“Definitely holding cells. Let’s get moving.”Garryll said, glancing towards the door, where a few members of Blackjack were crouched.

Val spoke up, “There’s an maintenance door in the corner. It’s a bit small, but we can squeeze through. I didn’t explore it any further outside of making sure it would open. We can set-up explosives to cover our exit.”

Garryll nodded, “Yes. Good. Do it.”

Turning away, he moved over to the maintenance door. Orr remained at the terminal, steadily searching for something. Moving over to the doorway, he filled those who were standing there in on the plan. The enemy medic supported Soul as the pair moved to where Garryll stood. Crest and Aelin followed, while Dunny remained behind to help set up the explosives. Stepping out, Val remained low as he moved over to where Kilroy stood, behind the E-WEB. They apparently had a moment of respite before the next wave hit, so Val quickly relayed the orders to Kilroy who nodded, with obvious sadness that he wouldn’t have a part in the explosives. He glanced back to see Dunny give him a thumbs up, then tapped Kilroy on the shoulder.

“In ten seconds, abandon the E-WEB and run back into the room. There’s a maintenance door in the corner where I’ll be standing. Head immediately towards that and do not stop for anything. Got it? Good.”

Stepping away, he rapidly moved back into the security room, relieved to see that Dunny was the sole member of Blackjack remaining there.

“Go, go. I’ll wait for Kilroy. You set off the explosives once we’re safely inside and the door has closed.” Val said, reaching the door and waving Dunny inside.

He had barely turned around when Kilroy barreled through the doorway, blaster fire scoring the walls around him. He instantly spotted Val and sprinted towards him. He approached at a dead run, nearly leaping through the door, which Val tugged into place. The pair rocketed down the dimly lit tunnel, catching Dunny’s eye. With a hint of a grin, he slammed his thumb down on the detonator and a boom rocked the tunnel. Fortunately, the maintenance door held, though it buckled in slightly, presumably giving against the weight of debris.

“Orr has route mapped out. We follow him. Be quick, but be cautious. They know we’re here and they know we’re on our way to bust out the ARCs. Be ready for any sort of ambush, trap, or barrier.” Garryll’s voice penetrated the silence, and they were again reminded of where they were.

The maintenance tunnel emerged near a stairwell, thankfully, which they took with haste. They descended without a problem, luck seemingly on their side for once. They neared a door marked with “S12,” slowing to a stop.

Garryll turned and gestured to Dunny, “Check the door. We don’t need to run right into a patrol.”

“On it.”came the reply.

With practiced ease, he crouched at the door, sliding some device underneath.

After a tense few minutes, he reported, “There aren’t any guards in the corridor, but it seems like they have a patrol step in and check every so often. We need to time our entrance just as the patrol leaves.”

Turning back to the door without waiting for a reply, he remained silent for a few seconds, then, “Now. Go now.”

Withdrawing the device, he stepped back and opened the door, slipping through with a raised rifle, his bag-o’-weapons only slightly hindering his movement. As Blackjack and Orr filed out, they spanned out along the corridor, moving at a measured pace. As they reached the end, Dunny held out a hand and moved forward slightly.

“The patrol was only one person, though they could have had more standing just inside this doorway.” He said, quietly.

Orr gave a grunt, “We’ll need to move fast then.”

Garryll nodded, saying, “Dunny, you take out the single patrol. Drag his body to the side and we’ll head in.”

Dunny gave an affirmative and Blackjack spread out against the wall, as Dunny took up position on the other side of the door. They waited silently, then froze as the click of boots on a metal floor rang out. It grew louder as the patrol approached. Luck still seemed to favor them, as only one person could be heard, unless there were multiple people who walked in perfect time with each other. The guard walked out in a haze of gray, choosing that moment to exhale the built up cigarette smoke. He coughed, hunching over slightly, turning into a gurgle as Dunny appeared like a wraith and plunged the dagger into his throat. Quickly, he dragged the body out of the way and Garryll and Orr moved up, taking point as the rest of Blackjack fanned out around them.

He could barely feel a thing.

Somehow, distantly, he knew that in his left hand was his signature combat blade, his fingers wrapped tightly around the handle, as if trying to choke it, his knuckles probably white if it wasn’t for the burns. He imagined he could hear the soft drip of blood as it made its way from the sharpened tip of the blade down to a growing pool of liquid ruby on the durasteel floor, joined by the swiftly-spreading pool of blood that was expanding from the broken, ruined corpse that lay at an awkward angle by his feet, but the grim reality was that he could not hear anything but a painful, all-consuming ring in his ears. Oddly, his ears felt slightly warm, and the inside felt a little damp, as if blood had somehow gotten into them. His posture was shaky, and he swayed a little. Distantly aware that falling over with a knife in his hand might be dangerous, he moved to lean against the nearby wall, letting his right shoulder press against it.

The moment he did, his vision went out, and he was enveloped by blackness as a blinding, piercing agony swept through his entire right side. He might have screamed, but he couldn’t tell, as his right hand reflexively shot open, the heavy duffel bag that he had long forgotten he was carrying falling to the ground with a thud that he didn’t even notice. He shied away from the wall like a wounded creature, and after a few moment, the pain subsided to the dull, vaguely uncomfortable throb that seemed to pulse through his entire body. His vision returned for a moment, before everything went black again. He remembered distantly that it had been cutting in and out ever since Kilroy had thrown that Thermal Detonator into the hallway that he’d been crawling through the air vents above, and wondered if something was wrong with his eyes. He began to raise his left hand towards his eyes, before stopping as something dull and solid impacted with the visor of his helmet.

Oh, that was right, he was holding a knife in that hand. Luckily for him, he was holding it with a reverse grip, and had only hit himself with the pommel. Shaking his head and letting a soft chuckle rise from his chest at his silly mistake (this also hurt like hell, but he wasn’t going to let the pain spoil the moment), he raised his other, now empty hand to his head and felt something hard there. Oh, right. Helmet. Maybe that was what was giving him trouble. He fumbled for a moment with the helmet, dimly aware that his fingers felt like they were burning again, before he managed to lift it off of his head. It felt so heavy in his hand, like it was made out of solid lead. He let it drop. There must have been a hole there, though, because he never heard it hit the ground. He raised a single, slim eyebrow as he craned his neck downward to try and see where it had fallen, and was surprised to find it resting right by his feet, next to the head of the dead mercenary. Well, that was appropriate. The helmet and the merc were both dead, they might as well share a grave. Saved space.

