The sun's bright radiance was dulled by a flotilla of bloated yellow clouds that crawled slowly across the sky. A musty smell of industrial pollution assaulted their nasal cavities and seemed to seep through their proletariat disguises. Bringing with it a greasy, unwashed feel. It had been three weeks since the last time he had set foot on the planet and if things went well he was never coming back.

Angels briefing had been, well, brief. Intelligence suggested some form of uprising orchestrated by insurgent cells comprised of Eriaduan army deserters and partisans. That's were the briefing came to an abrupt halt. They knew the who, the why was also fairly obvious but it was the how and the when which had army intelligence and by proxy his superior officers on edge. Reports from the occupying forces had been the usual. Several small scale food riots, reports of looting and vandalism, the kind of thing one expects to follow what Angel had referred to as  "A major destabilisation and subsequent restructuring  of the local governing body through military means" which was all well and good but missed one of the major points. Why send Jager.

It wasn't as if his superiors were oblivious to the injuries the Sergeant had sustained during the initial operation. An aid had to excuse herself mid-briefing after he face went a chalky white color. Then the skin around the fissure was still morbidly pink and soft which clashed heavily with the black welt of a bruise he had sustained during surgery. He didn't blame her for going to greet her lunch. However Angel kept off the subject, almost to the point of denying its existence until Jager brought it up. His response,

"Medical said you had recovered well, you were well enough to attend this briefing, I don't see why you aren't well enough to undertake this assignment"

The man made a valid argument, but when logic was used anything was valid. Truth was Jager hadn't slept in the week he'd been out of the tank, he had taken so many pills and stimulants that he considered becoming a mobile pharmacy and every time he gazed out of one of the ships viewing ports and caught a glimpse of the sickly colored marble they referred to as Eriadu he felt like vomiting blood. This was the reason Angel had sent him back. A man with a complete disregard for lives of the planets inhabitants, in charge of a group of highly trained individuals could do a considerable amount of damage.

His fellow squad mates had refrained from commenting on the wounds or his constant downing of pills from a small perspex bottle that he kept stashed in his pocket, at least for the moment. Someone would eventually but like everything in his life, he'd cross that bridge when he came to it.

Worn, grey structures gradually began to overtake their surroundings as squad continued to press further and further into the city. If it weren't for the occasional fly-over by a tie fighter and the notices pasted against walls declaring martial law then it would have been impossible to tell that an invasion had taken place. The populous ambled around still entangled in the monotony of daily life, broken only by the occasional jostling from a patrol of the new, Imperial backed, Eriaduan security force. Hastily erected checkpoints lined the major roads, snake-like lines of civilians drifted back from them. Either the empire was strong arming the population in a macho over-display of its dominance, or they were  very concerned about this uprising.

----

The group had passed through the first checkpoint unabated. They had gone in undercover as to avoid any leaking of information. The last thing Jester needed was to be setup. This also meant that they had gone in unarmed. Checkpoints were fitted with metal detectors and the SF had been given orders to detain or terminate on site. Both the Empire and, at least he hoped, the SF knew that insurgents would find alternate methods of entry, making the checkpoints obsolete for their original purpose. Instead acting as early warning systems for if or when the attack came, and as visual deterrents for any would be anarchist or insurgent. 

Once clear Jager took point. Intelligence had give then a few tools to aid in this task. One was a safe house in the entertainment district, a small place two floors above a dilapidated pleasure club known as 'The Asp hole'. A large portion of their equipment had been placed there.

The squad moved in an extended, scattered line. Mai took point with Hond by her side, Bright and Abalar followed a few meters behind trailed by Kip who in turn was trailed by both he and Lukas. Seeing they were clear of any major security presence Jager made his way up to Bright.

"Enjoying the walk?" He kept his tone flat and low and never made eye contact.

Bright smirked, "I've had better."

"There's a safe house not to far from here. Take yourselves over there and get setup." In an earlier time he would have made small talk, a quick joke or a quip. Times had changed.

