The Lieutenant walked up to Lorn and looked him in the eyes. "This boy has more reason than the rest of you combined, to go over there and give those slugs something to think about. He's proven that he's not totally useless out in the wastes, so he'll be joining you."

"An here's our lil pyro. Stand up, Beru, so long as you put away those damn ball busters first." Dancer slipped his thermal detonators into his pouch and stood. "Most of you know this tweaker as Dancer. You should know two things about him. Never get into his stuff, and if he drops that gun of us, run in the opposite direction. This boy carries enough ordinance to take out this entire bunker. He'll talk to yah, if he likes yah, but good luck understanding him. Otherwise you better be damn good at charades."

Dancer sat, as the Lieutenant made the rest of the intros. After the first four, the group consisted of Duros called Dome; the tech specialist and hacker, Sshtero; another trandosian wielding instead a heavy repeater, and Perrif; a sullustan that Top Man had been using for months on stealth reconnaissance. A natural with a stealth field generator.

"Perrif is receiving an immediate promotion to Officer, and you will all report to him on this trek. He knows more about the enemy base than any of our men, so his word is final. You all head out at 07:00, so get some rest, and stock up. Visit the Req. officer if you need anything, he'll supply it. Dismissed."

Dancer sat there a moment longer. If anyone could see past his respirator, they would see the grin on his face, stretching his parched lips so much that they cracked.

Oh... he would visit the Req. officer, but he highly doubted if he was going to get any sleep tonight.

[Aegir]

Lorn looked over the rest of the crew. Two Trandoshans, a little thing he was unfamilar with, a human female, a Duros, and what was probably a Ubese. Who knows what's under that armor. Could be another human female for all he knew. The Rodian stood in line behind one of the Trandoshans, who was waiting for the Requisition officer to return to his post, heavy repeater slung over its back. Trying to make small talk, Lorn gave him a light slap on the arm. The massive olive green reptile turned. "Ssssssss...?"
Lorn pointed at Grease. "What's she doing coming along with us?"
He saw its lips curl. "Its a male..."
"I can never tell with humans. So its going to be all men then? I suppose its just as well. Females lack the hunter's instinct."
"I'm female."
Lorn suddenly felt incredibly stupid, having failed at determining two species' genders in fifteen seconds. Thankfully, Sshtero only needed massive new shoulder plates and loads of ammunition. Lorn got to the window where the officer stood. He earned his job, which was made evident by his robotic forearms. The prosthesis were clearly cheap, and likely lacked nerve endings, resulting in terrible reflexes. Lorn slammed his gun down on the table. "Trigger sticks. You wouldn't happen to have a new trigger mechanism for a heavy blaster lying around would you? And while you're at it, a new power cell for the vibro-blade would be nice."
The Requisition officer nodded and started fishing through the piles of salvage in the back. Lorn thought about it. This was his last hurrah. "Could I get that chest piece too? The blue one? And some black spray?"
The officer nodded. After a bit of finagling he handed over a small pile of trash. Lorn collected it and went to his bunk.

Reloading the vibro-blade was easy, and after making the chest plate black, the swap was also easy. The armor bits were modular and came off and on easily enough. Luckily for him, the chest piece was in pristine condition. Still had chunks of its last owner on it, but most armor did. The only thing that bothered Lorn was the smell. It didn't smell like his, but it was far thicker and far less brittle than his own, which had started to develop micro-cracks near the armpits. As he began to break down his blaster pistol, he looked over to see the Trandoshans whispering to each other and looking in his direction. Lorn felt a sudden wave of embarrassment. Then a sudden wave of interest as the presumably male Trandoshan started to touch the female Trandoshan's back and whisper. She slapped him and Lorn felt his stomach churn. This cannot continue. They didn't have enough rations to throw any away on vomit, and the thought of gigantic terrifying lizard love was just too much.

He removed the old trigger and examined it side by side with the new one. The old trigger mechanism seemed worn and the trigger itself was skewed to the left a fair bit. With a quick swap, the gun would be as good as new. As he finished putting his gun back together, Lorn felt a cold sweat up his back. Maybe the reason he was sent instead of someone more useful is because of his sniper story. He didn't evade their fire, climb a three-story building, and outgun both of them. He ambushed them. Killed them while they were essentially unarmed.

At least one member of the group wouldn't be sleeping well tonight. He looked over at the pair of Trandoshans as they furtively left the main room. Suppressing a gag, he wondered if any of the team members would sleep tonight...

[TomatoAssassin]

It had taken Dancer roughly an hour to stop shaking before he could begin work on the LX-4 proton mine. The req. officer had a deep furrow in his brow when Dancer made the request after all the others had gone through. For a minute he thought his request would be denied, but it seemed that Top Man's say won out in the end.

