*** *** Thyveck *** ***

It had been eight hours since the Republic force had breached Valdell Gate. For the last seven and a half hours, the fighting in this section of the Bastion had ceased. The Imperial Army and Stormtrooper forces had nothing to do but sit on their hands and wonder what was going on.

The officers of the ad hoc company had remained in their command tent for all those hours, frantically readying their soldiers for the assault they felt was coming imminently. Inexplicably, though, the Republic attack force had halted before hostilities could recommence. Every few hours, they’d put a call in to Bastion Command, but the links were full of static, interference, and every level of command from squad to company screaming for orders.

Gates stepped from the tent; this world’s sun was setting. The stars were visible on the western horizon, but a golden-red light played across the clouds from the setting sun. Imperial soldiers still moved about, constantly preparing their weapons, killing their boredom. The old army adage came to mind - ‘hurry up and wait.’

The air in Garryll’s helmet was stale; he’d spent almost the entire last eight hours in armor, and most of it had included his helmet sealed, in preparation of the assault they were anticipating. He pulled the helmet off, and let the cooling night air hit him. It was fresh, but carried with it the stench of gunsmoke, fire and death. It was the stench of war, put on hold but still present; contained but straining at its prison.

He slipped his micro-bead into his ear and tapped it. “Phoenix Command,” he muttered.

Gates only had to wait a moment; no one was using the low-frequency Phoenix encryption, as there was only a few dozen who even knew the codes for it. All of the comm traffic was headed to Bastion Command. Gates’ connection was smoother, quieter, and just as effective.

“Havock?” Garryll mumbled into his link. “Can you tell me what’s going on? The entire com network is shot to shit. We can’t get orders down here.”

“Orders are all confused,” Havock replied. “This much I can tell you: Bastion is no longer a defensible location. Raiders Squad sabotaged the structural support. The entire base could fall into a sink hole with enough force. It’s not worth fighting over.”

“So why aren’t the Reppies runnin’ away?”

“Because both sides have gotten reinforcements,” Havock said. “Some VE troop carriers and cruisers finally showed up, but they were only able to deploy a few companies before Republic reinforcements showed up, too. It’s a crap situation. What? Hold on, Gar.”

Gates sat there silently, waiting as Havock dealt with some problem in the Command Center. Idly, he drew his revolver and began spinning the chambers mindlessly. It was starting to look more and more like Thyveck would be his grave; any time they had an opportunity to get off this world, they were rejected again and again. A few companies would just make the Imperial position tenuous rather than dire; it’d require more heroics from the Phoenix just to keep up the status quo. His dark musings were interrupted by Havock’s voice on the comlink again.

“Gates, I need you in the Bastion C&C, now,” she said, then cut the link. She sounded furious, but not at him. Gates was just glad they’d be off this crap position.

“Blackjack, Galm!” Gates said, replacing his helmet and activating the link. “We’re withdrawing again. Back to Command.”

A chorus of affirmatives responded, as his command packed up their gear. They’d not been rotated out of combat for what felt like decades, though it had been only almost twenty-four straight hours of war.

Gates poked his head into the command tent, just long enough to say, “Blackjack has been ordered from the front.”

He left without another word, walking from the command tent towards the rear of the Imperial camp. The Command tent was very near to the rear of the formation, for obvious reasons, and Garryll was the first in his squad to reach the transport area. A half-dozen old half-tracks sat beside armored landspeeders and even a walker. Thyveck was a world that tended to disagree with most modern tech, and heavy use overcame even the highest levels of maintenance. Gates waved a driver for one of the half-tracks over; they’d use a reliable transport and save the heavier vehicles for the Imperials here, in case they needed it.

By fireteams, the squads under his command showed up. Valthir nodded to him. “What’s this about?”

“I don’t know. All accounted for?” Gates murmured in return. Valthir nodded again, then climbed into the half-tracks cramped rear passenger compartment. Gates jumped in, then walked towards the front of the APC and slammed his palm on the top of the dented cabin. The driver obediently put the machine in gear and they started forwards. Blackjack’s SL sat down and closed his eyes. Bastion was huge, and they’d be a while.

*** *** Bastion Command and Control *** ***

Gates walked into the lowest level of Bastion’s C&C, Valthir at his right shoulder. Both men were clad in full armor still, each set puckered with blast burns, dents, staining smoke, and still visible, the bold, chipped crimson paint that marked their status as the Elite of Phoenix.

Havock and a short, slim, black-haired man stood next to a map-desk. It was rare that Havock towered over anyone, but this was certainly a case of it. Across the holographic map-desk stood a barrel-chested man with a bronze army Lieutenant’s bars at his throat and the Imperial rosette of the Military Police on his chest.

Gates’ T-visor stared blankly at him. His voice was carefully kept neutral despite his steady ‘gaze.’

“Captain, you recalled us?”

“Gates, the Military Police are investigating Phoenix Company,” Havock replied. Gates could almost hear the woman’s teeth grinding in fury. “Second lieutenant, if you’d please explain the situation to Blackjack’s Squad Lead.”

The man nodded quickly, and immediately set to business, pressing several buttons on the holo-desk. The image of one of the hundreds of small towns scattered across Thyveck appeared. This one had seen its share of the war, and looked like it had been attacked and burned down. As the grim images flashed past, Gates’ facial expressions failed to change - his face, even hidden behind his visor, was as impassive as the visor itself.

“I have seen far too much of this,” Gates said blandly. It ceased to phase him any more. Atrocities like this happened all the time.

“Yes sir,” said the Military Policeman. “But rarely with SCOPE gear. Survivors claim it was Stormtroopers with E-45s who came through and mowed down half the townspeople.”

“Horseshit,” Gates spat, his ire rising. Havock was nodding beside him. “Phoenix would never do something like this.”

“For all intents and purposes, all eye-witness and forensic reports say Phoenix did it,” the man replied stubbornly. “Blast injuries consistent with E-45s. Stormtroopers in SCOPE gear.”

Gates had started to ignore the man, and drawn the durable, heavy-duty datapad from his pack. He plugged it into the holo-table and flipped through his after-action reports. Finally, he reached the files and images he was looking for, and moved them into the table itself, which projected them, erasing the images of the massacre.

Four images appeared, floating in the air. Two were live feeds, of prisoners. One wore a Colonel’s pins and was sitting on his cot, his shin splinted and bandaged tight, his hand in a cast. The other wore cuffs and was younger than the first. The third image was also of a man, but a still, and certainly dead. His eye and skull were blasted apart, but his sergeant’s bars and Republic insignia were still visible. In his fist, the man held an E-45. The last was a short recording of Gates’ own HUD, exchanging fire with a group of Republic forces during the battle in the plains, halting the first Republic assault.

The MP raised an eyebrow and waved at the four images. “What is this?”

“Proof,” Gates grunted, removing his helmet. “Valthir, close the door.”

Valthir stepped back a few paces and slid the door shut, and Gates began. “This first one is of a Colonel that Blackjack squad captured during the battle of the plains outside Bastion several days ago, with the help of Eclipse Squad. He has knowledge of our weapons shipments being intercepted. The second is one Republic Commando. His name is “Carter” and he was part of a team that was actually picking up our weapon drops. This third image is Carter’s Sergeant. You can see he has Phoenix gear.”

The MP nodded as he acknowledged each image. Gates continued. “This is during a firefight before we captured the colonel. Let me turn the sound on.”

The sound of cursing and screaming gunfire filled the briefing room. The MP didn’t flinch, and Gates grudgingly raised his opinion of the man, who’d obviously seen combat. “You hear that high-pitched sound? That’s the sound of an E-45 with foul-weather gear dampers attached.”

Gates pulled his own E-45 from his sling, screwed on his foul-weather damper, and fired it into the ground. “This is undoubtedly the same sound.”

The MP remained unphased, and said nonchalantly, “A good demonstration.”

Garryll barely grinned. “I’ll fast-forward past the part where we kill all of them.”

They sat silently for a moment as the Republic soldiers died miserably, slaughtered from two angles and shot apart. The image panned over the dead men’s gloves and boots. Gates spread his own hands on the table, and paused the play. The similarity was indisputable.

The MP rocked on his heals, and blew breath from his cheeks. “Very well. I can believe you. So if Phoenix didn’t do it, then it must’ve been the Reppies. All the evidence points to ‘em. We have to stop this, then.”

“I agree,” Havock said. She looked more positive. “Do we have any leads at all?”

Gates pointed back at the dead Sergeant in the third image. “You see the Sergeant’s camo? It’s not suited for where they were coming to pick up the drop. It was rocky terrain, south of Krad. His camo’s suited for the Northern desert, more tans, see? He’d usually be deployed in the North east bit of Eastern theater. He’s out of his element.”

Havock opened up a different image, a satellite-scan of the area Gates had mentioned. “There’s only a few heat signatures that are big enough for a base that’s also big enough for the shipment of all our guns to western and central theaters. Closer-in scans say only one’s actually a base.”

Gates pointed. “That’s where our guns have been going, Lieutenant.”

“And we’re going to take ‘em out,” Havock added, with relish.