He took a deep breath, and smiled softly as he felt beautiful, fresh air fill his lungs, rejuvenating him a little and reminding him of just how awesome oxygen was. His entire chest burned from the exertion, and he mentally willed them to shut up and let him have his little moment of joy. He then noticed that his vision hadn’t blinked out for a whole few seconds, and his smile widened, despite the painful way it tugged at the right side of his face. He was such a good soldier, realizing the helmet was the problem and getting rid of it like that. That, he thought, was officer thinking. He began to raise his left hand – oh yea, knife! – and then let it lower, before letting his right hand rise to run through his messy brown hair, wondering why it wasn’t throbbing like the rest of his body. He felt what he distinctly identified as helmet-hair, and ruffled it a little, restoring the messy, boyish look he liked.

Hey, why was the right side of his face more stiff than the left? He raised his hand to gently prod at his cheek, and the flesh felt…hard, somehow. Slightly bubbly, but hard. Hmmm….he was pretty sure his skin didn’t normally feel like that. Or hurt quite so much when he touched it. Funny. He was bout to explore it further – maybe take a bit off with his knife so he could get a proper look at it, when something flew past him and into the nearby wall, one of his fingers still pointed upwards in defiance.
Well, I bet I can guess which finger that was. Wait, that was my friend. Why did he get shot? Oh! Thaaat’s right, there’s supposed to be a battle going on. Silly me, playing with my hair when I’m supposed to be fighting. Okay, off I go.
The soldier turned to face the sarge – his name seemed to be slipping from his mind, but he could definitely remember that he was the sarge. Or was it lieutenant? Oh, whatever, he was the boss. He held up his knife in silent demonstration, then pointed out the door that Kilroy had flown through.
”Boss? Hey, hey boss. Um, so, I’m going to go in there and kill all those things now. Have a medal for me when I get back, okay?”

With a broad smile on his face, Sam Dunn drew his trusty DL-44 Heavy Blaster (who, he decided right then and there, was now officially named ‘Torch’) and turned away from the bemused squad, setting off at a run through the door. Immediately, everything seemed a little darker as he stepped into the shadow of the biggest, hairiest thing he had ever seen in the history of things. It bared its teeth and lowered what looked like an E-Web (man, he was starting to really hate those things) in his direction. Realizing he was supposed to like, dodge or something, the obviously insane stormtrooper decided to go for a different approach, pivoting at the hip and kicking out his left leg, catching the muzzle of the cannon with his armoured boot and, to his credit, actually managing to move it a few centimeters aside. He also lost his balance in the attempt, and fell. The air above his prone form turned red as the crew-served weapon spoke with a roar, filling the room with cannon-fire.

The stormtrooper, meanwhile, had passed out the moment he had hit the durasteel floor, and remained there for a second before waking back up and rolling closer towards the large hairy thing, managing to roll under the blaster cannon. Realizing that its prey was too close to shoot now, the big hairy thing instead dropped the heavy weapon on the head of the annoying stormtrooper. Fortunately for him, having ditched his helmet and all, the weapon was pulled askew by the power cable that connected it to a fusion generator strapped to the big hairy thing’s back, and instead of braining him and probably killing him, it instead impacted solidly with his back and drove the air from his lungs. Reacting on sheer annoyed instinct (and, admittedly, a lot of pain), the stormtrooper lashed out wildly with his knife, and felt something give way before the sharp, matte-coated blade. As his vision faded from red back to some form of reality, he realized that he had severed the cable connecting the massive gun to the fusion pack. A cable that was now sparking madly.

Heeey, big hairy flammable thing, sparky wire…it could just maybe work. He dropped his blaster and grabbed the wire, looking up to see a massive, hairy foot descending towards his face.
”Nope.” He said in shell-shocked denial as he thrust the sparking wire up and into the sole of the big hairy thing’s foot. The stormtrooper had absolutely no idea how many volts had just gone through the creature, and he wasn’t even sure he could count that high. The creature roared in agony as it was electrocuted alive, but to the stormtrooper, it sounded like a distant, sad sigh. After a few moments, the creature’s eyeballs exploded, and it fell backwards, away from the stormtrooper, still giving off smoke as it lay twitching on the durasteel floor. Nodding to himself in satisfaction at having showed the big hairy thing for hurting his friend, the stormtrooper picked up Torch the Blaster and then looked over the corpse of the big hairy thing, to see a trio of shocked, frightened boys in mercenary armour, their eyes wide and their faces pale. The stormtrooper dragged himself back up to his feet, and looked at the awed mercs.

”Say, you’re mercs, right? Ya totally work fer me now. I’ll pay ya in not dying.”
Despite his very reasonable peace offering, the mercenaries didn’t seem too eager to take him up on it, and began to raise their own blasters. The stormtrooper’s own hands flashed upwards quickly, his knife spiraling from one and catching one of the unlucky mercenaries in the gut, which he clutched at and pitched over, giving out an ‘oof’ of surprise. Torch took care of the second mercenary, burning his face into a blistered, torched ruin before the third mercenary even had his blaster up. By the time the merc had aimed his weapon, he was staring down the barrel of a DL-44 Heavy Pistol. The stormtrooper, his eyes slightly glazed and a lazy grin on his face, spoke.
”Not dying AND ya get to have their stuff. C’mooooon, it’s tempting, right? The mercenary inside ya is crying ‘Hey, that gear is worth money – take it!’ ya know this to be true.”
As he spoke, he pointed his now empty left hand at the now shaking mercenary, as if to emphasize his point.

The mercenary’s mouth moved, so he was probably speaking, but the stormtrooper couldn’t hear what he was trying to say.
He’s…insane. He took out Karracaac, Jeeves AND Gok, and now he’s trying to hire me? When I’ve got a heavy rifle pointed at him? What the hell…who, who are these people? Oh hell no, I’m not dying like this. These and other thoughts burned through the mercenary’s mind, as he was wracked with indecision, the burn of the thoughts shortly followed by the burn of a blaster bolt as it entered and exited his mind without even so much as an ‘excuse me’.
The stormtrooper tutted as he ambled towards the three corpses, drawing his knife from the gut of one as it groaned and bled all over the durasteel. Nodding at the knowledge that the blood was going to stain, the stormtrooper dragged the blade of the knife across the mercenary’s throat, before looking at the open door at the other end of the room.