"And where are you going?" His squad mate asked knowing full well she wasn't going to get a proper response.

"I've gotta go see a man about a dog. I'll see you back at the safe house in three hours." he didn't wait for a response, instead moving to catch Hond and the Cathar. The two were chatting quietly to one another. Regardless of race, color or creed, oddities stuck together and Mai and Hond were the oddest members of the squad. The Chiss with his almost comically colored eyes and the Cathar for obvious reasons. Hond was less pleased to see his temporary squad leader then Bright was, greeting him with a low grunt to which Jager responded in kind.

"I've got a special job for you, blue eyes."

The Chiss queried whilst poorly attempting to disguise his hatred of Jager "Why does it sound like your trying to do me a favor."

"Safehouse is in the entertainment district. You're gonna do some reconnaissance of the area."

"And Bright couldn't tell me this, why?" he sneered

"Because that's only half the job." Jager began, lowering his head slightly "I need you to get me some codeine, or something of a similar fashion" It took a moment for Hond to register what his squad leader was asking him to do, a notion that once he understood caused him to almost laugh aloud,

"Fuck off, I'm not buying you drugs."

"I'm not asking you to 'buy' me drugs, I'm ordering you to find me painkillers. Got it?" he shot back in a low, gravely voice. The medical crew aboard the dominion had given him a single bottle of painkillers, after which there would be no more. The pain that seeped out through the fissure that adorned his face still remained, and was going to remain long after their measly bottle of pills was depleted.

After a contemplative pause Hond spoke up, "And, lets say I don't get your drugs? What then?"

"Then I accidentally discharge my firearm in your general direction." Jager responded, his voice devoid of any emotion of sarcasm. Hond halted in his step and looked at Jager,

"Bullshit."

"Try me..."

The two stood locked in a vicious stare before Bright tapped Jager on the shoulder. "Problem?"

"No. Hond was just gonna run ahead and do some recon for us." Both sergeants turned to the private.

"Good idea," Bright replied, shoving the two along. Hond mumbled something under his breath before moving head, eventually crossing a street and disappearing into the foot traffic. Jager was taking a chance on giving such a task to Hond, but there was no one else besides himself who he thought capable of it. Bright, Kip, Lukas and Mai would most likely report his actions to a higher power and Abalar was far to innocent for such an action. At least if Hond decided blackmail him, it would be the word of a veteran sergeant against a piss-ant private with a criminal background.

The squad continued for another block before Jager parted ways. Intelligence had given them many tools, the safe house was but one. Taking another look at the name of the informant he was going to meet and pondered how the man would react upon seeing him. Their friendship had hit a rough patch a year back resulting in the man losing his job in the base armory, from memory he was never a man to hold a grudge but time would tell. Stuffing the note pack into his pocket Jager crossed the street and merged seamlessly with the pedestrian traffic. The sooner he got the ball rolling, the sooner he'd be off Eriadu for good.

A thick mist hung low off the ceiling, a holo-screen was muffled by the quiet murmuring and the occasional hoarse cough from the bars patrons. He wondered if all bars in the galaxy worked off a set guide line in terms of how they looked. Gruff, bearded bartender, Grizzled regulars and some somber music set to loop emanating from a jukebox somewhere in the back.

His contact had found himself a table towards the back, the half dozen empty bottles a good indication of how long he had been here. Gradually Jager made his way across the room, scooping out his fellow patrons. They all looked legit, or at least that's what he hoped. Crossing the room he was greeted predictably by his contact.

"Ohhh, ge' fucked." The large-ish man muttered as he clasped one of his flabby palms across his face.

"Charles" Jager stated dryly as he pulled a seat out.

"Nooo, no, no, no. Its not you, I'm drunk." the red-haired man muttered to himself, his forehead now resting on the edge of the table. Jager dug a hand into his attire and removed a packet of cigarettes, promptly lighting one up before offering on to his 'old friend'. Their history was a black stain on both mens records. Charles Krebil or as he was more commonly referred to as 'Chuckie' once held a position in the base armory back on Tadath, somewhere towards the top of its limited command structure. But Chuck had a taste for the finer, more illicit things in life, which is exactly how Jager first came to meet him.