OOC:

So here’s the situation. Havock is going to be taking Blackjack, Galm and another squad as support to take out the above-mentioned base, via our LAAT. Garryll and Valthir are going to stay in Bastion and investigate this a bit further. Until Havock posts, just post your reactions to the battle/interactions/whatever. PM me if you’ve got any questions.

Smoke, fire....death. Those were the images that filled her eyes as she looked out across the destroyed landscape of their spoils. The smell of rotting flesh had become the perfume that fueled her dreams. The Bastion, their prize, had been purchased with gallons of blood. The foundation of the building was as shaky as the resolve left in her troopers. There was nothing more left to fight for, there was only a will to survive she couldn't fathom the source of.

“I can take you to the squads Captain.” The deadpan voice of Lance Corporal Preacher, Galm squad acting squad leader breezed past her on the filthy wind. The young man was already making his way down the cracked stairs and heading towards the small figures of troopers in red and white armor.

Blackjack, the elite, stood in a trench made by mortar fire. The glint of hope long dead in their eyes as they stood attempting to pass the time finding some level of normalcy in an insane world. They stared across the field, toyed with devices, and talked about meaningless subjects. She understood the lack of emotion in their demeanor. She thought of Jaenna daily, it was the routine of pushing her best friend and more out of her thoughts that had become a daily procedure for her. The only solace for Havock was that Jaenna was somewhere else, and not on the field of death around her.

She approached familiar red clad troopers who were chatting together. “Hello boys.”

They turned quickly at the voice then slumped back into their previous position. Nobody seemed to stand up straight anymore. “Hi Havvie, what brings you here?”

She quickly scanned the faces, the ones that hadn't already covered their faces with their red helmets. It didn't matter she could ID them all from the personnel files she had memorized to keep her mind busy.

“Rise and shine, ladies. Blackjack and Galm boys, you are all with me now. We have to cross some desert terrain to get where we are going so make sure our water supplies are topped off, I am going to be very displeased if I have to drink my whiskey just to avoid dehydration. You really don't want to make me displeased.”

“Where is Garryll, and Valthir?”

Preacher stepped forward slightly. “They needed to stay at the command center. They trust us with this.”

“As do I. Time to prove that elite title. We need to get to the location here.” She pointed to a reference point on her datapad. “I'm going to upload this to each of you so if we need to split off into teams we can. I'd like to avoid that if possible. There are still NR troopers with delusions of grandeur out there not to mention mines along our path once we get back on the ground. So stay sharp. This is where they've been tucking away Phoenix weapons, so try not to blow me up.”

“And we we are riding in....that?” Aether pointed at the Blackjack Low Altitude Assault Transport parked near the outer wall.

The LAAT looked as bad off as she felt. Scorch marks gave it an unintentional camouflage look.  It's near complete state stuck out like a sore thumb on the otherwise completely broken landscape.

Havock ducked under the massive wing, running her gloved fingers along the underside.

“Parilla, talk to me.” The tired middle aged pilot turned mechanic looked up and tossed a grease filled rag at the company commander's feet.

“You didn't give me much to work with. We need supplies, I can't keep this thing in the air with duct tape.”

Havock smirked at the dark haired woman and slapped the hull. “Ah, I don't know, I kinda like ships held together by duct tape. Gives them personality.”

“You would.”

Havock had been periodically assisting in the repair of the few functioning vehicles they had remaining. Most of them were twisted heaps of metal, stripped bare for spare parts. She had trained to be a vehicle mechanic, but beyond her training simply working with her hands gave her some peace as the world around her fell apart.

“Will she fly?”

Perilla leaned up next to the aft large troop opening and pulled out her banged up datapad. “For where you need to go...as long as we are not shot at...I'd give her about a seventy percent chance of not flying apart.”

Lightray chuckled. Kilroy glared at him for a moment then turned to Preacher, “she's joking right?”

“Sounds like fun, lets roll.” Havock jumped up into the transport as the last syllable left her lips.

“Captain!”

Havock paused and squinted in the sun trying to make out the large man running towards the LAAT. He was wearing the uniform of a VE army regular trooper and had a squad dragging a stormtrooper with what appeared to be a gillie suit on over his red armor. “Sorry, you're Captain Katash right? Is this jackass yours?”

“Looks that way, Unforgiven right?”

The man stumbled then gave what appeared to be a salute in her general direction. “Get him on-board.” The army trooper nodded and started back to his post. “Hey hang on a sec. What are your orders Trooper?”

“Ma'am, our orders are to patrol the perimeter with Grek, Nern and Wesk squads.”

“I haven't seen a report of perimeter incursion in days. What's your rank and callsign?”

The man stood up straighter. “Sergeant Striker, Nen squad ma'am.”

“Excellent, tell your troopers to hop on board, I'm requisitioning you all.”

Parilla sighed and checked her hair before waving the squad in and heading for the cockpit herself. Once both squads had secured their positions, Havock made her way to the co-pilots chair.

“I'm honestly surprised they haven't committed you yet Havvie.”

Havock smirked, not looking away as she flipped switches prepping the transport for take off.  “The day is young yet.”

Smoke plumes filled the horizon from all the first started across the ruined field of battle. They rose to twenty clicks above the surface and skimmed towards the target.

OOC:

Okay we are airborne and heading towards our target. You may encounter some anti-aircraft action, I'll leave that to you boys. No more than one encounter, and do not shoot down our LAAT.

NPC's (aka REDSHIRTS!)
Galm Squad: Acting SL: Preacher, Troopers: Tanner, Nagase, and Manos
Nen Squad: SL: Sergeant Striker, 8 troopers (feel free to name them)

Three men watched as the LAAT lifted into the air, bearing every battle scar from Thyveck’s brutal conditions and six months of war. Two of the men still wore their battered SCOPE armor, each dent showing a bruise, each patch of carbon scoring a near-death experience with laser fire.

“Sir, do you think it’s okay if your own squad goes off without you?” asked the third man, a military policeman. Eventually, he’d introduced himself as Second Lieutenant Rann Tylers.

Gates turned from the hardened-glass window. “Yes; I trust Havock more than I do anyone else outside of my squad, and she’s extremely capable. She knows what she’s doing, and was leading one of Phoenix’s squads earlier this year. And why are you calling me ‘sir?’”

“Captain Katash gave me this before she left,” Tylers replied, and pulled a small box from his pocket. He popped it open, to reveal a first lieutenant’s insignia. “I think she meant to give you this when she recalled you all, but I interrupted. Sorry, sir.”

Gates took the box and slid it into his kit bag; he hadn’t brought his duty uniform; he’d lived in body suits and armor for the last six months, constantly prepared for combat, living on a blade’s edge for the entire time. “So Havock will have the base itself handled; we need to start getting intel on the cause of this shit.”

“Right, sir. Agreed,” Tylers responded. “I can open the doors for you; what do you want to start on?”

“I’ll take a look through some of Bastion’s records,” Valthir volunteered, making his request sound like an order. Tylers agreed and brought a comlink to his mouth.

“Alright, I’ll get one of my team to help you out, if you want,” Tylers said.

“If you can handle that, Val,” Gates said, “I’ll do some wet-work on those prisoners. That’s more my speed anyway.”

“One of the two you’ve captured? Which do you want to start with?” Tylers asked, and paused at a lift.

Gates thought a moment. One was a special-forces soldier, a grunt, captured in the Eastern theater; the other was an officer, a line man who’d had his command shredded near Bastion.

“Take me to Carter,” Gates said. “He has direct knowledge of the base that Blackjack’s headed to, and his intel could really give them a leg up. We still might get lucky with the source, but I doubt it. He’s not high enough on the food chain to give us much.”

Tylers nodded, and then pressed the down arrow on the turbolift. “Sarge, you’ll also want to come down with us; the archives are down here, as well as the real-time intel section and data hub. My man will meet us at the floor.”

The three men walked into the lift and it shut, and began its descent. In a few moments, they dropped hundreds of feet into the guts of Bastion’s C&C Citadel. The doors hissed open; the scene that was revealed was far different than the one they’d had dozens of floors up.

Thick, cement walls greeted them; large, painted letters marked the floor level across from the turbolifts.

Sublevel 13

“Archives are this way, sir,” said another man in the intimidating black uniform and Military Police rosette from off to the side. He gestured to Valthir, and the Blackjack ASL followed him.

“But we’ll be going this way,” Tylers said, pointing in the opposite direction. “Mid-tier prisoners are held this way.”

They moved down the halls, which became harshly-lit after a hundred meters. They rounded a corner, to a greeting of a half-dozen man in riot-armor and clutching laser-resistant shields and shock batons. They looked threateningly at the two men, especially Gates and his blaster rifle and Stormtrooper armor.

Tyler stepped forwards, and showed the leader a document. “Second Lieutenant Rann Tylers, Military Police; I am escorting First Lieutenant Garryll Gates, Stormtrooper Corps. We intend to interrogate prisoner Alpha-7.”

The credentials got a quick look-over, but before the guard let them by, he spoke. “Alpha-level prisoners are considered extremely dangerous mid-level individuals. You are warned to use caution when interrogating them.”

“I’m a dangerous individual,” Gates replied. “And I captured the man, so I think we’ll be fine. Let us through.”