Garryl and the rest of Blackjack Squad saw Sam Dunn poke his head through the door that Kilroy had been blasted back through, looking an absolute mess. The right side of his face was burned and blistered, and his hair was daubed black and red with soot and blood. His armour was an absolute mess, burned black and filled with holes, gouges and, frankly, barely hanging on by the burned, fused flight suit underneath and one or two stubborn straps. The stink of burned flesh wafted from the scout as he peered into the room with glazed, shell-shocked eyes, blood leaking out through his ears. It looked as if his armour was actually fused to his skin in multiple places, and from the way he spoke far too loudly, his eardrums had probably gone too. What was keeping the stormtrooper from passing out or screaming his lungs dry was an abject mystery, as Sam cheerfully waved.
”Hey guys, I killed all the things. Well, all the things in this room. I found some stairs, by the way. Oh…wow, you’ve got two guys down? Uh, that sucks. Tell ya what – you guys stay here, I’ll go and rescue all the other things. Have fun!”

Sam Jack Dunn felt great, despite having had a thermal detonator thrown right under him. Sure, it hurt when he touched things, or talked to people, or moved, or breathed, but it wasn’t ‘that’ bad. Certainly, it could have been a lot worse. Of course, he still couldn’t hear things, but it wasn’t like he was going to kill things with his ears anyway. He cheerfully smiled, and disappeared from the room again.

Sam Dunn, suffering from severe cases of shock, dehydration, pain overdose, burns and quite likely to collapse and die of his own accord at any moment, cheerfully stepped over the burned corpse of the Wookiee and of the three mercenaries, and started to set off down the stairs, whistling (perfectly in tune, for bloody once) as he went.

OOC:

WORD COUNT: 2,200 Words.
Proof that when someone throws the most powerful grenade in the galaxy less than ten meters away from you, there may be some unfortunate side effects. From now, I’ll roll a 1d6 every time I post. On a 1, Sam finally realizes he’s screwed and passes the hell out.

Garryll kicked aside one of the mercs’ corpses, the surprised look on the man’s face still plastered on. He’d certainly been surprised when he’d lifted into the air and had died only moments later to the pin-point shots of Blackjack squad.

To be honest, Gates had been pretty shocked when the last four mercenaries had been lifted from behind their cover and started floating in the air. It hadn’t stopped him from getting one of the easiest kills in his career. The reason for the mercenaries’ sudden, magical, and suicidal floating tactics soon appeared.

“ARC Team Theta,” Orr nodded, stepping over a pool of blood from one of the dead mercs. “Whiskey. Glad to see you’re all right.”

“Orr,” said the first ARC to emerge. To Gates’ surprise, the Commander was a woman - how many women went by Whiskey? To his greater surprise, she looked like someone he knew. Startlingly similar.

“Havock?” Gates ventured quietly.

Whiskey looked at him and raised an eyebrow, shaking her head. “You getting me mixed up with someone, Captain?”

Garryll shrugged mentally - dead ringer or not for his own CO, he’d worry about who the hell this ARC Commander was later. For now, they’d focus on getting out.

“Get the ARCs some guns. If you’re lugging around extra firepower, it’s time to break the piggy-bank open, boys and girls.”

Several of the Blackjacks tossed the ARC troopers whatever they’d been carrying their extra gear in. The three men dug into the duffel bags, sacks and backpacks like a bunch of children, drawing forth some of the most exotic guns the Blackjack troopers could get their hands on, and nodding their thanks to the ‘jacks.

Whiskey tossed Gates her rifle as she dug through the pack at her feet. The Blackjack SL caught it high, near his eyes. The weapon was light, which explained why such a soft toss had nearly hit him in the face.

“What’s this?” he asked, twisting the weapon.

“Far as we can tell, a gravity-gun. Don’t ask me how it works - though I theorize magic.”

“Command’s gonna love these things,” Valthir said, accepting one from one of the other ARCs. “Can’t really plan for gravity switching on you, that’s for sure.”

Gates gestured to his squad. “Let’s move it out, Blackjacks. Burn our way out - show these bastards the Blackjack way!”

His squad, as battered, beaten, and bloody as it was, still nodded and gripped their weapons tight. Half his squad was limping around - Dunny’d lost his helmet somewhere, and had a crazed look in his eyes. Kilroy was nursing some injury that’d been enough to crumple his chestplate, though he looked wired. Soul was breathing hard, giving her all, but still leaking blood every few seconds, and leaning heavily on the captured merc.

That left himself, Valthir, Crest and Aelin as combat-effective, plus Orr. He could barely count the Theta team ARCs, even - they’d been sitting in hell for a while, and were only half-armored, their helmets gone and the rest of their gear in tatters.

“We need to get to the surface,” Orr stated simply. “We need to get the hell out of dodge, and we need to do it fast, before they can really scramble defenses and just overwhelm us.”

The ARC Commander pressed a few buttons on his wrist-mounted datapad. “We can take an elevator shaft up to four levels, then a flight of stairs up three more, then a maintenance shaft up another, then just blast our way out the way we came in.”

“Let’s move it! We’re getting out, soon as possible, Blackjack! Weapons ready!”

The combined teams moved out from their meeting place, and started following Orr’s directions. They’d managed to take out almost all of the men on this level, but only the Gods knew how long the level would stay cleared out.

“Elevator ahead,” reported one of the ARC Theta men. “Looks clear. I’m calling it.”

The Blackjacks and other ARC soldiers spread out in the elevator landing, splitting their attention between the elevator itself and the two open hallways that led away from the landing.

“What, these guys sure are lax on the job,” said the ARC man who’d called the lift. “Hell, you blokes kill a few of ‘em an’-”

The elevator doors slid open, and revealed a half-dozen mercenaries with rifles already aimed. The ARC trooper cursed and fired his rifle a dozen times, his trigger depressing in a split second, and spraying the interior of the elevator with laser bolts. The men were so tightly packed in, though, that only the front three men took any of the shots. A rifle stuck its way between two of the already-dead men and fired at the ARC trooper, who took a shot in the thigh, the gut, and the neck.

He coughed, blood forming a mist in front of his face, and fell into the elevator. The mercs shoved aside their dead comrades, and made to move forwards and try to flank the Blackjacks. The ARC stopped them, though, a grip of steel stopping the first merc cold, while he reached up to the man’s belt and yanked free a grenade’s pin. The merc howled and shot the ARC in the face, killing him instantly. It was too little, too late, though, as the grenade blew the three surviving mercenaries straight to hell, their elevator becoming a flaming coffin.