Dancer sat at the foot of his bunk, tools scattered around his floor, and the panel to his stash removed, multiple explosive components exposed. Their parts were all familiar to him. He might not have ever really learned what they were called, but they responded to his touch, nonetheless.

So engrossed in his work, was he, that Dancer didn't even notice Grease walking up to the perimeter of his work space.

"The mission," Grease blurted out, causing Dancer to twitch, "as i understood it, was to mess with their vault... not the orbit of the planet. What in a rancor's diaper do you think you're going to do with that?"

Dancer couldn't help but look up at Grease. His shoulders quivered. He tried to mime the explosion, the perfectly synchronized placement of the charge and the collapse that would result, but based on Grease's confused face, he assumed that the message didn't get through.

No time, no time. Must work. Not done. Nooooo, not close. No time.

Grease's body seemed to clench as the Ubese returned to ignoring him. Soon, Dancer was alone once more.

No. Not alone. Work. Work means not alone. Always good. Never alone.

The early hours of the morning flew by. 06:00 struck right as Dancer replaced the casing on the mine. His satchel was packed in minutes. Tarrence was oiled and primed. Dancer carried two rations of food, yet his shoulders sagged with the weight of his pack.

07:00. HURRY!

[Aegir]

(OOC: My apologies for the tardiness. Let's get this bitch rocking.)

Lorn woke up to the electric shock of his time-keeper. Electric shock will wake you up better than any sound. He rubbed his eyes. Crusties. He always had them. It was the dust. His goggles did a hell of a job, but they were never enough. He wondered how the place stayed so clean with so many filthy people traipsing through it. At least the anal retentive cleanliness made the barracks feel safe, even if they weren't. Sometimes shells rocked the place and the light flickered. But dust never settled, like you see in the holovids. There simply wasn't dust in the ceiling. The Rodian got to his feet and made his way to the briefing room, armor already on, weapons quickly sliding into holsters. He entered through the sliding doors and was met by brilliant white light. The others sat scattered through the room, looking bleary-eyed. They all had their equipment strapped on. Most wore armor, some wore helmets, and all were armed. You simply couldn't get by on this planet without a side-arm.

The robot entered from the "command room." In truth, no one knew what was in that room. It was likely some kind of droid-care station, as whoever Top Man was hiding out in the ruins somewhere. The droid stood in a regal pose, unflinching. Lorn knew that the intent was to emphasize through body language that it was a competent leader, but the simple fact was this: You can pose a droid in any way you want, like a child's toy. Stance is as useful as bantha fodder out here, and certainly cheaper.

"Good mor-vvvvvvv. Yesterday you were all briefed on the mission. This morning you will be released to vvvvvvvvvv. Do not come back until their coffers are completely empty. Remember, the Hutts will not pay them twice, and if they don't pay their vvvv, then most of their men will stop fighting. I trust vvv all know each other well enough by now. Take caution, as they have sent more of their patrols out this morning. They likely have the place bugged or have spies in position. Keep an eye out for vvvvvvvvv suspicious. Orders will be issued individually as I see fit. Squad leader, take command: Out."

Perrif stood before them, incredibly short. "We have unpleasant work before us. Let's not waste time jawing."
Lorn smiled at the irony of a Sullustan complaining about the amount of "jawing." In every sense of the word. The creature before him had what he'd consider to be an excess of...face. And he was convinced that there wasn't a species alive that liked to hear themselves talk more than the Sullustans. Made great ships, but never shut up about it or anything. How this one was a stealth operative was completely beyond him. It went on. "We'll be walking for a day and a half. We'll need to take a break to sleep and eat and recharge at some point. I have a point on my map. We'll make a line straight there. At a good clip we should be there just before nightfall. We'll leave just after dawn. I've synched up our comms and sent the map to each of you. If you get separated, stick to the path. Move out."

After twenty minutes or so of goodbyes and last-minute checks, they emerged into the dusted wastes. Gray dust blew constantly across the landscape. The entire planet seemed endlessly gray, like the afterlife of some primitive sub-culture. Except that there was an exit from this afterlife, and it involved some other bastard getting the better of you. The troop began the trek toward their collective destiny, a mixed assortment of species, aiming to topple the Hutts' crime ring. And so began this fellowship, to destroy the ring...

After an hour or so, Lorn heard a blip on his comm and saw a small blue light appear on everyone else's comm. He looked down. No one else heard or checked their comms. Lorn, Grease is a traitor. Subdue him, get into position, and prepare for execution at my order. I have informed the others. You are my hand. Lorn was taken aback at first, unsure of what to do. Then he looked forward to see the corridor they were about to walk through. He thought to himself. This could be a minefield, or an ambush. He knows the route. Therefore they all do. The bastard needs to die.