“Sir.”

They passed through a heavy door, its blast-curtains edging out of the way as it ground open, and emerged into the mid-level Bastion holding cells. Men and women wore stun-cuffs or older, non-electric cuffs as restraints, and stared at the men as they emerged into the prison. There were a few guards; maybe one to every five prisoners.

“Alpha-level prisoners are held at the back of this area. Your friend probably earned his with his resume,” Tylers said quietly.

“Commando,” Gates spat. “Given us enough trouble these last few months. But the score’s still eighty-seven to three.”

“Eighty-seven..?”

Gates waved the question off as they moved through another set of blast doors into another section. This one had more guards, but fewer prisoners. Again, they moved through the section without consequence. The last blast doors rose in front of them, with another half-dozen guards before it. Again, Tylers presented his credentials and identified them.

The doors hissed open. Alpha-level prisoners awaited them.

A man in full-body black armor and holding a heavy prisoner suppressor-type assault rifle greeted them when the doors opened. His rank was in thin white lines on his shoulder, the bars and chevrons of a First Sergeant.

“Sir, welcome to Alpha-level,” the man said. “I’m in charge of this guard shift. What can we do for you today?”

“Give me Prisoner 7,” Gates said. “I want him for interrogation.”

“Right, sir. It’ll take us a minute to transfer him to the interrogation cells. Corporal! Take the lieutenant to the interrogation cells.”

One similarly-garbed man with a corporal’s chevrons stepped up, holding his heavy stun/suppression rifle across his chest. “If you’ll follow me, sirs.”

The corporal led them through the heavily fortified Alpha-level prison complex. There were few cells; prisoners of high enough deadliness or status were few and far between. They passed from the holding-cells area and through another blast door. They had reached the high-level prisoner processing center; a few desks housed muscular clerks, who looked like they would contribute to helping with any possible jailbreak. The corporal opened a door.

Inside the room, one window dominated one wall; it was mirrored, one-way, and gazed into a white-drab interrogation room. Several cameras looked at the room from different angles and showed up on the bank of screens. Sophisticated listening and analyzation equipment rested on the wall opposite the window, and there was enough space between the two walls and equipment for two large men to pass abreast. A few swivel-chairs sat at the desks.

Gates sank into one of the chairs; Tylers took the other, and they waited for the senior guard to return with their prisoner. They didn’t have to wait long, as the commando was walked into the interrogation room within five minutes, the First Sergeant and a pair of PFCs holding rifles on the man, despite his shackles and stun-cuffs.

The commando was roughly shoved into the interrogation room chair, his legs chained to the nailed-down chair legs, his shackled hands’ restraints plugged securely into a loop on the table. The guards left the room, and a knock came from the door almost immediately afterwards; the First Sergeant poked his head into the room.

“The prisoner is secure. I must remain here until your interrogation concludes.”

Gates grunted. “Fine. Be aware that this investigation is classified and cannot spread, as it could let anyone we’re searching for get out of Thyveck. Tylers, go in first. I’ll come in when it’s obvious you want me in there.”

The thick MP nodded and left the room. Seconds later, he entered the interrogation room, and sat down opposite the commando.

”Carter. You’ve got some bad luck, huh?”

The man didn’t react as the MP laid out the story of how he’d been captured; he didn’t bat an eye as questions started getting asked, responding with grunts that didn’t mean anything affirmative or otherwise.

”Well, fine then. If you want to be Mr. Tough-Guy, I’ve got a boss who’s a tougher asshole than you are. See how much you like him, eh?”

Gates rose from his seat and left the room, and passed Tylers as he entered the interrogation room. He slowly closed the door behind him, and then turned to Carter, who gazed warily at the newly arriving Stormtrooper.

“I’m that boss. Though the man in black doesn’t answer to me. Different military branches, you see,” Gates said quietly. Carter  immediately shrunk back slightly; he knew he was dealing with a different breed of Imperial here, and he obviously didn’t like it.

“But you’re a Stormie,” Carter replied slowly. “We’re the same; we’ve both bled for our bosses, so far off the line. Why would they bring someone like you in?”

“You could say I have an interest. You see this?” Gates asked, pointing at one of the red paint-marks on his armor.

The man stared dumbly at it for a moment, until comprehension dawned. Gates aimed his fingers at the man’s face. “Ghost...”

“That’s me alright,” Gates grinned, but there was no warmth in it. All it held was the promise of pain and death, a predator’s grin of superiority earned by experience, of superior position. “No one left on this planet gives enough of a shit to save you. You’re just a grunt, like me, right? Even the retreating Republic forces won’t slow down enough to trade for someone like you.”

“Impossible. Even with the Bastion, you could not have held the entire army off!” Carter said, trying to stand, but failing as his shackles held him down. “Liar!”

“Sit down!” Gates barked. The man meekly sat. “They’re called reinforcements. Now. Do you know this man?”

He held up an image of the colonel. Carter blinked rapidly, then nodded. “Name?”

“Poltrovich.”

“Do you know this base?” Gates asked, sliding forwards the satellite scans of the guerrilla base.

“Yeah...we deployed from there a couple times.”

“In relation to weapons shipments?”

“What? Yeah...”

“Do you know what those weapons shipments were used for after you stole them?” Gates asked, a hint of freezing rage tingling into his voice. “Do you know?”

The man shook his head mutely until Gates turned his datapad to him, and showed him the image of the massacre. Carter’s breath hissed.

“Your Republic framed men like me and you for this crime!” Garryll slammed his fist down on the table. “You want to tell me who’s responsible for this!”

Carter stared blankly at him. “I have to tell you...this is just wrong.”

“Last time I was here,” Carter said, his voice monotone and quiet as he recited details, “there was eighty men or so, and another squad of commandos. Some of the men are soldiers, some are just guerrillas. It’s not too well organized; it was just a drop-off point for us. It’s nothin’ special.”

Gates stood. Carter wouldn’t have any other info that he could use. Tylers met him outside the door. “Give me a comm to Havock. She’ll need to know this.”

The larty's engines growled as it soared through the landscape towards the base that hopefully contained the weapons shipments and a very small complement of resistance. A red light caused a panic to rise silently in Havock's mind. The alarm was only made worse by the lack of concern in the pilot.

“Parilla...the alarm?”

“Oh.” The woman tapped the LED then rolled her eyes. She slammed her fist on the console so hard Havock jumped, but the light did go out. “Got it.”

Havock blinked and stared at the console for several minutes. “I'm going to die, aren't I?”

“Not at the moment...of course that could change the prognosis. Well shit.” Parilla gripped the yoke and started a calculated combination of switches. This wasn't an event she hadn't planned for. That was one thing Havock liked about the woman, she was prepared.

Havock on the other hand had grown tired of surprises, such as the anti-aircraft missile's targeted on their LAAT.

“Pari...”

The pilot spoke through gritted teeth as she pulled the ship into a nasty turn. “Tell them to hold on.”

Havock flipped on the comm, while she held on to the chair with her other arm. “Hold on, we've got company.” She severed the signal with another flip of the switch.

“Who the frack is firing at us?”

“Intel is not in my pay grade, Captain.”

The transport swung off balance in the air as Parilla attempted to swerve past the multiple shots being fired from beyond a ridge in the distance. Havock had to grab the console to stay in her chair, and she could hear several yelps from the crew cabin behind her. “I told them to hold on dammit.”

The comm crackled, it was nearly impossible to hear over all the commotion. Havock yanked a head set from the high  perch it maintained. The earphones were covered in dust from years of not being used, but the frantic voice could be heard even before she put them on.

“...tes, Havock where the hell are you guys? Respond, protocol delta-niner-seven-charlie.”

“Garryll...having some issues here. What is it?” The last word got cut off as she was slammed into the control panel to her right. She bit back a nasty comment when she saw how hard Parilla was working to keep the transport in the air.

“The resistance force is eighty strong, did you read that? Eight-zero. Some commandos but mostly militia.”

Havock's mind raced. They were heading towards a military base, which was heavily armed with weapons stolen from Phoenix company, and eighty soldiers at varying levels of skill. “This is not going to be pretty at all, Gates. I'll get you as many weapons as I can.”

“Understood. Also you...ave a mes...from Rizzit.” Havock squeezed the headset closer to her ears in a vein attempt to hear more garbled words from the First Lieutenant.

“The connection is shit, hold the message for me. Unless I die, then call me and let me know what it says. Havock out.”  She had to grasp both arm rests suddenly as the transport dived towards the sandy terrain.

“Umm, Pari?” There was no response, nor was there any deviation of course. “Pari?” The ground was speeding towards them, anything lose in the cockpit was sliding towards the pilot chairs. “Pari, answer me dammit!”

“Landing, crashing, some combination of that.”

“WHAT?”

“We lost hydraulics, I can't keep dodging those damn missiles. So we are...crashing.”

Havock checked her seat restraint and tried to squash the small touch of excitement swelling up in her. She couldn't help it, crash landing sounded fun to the part of her that wasn't a Company Commander. Sometimes she missed not being responsible for the three squads crammed in the crew area. Gathering what was let of her resolve she croaked out a final request. “Could we try to do more of the landing and less of the crashing, yanno if its not to much trouble?”