“Shit! We’ve got an ARC KIA, and the lift’s down!” Gates barked. “We gotta move, this position’s about to be as good as - “

“Contacts! Contacts! We’ve got mercs comin’, boss!” Crest yelled, the staccato sound of gunfire coming from one hallway.

“Same here, Captain!” Whiskey snarled, her blaster giving her words an exclamation point.

“Great! Hemmed in an’ not a single way to go. I sure as hell ain’t dyin’!” Dunny spat. “Hold on, I’ll just go kill ‘em all again.”

“Goddamit, Dunny, we’ve still got an out,” Gates said. “Hold position. Whiskey, can you boost me and Orr up to the next level with those grav-guns?”

“Worth a try. Get another grav-gun over here!” the Theta team leader ordered, snapping her fingers at one of her other troopers.

Gates hopped into the burned-up remains of the elevator, its top blown apart and slagged. Orr stood next to him, rifle slung. Whiskey and the other Theta ARC nodded, then flicked their triggers.

The Blackjack SL felt a sense of vertigo as he was lifted off of the ground and started rising. Though his mind screamed against the sudden defiance of nature, he calmed the panicked thoughts. Orr chuckled lightly as he, too rose.

Below them, the Blackjacks and ARCs traded heavy blaster fire with mercenaries who’d just started boiling out of the woodwork, it seemed.

“Alright, we’re high enough,” Gates said into his link, and gripped the crack between the elevator doors. Orr did the same from the opposite side, and they quickly yanked the door open, the doors putting up little resistance. This landing was clear, so they gestured for the ARCs to let them loose, and they dropped carefully through the elevator opening.

“Rest of the squad, move it up! Hold them down and move on through! Last troopers, drop smoke and hurry on up!”

“B-but Corporal, how are we suppo-“

Crest got to say no more than half of his protest before Kilroy kicked him into the shaft.

As the ARCs, using the gravity guns, caught him, his mind slowly reverted back to its normal thinking processes.

Okay, even if he is higher rank, couldn’t he be just a bit more considerate? At least, apologize. Actually, on second thought, that guy is crazy enough that it really doesn’t matter.

As the ARCs continued to slowly pull him up, Crest looked over his armor. The mercs hadn’t counted on one of the heavily armed Blackjack having active camo so he had escaped the worst of the returned fire. The armor had had a few close calls, and with amount of blaster bolts flying around, the active camo had used quite a bit of power. The power cells might have enough for another hour under these conditions, but who knew? The Lava Cannon had been taken by one of the ARCs when he had tossed it in with the other exotic weaponry the Blackjacks had given the ARCs to choose from. The Rebel-1 Distruptor Pistol was securely in its holster. The E-45, with a fresh clip he had just put in, was securely in his hands.

As Crest and Kilroy hit the floor, when gravity returned back to normal, Garryll looked over them and, pointing at Crest, ordered, “Get on point, we’re heading over there and taking the three flights of stairs.”

Dunny protested, “Boss, let me be on point, I can do this. I’m still good.”

Crest attempted to reason with him, “Dunny, don’t. I can do this; stay with the main group. Have you even looked over yourself? You’re in no condition to be on point.”

Dunny, somehow, nodded his head and let Crest take point.

Crest, drawing his E-45 to his shoulder, set a quick pace, which strained Soul and Dunny, but it was necessary. Two doors on the right side of the hallway indicated their target.

“Eh, Dunny, do you happen to have the handy camera on you?”

“I actually do, matey. Here ya go.”

Taking the camera as if it was a fragile piece of glass, he used it to look into the first door. There was a small candle lighting the room. Crest could barely make out a conversation.

“Why do we have to turn the lights off during a lockdown? It makes me scared slightly. No idea if somebody is coming to kill me.”

“Quit your whining. I’m not the one who decided that.”

“Whatever.”

“Get up and take that ridiculous nightcap off.”

“Do I have to?”

“Yes.”

As Crest’s eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness, he saw a barrel-chested guy stand up and put a red cap, with a white fur lining and a fur ball on top, near the candle. He also made out another person manning the E-WEB.

He moved up the next door. This door contained three flights of stairs, with no exit except at the top.

“It’s the same precautions as before. We don’t have to worry about stealth anymore, do we, boss?” Crest asked, as he handed Dunny back the camera.

“No.”

“Then can I suggest we frag this E-WEB from the stairwell and then rush up and take the other one?”

“Where is your brain? You blow up a grenade, and you alert the guys up top we’re coming, and they’ll just cut us down.”

Crest fell silent as he mulled over a way to take out the E-WEBs. Surprisingly, it was one of the ARCs that came up with the idea.

“Why don’t we use the gravity gun to boost him up there? We could cut out much of the time.”

Nearly laughing at the creativity of the idea, Crest replied, “I love the idea. Can we do it, boss?”

“Fine, but I’m not paying the bills when you get fractured bones.”

Nodding at the ARC, Crest said, “Wait until I get the frag in the E-WEB, then hurl me up this flight of stairs. I’ll move over, then you just have to boost me up to the top of the third flight of stairs.”

Trying to figure out why in the galaxy he had agreed to this plan, Crest grabbed one of the C-22s on his belt. Hooking his thumb into the pin, he threw open the door and shoved the C-22, minus the pin, into the E-WEB. A slight moment of weightlessness over took him. He was then shoved at full speed up the stairs. He violently hit the wall, and crumpled down. Pushing himself off the floor, he stepped over one step, so he was in position for the next part of the plan. The weightlessness returned, and he was pushed up so that he was next to the other E-WEB. He shoved his second C-22, again minus the pin, into the E-WEB. He then slid down the stairs, his head hitting the stairs. He hit the platform on which the stairs turned, just as the first grenade went off.

Was that only five seconds? Seemed as if it was an eternity.

As time had apparently reverted back to normal, the next C-22 went off just as he finished the thought.

“Stairs are clear, boss. Feel free to come up, or should I send an engraved invitation?”

Crest hauled himself up the flight of stairs. A few moments later the squad joined him.

“Guess that’s the maintenance shaft. This is the home stretch.”