After a prolonged drinking game, paid for by the spoils of a prior card game, the two worked out a mutual buisness relationship. Jager would play muscle for the mans loan sharking ventures on his off days. Break a leg here, rough up someone there and in return Chuck would slide him all kinds of contraband which Jager would then be free to do whatever he pleased. It wasn't the best or even the smartest idea, but it worked. That is to say, worked until it was discovered accidentally by base security. Jager peddled a hold out blaster to a small gang who then used it to kill a Tad-sec officer. The weapon was traced back to him. Forcing him to make the only choice a true friend could ever make,

He sold Chuck out. The man had stuck his hand that deep into the Empires cookie jar that his flabby wrist had gotten caught. Trafficking second hand E-11's to anyone with the credits was a high risk venture. Jager got off with a slap on the wrist whilst Chuck was sucked up by the system, eventually being picked up by Imperial intelligence and becoming an 'asset'.

"Four god-forsaken months on this shit-pit and instead of pulling me out they send you." the moaned as he snatched the packet of cigarettes out of Jager's hand. "Speakin' of you... ya' lose a knife fight or somethin'"

Jager kept quiet, tapping the ash from his cigarette onto the side of the table. Chuck had clearly changed a great deal. Losing what he'd guessed to be at least twenty kilograms, Chuck seemed like a shadow of his former jolly self.

"Well, ya' git. Ya' just gonna sit there like a mute or doya' have something you'd like to know" The mans absence of patients and lack of interest in reminiscing made it fairly clear that he still held something against Jager.

"Not in the mood to talk shit, eh." Jager mused soberly, taking another drag on his cigarette. "I'm gonna guess that you know why I'm here."

Chuck let out a sarcastic cackle, "No, I dont. Perhaps here to open a book store, or maybe just to catch yourself a lovely case of emphysema. Which you tell your higher-ups about, cuz' I want some compensation." Jager lent back in his seat and let the smoke drift casually from his nostrils. His face throbbed with a dull pain but the nicotine was masking it well, for the moment at least.

"Lovely lady with a head of red hair told me you've been selling arms to the partisans. Said you'd hook me up with a name or two." he queried, half stated in a matter-of-fact tone. Again Chuck moaned and rubbed his temple,

"Don' you get me started on that bitch. If she had me on a tighter leash I wouldn't be touchin' the ground." he spat, "And keep your voice down will ya'. Folks get all gittery when you mention the 'P' word aloud."

"Names." Jager shot back, "And locations, if you'd be so kind" Chuck lent forward with a slight look fear in his tired looking eyes.

"I give ya' names, you get me out." Jager made no verbal promises, merely motioning with his hand in as reassuringly a way as possible. He had no power over the man in that regard, whether he got called back to the dominion or left to rot on this planet was completely up to his handlers.

"This is not a good place to be right now, I tell ya'." he began, sliding a data pad under the table which Jager retrieved and began idly scanning. "You've got deserters mixed in with off world NR regulars, Commandos incharge of suicide teams and enough toys to put you boys to shame."

Jager raised his good eyebrow, "What are we talkin, Small arms and improvised explosives?"

"Everythin' and the fuckin' kitchen sink. Small arms, Anti-air weapons, Ewebs, military grade demo charges. You name it and they either have it, are ordering it or have it on a wish list."

"Names, locations, dates." Jager inquired as he continued idle rummaging through the data pads well of pictures and information. Stockpiles of weapons, a few civilian vehicles retrofitted with armor, an armed skiff which he shuddered at the sight of. Then came the rank and file. Fresh faced kids, deserters and hardened old men all wearing civilian cloths with red rags tied above their arm for identification. Typical resistance fighters. Then he came across something that really disturbed him. A table, covered in forged imperial ID's all surrounded by resistance fighters clad in trooper armor.

Chuck smirked as he watched Jager flick through the same five pictures continuously, "Shit just got real, eh?"