OOC:

The ship is “landing” its not going to be smooth, but the ship should be within hope of flying again with the supplies we have. Parilla will stay with the transport once we leave, to fix it. We will have landed  about 2k's from our target. Remember there are about 80 troops and a squad of commandos waiting for us. With the exception of the commandos these guys are mostly militia in their skills. Spend some time in the wild ship ride, then it should take a day on foot to reach the base. And don't forget...someone knows we are there, whoever fired those rockets is out there too.

NPC's
Our Pilot: Sergeant Parilla
Galm Squad: Acting SL: Preacher, Troopers: Tanner, Nagase, and Manos
Nen Squad: SL: Sergeant Striker, 8 troopers (feel free to name them)

***PRIOR TO LAUNCHING***

Scope Trooper TK-2301 opened his eyes, and found himself staring at a moving tapestry of burned, cracked ground and stains of blood and gore. Blinking for a few moments, he realized that this grim visage was the ground, and therefore he was looking down. The throbbing sensation inside his skull and the dragging sensation in his feet told him that he must have passed out at some stage. At least the comforting weight on the upper part of his face told him that the ballroom-style mask that he covered his upper face with had not come off since the last time he had taken off his helmet – and as a result, his eyes were still covered. There was only one member of the Vast Empire whom had seen his eyes and upper face, and he was determined to keep it that way. Now, that was the important stuff out of the way. Who the hell was dragging him – and why?

He looked over to his left, using his peripheral vision to check without actually moving his head, and saw the distinctive helmet of an Imperial Army trooper. Looking down slightly, the rest of the uniform matched his first guess, and he thanked his lucky stars that he wasn’t dealing with military police. A quick glance told him that a third trooper was carrying his equipment – and struggling with it all, and he let a soft, mirthless smile grace his hard, thin lips. They’d probably found him passed out and were getting him back to medical for a check-up. How incredibly nice of them. 2301 decided then and there that he liked these troopers – maybe if they were interested, he’d do them a good deal on some interesting equipment he’d picked up. Until then, however, he decided to continue the façade of unconsciousness and wait until they reached their destination, wherever it was.

The distinctive thrum of an old Low Altitude Aerospace Transport / infantry, or LAAT/i as it was better known, caught his attention the moment that the distant throb reached his ears, and under the mask his eyebrow slowly rose. “Larties”, as they were known in the military slang, had once been the main atmospheric troop transport of the Grand Army of the Republic, during the clone wars, some fourty four years ago. By the standards of military technology, they were woefully outdated. Loud, with substandard weapons and almost no armour, there was simply no practical reason for such a relic to be here, instead of inside a museum where it belonged. The thought that he was being led towards this death-trap was hardly a comforting prospect, especially for someone whom preferred to travel undetected, as opposed to announcing his presence to everything within earshot.

Then, he was hauled back up to his feet, and found himself staring at a woman wearing jet-black armour. Her helmet was off, and her piercing eyes and blonde hair made her instantly recognizable – especially to a man whom had first seen those soft features through the crosshairs of a sniper rifle. She was none other than Captain Havock, the woman whom he had been ordered to kill – an escaped slave, one of many individuals whom the Black Sun sought to ‘make an example of’. Her only crime was that she had seized the only chance for freedom that she had found…and for that, she had to die. His lip curled with distaste at the memory of the long and difficult hunt that he’d embarked on in order to track her down.

It was the first assignment in almost a decade of hunting and killing  that Trooper TK-2301, back then known only as ‘Unforgiven’, had failed. Shrugging his broad shoulders and breaking free from the Army Trooper’s grip, the man rose to his full, impressive height and stared down at the far shorter woman in front of him. As one of the Army Troopers called him a ‘jackass’, the stormtrooper turned and turned his cold, withering gaze upon the man, allowing himself to loom threateningly over him. He didn’t have to say anything – his body language made it clear that one more insult from the trooper, and 2301 would break him like a twig, regardless of what side he was supposed to be on. The man looked away after a few moments, and didn’t say any more.

“I ain’t getting in that crate, not even fer you.” Other than what was possibly the laziest salute that a Scope trooper had ever performed, those terse words – and the backhanded compliment behind them – was the only form of greeting that 2301 gave to Captain Havock. He almost totally managed to keep the expression off his face, but a small twitch at the corner of his mouth was all that a truly perceptive person would need to realize the truth about what he was feeling as he looked up at the ancient, mostly wrecked craft. Fear.

Up close, it looked even worse. Pitted, scarred and burned, it was clear that it had seen a lot of action over the fourty four years it had been in existence – it looked very much its age, with wrinkles, lines and scars. In some places, the only thing holding the warped superstructure together was sheet metal crudely welded into place, like a band-aid. 2301 hated flying, absolutely hated it. It had been difficult enough for him to board the Sentinel Landing Craft on the way down here…but that old thing? There was no way that he was going to trust his life to it. His face slowly started to lose its colour, making it very plain that he really, really did not want to board that crate.

“Get him aboard.”

One of the Army Troopers, perhaps braver or dumber than his comrades, made a move to push 2301 in the direction of the gunship. As a reward for his efforts, he caught an armoured elbow right in the face at high speed. Knocked clear off his feet, there was a sickening crack of cartilage and a spurt of blood as the man’s nose broke like a twig underfoot. He landed on his rear with a dull ‘thud’ and immediately his hands flew up to his face, where he tried to staunch the blood. A quick stamp into the groin with the hell of his boot, and the man stayed down. Another of the Army Troopers swore under his breath and raised a balled fist, but before he could react, a gloved hand wrapped around his throat, lifted him bodily from the ground and threw him onto the hull of the Larty, where he bounced off with a crack and lay still.

“I told you – no way in hell am I get-“

His growled response was cut short as a small, gloved fist shot out and caught him squarely on the jaw with enough force to take down a Wookiee. Trooper 2301 fell without a sound, unconscious. Captain Havock rubbed her fist with a grimace – the man had one hell of a solid jaw. Fortunately, her punch was stronger.

A minute later, he was strapped into a chair on the gunship, and it lifted off.

**IN THE AIR**

Trooper TK-2301 opened his eyes for the third time that day, and rubbed his jaw with a dark frown. Damn, that hurt. He shook his head and let a long, low sigh pass between his lips. Damn, that woman had one hell of a right hook – it took a lot to knock him out. He found one of the other troopers staring at him, and treated the man to hard glare. It didn’t take long for the other man to look away, obviously intimidated. Good, 2301 was in no mood for pleasantries. He reached for his helmet and slammed it down on top of his head, before realizing that they were moving. He listened out, and realized he was hearing the thrum and splutter of an old LAAT/i gunship. Oh hell, they were flying. Flying in a deathtrap. He sighed and gritted his teeth, fighting down the panic that was starting to well up inside him.

The sentinel lander on the way down had been bad enough, but at least it had been relatively new, and enclosed so that he couldn’t see the world flashing by far, far below. The LAAT/i, however, wasn’t enclosed at all. The troop doors were open, and he could damn well see the horizon slowly inching past. He could only guess at how far above the ground they were, but it was probably high enough that if he fell from here, he’d be nothing but a red splatter when he hit the ground. Well, at least he wouldn’t stain his armour. He closed his eyes tight and refused to look out the bay doors, making sure that outwardly, he made absolutely no sign of his fear. He wasn’t about to let a bunch of people he neither knew nor trusted about his fear. About his weakness.

Instead, he drew his E-45 blaster rifle from its holster at his hip, and checked over the matte black weapon for any problems or imperfections. As a former assassin, 2301 knew his blasters, and he made sure they were in the best condition that they could possibly be. He ejected the power clip and checked the charge reading, before nodding in satisfaction before placing it carefully in one of the pouches of his utility belt. You didn’t inspect a loaded weapon. Then, he inspected the pressure of the tibanna gas cylinder mounted at the back of the weapon. Yep, a good high pressure, plenty of shots left in it. The alignment of the scope was definitely acceptable, as well. The safety catch didn’t appear to have any problems, either. Even the seal on the suppressor and attachment lugs for the bayonet were in good working order.

Then, he was done, and they were still in the air. He sighed, then reloaded and holstered his weapon. The E-45 was a decent enough blaster, more accurate and powerful than the E-11, closer to a rifle than a carbine, which was why 2301 had chosen to use it over the older model. Still, it had its drawbacks. It was less rugged and reliable, requiring more maintenance and care than the old, indestructible E-11 he had trained with. It was no sniper weapon, either, and he sorely missed his old DLT-20a rifle. The E-45 felt to him like a rifle that tried to become passable at everything, and as a result, had sacrificed excellence in any one field. Still, it was superior to the rifles that the New Republic were carrying, and he didn’t feel at all ashamed with such a weapon.

He considered conversing with some of the other troopers for a few moments, playing with the possibility of being social and actually getting to know them, before discarding the notion as quickly as he had picked it up. Most of these people were probably going to die anyway – better that they remain anonymous, expendable nobodies as far as he was concerned. Plus, his voice might give away just how damn queasy he was feeling. In the end, he simply bit his bottom lip and fought down the urge to steal a parachute and leap from the ship right then and there. Damn it, he was made for stealth, not to fly!