A smile, hidden behind Crest’s helmet, appeared as Crest knew he was almost done with his first mission. A pain racked his chest, but Crest was able to hold most of the physical manifestation of it back.

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

Jack Dale looked on with wonder as the scout did his ridiculous stunt.

“Remind me definitely not to be the one who has to fix him up after the battle. That poor doctor is going to have to spend an eternity to get him fixed,” he whispered.

OOC:

I'm back! Anyways, after this post, expect Crest not to be in tip top shape as he is fighting pain to keep himself moving. He can fight, no broken bones or anything. Possible internal bleeding and all, but, still, he can fight. We're up the stairs, now just have to take the maintenance shaft and blast our way out.

Gates nodded at the young scout. He’d pushed himself harder than he’d likely thought he could go to help them clear out the area and ascend the stairs. Hell, most of his squad had been green or close to it going in, and now - now they were veterans. They’d gotten their noses bloodied, but they’d given far better than they’d taken.

The maintenance shaft sat above them. They’d entered via this passage, and they’d depart, a few scrapes, bruises and injuries heavier, a little later. They were so close to completing their mission, Blackjack could almost taste it. As the plan had gone, one of the squads - he couldn’t remember which - had locked down the upper levels, so they were in semi-darkness. Most of the light came from the open-to-the-air maintenance shaft.

“Set up a cordon, and get the gravity guns back out,” Gates said. They’d do the same thing as earlier, with the elevator. One of the ARC troopers stepped up and unlimbered his gravity-gun again. “Dig in and get those low-light modes on. I don’t want to be snuck up on again.”

Kilroy stepped up, volunteering to be lifted first. The rest of the Imperials shot a quick glance at Gates, then moved to their positions. Stormtroopers and ARCs alike took positions, digging in and turning their eyes down the corridor. Whiskey, Orr, and Gates took up central positions near the two-man team that was trying to get their escape route secured.

“Corporal, you almost at the top?” the ARC man with the gravity gun asked, adjusting his grip on the prototype weapon.

“No, I’m still a few meters from the top. Give me a bit more!” the Blackjack said in frustration. “I can almost reach!”

The ARC adjusted the controls for a moment. “I can’t get you any closer, Corporal.”

Kilroy’s response was cut off by laser fire from their right. The ARC with the grav-gun shot a glance over his shoulder, but held his ground. Gates sprinted over to the gunfire, taking cover by Dunny and Valthir and the last ARC man, who’d dug in behind hall intersections and door openings.

Gunfire burst through the air, the lasers so hot they’d make the atmosphere catch fire momentarily; the air itself was exploding, like tiny fireworks dancing across the corridor. It was mesmerizing - if you hadn’t as many years seeing the exact thing as Gates had, keeping his head attached to his neck and away from the pretty lights.

Infrared immediately went to hell, as was its wont when facing laser-fire. Everything got hot quickly in a laser-fight, which made it hard to see anything. Lasers themselves showed as almost blindingly white. Even on metal, if a laser hit, the metal would catch alight, acting like a candle on the ground or wall instead of solid durasteel.

“Opposition?” Gates barked at his ASL, firing over his friend’s head.

“A bunch, Garryll. We didn’t wait, just started shooting. They can’t get a bunch at us right now; we’ve got them pinned down,” Valthir replied. “But I don’t know how long we can hold them with just four of us.”

The ARC man took a shot, toppling a merc, but took a blaster bolt to chest and another to the thigh. He howled and fell right onto his backside, fortunately still behind cover. Gates ducked back behind his own cover and swore. There was a virtual deluge of gunfire in the hall at this point, and their return fire was sporadic and barely keeping the enemy at bay.

“Whiskey, Orr,” Gates said hurriedly into his comlink. “Can we get out the maintenance shaft in a hurry?”

“Your man managed to get a couple lines onto the top, but it’s gonna take sweat, blood and tears to get up there in a hurry. The grav-guns don’t go all the way, so it’s going to take some doing,” Orr replied. “In other words, no. It’s gonna take a while to get everyone up.”

“Well, we’ve got a serious problem, then,” Valthir inserted. “This firefight’s got laser fire thick enough to balance a credit-coin on.”

“We can hold them,” the ARC rasped. He’d taken his torso armor off, and blood leaked from the corner of his mouth. He chuckled weakly, despite the terrible injury he’d suffered. “We will hold them, Captain. Scout’s honor.”

Gates nodded once. The ARC man wouldn’t make it. They were simply too far away from any real medical aid and they couldn’t very well carry him all the way up, gravity guns or no.

The ARC man aimed blindly around the corner, a blaster pistol gripped in a bloody fist, and fired a few shots down the hall. “I can buy the time for you three to get up, sir.”

“Every man gets out, trooper,” Gates said calmly, but both men knew that in this case, they’d have to break that golden rule of soldiering.

“Sir, I’ve seen men with injuries like mine, and nothing short of a god-blessed flying deer with the gentleness of a saint is gonna get me outta here with bleeding me out,” the man coughed weakly. “But I can still pull a trigger and I can still press the button on a metric crap-ton of explosives.”

The Blackjack SL sighed, then activated his comlink again. “We’re gonna need those explosives up here, ASAP.”

OOC:

Alright, so we can get out. Firefight, get us out. We can have more enemy combatants on the surface as well, but remember, it’s snowy outside.

“You Bantha-brained fool!” came a curse over the comms.

“Something wrong, Whiskey?” Gates asked.

What has Dunny done now?, thought Crest

“Nothing. This fool just passed out on me.” came the response, from which it was clear that there was actually something else.

A blackish shape moved on the white snow that Crest was covering. There was only one thing that could be.

“Boss, we’ve got contacts, and you’re going to be very happy right about now.” informed Crest.

“Why is that?” came the half-distracted reply, which indicated a brain working full speed on getting Whiskey and Dunny up onto the snow.

“These guys are wearing black armor on white snow.” responded Crest, with a laugh, “Easiest kills of today, unless you included the first time we saw the gravity guns.”

Time to blast these people into the oblivion. If this keeps going I could easily rack up, say, two thousand and twelve kills.

Lying flat on the ground, Crest swapped out powercells and aimed dead center of the closest person. He flicked the firing selector to a three-shot burst. He squeezed the trigger. Three bolts lanced away and hit the nearest person. The guy dropped down, dead.

And now the fun begins.

He fired at three more people, hitting two of them. He lined up a second barrage at the third person. He gently squeezed the trigger.