"How much?"

"A few sets, all off downed troopers and such. The ID's though, tons of them." Both men sat silent for a few moments as Jager reviewed the pictures again. "I wouldn't be too worried, luthy." the pudgy man reassured, "That's the big picture, and everything always looks shite when you take a step back."

"Its the fact that it looks shite when you take a few steps forwards which bothers me" Jager retorted, placing the pad on the table. "You got those names handy?"

"Aye. Three, trio o' trouble if ye' ask me." Chuck began, "You've got Gamorrean Ray, he's a Trandoshan. Logistics mostly. Got a real head for numbers, the prick. Ya' don't meet many lizards with such a trait." Jager glanced briefly at the image on the bad. Real ugly bastard, but then again Trandoshan's weren't known for their delicate features.

"Next in our distinguished line up is Seller. Second in command, he does your recon and most of the leg work. Got a bit of an attitude problem as well, nearly gutted me a few times I tell ya'." The information on the pad was from a pre-invasion military file. Seller was a low ranking infantry officer before he deserted. By the long list of reports against him Jager doubted he was someone who played by the rules.

"Last but not least, Caleb Pratt. Explosives and a mute. Every bombing on Eriadu since the invasion, civilian and military, has been by this bastard."

Jager examined the picture. Man in his late fifties, bald. Rebel fighters were often disarmingly unassuming. No battle scars, mean grins or rows of razor sharp teeth as some of the Imperial propaganda would lead someone to believe. It as much easier to kill a monster then a pensioner.

"Why no heads, these are mostly underlings." Jager pointed out. Chuck shrugged.

"I got told to get ye' information on these three, that's it. I'm guessin' they'd be thrown into turmoil if you nailed this lot. Empire needs enemies... but they prefer the odds to be horribly bias in their favour." One thing Jager liked about Chuck was that he always made sense, in a weird outer-rim kind of way. Without enemies he'd be out of the job, then again so would Chuck but Jager doubted if the man had any real problem with that situation. With a lack of enthusiasm, Jager slipped the pad beneath his coat and stubbed his cigarette in the ash-tray that was the center piece of the table.

"Now" Chuck announced, clapping his arms together with anticipation, "So where do I meet the shuttle?" After a brief pause Jager patted the large man on his flabby shoulder, an attempt at understanding and sympathy appearing very half-arsed on his lips.

"Maybe next time..." For a second it looked as though Chuck was going to cry. Jager had been on the planet for little more then two days in his entire life and already he never wanted to come back, he couldn't begin to fathom what four weeks would have been like. The man would spend another two standard years on the planet.

With that weak show of support, Jager got up and left. Chuck had returned his forehead to the table. In truth Jager didn't care, he had gotten what he had come for, he now all he had to do was brief the Jester's and get to it and before long he would be home free. What Chuck could never understand was that life sucked and it sucked harder when you were forced to work for the Empire, optimism was a surefire way to get let down on a daily basis as life's problems were distributed in great portions to all, regardless of species, class or profession. Eventually got their share and all you could do was smile, nod and dig in. Secure in the knowledge that there was plenty more were that came from.

"The' fuck you need codeine for anyway?" Hond inquired, throwing a cheap, faded hip bag into his squad leaders lap, "And why the fuck are you sitting in the back seat?" Jager didn't bother to answer, merely looking at the irritated private and sneering seemed like the best response. Hond sighed and began tapping his hands rhythmically on the steering wheel until a tight grip on his shoulder signaled him to give it a rest.

"Touch me again and I swear I'll do you in" he grumbled, the kid wore his like they were a set of brand new sneakers and god help the man he scuffed them. Threats against his life were nothing new. Large, scarier and just downright meaner people had played the same track  long before the private was out of training pants, and frankly Jager was getting a little tired of it. He should have taken Abalar. She was nice, quiet, but thats what you looked for in a stake out partner. Then when the it was time to move on the target, she'd stay out of the way.