Then an explosion rocked the rear of the ship, and 2301 was proven right. This crate was never going to get them to the objective, and these Imperials were fools for believing otherwise. As the rest of the troopers began to prepare for impact, 2301 was already on his feet, snatching one of the two emergency parachutes from the rear of the troop compartment and strapping it over his armoured shoulders. If these people wanted to go down with the ship, that was their problem. He damn well intended to survive, and he wanted off this crate before it killed him. Not pausing for a beat, running on pure adrenaline, he did the one thing that years ago, he had sworn never to do.

He leaped from a flying aircraft.

*PRESENT*

Trooper TK-2301 braced his knees and rolled the moment that his boots touched the ground to lessen the force of the impact on his legs, like his training sergeant had told him to do if he’d ever had to parachute. As a result, his legs didn’t break, but the jarring pain of landing was spread throughout his entire body. He got the nasty feeling that without the armour, he would have probably broken something he would miss later. He got back to his feet and rolled his shoulders, stretching as he looked around. Sweet dirt, sweet terra firma. He took a moment to get his bearings and give thanks for his continued survival, and swore to never, ever, EVER board an atmospheric craft with a flight ceiling higher than ten meters older than at least a Sentinel for as long as he lived.

He dropped down to a sitting position and concentrated on slowing his breathing, too stressed to perform any other action for a few solid minutes. Eventually, when he calmed down a little, he unstrapped the parachute and reached into his utility belt for a small brown bag. His nerves were shot to frak and his body was craving a little lift to keep it going. He was more than happy to let those cravings be fulfilled. As the glitterstim flooded his system and re-energised him, 2301 got back to his feet and drew his rifle, using the scope to look over in the direction of the LAAT/i. The crash site was giving off some smoke, but not as much has he had suspected. The damn ship hadn’t blown up when it had crashed, then. He quickly panned around, looking for anything else, and noticed a tiny smoke trail, already dissipating in the wind.

So…a rocket strike, huh?

The others could handle things without him for a little bit. Turning and jogging in the direction of the smoke trail’s origin, TK-2301 decided to deal with the people who had dared to shoot him out of the sky, and maybe get some answers if he was lucky. Then, he’d have all the time in the world to catch up with the others.

OOC:

[[Dibs on the Anti-Air crew.]]

It wasn’t until he sat down at the terminal itself that Valthir realized he had no idea on what exactly he was supposed to be looking for. He grimaced and leaned over, sitting his helmet on the ground beside him. Once straightened back up, he ran his hands through his hair and blew out a breath, ending it in a sigh. He began to work out the problem.

Republic troopers stole Phoenix’s gear and used them to massacre towns, framing us. Motivation? To arouse public sympathy against us “invaders” and make our jobs a lot more difficult. Ok. How did they get that gear? Easy. They intercepted supply drops meant for us. But how? Either they were just lucky enough to get to the drops before us - which is highly unlikely, but not impossible - or they knew where they were going to be. To supply as many troops as we saw with stolen gear, they would have had to intercept more than a few drops. That decreases the likelihood of pure coincidence and luck. No, they had to know where the drops were, which means that we may have a mole. But is this mole a part of the Vast Empire, or part of the random personnel recruited from the population of Thyveck?

He frowned and leaned forward, instantly setting to work. His fingers flew over the keyboard as he searched through manifest documents, maps, letters, and more. What information he could find, he copied to a separate folder, highlighting the important bits. It wasn’t long before he had compiled a small treasure trove of information. Unfortunately, most of it was minor, with nothing incredibly important.

Looking at the collection, Valthir pursed his lips. It was rather disappointing. He had hoped to hit
upon some good pieces of info, but none had appeared. He yawned and rubbed his eyes, now feeling the effects of his exhaustive search. He blinked as he realized that it had been hours since he had first sat down at the terminal, hunched over the keyboard. Slowly, he stood and stretched, attempting to relieve the tension.

He was so wrapped up in his own little world that he very nearly failed to hear the comlink chirping from within his helmet. Snatching it from its resting spot on the desk, he slipped it on quickly and twisted it into place.

His squad leaders voice rang out, “Val - I want you to look for Imperial soldiers in the eastern theater with access or motive to steal our guns and try to pin it on us, and with forces at their command to use on that massacre.”

“Imperial? You sure?”

“Yeah . . . I’m sure.” Garryll said, with a slight pause.

Ending the call, Valthir removed his helmet and sat back down at the terminal and began his search anew, all fatigue seemingly washed away.

Imperial. Eastern front. Motive may be hard to root out, but it will be easy to find an Imperial with access to the location of the drops, especially now that I have an area to search in.

He scanned the files quickly and efficiently, finding almost nothing. Almost. Fatigue was beginning to plague him again, until he spotted a line in a section from a document containing official military procedures. A small smile grew as he read and reread the line.

He repeated it aloud, muttering low, “. . . Only officers and those the officers deem fit may be privy to the precise knowledge of certain orders and objectives, outlined as follows: . . . supply drops, . . .”

Perfect. Now, to make sure that this is actually true.

An extensive cross-reference later, and he was positive that the line was indeed correct. He was actually grinning now. The search had just been made easier tenfold. Before, he would have had to go through hundreds, if not thousands, of profiles of foot soldiers and officers alike. Now, he had just had to find a list of any officers that had been stationed in the eastern front at any point in time. A brief amount of time later, and he had the names.

Opening up a call to Garryll, he detailed the parameters of his search and its success, “Now, I found six names using what you told me and what else I found. Three of them are dead, two are currently off planet, and the last is still at his base in the eastern theater.”

“Ok. We’ll pay a visit to the last one. Now-”

“Garryll. It’s Shindler.”

A pause, immediately followed by a curse, “I should have known . . . We’ll lift off shortly and meet up with the others.”

“Garryll, just because you have a grudge against him, doesn’t mean he actually did it. We still need solid proof.”

“Fine. Get your proof. Dig up whatever you can on him. Call me when you get your evidence. Garryll, out.”

The comm cut off with a click and Valthir sighed. He had heard that tone a few times since he had joined up with Blackjack. Anger. Righteous anger. With a frown, he sat back down and resumed his scouring of the Archives.

Gates replaced his helmet, but turned the black t-visor at the younger Stormtrooper. “The idea has merit. I’ll bounce it off Valthir and see how well it goes.”

The new Blackjack addition smiled and nodded enthusiastically, also replacing his helmet. Tylers led them from the intel wing, and they retraced their steps back to the turbolift. The turbolift dropped again as they descended back into the guts of the Fort. Halfway down, the lift slowed and stopped, the doors opening. Another of Tyler’s men in black stood next to a female Zabrak in Stormtrooper armor.

“Sir, another Blackjack got assigned,” the man said to his superior. The Stormtrooper woman stepped forwards, saluted.

“Private Enma reporting, sir,” the woman said softly.

“Lieutenant Gates. Get in; we’ve other things to attend to,” Garryll responded crisply in acknowledgement. She nodded and stepped into the lift. It closed behind her and they quickly descended again.

“Valthir, you’ve got anything else we can pin on Schindler?” Gates asked, speaking into his comlink.

“No, boss. Beyond the first hit, doesn’t look like the records are really gonna help us,” Valthir’s voice crackled back after a few moments.

“Alright, then we’ll just have to prove it otherwise. Private Vand had an idea; it sounded like it had potential, so we’ll try and get something going when I get down there,” Garryll replied as they continued to descend.

“Private Vand..?”

“New guy. We’ll be there in a few minutes.”

The doors hissed open as they reached the chosen level, and the four Imperials emerged from the turbolift. Their boots clicked on the cement floor as they moved towards the archives section of Bastion.

The doors hissed open in front of them, and they stepped into the Bastion Archives. The deep chasm of information storage descended several floors below them and its ceiling soared high above them. Valthir turned at the sound of the door, then waved them over to his work desk.

The desk was covered in service records, intel reports, weapons shipment information and datapads. “See you’ve been busy.”

“Yeah,” Val said. “I guess you don’t want to see the relavent information. Tylers, you want one of your men to wrap it up?”

Tylers nodded and gestured at the man who had walked Valthir to the archives. He stepped forwards and started to organize some of the many documents. Valthir stood and stretched.

“So, Vand. Tell Val your idea.”

The young Stormtrooper nodded and quickly outlined his plan for Valthir. The man nodded, and thought about it for a moment.

“The problem is that we have to somehow get Schindler to go for it,” Gates said.

“Tylers, you can get command to go for something, right?” Valthir asked. The MP officer nodded. “Good - then it’s easy. We tip Schindler off with the drop in his ‘zone.’ Then we’ll go pick it up and catch him as he’s got his men going after it.”

“What’s to stop him from just trying to kill us?” Gates asked.

“Even better - then we really catch him. We could break the squad up into two teams and trigger the trap, then drop the hammer.”

“That metaphor brings back memories,” Gates chuckled. “Let’s go for it. Tylers, you prep the drop and get in contact with someone who can set this up. Valthir, squad, we’re off to go finish that base up and pick up the rest of Blackjack.”