“Val, Crest, get over here and take Dunny.”

Startled by the order, the E-45 shifted a centimeter to the left, and the barrage ended up in a useless puddle of the temporary slush.

Blast! Couldn’t he wait a half a second to issue that order?

Crest flicked his firing selector to full auto, and laid down a barrage to force the mercenaries to take cover. He then converged with Valthir on the maintenance shaft. Whiskey was climbing up with some help from a gravity gun. Dunny was...well, floating in mid-air. Whiskey had taped her gravity gun to “On” and clipped it onto her belt, which meant Dunny was being carried up effortlessly as Whiskey climbed up.

“Well, Crest, what are you waiting for? Help Val with Dunny.”

Walking over to Dunny, Crest grabbed Dunny’s feet. He attempted to pick him up and...

“OOOOOUUUUUCH!” screamed Crest, as his chest felt as if it were ready to implode on itself. After about ten seconds and with ragged breaths, Crest regained a measure of composure. Trying to be more careful, he re-grabbed Dunny’s feet. Valthir and he moved Dunny away from the vent, so that the Nurse could take an attempt at stabilizing him.

“These mercs are resourceful. They’re climbing up the rope we set up.” remarked the Squad Leader.

“Boss, can we wait until they’re up the rope and then let the rope go? They’ll just drop and die.” asked Crest.

“Fine, get over here and wait.”

Crest walked and laid himself down on the snow at the edge of the maintenance shaft. The mercenaries were actually climbing up the rope slowly, but they were oblivious to Crest due to Crest’s active camo. One hand-length by one hand-length, the agonizingly slow ascent of the group of mercenaries continued. The mercenaries were moving even slower because they were making all attempts at keeping the stormtroopers above oblivious to their ascent, not realizing they were being pulled into a trap. Crest smiled as the mercenaries ascended to their details. He could see the one up top and assumed there was at least one more mercenary, which would explain the hand signals being used to communicate.

A blaster bolt flew right above Crest’s head.

“Blast it! Can...” Crest was unable to say anymore as he saw the first mercenary bringing his pistol to bear at Crest.

Crest swung his right hand, knocking the pistol onto the snow. A curious thing happened here. Crest saw his hand. It wasn’t the ghostly version of his hand created by the active camo, but a red-clad, armored hand.

Great! The active camo must have finished off its charge in with the last firefight. Now everyone can see me.

The mercenary’s hand extended toward Crest. Crest thrust his hand toward the cable’s anchor. The mercenary grabbed Crest and pulled him, attempting to drop him into the shaft. Crest’s hand fumbled with the anchor, attempting to dislodge it. They both succeeded. Crest and the mercenary floated in free-fall in the shaft. Crest went for his disruptor pistol. The mercenary clamped his hands on the pistol in an attempt to keep himself from dying. The two, soldier and mercenary, wrestled for control of the pistol. Crest received a brief window where the pistol aimed at the mercenary’s upper arm, in which he fired the pistol. A brief exclamation of surprise emanated from mercenary before he disappeared.

Then the reality at the end of the shaft came rushing at him.

OOC:

Crest is now falling down the shaft. (Also known as 'quick death'). Whoever posts after me, feel free to kill him by him hitting the shaft at the bottom or find a realistic way to save him. If you have him die, please, bring the body with you. Thank you.

"This squad is fraking insane." Arianna 'Whiskey' Graves dropped the trooper to the ground next to Commander Orr and glared at the rest of the squad frantically yelling into a shaft that two other members had decided to go sky diving in. "They do realize we have places to go, security personnel about to shoot at us?"

"Heh, I could imagine the same comments being said about yourself Commander."

She rolled her eyes and shook her head as the yelling got louder near the opening. "Being insane runs in my family, met my sister yet?"

"Last I heard she was being attacked by battle droids."

Whiskey put her hands on her hips. "See what I mean."

The Katash sisters had been thrown into a life of madness. Arianna had the least to deal with and she was the one sold into slavery. She lost her last name but Ayme and Zasati lost much more than that in the time they were separated. Her masters were kind in the end, and she learned to take orders without question. A quality that landed her in her current position.

Valthir appeared at her side along with her remaining ARC trooper. She still had one man, Orr only had one left too it appeared. Although that was unclear since he had sent most of his squad separated among all of the Phoenix squads.

"I have visual contact on at least eighteen marks."

Orr and Whiskey shrugged and responded at the same time. "Two squads, no scouts." She smiled and continued. "Set up two shooters on that high ridge right there. The rest of us need to funnel the squads between the position. Create a bottleneck."

Orr nodded. "They rushed to send them out, that means the command is in a state of confusion."

"Hopefully that's a good sign for us." Garryll came walking behind them. "Is he getting up any time soon?" He pointed at Dunny still lying at Whiskey's feet.

She looked down and shrugged. "I'm no medic, but if he does, I owe him a punch to the face that will probably just knock him cold again."

Garryll and Orr seemed to consider asking for clarification then quickly decide against that action. Whiskey gathered up Dunny and dragged him with her to the left flank behind some boulders that would serve as a natural barrier. "Gates, I would advise you to get the men you can in place before these guys get here. You're gonna want cover if your men aren't out of that shaft yet."

"Rodger, already on it."

OOC:

Dunny: Whiskey won't 'actually' punch you if you wake up, so feel free to come to and help us not die and stuff. She may act mad but she's not sure what she feels about Dunny at this time, trained soldier and all that jazz. But if you try to kiss her again she may shoot you, she's a complex woman what can I say.
Everyone else: I really hope i didn't screw anything up, I know I didn't move things much just some more Whiskey goodness. If there is something off send me a PM. I admittedly read through the current posts while watching my two children plot to take over the world so things may have gotten furballed. And I also try not to write too much since my posts don't count for points, and I wouldn't want to remove the glory from you fine folks.
Kilroy: The bomb talks to Whiskey she'll probably shoot you or it though

Edit: fixed the number of ARC troopers left, thanks to Crest for catching that one.

graded to here

The storm was rapidly approaching the surviving members of ARC Troopers and Blackjack, and at the rate it was currently going, Commander Orr was not under the illusion that anyone would be able to survive long once it hit.  Although both SCOPE and ARC armor under nominal conditions would enable them to stay warm in such weather, with the current states that the Imperials were in, they wouldn’t last the nigh in the upcoming blizzard.  The wounded we have are definitely going to slow us down.  So we’re just gonna have to pick up the pace.  He thought, quietly assessing the shape of each trooper.  Overall, the ARC Commander did not like what he saw; nonetheless, he was going to use what cards were dealt to him.

