Emperor, into your hands I commend my spirit (Ask)

[Desmond C'artyom]

Rishi… A planet known for its galactic dissidence since the Old Republic. No longer. The Empire had brought down it’s full weight on the pirate cove and raids had taken place across the planetscape. Spice farms were lit aflame. Arms dealers, illegal smuggling operations, and the odd Rebel cell had all been disbanded. Large orb like probes patrolled the streets and Stormtroopers dotted every corner. There were so many undesirables it was almost impossible to house them all. As a result makeshift prison camps had sprung up near overnight, guards patrol the outer gates and spotlights line the catwalks. The criminal scum stay within these camps with no rule of law other than their own.

When the time came for trials they were done in masses. Men arrested within the same area were delegated to be tried at the same time with a round up being made based on the seriousness of the crimes committed. Prisoners were transferred to the tribunal offices via massive all terrain crawlers with large treads and humungous bodies. Once prisoners were placed within the all terrain vehicles hopes of escape diminish greatly. Guards are everywhere aboard these massive vehicles. Prisoners are bound and placed into shielded cells. Each cell is embedded with a kill switch. Allowing the ruling “warden” within these vehicles the ability to simultaneously kill every prisoner aboard should a riot ensue.

Desmond idly waited near the drop off point where today’s prisoners were scheduled to arrive. He watched as in the distance a large trail of dust was kicked up by the massive sandcrawlers treads and yawned boredly. The final phase of the project was handled by Imperial Intelligence and the Inquisition. There were reportedly around two hundred prisoners arriving today and they all came from a rough neighborhood. It was rumored that there had been rebel activity within the area and as far as verdict’s went this usually meant death for all involved. The giant crawler entered the tribunal compound and slowed to a stop. A large ramp descended and from its bowels milled about a massive amount of prisoners.

Des withdrew a small pouch of tobacco from his persons and a thin piece of paper. He placed the tobacco within the paper, with index and thumbs carefully rolled the cigarette. He placed it to his lips and lit it. He drew deeply on the square and smoke drifted lazily about his persons. With a raise of Des’s fist then a few short chopping motions the rest of the Imperial agents fell in line. They approached the mob of prisoners and Des raised his voice amplifier. “All prisoners make several single file lines and prepare to be judged. Emperor have mercy on your souls…”

[member="Butch Mahan"]
[member="Varren Kesk"]
[member="Baron Morcus"]
[member="Ashley Myth'rand"]

 

[ToKola Bakari]

Varren's duty on Rishi was primarily prisoner escort. He watched from the bridge as the prisoner transport sandcrawler slowly made its way towards the compound. The main driver for the vehicle glanced back at the Inquisitor. "Sir. We've arrived." Rather than respond to the man Varren simply turned out of the cockpit, pulling his helmet over his head as he did. He made his way towards the prisoner holding area, standing at the peak of a large stairway as he looked over the hundreds of prisoners who crowded the cells.

His eyes took to the Stormtroopers who patrolled the vehicle, they seemed restless and most were irate already. It had been a trying task to round up all of these people without killing them. However it was not just the Stormtroopers who had a hand in that round up. Varren's gaze fell on a small formation of IG-100 Magnaguard's that stood silently in the corner of the transport. Twenty units had been more than enough to aid the Stormtroopers with their duties in rounding up the prisoners. He continued to look them over before his hand went to a button on his gauntlet, as he pressed it he watched each of the Magnaguard's pick it's head up, it's eyes glowing a red hue.

"Prepare to unload the prisoners." Varren called down to the unit. Systematically and in unison the Magnaguard's activated their electrostaffs and marched towards the rear of the transport.

It was another few minutes before Varren finally felt the slow advancement of the sandcrawler come to an undisputed halt. He watched the rear ramp slowly lower to the ground, the moment it set itself on the clearing before them the Stormtroopers began to hurriedly usher the prisoners out of the sandcrawler and into a raggedy formation in the clearing before them.