“Roger that, Gates,” Tylers said. “But I want to be part of your backup team when you nail this son-of-a-bitch.”

Gates tipped the MP a salute. “You got it, chief.”

*** *** *** *** ***

Tylers had pulled a few strings and gotten the Blackjacks one of the Military Police’s jet-black dropships for their hop across the continent. The four Blackjacks were fully suited out, armed and armored for war, and a few other army troopers had been roped in to help even the odds a bit more against the numbers they’d be facing.

Gates had his eyes closed as the craft bumped through the sky. Garryll didn’t have much of a handle on the two new troopers, and the six army troopers that had been dragged along were also unfamiliar. In other words, Gates would be relying on himself and his assistant for the foreseeable future.

“ETA to ground is two minutes!” the pilot said into the comlink.

“Can you link us up with the other dropship?” Gates asked.

“Uh, negative. Looks like they got shot down. But there’s some gunfire; it looks like they got down safe.”

“Shit. Try and get us near their dropzone!”

“Roger that.”

The dropship banked into a shallow dive, its superstructure shaking more violently as the ship carved through the atmosphere. Gates remained in his seat, but his fist sat near the quick-release button strapped across his chest.

“Takin’ a bit of flak,” the pilot mumbled, voice thick with concentration. “Hold onto yer knickers.”

Gates closed his eyes and breathed out slowly. Nothing to do but wait and hope that the pilot would be good enough to get him to do what he did best.

Valleys, why do they always put their bases in the middle of these forsaken valleys? Kilroy thought as he climbed to the captain’s position.  Strategically speaking, this particular valley was both a natural chokepoint and capable of providing multiple positions of cover and concealment; all the better if one wanted to create the perfect hideout.  However, this also worked against said hideout because once found, the only ways out became the entrances to the valley itself.  The fact that it was commandos that occupied this particular valley didn’t help to settle his thoughts.  To make matters worse, Kilroy couldn’t figure out just how their foe was able to conceal their movement to and fro without being spotted on radar or auspex systems.  That particular problem he intended to find out.

“Captain Havock, may I have a word with you please?”

“What is it Private?  You got something on your mind?”

“This whole area we’re in ma’am.  It doesn’t make any sense to me as to how they would be able to move supplies into and out of this valley without being spotted, not to mention the fact that we would have noticed a pattern of traffic into this area long ago.  Air transport is out of the question as well because the ships black box records the flight path.”

“Note taken, but you realize that the ones that set up this base are a bunch of militia with commando support?  I don’t see how this has anything to do with the current mission, Private Varl.” 

“The point is that the ones that chose this area were most likely the commando’s ma’am.  Before becoming a storm-trooper for the Vast Empire, I served as a combat engineer and shock trooper for the Kasrkin Home Guard.  In that time I was a member of the Armored Fist Brigades and we fought several battles in valleys such as this, often against guerrilla factions or well organized pirates.  These commandos wouldn’t have chosen this position if they didn’t have another way of getting out…..”

---

Captain Havock had to hand it to Galm squad’s current second in command.  Despite the flaws in the soldier’s plan, it was for all extensive purposes, a reasonable way to asses their current position.  I can’t send out the platoon on zone recon, there is a good chance that they have spotters out, and having fifteen plus troopers running about increases the chances of them catching wind of us.  She thought, mulling over what would be the best way to deal with such an unknown factor.  It wasn’t long before Havock came up with her plan, as she quickly turned back towards the private with a cheerful grin on her face.

“Congratulations Private, you just volunteered yourself for scouting duty.  I want you and Nen squad’s best scout to scour the valley walls.  See if you can find anything for me.”

“Yes ma’am.”
---

Ya know, now that I am here, I get this feeling that I’ve forgotten something rather important. Kilroy thought as he dragged himself out of the water.  Taking stock of the situation, he pulled out his pistol from the hard-case that was attached to his leg.  Although it wasn’t standard issue for the Vast Empire soldiers it was something he, like all others born in the super continent of Cadia, carried ever since his induction to service back home.  All things considered he felt more at home using the semi-automatic pistol than the shotgun he had on him earlier, even if the alleged shotgun wasn’t currently at the bottom of an underground lake.

Let’s see, didn’t forget to clean both my shotgun and pistol before we boarded the LAARTY.  Checking the pistol for any damage, John Varl smiled as he found not even a scratch on the finish.  Similar to the Blackjack lieutenant’s revolver, the Cadian pistol shot slugs or bullets instead of the plasma bolts that were prevalent amongst several military forces in this day and age.  Each magazine that came with it had a 10+1 round capacity; the round itself was an 11.4 mm, otherwise known as a .45 cal.  It was, in the words of several gun collectors, one of the most beautiful self-loading pistols known to man.

Purge the enemy?  Haven’t gotten to that yet.  Hate the witch?  Don’t think there are any around here.  Damn it think, man think! What would Tanner say to you?  Staring upwards towards the hole that he fell into, it wasn’t long before that nagging feeling he had finally had an answer for itself.  OH yeah now I remember!  Don’t fail the bloody spot check.       

OOC:

Anyone want to guess what kind of pistol Varl carries?

“Go, go go! Clear the base!” his Squad Leader barked over the Comlink, and with that Alex turned to the two Army Troopers he’d been sharing cover with.

“All right you two. Stay on my ass and meet up at the wall after the next explosion.” Alex told the Troopers. Waiting in his shallow trench, Alex started quietly counting the seconds until the next explosion. Before he got to six, Alex’s teeth were jarred by the detonation of a well placed Republic fragmentation grenade.

“Out of the trench!” Alex urged the Troopers, as he hauled his armored mass over the lip of the crevice. Using the smoke and debris caused by the grenade’s detonation, Alex ran at an all out sprint that ate up the forty meters in seconds, an easy feat for one of the Vast Empire’s Elite Stormtroopers. Throwing himself against the Camp’s destroyed outer wall, Alex watched as the two Army Troopers were gunned down by Republic repeating blaster fire.

Not believing what he’d seen, Alex stared at the remains of the few people outside of his unit he knew.

“That’s a damn shame. I swear one of those boys had never shaved.” said the grim Army Sergeant at his right. Shaking the macabre spectacle from his head, Alex starting counting the number of Stormtroopers who’d made it the wall.

“This will have to do.” Alex reassured himself, as he watched his brothers-in-arms pour through the gaping whole in the Camp’s perimeter and begin reigning hell onto those who’d dare slander his Company’s name.

“Private!” Lieutenant Gates “If you’re not over that sorry excuse for a wall, I swear I’ll shoot you myself!”

“Sir, yes, sir!” Alex replied, abandoning his brief reverie and throwing himself into the fray.

On the other side of the ruined wall lay a small maze of make shift barricades that Republic troops had been using for cover, but by the time he got there the ground was littered with the charred remains of soldiers from both sides, and Republic forces were steadily being pushed from cover by concentrated fire by men from both the regular Army and the Stormtroopers. Alex, taking up a position between two of his fellow Stormtroopers, sent blaster bolts over the cordon to end the lives of those Republic soldiers who’d not been able to find adequate cover.

Suddenly, the air was filled with the deadly bolts of Republic repeating guns, their constant fire mixing with that of the loud chatter of AAA turret fire. Signaling one of the Combat Engineers who’d brought down the camp’s wall, Alex gave the man covering fire as he ran out from in between two large durasteel containers.

“What’s your name, soldier?” Alex yelled over the sound of blaster fire so the man could hear.

“Crowley! Lance Corporal!” the man replied, unsteadily, peaking up over the barricades to assess the situation. Satisfied with his current level of safety, Crowley resumed his crouching stance behind the low barricade, his neck cocking sharply to the side as if to listen.

“What is it, Corporal?” Alex asked, all pleasantries forgotten.

“Sounds like…whistling” Crowley replied; and as if to punctuate his statement, a Republic mortar shell landed in front of the crates they were using for cover. Alex, Crowley, and the other handful of troopers were scattered with the explosion; the blast splintering their cover and sending shrapnel in all directions to maim and kill those unlucky enough to be caught in the searing metal’s path.

Ears ringing, Comms hissing, and vision partially blurred, Alex lay on the sandy terrain looking up at the camouflage netting that obscured this base’s presence from Orbital Scans, and groped himself assessing the damage done to his body. Luckily, the worse he suffered was major peppering and pock marking of his armor caused by the shrapnel, Crowley on the other hand, hadn’t fared so well; the man’s broken body twisted at unnatural angles.

"The Rebublic Troops are using our own heavy weapons against us!" Alex reported in, and with that collected his half buried E-11.

Alex grabbed what remained of Crowley and hauled him to cover in-between the large containers he’d originally exited. Leaning what remained of Lance Corporal Crowley against the container's outer wall, Alex turned to check the on the rest of Blackjack's progress. The sound of the remaining AAA guns still pounding away at it's target in the distance.

OOC:

trying to get back into the groove. We're past the wall at least.

Alex hadn’t realized the full extend of the Corporal’s injuries until he tore open Crowley’s shirt. The man’s limbs were shattered, and he’d lost consciousness twice now.

“You’re doing fine Corporal, just keep your eyes on me.” Alex reassured after removing his helmet.