“Captain Garryll, a word with you if you will.”

“It’s about the AA gun, isn’t it?”

“Yes, yes it is.  Now you know as well as I do that we don’t have the strength to completely over take that position and hold an LZ.  What do you propose we do?”

Although he couldn’t see the captain’s face, Orr could tell that the officer was quietly analyzing the situation, as well as creating and recreating possible scenarios in that highly trained, experienced, and sharp mind of his.  Not only that, but the ARC Commander found it oddly amusing that the Blackjack leader had this slight twitch whenever in high speed mode.

“We take everyone, smash that AA site, secure it and make it our new LZ.”

“Sounds like a plan, however instead of bunching everyone up we should….”

---

“Tell me again why I’m on point?”

“Because you’re the one that’s most likely to do something stupid, that’s why.”

“Yeah but I got hit by a wookie!  Shouldn’t I be with the other wounded?”

“So? You fell down a ventilation shaft twice and ended up walking away so quit whining Kilroy.  I know you’re doing it just to toy with us.”

“Damn it, quit reading my mind!”

The conversation between Corporal Varl and Sergeant Valthir continued like this for a while.  Currently, the two were on different ends of a wedge formation, with the corporal up front and the sergeant at the rear position.  Overall, in order to maximize their effectiveness, the Imperials had taken up a squad line/team wedge arrangement with the critically wounded and freed ARC’s lagging 10 meters behind the assault team.  That being said, the Cadian was far from happy.  How come I have to be with the Commander of all people? I know I didn’t put a kick me sign on his back, so why is he so keen on me?  He thought, motioning the others to freeze as the AA position came into sight.

“Report.”

“I count ten hostiles, medium to light arms, plus one 75 mike mike rail gun for triple A.  Good news is that it appears the sensor array for it is busted.  Bad news is they put it to DLOS mode which could insta-gib any of us.”

“Alright then, we’ll go in as planned…Any questions?”

“Yeah, why the hell has the ARC Commander been staring at me the last 5 minutes?  It’s creeping me out.”

“Heh, well I’ve just read up on Kilroy's medical profile.  Turns out they gave him the Tohno gland of all things.  It also just began to react with the last traces of that cocktail he took and has been slowly creating pheromones; which means my sensors indicate that the girls the Cadian knows will want to tap that by the time we get back.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Okayyyy.  Kilroy thought, as he silently made sure his rifle had a full power clip in it.  Slowly, after making sure the others behind him were ready, John started to crawl his way towards the mercenaries.  Inch by inch, as snow continued to fall down, the Cadian got closer and closer towards his enemies.  Slowly, with night the night sky beginning to come out, the assault time had made it into position. All I have to do now is wait for the signal.

The tiny battle out in the snow took only a handful of moments. Gates and Aelin crawled up to the left flank, taking positions behind a short snow drift, the hardened ice and frozen water forming a short hill. Gates was still comfortable in his suit; despite the dozens of carbon scores on its surface, the distinctive red armor had not been breached, and his SCOPE armor retained its warming qualities.

He raised the E-45 to his eye, syncing his HUD’s cross hairs with the weapon’s iron sights, and breathed out slowly, keeping his aim up. They were in position, and Valthir’s ready-light blinked to life in the corner of his HUD.

“Go,” he ordered over the link. The forms of Kilroy and Orr began moving towards the gun, and a few moments later, the flickering of blaster fire came from Crest and Valthir’s positions.

The snow made the world sound soft; the harsh crash of blaster fire was muffled by the falling ice. Gates shifted his aim a few millimeters and let a burst loose, his blaster shots shredding a mercenary who’d just stood up and turned his attention to the guns of Valthir and Crest.

Beside him, Aelin fired her own rifle at the confused, milling mercs. Her first shots missed, but a follow-up burst took care of a merc with a shotgun. Systematically, the Blackjacks rained gunfire down on the exposed mercs, who had no choice but to stand and die miserably, thinking they were surrounded, spraying desperate rounds around but hitting nothing.

The last mercenary hit the snow with a soft puff, his blood staining the hard-packed snow beneath him crimson. Gates slowly climbed to his feet, the fatigue of their engagement merely adding to the ache in his bones brought on by the campaign. Kilroy and Orr charged forwards, quickly checking each downed merc for life before setting up their explosives. It only took a moment for Kilroy to draw the satchel charge from his pack and jam it down the barrel before scampering off once again.

Even the explosion sounded softer than usual, but the concussive effects and the fireball were just as lively as a normal explosion could be. Burnt pieces of the rail gun fell to the ground, and small fires burned. Gates nodded in satisfaction; a job well-done to take the gun out.

“We’re going to dig in over here and wait for the shuttle to arrive. Nurse, you can set up your patients under the wreckage of the gun,” Gates directed the injured under the most cover they’d get - both from the harsh wind that was picking up and the gunfire that’d be inevitably raining on them. “Blackjacks, dig in on high ground around the perimeter. Valthir, you have north-side; Crest, you’re south-side; Aelin, you’re west-side; Kilroy, you get east-side. I’ll make continuous rounds. ARCs, you’ll help out whenever us five report contacts. Questions? Get to it, ’jacks.”

The wind whistled through the broken gun, and the Stormtroopers proceeded to dig in. E-tools stabbed into the snow to dig out short foxholes for those relatively-uninjured Stormtroopers that could still shoot and stand.

One man on each corner, with a small mobile force somewhere in between. It was hardly an ideal situation, but it would have to do. They wouldn’t be able to fend off a major attack, but they’d be able to react to a probe, or scouts, and they would cover all of their angles.

Orr stepped up beside Gates as the SL slowly rounded to each foxhole and checked on the trooper dug in there. “Whiskey get the call up to our evac?”

“She did,” Orr muttered side-along, “but the damn squid flying that ship had to go back up for more fuel. He stayed on station too long to get down here, pick us up and get us back. His ETA is ten minutes.”

Gates merely nodded; once, he would have cursed, but today, he simply accepted the fact. The man had stayed on-station too long in the hopes that Blackjack would be able to destroy the gun and clear an LZ in a short enough period of time that he could get back to the transport on fumes.