Making his way out of the sandcrawler and away from the crowd of prisoner's Varren could spot [member="Desmond C'artyom"] on a nearby platform, speaking to the prisoners. He made his way over to the Chiss, speaking up as he rose the steps to the platform. "I doubt the Emperor has much mercy left in stock." He commented, almost smirking at the thought of even one of these prisoners leaving this area alive.

 

[Ashley Myth'rand]

Ashley had been conducting raids on high value targets ever since she had arrived on Rishi, the work was hard, but it was much better than sitting at her desk trying and failing to finish all her work and with a big operation like thing she sure as hell wouldn't be dealing with the paperwork from it.

She rode on one of the prisoner transports back to the main camp the whole way one of the men, if she could call him that, was crying for his mother the whole time and she was glad to get away from him. Her storm commando armour was pocketed with small blast marks from a handheld repeater, the man who put them there was doing far worse than the others, already on the way to a mass grave for those who are guilty of a crime punishable by death. It was only now she was able to slow down and hook into the local data net and see the true scale of what was going on, not one or two cities, not even a single region but a planet wide operation.

 

[Butch Mahan]

Mahan was enthused of today's agenda. Today he would be carrying out the law, the Remnant's law, against rebellious scum no less. He had even adorned his High Moff attire in preparation for the proceedings. As Moff of the entire sector that Rishi fell under, he had the authority to carry out judicial proceedings on any planet, over stepping the authority of the Moff, of which there was none of this pitiful feth hole. It was an honor to be carrying out the law, as much distaste Mahan had for the Remnant and its governances, this was one of the highlights of his position. The exhaustion of being a Grand Admiral and High Moff sometimes overshadowed such privileges, especially with the constant political subterfuge and infighting, but today was no such day. Maybe he would get to try some of his political enemies, but that was just wishful thinking.

Taking a deep breath, Mahan looked over his High Moff dress. The green uniform was pressed and dry, the black plated gorget, was fit snugly on his broad shoulders, and the imperial insignia on the neck, shined with polish. The belt and boots made of fine leather were fit and unscuffed. He detested the uniform, but this occasion demanded it, even if the prisoners on trial were a bunch of peasant scum.

[member="Ashley Myth'rand"]
[member="Varren Kesk"]
[member="Desmond C'artyom"]

 

[Syric Vahrel]

The only thing more terrifying than the Remnant's brutality was that it was all going down only a hop, skip, and a jump from home.

Crouched in the undergrowth on a hill overlooking the Imperial compound, Syric Vahrel slapped another insect and cursed beneath his breath. The sweltering heat of the jungle lowlands was not helped by his thick black leatheris jacket, and sweat poured off him, running into his eyes and making his macrobinoculars slick in his hands. He knew this heat well. His parents had owned a summer home about fifty klicks northeast of here, along the coast. Apparently it had been "requisitioned" as a local command station after the invasion, and was now home to half a dozen Imperial officers and their stormtrooper escort. It turned his stomach to think of their booted feet trampling his childhood memories.

But there were more pressing reasons for his stomach to turn. Through his binocs, Syric could see the steady stream of people being marched off of the tracked prisoner transports, bucketheads all around them and the brass observing from above like spiteful gods. He took in a few of the rank insignias present and whistled quietly through his teeth; he hadn't expected such prominent officials to come to a simple sham trial and mass-grave execution. Was that... surely not, but was that the Sector Moff? Syric felt his brain contort in a dozen directions, absorbing this new information. Security would be unexpectedly heavy, complicating the whole mission. But there was no time to change targets.

Besides, if they could pull it off, the death of a High Moff would be an even better first strike than liberating two-hundred supposed dissidents.

The story that these people were rebels was, of course, largely garbage. Many of them were petty criminals, and a few had probably dared to raise a hand to some Imperial or another, because the Coratanni Town slum they came from didn't treat any visitors particularly well. But tyrants were fond of bold statements, of making points about power and control by spending lives liberally. "They make a desolation," Syric quoted to himself, "and call it peace." He'd seen it before, from Togoria to Ragoon IV to Glee Anslem, and now it had come home to his own sector. These people might be a mess, they might not be perfect or law-abiding, but they deserved a chance to live their lives all the same.