Lorn walked purposefully to the human and drew his own pistol. He grabbed it by the barrel and struck the man on the back of the head, leaving a shiny streak on the handle of his pistol. "What the f-!"
Several guns were trained on Lorn. "Shut up, traitor! Check your comms!"
Everyone looked tentatively down at them, then moved their guns to face Grease. The human's eyes looked swollen and he seemed terrified. Lorn spoke. "Top Man says you get executed, traitor. Were you going to run us through a bunch of ambushes? Maybe a minefield? SPEAK!"
The human looked from one being to another. "I don't...I didn't do...no..."
Lorn drew his vibro-blade. With a squeeze the blade emitted a low hum. He held the blade at the disgusting human's throat. A slight red trickle began to run down his filthy neck. "Once Top Man gives the orders, you're dead, scum. Any last words?"
Grease knelt on the ground, clearly terrified. His lips trembled but no sound came out. Lorn heard a blip and checked the comm. Heart rate analysis completed. Perrif is the real traitor. Execute with extreme prejudice. Apologize to Grease.

Lorn looked to each of the other beings in the squad, as they looked at their own comms. He took his blade from Grease' throat and looked at the Sullustan. Several guns were trained on him. Lorn heard a rumbley voice say "Extreme prejudice" before a pair of shots were fired. The beauty of disruptor weapons is the lack of bodies left behind. Without a body, there was no evidence that their spy had been found out. He heard a blip. Beru is now squad leader. Course change recommended.

Lorn looked to Grease, who's eyed were puffy and red, his breathing still accelerated. "I'm sorry, Grease. I just...orders..."
The man got to his feet and threw a punch that left the Rodian sprawled on the ground. "Now we're even..."

(OOC: I should write a book, LOL.)

[TomatoAssassin]

Beru was thankful for his helmet and respirator. If any of the group could see his mouth hanging agape, or his eyes bulging in shock, there would be no way any of the others would follow him.

And here they all were, looking at him. The trandosian pair looked hungry, the duros... well... was supposedly looking at him. With the size of their eyes he could never tell. Grease was grinning at him, and the Rodian was pushing himself off the ground.

The only thought rolling through his mind was "How am i supposed to lead them? None of them know me. I don't know them. I was just supposed to blow shit up." The second the thought occurred, Beru cursed himself for being stupid. The same thing ran for the others. Nobody knew him, except for the fact that where he went, a crater appeared with him. Even Grease, what he considered the closest thing he had to a friend out here, didn't actually know him.

Dancer turned on a heal and scanned the wasteland before them, and pulled his map up. They obviously couldn't go the path they had originally in mind. There were a couple other paths that would only add an hour or two to their course projection, but Beru had a bad feeling about that.

Spotting a small alcove off to the north, he set off, letting the others scramble to keep up. When he reached it, he turned and projected the map in front of him for the rest to see. None had fallen behind, and were quick to gather around it. Beru cleared his throat, and prepared to speak.

"Hold it boss," Grease interrupted. "No disrespect to you, but i've heard your voice once before, and i don't want to set the troops any more on edge than they already are right now. I've seen your dance often enough, so hows about i translate for yah, that way everyone can understand?"

Beru was quick to agree. Some people laughed at how he communicated with his hands, but he preferred it as his natural custom, than struggling to vocalize his intent. His hands started to twist, his wrists jerked, and his arms waved in mini circles before him.

"Alright," Grease shifted his body, a drop of sweat running off his nose. "Bossman says that we can't take the path we originally had set before us, Top Man said so himself." He paused to study Beru's jerking movements again. "He also says that, while there are several tempting paths to take that lead straight towards the Hutt camp, he expects that since the hutts know we're coming, they'll have extra patrols on those routes, as well as posted snipers and tweilek dancers...."

Beru reached over and slapped Grease across the back of the head. He immediately regretted it as he had to wipe his glove off on the wall beside him, leaving a smear in the dust.

Grease looked at him incredulously. Beru gestured again, "OH! Sorry boss. Posted snipers and surveillance droids. You're right, that does make more sense."

Beru shook his head, and continued. Grease watched, and his eyes grew wide. "Boss, you can't be serious." Beru just looked at him, and waited for him to translate. Grease sighed, "Beru says that all the easy ways pose too much of a risk that our mission will fail. He suggests we head north by north-east and enter the facility by way of..."

Grease fell silent looking at the trandosians warily. It was the Duros, Dome, that prodded him on. "What is it, Grease-Man? Spit it out."

Grease held his breath, then exhaled. "He suggests we enter the facility by way of their sewage disposal system, three clicks north of the complex."

