Ducking low beneath the bolt that scorched through the interior window, Itzhal pressed onward, unhindered by the shards of melted glass that twirled through the air, hissing where boiling fragments scattered across the floor. His right arm rose sharply, the blaster's barrel guided by an instinct formed from years of practice, aligned with its target. In one seamless action, he squeezed the trigger, sending a pulse of energy crackling across the field and into the shocked guardsman.
Unhindered, the Mandalorian continued, ever onwards.
With the false wall already opened and unveiled to the room at large, Itzhal took only a moment to scan the rest of the surroundings, cautious of a prowling foe ready to get a drop on an inattentive victim. His stride continued, swift yet calm, as he prepared to face what lay ahead.
It didn't take long to pass the fallen forms of those left in Jonyna's wake. Their bodies strewn across the ground, a few groans and minuscule shudders identified that they still remained part of the living, at least for now. With their crimes as they were, he wasn't sure how long that would last, not now that the jaws were closing down on them. Perhaps, it would have even been kinder to end them now—Swift and merciful.
Justice where the law might fail.
It was a shame then that he'd been told to try and reduce friction between the New Mandalorians and the local law enforcement, if they ran into them and assuming Itzhal wasn't too far off his mark about the runner in front of him, they were about to.
As he turned around the corner, another guard covered in a full facemask and a dozen scorch marks, leapt towards him, their hand wrapped around a vibrodagger that hummed to life as they flicked it on. Itzhal's blaster was too close to line up a shot as he sidestepped, the guard's lunge carrying them past, before the Mandalorian drove a foot into their hip with enough force to send them crashing into the wall as the dagger dropped from limp hands just a moment before the stun round that left them prone. He was not the last to face the Mandalorian.
Escorted by the still forms of unconscious bodies, Itzhal passed through piles of armoured suits, their wearers unaware of his presence, as wisps of grey smoke, glinting dully under bleak overhead lights, lingered in the air. The few that rose again or came from distant corridors lasted little more than a heartbeat—brief and sudden—yet vital for every second that delayed his approach.
Ahead of him, he caught sight of orange hair before it flickered around a corner.
On the other side, down the other end of a corridor, only a couple of rooms away from their most recent delivery, a firing wall of security guards from Duskwind prepared for a fight they had no intention of losing. A full squad in total, the leader of the unit was a large, masculine figure, though, like the rest, completely armoured from head to toe; their hand was wrapped around the grip of what looked like some form of heavy repeater. Behind them, six security guards were holding what looked to be some form of fast-firing blaster rifle. The eighth had chosen a scatterblaster, with additional armour around his chest and arms.
Armed and ready for close combat, they opened the blast door and stepped out into the corridor beyond.
At the very rear, another security guard loaded the front of a grenade launcher as they knocked on the door they were guarding twice.
Itzhal Volkihar