“h-h-how b-bad is it?”

Grimacing for a second, Alex eyeballed Crowley’s injuries again, and replied with a slight smile.

“You’ll be fine, mate. I’ve seen soldiers survive worse,” Alex lied, “Now I’m going to rejoin the fight. I’ll send aid as soon as I can.”

With a shocked look on the man’s face, he re ached out limply to grab Alex’s wrist before he could turn away. The man began to cry.

“You’re all I’ve got, Private. Please, stay.”

Alex was amazed that the man was still conscious; he has to be in shock at this point, Alex thought to himself. Gently removing Crowley’s desperate grip on his arm, Alex gave a wry smile and had to replace his helmet to keep himself from crying in front of the man.

“Medic!” Alex commed unsteadily, “Severe laceration of all the limbs. Compound fracture. Expected casualty.” His training relayed over the ‘Link.

More explosions In the distance. Blackjack had been engaged in combat for what seemed like hours, but it’d only been a quarter of an hour and the bodies were still piling up. Assuming a standing position, Alex readied himself to return to fight and began moving to the lip of the “Alley” to survey the engagement.

“Don’t leave me! Not like this…” Anything else the dieing man might’ve said was cut off by another explosion. This one finally ending the poor Combat Engineer’s life, and throwing Alex back out into the Firefight.

-------------

When Alex awoke, he had a 6 inch of rebar sticking out of his upper abdominal muscle; protruding through his Stormtrooper armor. There was an Imperial Medic standing over him, and he roughly pulled off Alex’s helmet to begin treating his wounds.

“What seems to be the problem, trooper?” The Medic asked with humor in his voice.

Alex stared down at his new appendage blankly.

“Ok, you’re going into shock. I need you to look at me now. Can you do that? There we go.” The Medic was shining a flashlight right into Alex’s pupils, checking the rate of dilation.

“Alright. You took a bit of a fall. Now, I want you to grasp my hand and squeeze as tight as you can, and on the count of 7 I’m going to pull this thing out of you.” Groggily grabbing the Medic’s outstretched hand, Alex stared up into the man’s rough face and watched his mouth move without hearing the words.

“…six, seven…” a beat after seven and the Medic ripped the rebar out of Alex’s gut, quickly fumbling in his back for a Becta unit, and sprayed the wound, applying an Armor repair kit to the sizable hole in the Plastoid armor.

“You’re really going to enjoy this part” said the Medic as he produced a large syringe with a hypodermic tip. Again, Alex just stared at it without registering what was going on. With a strong thrust, the Medic, later identified as Staff Sergeant Hawkins, inserted a shot of adrenalin through Alex’s bodysuit in between the creases of the Stormtrooper body armor. Alex’s eyes dilated. His body feeling like it was pumping fire through his veins.

“Here you go, Trooper. Get back into the fight!”

Hawkins tossed Alex his helmet and laughed as he fumbled to put it on, the muscles in his neck bulging. Alex collected his E-11 and rejoined the firing line to help repel the newest wave of advancing Republic troops.

OOC:

Gotta appreciate the Saving Private Ryan references. Nice one, Kilroy.

His head on a swivel, Alex looked side to side to register new targets; the adrenalin, coursing through his veins like battery acid, making him react to new hostiles with almost mechanical precision. The fire fight inside of the compound had been raging for a good quarter hour and Republic forces were making a steady retreat back into the compound, some taking cover behind crates, others falling back at a dead run while Imperial forces slaughtered them without mercy.

“Keep up the pressure!”

Alex barely acknowledged that the Lieutenant was issuing an order; almost all sentient thought had left with the shot of epinephrine Crowley had given him. Throwing all caution to the wind, Alex leapt over the cordon that his fellow Stormtroopers were using for cover, and charged into the deadly maelstrom of blaster fire and explosions.

“That damned rookie is going to get himself killed.” One of the Stormtroopers standing on the other side of the palisade jested as if the hell raging around him didn’t exist. His good humor was met with a chorus of laughter as the Imperial Stormtroopers watched Alex dart in and out of cover; uprooting a small pocket of entrenched Republic regulars.

“Wow. He sure can move when he needs to. Do you think we should…uh…help?” A different trooper asked, scanning the immediate area and noticing a Republic counter-offensive by the gradual increase of enemy soldiers in the area.

“We probably should.” Sighed another Stormtrooper; everyone already on the move and vaulting over the low palisade, with precision that only military training can provide, to charge into the fray behind Alex. The Republican counter-offensive all but demolished by the charge of scorched white plastoid armor and concentrated blaster fire.

Further into the camp they charged, laying waste to everything in their path and stopping only to the replace spent blaster cartridges. The theater of war had shifted to the point where Republican forces were taking up refuge in buildings, and Imperial Stormtroopers and Army regulars were sent in to clean them out; the streets all but forgotten, with the occasional skirmish here and there that ended with corpses lining the streets with smoking burns on their bodies.

Now Alex was rear guard fir three of his fellow Stormtroopers who were all lined up against the wall of a one story durasteel building preparing to breach and sweep for any remaining guerrilla fighters.

“Breach in three…two…one…” the Trooper on point called out. On ‘one’, the point man put a blaster bolt through the door’s locking mechanism and proceeded to enter the room, followed by the other three Stormtroopers. Covering the breached door from the outside, Alex waited anxiously for the all clear before he entered. Following several quick blaster volleys, the all clear was given. After entering the now ruined building, Alex could see the deadly proficiency his brothers-in-arms had with their weapons and the carnage that such skill produced.

From the scattered debris that crunched beneath his booted feet, it appeared that the room’s occupants had been engaged in a game of Pazaak when the initial assault had begun, and the game’s players had taken up arms and flipped their table for makeshift cover. The walls and overturned table were pocked and scorched where stray blaster bolts had struck them; the room littered with the smoking remains of the poor Republican souls who were unfortunate enough to be caught in the Vast Empire’s path. Removing his helmet, Alex surveyed the damage. The stench of burning flesh hitting him in a shock-wave as the air scrubbers of his helmet ceased to filter the air.

“Remaining Republican Forces have fallen back to the motor pool!” A soldier yelled over the mission’s designated Coms channel.

“Don’t pity them rook’,” Commanded one of the Stormtroopers who first entered the room, “they’re treacherous scum who framed your squad for slaughtering that entire village." Kicking what appeared to be a Sergeant of the Republic. "This is the least they deserve. And another thing, never remove your helmet when in combat.”

"Muzzle that shit. We've got new orders. Sweep the rest of this building and RV at the motor pool. Now Move!" Barked the original point man, First Sergeant Braca.

"Sir.” The Stormtroopers replied. Alex replacing his helmet, still dwelling on the macabre scene he was witnessing with more clarity; having burned off most of the excess adrenalin and was able to function on a level befitting a soldier of the Vast Empire, so that he didn’t get any of his fellow Stormtroopers inadvertently killed with his recklessness.

The sweep of the remaining four rooms went by without incident; its former occupants seeming to have abandoned what looked like a medium sized barracks to take up a more defensible position on the other side of the camp. Making their way out of the Republic barracks, the silence that fell over the camp gave Alex an uneasy feeling. Listening through his helmets internal speakers, he noted the curious absence of the constant explosions caused by the remaining Anti-Air piece they had passed on their descent. 
“We’re getting hammered here! Requesting reinforcements!” The Trooper from earlier pleaded over the Comlink.

“Motor pool, Double-time, move!” Braca ordered.

OOC:

I figured a Motor Pool would be a good place for the Republic's last stand. Sorry if some of it doesn't make sense, i've been busy all week, this is the only time i've had to post and it's 2:30 in the morning right now. Cheers.

The motor pool was on the other side of the Republic’s base. Running down deserted streets, and ducking down back alleys, Alex and the Stormtroopers he was following, had arrived at the motor pool in time to witness the final blow to the enemy.

Lieutenant Gates was positioned outside of a cave's expansive maw, poised with a grenade launcher to unleash hell upon the unsuspecting insurgents within. His body language suggesting he was conferring with the Stormtrooper next to him.

With deadly efficiency, Lieutenant Garryll brought death to all within the cave, turning it into a massive oven; heat building from the explosion causing flesh and bone to incinerate instantly, and armor to melt.

"Mission Complete" called the Lieutenant, turning away from appreciating his handiwork. "Blackjack, move out! I want boots off the ground in five! Remaining Imperial forces, gather the dead and police their weapons."

It was a brutal march back to the drop zone, but with the Lieutenant at their back, Blackjack moved at a breakneck pace back to the Drop-ship they had flown in on. Their pilot waiting outside of patiently as the column of Stormtroopers marched his way.

"Looks like you boys had one hell of a fight."

"Blackjack held its own and gave all she could. That's all I ask from my troopers." Lieutenant Gates offered, the tone in his voice letting the pilot know that any questions wouldn't be answered. "Take us home. We've got urgent business in bastion."

With a nod, the pilot popped a side hatch and entered the cockpit of the jet-black craft. The hull marked with more carbon scoring than when they'd disembarked.