“Ten minutes?” Gates laughed dryly. “Ten minutes is nothing for evac.”

“Sir, we’ve got contacts coming out of the base,” Kilroy said from his position. “But the wind’s picking up. I can barely see their lights. Permission to open fire?”

“Denied. Don’t let them get our position until they close in,” Gates ordered briskly, staying low and moving to the Cadian’s position. ”Ten damn minutes left.”

“Oh feth, my gun’s jammed!”

“Hold, Hold, Hold! Do not fire.  We cannot fight off thirty-two of them. Whoever’s closest, swing around and see if you can’t draw them away,” Gates instructed.

Crest replied, “Boss, that’d be me. I need five more seconds to get into position.”

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

Thirty seconds earlier

“Alright let’s see how many of them there are.  2….4…..8….16….32….Thirty-two of em?  Damn and they’re splitting too.  What’s the word Cap?”

“Wait until you can see them clearly, then fire at will.”

“Got it.”

Thirty-two of them? We’re going to have to pin them down if we want to kill them all, which means I need to get around to their back.

Pulling his feet up and over the dune, Crest slid down snow and rushed up the next dune, putting a wide berth between him and the approaching mercenaries.

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

Present time

Lying down on the soft snow, Crest flicked his firing selector to full auto. Now was not the time to be stingy with ammo, but speed and volume of fire were much more important. He took rough aim at a group of four mercs and pulled the trigger.

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

Ottaek von Bianchi, commander of the snow-specializing, search and destroy team known as ‘Gauntlet’, smiled as his team ran this situation just as professionally as they had run the simulations. They were hunting for a group of pestilent Vast Empire stormtroopers who had cut into the base through unknown means and were now escaping with the High Value Prisoners. Usually finding a group of stormtroopers in snow would be next to impossible, but these stormtroopers had on red armor, making it so much easier to find them.

As he mused about these stormtroopers that he was hunting, one of his rear-guard yelled out, “Contact! Contact rear! CONTACT REAR!”

“Give me a blasted good sitrep, right now!” Ottaek yelled into his comm.

“We’ve got fire incoming from unknown number of hostiles back here. Three of us are dow-agggghhhhh!”

“We’ve found the stormtroopers! Repeat, we’ve found the stormtroopers. Everybody converge on the rear, NOW!”

Not waiting for the various affirmations from his squad, Ottaek jumped to his feet and ran towards the last known position of his rear-guard. Approaching the position, he saw his medic and five mercenaries standing over the four bodies of his rear-guard.

“Sir, they’re barely alive. I can stabilize them-” his medic started out.

“No, everybody form up and chase the stormtroopers. Which way did they go?”

“East, sir. Back toward the base,” one of the mercenaries responded.

“Trying to get out of the blizzard, eh? Call back and tell them to find a chokepoint to trap these guys. Everybody else, consolidate into teams and move out!”

“This is Two, I’ve got Three through Seven. We’re moving parallel, south of the trail.”

“This is Eight, I’ve got Nine through Twenty-Two with me. I’m sending six of them to meet up with you. We’ll move parallel north of the trail.”

A minute passed with no sounds, except that of the snow being compressed under heavy weight.

“CONTACT, CONTACT NORTH!”

“Where!?!”

“This is Two, we’ve got fire!”

“Eight, converge on Two.”

“Roger, One.”

Ottaek took off with no thought cover or stealth, hoping speed could trap these elusive stormtroopers. The tattered remains of Two’s team came into sight.

Three, with seven obvious blaster wounds, coughed and croaked out, “He... he... ran... toward... the base.”

With no hint of compassion for the dying mercenary, Ottaek yelled into his comms, “Everybody, converge on the base now!”

Taking off running towards the base, Ottaek waited for somebody to spot the stormtroopers.

“This is Seventeen, I’m near the base and pinned down by a stormtrooper. Requesting permission to use explosives.”

“Permission granted.”

“Alright, fragging him in three.”

Every mercenary on that particular comm frequency held his breath, awaiting the confirmation.

“He’s down. He’s still alive, although he has multiple wounds and probably isn’t going to survive.”

“Copy. Eight, take command, and lead the squad into the base. I’m going to have a talk with our stormtrooper.”

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

Crest watched as the black-clad mercenary loomed over him. He could feel his warm blood soaking into the cold snow. He could see his shredded armor, and, under that, he could see the flesh inside him. His limp and tattered hand slowly fell beside his side-arm

“Well, stormtrooper, you have only a few minutes of life left in you. Tell me where your squad is.”

“I don’t talk to strangers. Ya know, my mom said to never talk to strangers. I think... I’ll let my side-arm do the talking.”

With those words, Crest’s hand wrapped around the disruptor pistol. He pulled it out of the holster, and fired at point blank-range at the mercenary. Black was replaced in his vision by white.

A long way to go. Might as well get going.

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

“Boss, where’s the shuttle? It’s been about ten minutes,” asked Kilroy.

“It’s too rough up there in the clouds right now. He’s going to have to wait five more minutes.”

A silence fell over the squad’s comms. Ever since Crest had pulled off being the mouse in the game of cat and mouse with the mercenaries, the squad had not seen even a glimmer of a mercenary.

However, now, a rough shape moved at the edge of the vision that the storm allowed Kilroy to have.

“I’ve got contact at far range.”

“Same rules apply. Wait until you can see them clearly, then fire at will.”

A minute passed as the shape crawled towards the squad. With each second, black turned to a different color. Red.

“It’s Crest!” Kilroy shouted out. He jumped out of his shelter, and rushed out to the prone, limp, and tattered form of Crest. Grabbing Crest’s hands he dragged him back to where the medic had set up.

“Nurse! Is he alive?”

The captured medic tilted his head, and listened for breathing. It came faintly enough that he could barely hear it.

“He is but barely. Help me patch him up,” the medic instructed, handing Kilroy a roll of guaze.

“Um, where do I start?”

The medic looked over the tattered stormtrooper.

“I have no idea.”

OOC:

Since the majority of the action is from the merc's point of view, so here's the brief rundown:
1.Crest swings around to the back and draws the mercs away, back towards the base.
2. He gets a frag grenade tossed at him.
3. He crawls back to base, even though he has heavy injuries.
4. The Nurse has no idea where to start fixing him up from.
5. The shuttle is delayed by a further five minutes since this area of the storm is a bit too ferocious for now. And I didn't  want to steal the entire time.