With every step, the Behemoth returned to his senses. The dullness of having been knocked unconscious was fading, only to be replaced by a keen awareness of his injuries. He walked with a limp - one that he had not recognized in the moments before. His left knee screamed in protest with every step, as if it had been savagely kicked out from under him. His back, too, yelped with every movement. The duraplast of his armor rubbed uncomfortably against marred flesh...Malok took a moment to remember. He tried to recall how exactly he had incurred these injuries.
Lizards. Loads of them. The memories slid forth.
It took three to subdue the ape. One to distract, one to take out the knee, one to fire execution style. Fortune would have it that the bolt missed the head, instead slamming into his armor. Malok's flesh was burnt horrifically under the duraplast. And, as a final "feth you" one of the fiends hit him with the butt of a rifle on the way out. Right on the head. That explained the headache.
"Remind me to call up Bethany when we get back. I'm going to need a small favor."
"Let me guess, a moonlit stroll? Tea by the roses?"
"Ha. Ha. You're so funny I forgot to laugh."
The Lieutenant's attempts at humor were, frankly, a coping mechanism. Every mercenary worth their salt had cultivated one over the years. Some drank. Some fought. Others laughed. It was the only way people like Malok and his subordinate could deal with the grim scene before them. It was the only way they could keep their wits. But deep down, they were two tiny chimps freaking the feth out.
"With the way the lights are, I doubt the lifts will have power." remarked the Lieutenant after a few more rounds of banter. Malok huffed in agreement. However, as the gruff acknowledgment escaped him, he felt something familiar. It was...as if [member="Bethany Kismet"] were there, plying her trade as a Healer. It felt like Sanctuary's infirmary: a light warmth which radiated through the Force. Malok, immediately, stepped in the direction of the feeling - with his subordinate hot at his heels. "What's the rush?" he inquired, pausing only to press one of the salvaged hold out blasters into Malok's offhand.
"Gut feeling."
The "intuition" the simian felt proved to be a man attempting to pull a woman from certain death. His hand was splayed out upon her wound. Focus characterized his features. In that instant, reflex gripped the Behemoth. He did not know the man in the slightest, but in that moment that was irrelevant. What mattered was that the man's presence was...much akin to a candle. The light was there, but with each second it waned. Perhaps Sanctuary was to blame for this concern, for if [member="Darth Prazutis"] had any say, what Malok was about to do showed weakness. Yet he knelt beside @Bryce Bantham in a fluid move, despite the protests of his body.
His mammoth hand reached out and clutched the man's shoulder. It was not a physically aggressive motion, of course...but what flooded forth was. You see, Malok was no Jedi. Despite his time standing with the Lotus, he did not ascribe to the Light. Anger was still his fuel. Pain drove him. And now a river of malice flowed through him. For the Healer, this was an offering. It was much akin to filling up one's starfighter with alternative fuel - it would run funny, but in a pinch it would do. Right now, it was all the Behemoth could do. Right now, to the Behemoth, it was the Right thing to do.
Meanwhile, as his superior set about this admittedly-weird task, the Lieutenant acknowledged his fellow bystander with a nod. But that was when he heard the plinks...and crinks...A turn of his attention saw the adjacent viewport under assault. Micrometeoroids. "Uhh...Commander...Might want to make this quick..."
"Concentrating." came the response, through grit teeth.
"All the focus in the Galaxy won't save our hides from fething meteoroids...Sir."
[member="Hala Jast"], @Bryce Bantham, [member="Jorus Merrill"]