That was why Syric had helped to found the Militant Alliance to Resist Annexation, colloquially known as MARA (an acronym deliberately chosen to invoke the local hyperspace route). And that was why he was leading a cell of MARA guerrillas right now to prevent as many of the extermination orders as he could. The Remnant had largely finished off any local organized resistance, and the hope was that they wouldn't be expecting anyone from offworld to make an organized attack on them. But even with the element of surprise they would be badly outnumbered. They would lose people, good people, and it might well all be for nothing. That was the reality of an outgunned, outmanned little rebellion.

But none of that made it any less worthwhile in Syric's mind to confront evil when it landed in his backyard. If he died here today, he would die proud.

But a year of fighting the One Sith had taught him that valorous charges and heroic last stands were both ineffective and highly overrated. He and all of his forces could charge the gates of that compound in a blaze of glory, and all it would accomplish would be giving the Remnant more charred corpses to bury. When outmatched, throw out the rules. Fight unfair. And he had become pretty good at that, perhaps frighteningly good for his age. "Roonstone to S.B.," he transmitted over an encrypted channel, the words vibrating into the subcutaneous commlink implanted just beside his vocal cords, "the nerfs have arrived at market. It looks like a sunny day."

As the freighter pilot on the other end acknowledged his transmission, a long line of H'kig priests emerged from the jungle, walking up the road toward the compound. They wore simple robes of tattered brown cloth, their loose folds billowing in the sea breeze. In their hands they held the famous H'kig prayer chimes, which tinkled softly with each footfall. Many of them were Galandans, the near-humans who had founded the religion and become the first non-natives to settle on Rishi, though other species were among them. They were a common sight, walking the open roads as they contemplated the galaxy and sought to move their minds through enlightenment from Jeh, the imminent, to Peh, the transcendant.

The line of pilgrims approached the gates of the compound, swaying serenely back and forth. "We have come to pray for the accused," shouted the leader, a tall, lean Galandan female.

[member="Desmond C'artyom"] [member="Varren Kesk"] [member="Ashley Myth'rand"] [member="Butch Mahan"]

 

[Desmond C'artyom]

Desmond watched angrily as the mass of prisoners mulled about. Forming lines, which the Grey cloaks patrolled boredly. They helped the crowd along by prodding the stray straggler with a stun stick or a blow from their metal clubs. As Desmond sat atop his podium he was approached by the young acolyte he had saved on Kamino. “Indeed. I doubt the High Moff will chose to let any of these peasants live,” Des sneered to the Sith. The prisoners had finally achieved a small amount of order and the lines were adequate enough for them to be monitored and most importantly, controlled. Des wiped at the sweat that was beginning to form on his brow and once more cursed this backwater planet. He raised his voice amplifier and spoke to the crowd gathered before him “Now march into the courtyard and prepare to be judged,”

The crowd of the accused marched forward cautiously at first, but their pace soon stepped up as the beaters once more began to roam their ranks. They marched past two bunkers outfitted with E-webs and a large length of electro wire. Guards stood holding their E-11’s menacingly and any foolish enough to catch their glare directly was beaten furiously. The courtyard was an open area with two large pits dug within the ground. As one drew closer to the pits the fetid stench of death would rise to greet their nostrils. Inside the cavernous pits hundreds of corpses piled on top one another had already begun to pile up from previous executions. Those that were not sentenced to death were merely taken back to the militarized sandcrawler to be escorted back to their respective ghettos.

On the outer reaches of the courtyard stood a grand podium of hastily erected Durasteel. A small shield generator had been installed, so that the High Moff might be better protected from outside threats. Here is where he would pass judgment on the damned. Should they be lucky they may escape death, but as had happened all too many times before; they would probably die. So the procession was ordered to a halt and the prisoners stood at attention before the High Moff. Some prayed, others shook uncontrollably, while many others seemed to simply accept their fate. Desmond and his grey cloaks along with the addition of a company of stormtroopers surrounded the courtyard in a casual matter. No real defenses had been erected. The whole thing was meant to accommodate the speedy nature which was needed to deal with so many prisoners. So, they merely watched waiting hungrily for the blood that was sure to ensue.