Hond on the other hand was nothing but trouble. Crass and hot tempered. It reminded Jager of a younger version of himself, little more violent though. However with time Hond could be fixed. Soldiering had a way of quelling the fire inside but it kept the edge at a razor point.

"So how are we gonna do this, Jager?" The private queried with an underlying sense of sarcasm.

"That's 'Sergeant' to you, dipshit. And we're gonna do this my way." he corrected, getting comfortable in his seat.  "All you have to do is keep in step and we'll blitz this."

Hond got comfortable as well as he lit himself another cigarette. "And I suppose you're way is just sitting on our ass and waiting till he dies of old age?"

It was then Jager came to understand how much he despised being sassed by over-confident privates with more hair on their head then on their balls. Years of contempt from his superiors had suddenly found justification. "Well, Molly, if you just shut that pretty little mouth of yours then maybe I'll have time to come up with a game plan" Jager replied in a low, contemplative tone. The Private twitched noticeably with rage.

Chucks Intel lacked a specific location on Seller. The man liked to move, a classic guerrilla tactic. Instead Chuck had given them several locations, two dozen to be exact, all known safe houses and residences frequently visited by their man. Twenty four possible locations and a limited time frame meant that Jager was going to have to pick a handful and hope for the best. He needed tangible information on the mans background, information that only a few people would have. The Empire just so happened to be one of them.

Within fifteen minutes of requesting a file from his superiors Jager got a reply. Military records, tax records, psychological profiles you name it they sent it. Upon being greeted by a weeks worth of sifting he sent another request to his superiors aboard the dominion, 'Short but sweet, thanks' . Two hours later he received another message. Say what you will about Imperial intelligence, they know how to get a job done. A single page of dot points, single line spacing, outlined things fairly clearly.

Seller was, as one of his recently deceased superiors stated, 'One of the best men I have with a long career ahead of him'. On the surface he was the epitome of everything a soldier should be. Effective, efficient, an impeccable record. It appeared as though the man was born perfect, but the empire never leaves any stones unturned. Psych reports painted a different picture. A hot headed, insanely ambitious man with an gargantuan ego to boot topped with a dark history of violence. He also had strong family values and held a tight relationship with his only living relative, his sister.

It just so happened that her house appeared on Chucks list of locations. Two times could have been a coincidence, yet Jager took it as a good omen and decided to case the area. Third time was the charm. Sellers sister was celebrating her birthday with some friends, clandestinely of course as unauthorized gatherings on more then three people was against post-invasion regulations. Never the less, the block of flats was certainly abuzz with activity, and chances are Seller was amongst them. Because what kind of brother would he be if he didn't at least make an appearance at his sisters birthday.

It had all the makings of a grade-A clusterfuck. High numbers of collateral on the premises, less then certain Intel and limited man power. If they went in shooting the casualties would be high and there was no telling how many insurgents would be present. Seller was the unofficial second in command of this little rebellion so no doubt he would at least bring a few guns to hide behind. 

"Alright Molly, you feel like partying?" Jager announced softly, patting the private on the shoulder as he opened the speeder's door.

---

Admittedly Jager knew it was suicide. Sending one man into what could potentially be a nest of hostiles was akin to crossing the T's and dotting the I's on his toe tag. But someone had to do it, and who better then someone who wasn't himself. Sure enough the kid did it, strolling up to the front door and giving it a quick knock, he was invited in. A rough count had put at least twenty people inside, possibly more as most wouldn't use the front door. Jager waited anxiously across the street as he watched from a position against a street light.

Any second he expected to hear automatic weapons fire. Hond was armed with little more then a pea shooter so unless he got the drop on them he would be turned into Moelik-gumbo the second anyone caught on. Jager kept watch though, good things come to those who wait and all that.

