| Location | Arrakan, Outer Rim Territories
Emerging from the dimly lit maintenance corridor, Itzhal and his fellow Mandalorians were enveloped by a tumultuous choir of hissing pipes and the relentless churn of spiralling waves, not unlike the rampage of the sea outside.
In time, the noise would deafen him—if not for the way his buy'ce muffled the sound, reducing the horrendous rumble of the tumultuous waves to a faint hiss, no louder than the gentle wash of the lapping at his toes on the beaches of Zeltros.
Ahead of him, the central water refinery sprawled—at least three hundred meters across and stretching easily twice as long. Its towering walls were punctuated by a multitude of doors, each one a gateway to the various sectors of the city's outer perimeter—whether to the landing pads soaked in rain or deeper into Leviathan's Rest, where their answers lay if only they could find them. Above their head, metal catwalks and sturdy stairwells intersected in a dizzying array of architecture. At the heart of this industrial giant was the source of the intense sound: twelve enormous vats of swirling water, each rising thirty meters towards the ceiling and extending twenty meters in diameter, their contents swirling and bubbling as they were fed by an elaborate network of pipes and pistons.
It was only then, due to the filters of his helmet, that he heard the sound of voices above, accompanied by the tight beam signal that delivered a debriefing of just exactly what he was hearing. Mercenaries. He did not doubt the report, yet, even as he allowed his thoughts to spiral, he could discern no reason why the engineers of this place would allow armoured forces amongst their presence.
After a brief moment of gathering his thoughts, his fingers glided over the cold, rain-slick clasp of his leather holster, his thumb settling beneath the groove as it released with a gentle pop. He steadily drew forth the blaster pistol, which had served him fatefully time and time again.
"We haven't seen a single living person, apart from these mercenaries in places they should not be," he intoned, his voice carrying uninterrupted over the commlink, even as he switched the safety off with a flick of the switch.
"They may have answers; I want them alive, we take them if we can, we stop them if we can't."
Then, he pulled the trigger and, stretching across the distance towards their target, a dazzling blue conclave of circles shot forward, where a Basilisk stumbled but did not fall.