Suddenly hundreds of priest from the local religion would burst from the forest. They carried with them objects of faith and chanted their prayers. Fools. Thought Desmond. This was a militarized zone and all Non Imperial’s were to be treated as enemy combatants. The nature of the new regime was a harsh one which brokered no non sense. Desmond raised a hand to his ear comm and radioed the turret emplacements. “Fire a warning shot. Should they come any closer gun them down,” He sighed and rubbed his eyes irritatedly then switched his comms line. “Agent Calysto (@Ashley Myth’rand) take a squad of grey cloaks and asses the situation,” With that taken care of Desmond once more averted his gaze to the spectacle of slaughter that was surely soon to take place.

[member="Syric Vahrel"]
[member="Butch Mahan"]
[member="Ashley Myth'rand"]
[member="Varren Kesk"]

 

[ToKola Bakari]

Varren stood beside [member="Desmond C'artyom"] as he ordered the prisoners movement. The Inquisitor felt a slight shift in the Force, he could sense the movement coming from the surrounding area. When he lifted his head he could see the shimmering image of bodies moving towards the compound. It seemed Desmond had seen the priests at the same time that Varren had because he quickly acted on it.

Rather than stand next to the agent and look pretty Varren turned away from him, speaking back as he did. "I'll go as well. I sense something a miss here."

Varren descended from the platform, his hand running over the gauntlet attached to his arm. After pressing a series of buttons all twenty of his IG-100's moved to fall in line behind him. Two rows of ten on either side of him, they activated their electrostaffs as they made their way to the outer wall.

[member="Syric Vahrel"] [member="Ashley Myth'rand"]

 

[Syric Vahrel]

A warning shot slammed into the ground beside the H'kig pilgrims, sending up a spray of tropical sand. To their credit, none of the monks flinched or ceased in their swaying, tinkling prayers. They did, however, come to a stop, making no move to approach any closer to the compound. Syric watched through his macrobinoculars as they fanned out from their long, single-file line into a half-circle whose ends just touched where the warning shot had fallen. In low murmurs they intoned ancient blessings, praying for guidance from Peh, the Eternal. Every second they waited there was a danger to their lives; if they didn't disperse soon, words like "presumed enemy combatants" and "secure military zone" would be used to justify a rapid end to their prayers - and their lives.

But they would not have to wait long. The operation's timing had been carefully planned and rehearsed.

"Roonstone to S.B.," Syric transmitted as he scanned the defenses one last time, "we're one minute from noon. Feed the nerfs as scheduled." The shield generator had been an unpleasant surprise - his little band of rebels didn't have a clear or easy way to deal with it. But it looked like it was protecting only the target of opportunity, not the primary objective. The rest of the defenses were slapdash, quickly erected in order to accommodate the truly massive numbers of the condemned being "processed" on Rishi over such a short period. The wind shifted, and Syric could smell the charred corpses even from where he crouched. Even the faintest flicker of imagination about the vile odor's source set his teeth on edge. Too many dead in the name of the oppression they called security.

Glancing back at the main gates, Syric frowned again. Someone was coming to investigate the disturbance, someone accompanied by a droid escort. They were old models, designed well before the 400-year darkness if he'd guessed right, but the electrostaffs they held looked convincingly lethal. Twenty of them, in a divided escort formation. That was a complication, one of many that were beginning to pile up dangerously on this mission. But it was too late to pull the plug; resources would still be lost, and it would certainly be for nothing then. As if in answer, the roar of engines suddenly ripped across the jungle as a freighter, flying low enough to tear apart the taller treetops, aimed itself directly at the walls of the compound. Bunkers could withstand a ground assault, Syric thought with a wry smile, but there were no AA guns he could see.