Twenty minutes had passed and nothing from Hond. Maybe they didn't shoot him, maybe they guided him to the basement and were working him over. If that was the case then standing out in the street wasn't doing him any favors.  He had to take his mind off the what-if's and focus on the here and now. Twenty minutes was fine, give him another ten then start worrying. The street was quiet. Speeders dotted the curb, the occasional tree accompanied the street lights as they stood the length of the road. The sky's vomit-like discoloration had softened slightly, the pollution migrated around the surface of the planet in thick clouds, mainly congregating around the industrial sectors. Outside of those bleak sectors it wasn't that bad a place. A little run down, had a tangy smell to it but other then that...

"Fuck, I've been made!" the privates cry over the comms accompanied a chorus of weapons fire from the top floor backed up by the screams of party guests. Jager let the cigarette fall from his mouth as he dashed across the street with his weapon drawn.

"Where!?!"

"Rear of the house!, Rear of the fuckin' house!"

Jager bypassed the porch and moved down the alley on the right that led to the sham of a backyard. The wall next to him exploded as several bursts of from a machine pistol were sent in his direction. Guests were pouring out of every entry way, acting as meat shields for the small group of insurgents. Jager let off a succession of shots towards one, several stray bullets cut through the crowd of startled guests, the mass cried in agony as a few guests hit the ground. Hond burst out of the second story window and landed on the roof before landing on safely on concrete slab that was the backyard. Half a second later he had taken off down the side street that connected with the rear of the house. Jager gave chase.

The kid was one hell of a shot. Within seconds two of the six or seven gunmen went down in the alley before he was forced to take cover as the remaining fired wildly towards him. Jager jumped the waist high fence and emptied his clip. His ratio was far lower then Honds, five hits out of twelve shots on three targets. His grouping was better though. Out of the five, three had raked the back of a fleeing gunmen, one had sent a fine mist outward from the rear of another skull and the final shot had lodged itself in their targets arse.

However they were going to get away. No doubt their escape vehicles were positioned at the end of the alleyway, and several waves of belligerent fire had effectively pinned both men midway down the alley.

Suddenly an ear shattering noise and an almost blinding light swept the alley followed by a hot, dry torrent of wind that sent trash cans tumbling and rattled the chain link fences. The light snaked its way from Hond and Jager's position towards their targets, who now stood in shock.

The sound that followed was like a blender, a low yet persistent 'burrr' that emanated from the artificial sun above them. Chunks of pavement were sent flying skywards around the group of insurgents, the grey mist of concrete speckled with clouds of red. Both men were astounded by what they saw, it was like an act from some all powerful god.

Jager looked up with a squint towards the light.

'E.S.F' was written in large block letters, seemingly hovering above him.

"Oh fuck" was all Jager could bring himself to say as he violently motioned for Hond to follow. The Eradiuan Security Force had just arrived, and by their greeting it seemed like they were in no mood to talk.

“Kip.”

Mai wasn’t sure what had alerted her to their sudden danger. To all outward appearances the interior of the bar hadn’t changed. Customers still lounged about on stools and couches, loudly conversing and consuming vast quantities of the Spider’s foul liquor.  Pratt was still dutifully in place at the Sabacc table though his expression now suggested that that he was no longer having such a good time. Kiption looked up and over at Mai, a question clear on his features. But her gaze was riveted on Pratt who was now frowning and gesturing violently at one of his sabacc playing companions. She pulled in a deep breath of the bar’s air, filtering out robust scent of sweat and alcohol before she abruptly released was she was on edge.  Fear wafted through the bar like a cloud, its aroma tainting almost every corner of the saloon.

“They’re afraid,” Mai finally murmured to her companion, “Most of them are terrified.”

Kip nodded in sudden understanding, “Of Pratt and his friends.”

“But...” Mai struggled to understand, “Why would they be afraid of potential saviors?”

“Because,” Kiption set his empty glass down on the bar with a sense of finality, “These men are substantially more dangerous to the local populace than the VE will ever be.” He came abruptly to his feet, “This going to end badly.”

Pratt had come to his feet and was now staring down at the man opposite him. The duo of shady looking men close to his back were doing the shouting for the mute, one leaning forward to confront a player opposite the table. Despite the clamor of sound in the bar Mai could hear every word clearly,

“...know he’s got a damn skifter! If he didn’t he wouldn’t mind showing his hand!”