The group was silent. All eyes shifted from Grease to the Ubese. Dancer stood there, arms crossed, firm that his decision was the best he could come up with. He met everyone's eyes, noting that the male Trandosian was shifting from foot to foot. Beru let his hand slide into a pouch sewed into his armor in his right armpit.

Kerissh spoke, "Why tiny man desssside? Kerissh strong and proud. Kerissh lead you all. No ssstinking hutt wassste. We move. We kill. Kerissh lead. Not Ubessse weakman."

Grease spoke up first. "Now you heard Top Man, Kerissh. While i'm certain, that you would be a formidable leader, Beru has been here longer than any of us. I'll bet that..." Grease was interrupted by Kerissh's claws swiping at his face. They came up short, as Dancer had watched only Kerissh as he slowly wound up to pounce.

A flurry of motion followed as the tiny Ubese flung himself on the Trandosian's back. The others watched the spectacle as Beru pulled his hand out of his pocket and struck down into the back of the lizards neck. Kerissh hissed and scratched at his neck, trying to get the implement out. Beru whispered to the lizard, "I would not do that, were i you, scale hide."

Kerissh slowed his movements and looked around at the others, Beru still on his back. The Ubese caught his breath and continued. "You've seen what i do, i do not stab, i do not poison. What, is in your neck?"

Kerissh stopped moving all together. Beru felt his body tense even more, and he slowly moved his claw up his neck, and felt the metal device.

The lizard breathed out in a gust, "Ubessse make sssslave of Kerisssh?!"

Beru jumped off his back and landed beside the lizard. "Good, scale hide. But no, it is only slave collar in appearance. After mission, i take off." Beru's voice cracked and gurggled out of his respirator. He hoped that the Kerissh understood him. "This one, unique though. This one fitted with plasma detonator. This one, connected to my armor's vital systems. I die, you die. I lead you. Understand, scale hide?"

The trandosian hissed once more and felt at the collar that was attached to his neck. "I will kill you, tiny ubesssse, onsssse collar issss off."

Beru nodded his head in understanding. In all honesty, he didn't expect to going back to home base at all. He had nothing to fear of this scale hide.

Dancer looked at Grease, who appeared to have just seen a Rancor ghost. He gestured, "Umm... right... so... anymore questions?" Nobody stood forward. "Right-o... so... i guess we head out. Kerissh, you take point for the first hour."

Beru stood by and watched each member stroll by. When Sshtero stalked by, he heard the female trandosian chuckle, "Me Kerissh, sstrong warrior. Hsshhshhh... Little Ubessse besst mighty Kerissh. Hsshhsssh. Now Sshtero hassss seen all."

[Aegir]

(OOC: You'll have to bear with me. The ghost of last night is hanging around, so my sobriety is not at all assured...but this seems like a good time.)

The group gathered around the holomap, save one butthurt Trandoshan. The nearest sewer entrance was nearly a mile away. It was an access tunnel, used for internal repairs. The city they inhabited had a well-constructed waste management system, and virtually ran itself. Lorn looked at the ground. He was trying to think of a way to describe the situation that didn't use the word "shitty." He hated puns. They weren't funny, nor were people who made them, by association. The entire situation just went from bad, to worse, with an increased chance of success. All the more stress on the remaining party members.

The group moved on toward the objective, sticking to thick cover and rubble, and keeping a wary eye out for enemy patrols. It was almost not worth looking for mines or snipers. Both were in limited supply, and both would kill you if they had the desire. You simply had to accept it and hope they were merciful the day they saw you. Keep your eyes on the rooftops and you'd get shot by patrols, which were a more consistent threat.

As the group entered the gardens in front of a bombed-out business, Lorn scanned the surroundings. No patrols. The thing that had his attention the most was the foliage. The garden still had clean fresh-pruned trees. The dust and grit of the city coated each individual leaf, indicating that the foliage was plastic. A plastic garden. Lorn laughed to himself about the irony of it. The only living plants in the city were never alive at all. As they began their trek across the garden, a noise echoed through the near-empty garden, followed by a noise. Lorn looked back to see Sshtero kneeling, clutching her leg. Dark green fluid oozed out, which Lorn assumed to be blood. "Ssssssniper!"

The group scattered and Lorn found himself behind a fake tree. He patted it. Not bulletproof. With a quick dash, he made his way to a low wall around a fountain, next to the human. Another sound and concrete dust blew into the air twenty feet away, beside an identical wall surrounding a similar fountain. Lorn hadn't the mind to check on his compatriots, but no one was crying MEDIC, so he assumed all was well. He chanced a look at the structure for the sniper's whereabouts but found nothing. The building was torn up and down. It was easy to hide in. And the sniper had to be using an ionic suppressor, because Lorn hadn't seen either of the bolts.

So much for mercy. But hey, at least there were no landmines...

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