The freighter Surprise, Bucketheads, or S.B. for short, had been built with another name and seen no small share of action. It seemed almost a shame to use her so crudely, and if Syric had possessed a fleet of elegant warships to engage in targeted orbital bombardment he would have called on them instead. But he made do with what he had. Streaking along at top sublight speed, only just beginning to decelerate, the Surprise, Bucketheads angled itself slightly down. And then, trusting to the extra-heavy intertial dampers and crash webbing inside to protect its crew, it slammed its plough-shaped nose directly into the perimeter wall of the Remnant compound. It all happened in seconds. There was the tortured screech of durasteel on durasteel, a massive spray of sand and metal fragments, and the reign of utter confusion.

Only an instant later, half of the H'kig monks fled back up the trail in a blind panic. Those were the real ones. The rest threw off those bulky robes, good for concealing even large weapons, to reveal the combat armor and repeating blasters they bore beneath. It had been timed perfectly - the droids, the greycloaks, and their masters were just approaching the gate, drawing them away from the prisoners, when the infiltrators revealed themselves and rushed toward the breach that the Surprise, Bucketheads had torn in the perimeter. They came on firing to the sides, clearing the flanks without shooting anywhere near the prisoners. It was cover fire for the second squad, even now storming (somewhat unsteadily) down the lowered ramp of the kamikaze freighter.

Moving himself up to a crouched position, Syric gave the signal to the small sniper squad around him, then took up his own rifle. He had positioned several such squads on hills or in tall trees surrounding the compound, allowing them some ability to shoot down into it and create even further chaos. He picked his target, letting his breath out slowly as he rested the scope against his sweaty face, and squeezed the trigger. The hills lit up with a storm of sniper fire, bringing unexpected angles into the sudden fight - hopefully before the Remnant were even able to pull up their trousers and realize they were being attacked. Syric had committed practically his entire strength on Rishi to this attack. It would certainly send a message, whether with their victory or their corpses paraded about on holovid.

If they took too long and let enemy reinforcements arrive, Syric grimly reflected, it would definitely be the latter.

[member="Varren Kesk"] [member="Desmond C'artyom"] [member="Butch Mahan"] [member="Ashley Myth'rand"]

 

[Ashley Myth'rand]

Ashley was swapping out her damaged chest piece when the call came in, she was to take her squad of door kickers and asses the situation forming at the perimeter. As per the the briefing she got arriving at the compound they would be given one verbal warning, one warning shot, and then they were to be treated as non compliant combatants.

Before she was able to leave the armoury there was a loud smash and an alarm went off, the base was under attack, it must have been been whom ever was gathered out front, not to be out gunned she grabbed a Z-6 rotary cannon and stepped outside to see absolute chaos. There was a old freighter embedded into the ground leaking soldiers, assault troops were attacking in a wave, sniper fire rained down from the hills, and the prisoners grew restless seeing their chance at escaping justice.

Ducking back into the armoury she weighed her options, as fortune would have it there was a a pair stormtroopers also trying to from a plan.

She passed the Z-6 to one of them and said, "I know I'm not in command here, but if you know what's good for you you and your friend here should keep anyone coming out of that freighter thinking about keeping their heads down."

Next to that freighter the snipers were the next pressing issue, the troops already in defensive positions could turn the assault, but with the snipers being buried deep in the surrounding forest meant that counter sniping was a non-option, they'd need to resort to a more archaic tactic.

"You six," talking to her own men now, "Assist those troopers, the rest of you, grab those oppressors, we'll burn 'em out."

Ash was wishing for her stealth cloak, but the mission profile hadn't called for it so there were just going to have to cross the gap the conventional way, with a lot of speed and just a little luck. Taking cover at the edge of the camp it appeared no one had spotted them, the combination of a target rich environment and the sensor dampening made them practically invisible on most types of sights, excluding the traditional ones only using lenses to collect light and magnify.

"Well, here goes nothing. GO GO GO!"

The triple repeat of go was to ensure none of the four with her missed the order, they all sprinted on the first "GO" but habits die hard. They reached about halfway when one of the more attentive snipers looked their way and took out the man to Ashley's left, this prompted the rest of the group to run harder, though not hard enough as the grey cloak in front of her fell, taking a blaster bolt to his head, she only slowed a little to jump over his body, and with that they reached the relative safety of the trees.