“What? Just because I won a few rounds?” The confronted man rose to his feet as well, triggering a wave of silence throughout the bar as everyone turned to watch the exchange, “Believe it or not Pratt, people can beat you at sabacc without cheating.”

Pratt stayed completely motionless, the only sign he had heard the accusation being a slight deepening of his scowl.  The other man at his side moved a hand beneath his cloak, a telltale gesture of a weapon being drawn. Kiption took a half step forward in response. It was a completely understandable gesture given his training to react to dangerous situations. But in a bar full of shocked patrons he was the only one to step forward and not back. Pratt picked him out from the masses in a micro-second. His gaze slid from the Sergeant to Mai, who was still frozen at his side.  Understanding flashed within Pratt’s dark eyes as he flashed his teeth in a challenge. His hand dropped to his side, curling about a series of small metallic objects fastened there instead of the revolver bare centimeters away. Mai realized his intention even before Pratt cast the homemade grenade in their direction. Bunching the muscles in her powerful legs, she threw an arm out to catch Kiption across the chest before propelling them up and over the meager protection of the bar.

They landed heavily behind the bar, Mai flipping up and over Kiption’s body and slamming into the end row of wooden cabinets. The explosion ripped through the confined space just as she dropped back to the grubby floor, curling her limbs inward in an attempt to minimize the damage to her torso and head. The noise was deafening, the shockwave shattering the tower of displayed liquor bottles above them so they rained down in a lethal shower of glass. Mai snarled as hundreds of the small shards slashed through the fabric of her robes to pierce her skin. Then abruptly the roar of the detonation ceased, leaving only the cries of the wounded lucky enough to survive the proximity of blast.

Mai pulled herself up to a sitting position, one hand clutching at her head. Both of her eardrums were throbbing angrily, their sensitive tissue damaged by the strength of the detonation. Kiption was rising opposite her, blood streaked down his face from a series of cuts on his face. He reached out and grabbed Mai’s hand to pull her roughly to her feet, pausing to help steady her before pulling his blaster free from its holster. Mai surveyed the smashed interior of the bar with a degree of shock. Pratt hadn’t cared enough about the others inside the bar to use his rifle and in the process had killed the majority of the patrons not close enough to an exit to get free of the building. Body parts were strewn across the floor and booths in a horrific display of the effectiveness of Pratt’s creation. A few survivors were rolling about in their death throes, whilst a trio had managed to reach the door and stumble out into the night beyond.

“Call...for help,” The barkeep was still alive, though one of his legs was bent at an unnatural angel, “Please.”

“Pratt went out the back.” Kiption looked over at Mai, his voice seeming to echo in from a great distance, “You alright?”

Mai nodded, pulling a bloodied splinter of glass from her arm, “I'm Fine.”

Kiption planted a hand on the bar and propelled himself over the wooden barrier, Mai following directly on his heels. They burst out the rear door and into the fresh air beyond in pursuit of Pratt only to see no sign of him in the alleyway beyond. Sirens sounded in the distance as the duo sprinted about the front of the Spider. Mai had just rounded the side of the balcony when she heard the whine of Kip’s blaster. Pulling her own weapon free she skidded up to his shoulder to see Pratt, the woman and his two goons pulling away on gleaming speeder bikes. Kiption’s burst of fire tracked up the back of one of the closest men, dropping him from the bike which glided to a halt a few meters away as the dead man’s switch flicked on. Mai didn’t hesitate, leaping onto the vehicle as Kiption continued to fire after Pratt and the remaining guard.  She revved the throttle, swinging the vehicle around to pull up next to Kip,

“Get on.”

Kiption was already shaking his head, “Oh no. Not speeder bikes. Not again.”

“Kip!” Mai snapped, “Get on the bike!”

Kiption swore and clambered up behind Mai. She barely waited for him to gain his seat before opening the throttle and letting the bike rocket into the alleyways after Pratt. She’d be damned if she let this one get away.