"Blackjack, mount up!" the Lieutenant ordered. With that, Alex quickly jumped into the drop ship, leaning against the interior fuselage to help pull in members of Blackjack. The first trooper through the door took up an inverse position from Alex and sped up the embarkation process greatly. Lieutenant Gates was the last aboard the craft, and as he passed, Alex could've sworn he saw the man nod in approval. Finding his seat as the ship's engines began to spin up, Alex surveyed the extent of the damage Blackjack had taken. Every Trooper was covered in Carbon residue from firing their blasters, and most bore the pockmarks of carbon scoring on their armor. Others, like Alex, had taken move severe damage. His less-advanced "Regular" armor, wasn't as reinforced in places, and didn't have as advanced sensors as the SCOPE armor that most of Blackjack was decked out in.

The members of Blackjack were all secured in their seats, except for the Lieutenant, who stood holding onto a handrail fixed to the ceiling. "All clear back here," he called, "take us to Bastion."

"Aye, Sir." The pilot responded.

Moments after the pilot replied, the Drop ship picked up off of the ground, and the steady acceleration and ascent towards the sky. The duration of the flight back to bastion was calm and smooth, except for the dare-devil of a pilot throwing in wild turns along his trajectory to entertain himself. Aside from minor turbulence just above Thyveck's troposphere to maximize fuel burn, and to minimize drag on the ship.

"This is the Captain speaking, I hope you've enjoyed your flight on Air Imperial. If you're currently seated on the left side of the 'craft, looking out your widow you'll have a gorgeous view of Bastion. Those little ant-like-things are your fellow Imperials, so when we land, feel free to give them a hearty 'Hello!'. The temperature outside of the craft is...well...the same as always, so Plastoid armor is recommended as always. We'll begin our decent into the fortress in a moment. The stewardesses will be coming down the isles now to make sure everyone is secure and that tray tables are in their upright and backed position. Again, on behalf of the Empire, I would like to thank you for flying Air Imperial."

Light chuckling could be heard over the in-squad Communications channel as the members of Blackjack humored their pilot. Soon enough, the black Drop Ship was safely landed on the tarmac amidst the familiar scene of embarking troops and stacked crates.

With a swift hand gesture, the Lieutenant ordered his to remove safety harnesses and disembark the lithe craft. Garryll was the first one to touch down on Imperial held ground, and ordered the rest of Blackjack to the squad barracks for some well deserved R&R.

OOC:

Sorry for kinda taking control of your character, Garryll. My mind went blank after the second paragraph and it's taken me the better part of a day to fight through writers block.

OOC:

Epilogue!

Captain Ayme “Havock” Katash stared at the two troopers that currently occupied the space adjacent to her.  While she normally preferred to have the various platoon and squad leaders perform and check the AAR’s from those under their command, this was not to be the case for these particular gravel agitators.  For all intensive purposes, they were under her command during the siege on the rebel base, so it fell to her to see as to why they never made it onto the dropship and how exactly they made it back to base.  Just how am I going to explain this to the higher ups? She thought, rubbing her temples as she took in the testimonies from PFC John Varl and PFC Chanthe Thrynn.

“So, tell me again.  You both decided that in order to get back to friendly lines, you….

---

Earlier

“Hustle it up Chanthe!  We’re almost there!”  John yelled back towards his Imperial comrade, a female Thunderean that bore the markings of the Imperial Army.  After going through the valley’s intricate cavern system and taking care of several retreating Rebublic regulars and allied militia along the way.  Now, amidst all the chaos that had ensued, they had finally made it into the main section of the base.

What the hell happened here?  He thought, taking full stock of the scenery around him.  Amongst the pocketed walls and various debris were several lifeless forms; some of them from the Vast Empire, others Reppie, all of them lying in various positions of death.  It wasn’t long before he heard the tall tell sound of a drop ship off in the distance did he realize that the main group had finished securing the area and was about to depart now that their mission was accomplished.  “Fuuuuuck, Not good, not good, not good!”  He exclaimed as he raced towards where the sound originated from.  Much to John’s detriment, he reached the LZ only to find a black drop ship soaring in the sky above and heading back to friendlier territory.

“Okay, let’s review what has happened today.  I get shot down by AAA, fall into a cave and lose my shotgun in an underground lake.  Next during the insanity in the caves, the comm. systems get fried from a lucky shot.  Now, my platoon forgot about us and left us behind.  What’s next? “

“I demand that you strip all the way down to your skivvies!”

Turning his head to Chanthe, the 24 year old Cadian could not tell whether or not the surly female was serious about her statement.  That was until she burst out into laughter, all the while chortling about the incredulous look that was on his face. 

“Come on trooper, let’s go see if we can scrounge up some transport, and bury the dead while we’re at it.”

---

Mmmmmm, so good to stretch, Chanthe thought as she extended her arms to their full length.  After burying the dead from both sides, taking dog tags and any extraneous stuff from the corpses, she decided to see if she could jury rig one of the several vehicles in the motor pool into some semblance of working order.  Currently down to just an under shirt and bottom half of her uniform, the Thunderean girl was covered with grease and sweat after working on a LATV for the better part of an hour.  I better switch shirts; don’t want smell like oil when we get back.  However, before she could completely switch shirts, her stormtrooper friend came in just as she took off the original one.

“As much as I like the view from here, would you kindly put something on?”

“What did you find?”

“Come follow me, I think you’ll like what I found.”

Minutes later, the two Imperials were inside another motor pool, undamaged from the firefight that occurred earlier in the day.  Within it was something neither of them thought they would see on Thyveck. In the middle, free of any dust or damage, was a tank from the Rebellion era.  Much to their delight, it was still in mint condition, and was a tracked variant of TX-130 series.  Simultaneously, the two turned to each other, thoughts synchronized as just how they can return back to Imperial lines.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“I believe I am, but where exactly can we get a Terraxian top hat and monocle from here?”

---

Corporal Ryan Jankowski hated sentry duty with a passion; of all the punishments conceivable in the Vast Empire, guard duty was the worst of them in his opinion.  For six hours he spent at a small checkpoint that led into the base, and for a better portion of it nothing ever happened.  “This sucks, I might as well go to sleep.  After all, nothing EVER happens here.”  He lamented while staring at his combat buddy who was doing just that.  Within minutes of saying that, he too decided to take a nap, for all that was out there was sand, sand, oh and even more sand.

“On your feet corporal!”

Oh shit.  How long was I asleep for? Jankowski thought as he shook off the remnants of lethargy.  Fearing that his sergeant caught him shirking his duty, Ryan instead found what looked like an officer of some sort.  What caught him by surprise was this particular officer was standing on top of a tank, wearing full dress regalia and had a rather large cap on his head that would make religious figures envious.  The corporal was dumbstruck, wondering just how one could maintain their composure when they had two bunny girls straddling each leg while two very well built men with paper fans were behind them. 

“Yes, you in the guard box, eyes up here.”

“Y-yes sir?”

“Could you direct me to where I can find the barracks for Phoenix Company?  I have a rather important meeting with a few of their leaders and I’d hate to be late.  No not now my young assistants, we will be their in due time.”

“May I ask why?”

“I am here upon an invitation of an old friend of mine.  Is there anything else you would like to ask, or would you prefer to have your commander to know you were sleeping on the job?”

Not wanting to find out whether or not the man was serious about his threat, Corporal Jankowski decided that the best course of action was to let them pass.  The squad is not going to believe this at all, he thought as the tank drove past him. Having enough surprises for one day, Ryan figured that it would be better to remain active until someone came to relieve him.  However, thinking about what just expired; Jankowski could have sworn that the officer was laughing as they passed the checkpoint. No….That would be too ridiculous.     

---

Present time

In light of what she just heard, Havock felt that the best response to what she heard, could essentially be described as a face palm.  Reviewing video feed from a camera where the troopers entered from, she couldn’t help but wonder whether the two were crazy, stupid, or just plain out took refuge in audacity.  All things considered, she couldn’t punish them, for she and Garryll did accidently leave them behind; but to return back to base surfing on a tank was unheard of.  The fact that they did that, with rather blatant costumes and locals, was something she had a hard time wrapping her head around.

“So, due to the fact that both of your squads are currently on mission, what do you plan to do in the mean time?”

“I found one of the Raiders to be a bit of a dandy, so I think I might raid his stuff.  FOR GREAT JUSTICE of course.”

Knowing full well that the Galm member was serious, she turned her head towards the MP, hoping she had better plans then the eccentric trooper.

“And you?”

“This.”

---

John had to admit it, but getting kissed right in front of a Company Commander, was certainly not on his to do list.  He certainly never expected the captain to laugh at the sheer balls it took to do such a thing either. All in all though, he called it a successful day, and he got to finally surf a tank.  That’s one thing off the things I have to do before I die list.  He thought as both he and Chanthe headed back to the enlisted tents.  “So, what are you really planning on?  That is asides from quite possibly upsetting some of the female members of my squad later on.”

“I’m hoping to put a transfer in to the Stormtrooper Corps actually; been getting tired of being your average MP.”

“If you do get in, feel free to join us any time.  It would be good to have another around, if ya know what I mean.”

“Yeah and thanks for the invitation.  See you around Kilroy.”

“You too Cheetara.”