Now it was time to make these bastards run home crying.

"Light 'em up."

And so they did, moving clockwise around the base and leaving a wide band of fire in their wake.


[member="Desmond C'artyom"]
[member="Varren Kesk"]
[member="Butch Mahan"]
[member="Syric Vahrel"]

 

[Butch Mahan]

Mahan approached the spire, and entered the shield, prepared for the proceedings. Mahan gazed upon the dozens of souls that he would undoubtedly condemn to their deaths. They would make a fine sacrifice to his lord and conquerer Ni'Shaw. He had already confirmed their religious beliefs, and not one was a Ni'Shaw-Dak, allowing for Mahan to use their execution as a proper sacrifice. Pitiful bunch of souls, but they deserved what they were about to receive. If they bllowed dissent and resistance to live throughout their neighborhoods they could destroy the order, leading to instability and anarchy. The very word disgusted him, Mahan could not live in a galaxy without law, without security. Mahan's entire life purpose, as taught to him by Ni'Shaw, was to create a safe galaxy for the enlightened ones, for the Dak. He would kill, destroy and obliterate whatever it took to create this utopia, and today he would be following along that path, doing what he was created to do.

Mahan announced over a PA in the open court, "We shall now begin court proceedings on Prisoner Group Alpha-Alpha-Eight versus the Imperial Remnant. After looking over the evidence, the following charges have been pressed against you; treason in the second degree, conspiracy to commit treason in the first degree, and solicitation of illegal merchandise in the first degree. How do you plead?" Many cries of not-guilty was expressed from the crowd, some sobbing, others angered. It only made the next part so much more enjoyable.

[member="Ashley Myth'rand"]
[member="Syric Vahrel"]
[member="Varren Kesk"]
[member="Desmond C'artyom"]

 

[Desmond C'artyom]

Desmond watched as the chaos unfolded. Enemy rebels were storming the gates and snipers fired at them from the tree lines. Des noticed how agent Myth'rand took the grey cloaks and began to burn the rebels out of their hidey holes and decided to commend her for this.

"First and Second platoons with me!" Des shouted as the rebels continued to pour from their ship.

Desmond took half of the guards strength to go forth and combat the scum as they exited the craft. They must not be allowed to interrupt the trial. With that done Desmond and one hundred storm troopers stormed the gate. They took cover wherever they could find it and slowly made their advance. Take cover, suppressive fire, move up, Rinse, cycle, repeat. It was all a game to the Chiss. He cared not how many lives were taken today, only how many bodies he could drag to hell with him. He lived for the heat of the moment. The thrill and chaos of the battle. It exhilarated him, giving him a high like no other.

"THIS IS WHAT I LIVE FOR!" He shouted as he gutted a rebel with his bayonet.

The Imperials were making ground slowly, but surely. They worked their way through the skirmish and carefully approached the downed freighter. Now only meters away from it. Desmond exited his cover and charged forth. He fired point blank at a rebel whose back was turned to him. The Chiss stabbed another with his bayonet. Kicking the body off as he gutted the rebel pig. He laughed merrily as he did so. His thick Imperial accent making the laughter sound all the more sinister. They closed on the ship and Desmond prepared to board.

[member="Butch Mahan"]
[member="Ashley Myth'rand"]
[member="Syric Vahrel"]
[member="Varren Kesk"]

 

[Syric Vahrel]

The bucketheads reacted quickly. Incredibly quickly. It was a stark reminder that Syric's ragtag little band was facing experienced professional soldiers, many of them literally bred for war.

The attempted incursion into the Imperial compound was going poorly; despite the breach the freighter had torn in the perimeter wall, and despite the distraction at the front gate, faceless legions of stormtroopers were steadily pushing the would-be liberators back until combat raged around the wreck of the Surprise, Bucketheads, on the verge of dislodging them from their beachhead completely. White ceramite boots, now stained with mud and blood, kicked and stepped over the bodies of the dead as they advanced. This was the part that sat heavily on Syric's weary soul. The people he was spending for this war, this likely fruitless attempt to hold back some small part of the darkness, were unique and irreplaceable. That was the horror of battle.

The men and women dangling from bayonets or blown through by blaster bolts, most of them in their twenties and thirties, were not made in vats on Kamino. They came from a dozen worlds, a thousand cities. As children they had laughed and played with their parents and their friends. They had sat in school, crawled through bars, gone through first jobs and first loves and first heartbreaks. The man missing half his face had been a musician. The burned woman had been a pazaak player. Her friend, lying beside her with his guts spilling over the ground, had been awarded a xenobiology scholarship. Every moment of resistance had a cost in people, and neither Syric nor anyone with him could be sure if that bitter toll would be worth it until the very end of it all.

Through his scope, Syric could see that the High Moff was proceeding with the judgements. Either he was totally oblivious, which Syric doubted, or he was totally secure in his power, unafraid of any piddling attack the rebels could throw at him. Either way, time was running out, and they had already lost their momentum. A sniper nest on Syric's right dissolved in a chorus of screams as another Imperial unit, only slightly diminished by sniper fire, set Rishi's tropical forest aflame. Near the compound, rebels were falling steadily back from the wall, using the cover of smoke from the crashed ship to try to fall back to the treeline. By all appearances, the battle was close to over. But this had always been a possibility. The contingency plan, the original exit strategy, would just have to come sooner.

The Surprise, Bucketheads was never intended to fly again. It had scraped its guts out along the beach and crumpled the entire front section in when it had burst through the wall, and now lay in a pile of leaking coolant and sparking wires. It had been meant as a delivery device, providing an opening and a few reinforcements, and as a way to unexpectedly widen that opening when it was time for the frantic escape. Time to move that part up by a few minutes. Imperials were already preparing to board the ship, which meant two things: first, that they would find the detonite charges packed around the engines as soon as they reached the aft section, and second, that they were well within the blast radius. Both of those meant that urgency was key.

Reaching into his jacket pocket, Syric pulled the detonation switch free and triggered it. Tiny charges studding the freighter's reactor, hyperdrive, and sublight engines ignited in sequence, going off like a dirty bomb. The Surprise, Bucketheads glowed for an instant with bright orange light before erupting in all directions, sending out huge chunks of durasteel like stones from a volcano - or shrapnel from a grenade. The small, jagged-edged hole in the perimeter wall grew as more of the durasteel was simply vaporized by the heat of the explosion, and men fell as metal tore through them, propelled faster than a slugthrower round. Smoke billowed up in a massive plume, obscuring the battlefield - both visual and infrared scanning was useless to see through it, thanks to the great heat.

The size of the explosion and the power disruption might even have disrupted the High Moff's shield generator, though that was probably hoping for too much.

Rebels turned and blasted into the smoke in a line, hopefully ripping apart anyone who had pushed toward the beachhead but somehow managed to survive the explosion, before turning and rushing back in for a second push. There was no way for Syric, or even any of his men on the ground, to tell how serious the Imperial casualties had been, but they would hope for maximum impact. They had lost some of their own who had not fallen back quite fast or far enough, keeping the Imps in position while the bomb went off, and could only pray it had been worth it. If the devastation had been sufficient, they would charge in a wedge to the prisoners and hustle them back out to reach the cover, if not safety, of the jungle.

Meanwhile, more Imps were still burning everything in an effort to flush out the snipers. "Time to move," Syric signaled with the hand-sign code the rebels used when being overheard might lead to death. The four of them removed their weapons' long-range attachments to improve rate of fire and started to head for their fallback position. They could only hope the Imps wouldn't spot them in the thick undergrowth. And that the fire wouldn't reach them before they escaped the jungle...

[member="Desmond C'artyom"] [member="Butch Mahan"] [member="Ashley Myth'rand"]

 

[ToKola Bakari]

There was always a certain chaos that came with battle. It was as common as fire coming with fuel or a ship coming with a pilot. Varren watched from the rear of the Imperial lines, his arms crossed as he analysed the situation that was laid before him. The rebels were slowly but surely being pushed back. Their attack, having lost its element of surprise, was now quickly turning into a suicide mission. He watched carefully as the lines pushed forward and a hopeless attack was replaced with slaughtered dreams. That was not to say the rebels did not have their own tricks.

They won't take this camp this way, what are the-. Varren's musing had been brought to a halt when an explosion erupted from a crashed freighter. Biting his lip Varren could not help but mutter one word "Typical."

The explosion had taken the lives of nearly an entire platoon, and left their flank in a state of disarray. However even that would only serve as a minor distraction, there was still no hope for such a raid. Varren watched as the Rebels began to drift back into the treeline, retreating from their failed attempt on the base.

Part of the Inquisitor wanted to take his droid platoon and track down the enemy, bringing them to the Emperor's peace for this ridiculous attempt on their territory. But that was not his duty, his actions must be much more than base instinct. Varren turned from combat, making his way back to the prisoner yard. His IG-100's all swiveled on their heel's, marching in unison behind him.

"Squad 1. Secure the prison yard, all entrances and exits. Squad 2, with me." The dual line of droids split, as ten of the units moved to secure the prisoners who awaited their sentences.

The rest of the Droids followed Varren as he made his way to the nearest Commanding Officer.

[member="Syric Vahrel"] [member="Desmond C'artyom"] [member="Ashley Myth'rand"]

 

[Ashley Myth'rand]

The group continued to move leaving fire in their wake, the impromptu plan was progressing as expected, the volume of sniper fire had dropped as units had been forces to relocate, or pull back to avoid the inferno or acquire new lines of sight. There was still a pressure in the back of Ashley's mind however, she slung the oppressor and pulled out her E-22 and began to activate MFTAS on her helmet looking to pick something up through the foliage and the smoke.

One of the grey cloaks spoke up "Trouble boss?"

"Hopefully not, just a feeling, keep at it." She replied to the man.

Of course it was never just nothing, last time she ignored it was this afternoon and get a chest painted by laser for her trouble, she continued to scan ahead, and the she saw it a group 12 crouched and waiting.
"Don't react, group of 12, 500 meters ahead, Reeds circle around and get ready to cut off their escape."

Ashley got low and started moving slowly, time to put all that academe training in infiltration to good use, she put everything into getting close to the group the other man with her the still burning trees like nothing had changed, by sneaking up she would put them on the disadvantage and allow her smaller unit to take them out. Having arrived at her position she let her grey cloak burn a bit closer.

"Bradly, get ready to turn, I'm opening fire in 3. . . 2. . . 1."

She lined up her rifle and fired, dropping the point man in the opposing force, and with that Reeds whom was now on their flank begin to open fire with the oppressor catching three in the wave of fire before they could react.

[member="Varren Kesk"] | [member="Syric Vahrel"] | [member="Desmond C'artyom"] | [member="Butch Mahan"]

 

[Desmond C'artyom]

Desmond C'artyom stood by as his platoon prepared to set the explosive charges that would allow them to breach the vessel.

"Charges set," Desmond heard over his coms.

Then suddenly the ship exploded in a ball of flame. The inferno sent shrapnel forward and Desmond felt something sharp bite into his shoulder. Flames licked at his clothes and he felt pain everywhere. The second platoon rushed forward to help the survivors of the decimated first. Desmond felt hands wrap around him and then he was suddenly weightless. He was being carried to safety.

As the battle raged on the high moff continued to give his sentence.

"I find you all guilty!" The moff cried out from the safety of his podium. "The sentence is death!" As he uttered the last sentence the stormtroopers raised their guns and began to fire into the crowd of prisoners. Their bodies fell to the earth in crumpled heaps. Blood flowed freely soaking Rishi's ground in red. The massacre was total and complete. With the prisoners taken care of the Stormtroopers moved to engage the rebels.

Only a small handful remained behind to protect the High Moff. Who now stood smugly atop his podium like an orchestrator whom had just conducted a great symphony