Those Left Behind

[Lyell Pavish]

The Rascal's Chance was actually holding together, and for once, Lyell Pavish wasn't flying her alone.

Hell, at the moment, he wasn't even flying her at all. He'd left that to the guy he'd picked up along with the job: Cassian, or something to that effect. Lyell was bad with names. Roughly the same age, with messy brown hair and a rugged beard of his own, the guy might have passed for Lyell's even less well-adjusted twin - sure, Ly might self-medicate with far more alcohol than a body should take, but at least he steered clear of the heavy stuff, and this guy had all the tells and physical hallmarks of a heavy stimstick user. But the way he flew, even with only one arm... well, Ly had known immediately that he was going to be copilot on his own ship for this run.

Astrogation wasn't his favorite activity (math had never been his best subject, and math that kept you from landing inside a sun was stressful to boot), but it'd been worth it to sit at the navicomputer and watch the other smuggler work. The Rascal's Chance was hardly top of the line at the best of times, and Ly had stripped out and sold a couple of her stabilizers to cover some particularly urgent gambling debts, but you wouldn't have known it from the way Cassi-whatsit handled her. That was good, because if they got into trouble on this run, they might well have a good sized force of customs cruisers on their tails, and that was something they couldn't out-shoot.

They hadn't talked much so far, each man wrapped up in his private concerns, and that suited Lyell just fine in general. He was plenty curious about the one-armed smuggler with the magic touch, but he knew not to pry when he saw that look - deep hurt, the kind that lurked behind the eyes, speaking of terrible things witnessed... and perhaps committed, as well. The chirping of the navicomputer gave him a reason to speak, though. "Coming up on Lothal now," he said, swinging his feet down from where he'd propped them up on the console and preparing the ship to drop out of hyperspace. "Two bearded drunks against the galaxy, eh? At least the money's good."

It was good. Really good, even for two of them. Lyell wondered who was paying it all. Had the refugees they'd come to extract taken up a collection, pooling what little they had left after the First Order invasion shattered their lives in the hope of buying an escape? Was the Outer Rim Coalition, or maybe the Alliance in Exile, bankrolling the escape of GA sympathizers from First Order space? He didn't wonder for long, because it didn't really matter. He was in deep with some very, very nasty people, and seldom questioned exactly where his credits came from, so long as they ended up in his pocket for a while. And in a darkening galaxy, politics could get you killed.

[member="Cale Gunderson"]

 

[Cale Gunderson]

[SIZE=11pt](Just realized not only are the similar looking, Cale uses Fallout fanart for his playby lmao)[/SIZE]

[SIZE=11pt]It was funny, the captain of the Rascal[/SIZE][SIZE=11pt] had called him Cassian, and Cale hadn’t bothered to correct him. Not because he didn’t care about people getting his name wrong, but because it more or less was his name. He’d spent years under the guise of ‘Cassian Feryn’, Alliance Ace. It probably should’ve been alarming that the last time he had been remotely at peace was when he’d been a fugitive living under an alias, but such was life.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=11pt]Scratching at the red cloth covering the absent limb, Cale tried to distract himself from the fact he was in desperate need of a drink while at the same time being all-too-aware that he needed to be sober for this bit. Getting past the First Order wasn’t something one could accomplished buzzed.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=11pt]“Gotta be the ORC, Alliance is too caught up not dying to fund something like this.” He mused cynically. He’d served in the Alliance with something close to pride, but he hadn’t been a naive young Jedi unable to comprehend the flaws of his chosen faction like he had been with the Republic. Or the Jedi as a whole. The Alliance had millions of refugees to tend to already, and the ORC had a history of philanthropy.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=11pt]So, he cracked up the high payout to the one and only Jorus Merrill.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=11pt]Not that it really mattered in the end. He’d escaped the Silver Jedi so he could still fight against the darkness any way he could. While that had gone about as poorly as one might expect, he still was determined to do something to spite the Imperial scum ruled by the dark. Maybe one day he’d do something that really made a difference, or maybe he’d blow up in a few seconds if the authorization codes he’d just transmitted to get any Star Destroyers to piss off came back denied.[/SIZE]

[SIZE=11pt]Such was life.[/SIZE]

[member="Lyell Pavish"]

 

[Lyell Pavish]

(See, this right here is destiny. It had to happen.)

"Fair point," Lyell replied. He tapped his hip flask absently, contemplated bringing it to his lips, and then mentally slapped himself. Not yet. Easing his nerves wouldn't do him much good if it meant getting sloppy on a run. "Seems like every time I kriffing sneeze some new motherkarker with a red glowstick and a spooky robe arises to tear up half the galaxy. How many Sith Empires have been declared in the last twenty years? Five? Can't hold together for druk, but feth me if they don't do some damage every time. I guess the First Order deserves credit for calling their crimson-saber maniacs something different, if nothing else."

To Ly, the name was really the only difference. Ren, Sith, Dark Jedi, they were all the same: vicious, powerful psychopaths who had burned countless worlds in his lifetime alone.

But he was getting political, only moments after he'd noted to himself what a bad idea that was. He'd stayed out of that mess ever since his involvement in student protests on Dosuun had gotten him disowned; he'd been in life or death brawls that he would rather relive a dozen times than go through that knock-down, drag-out fight with his dad again. Besides, Lyell was one guy, and not the kind of holovid hero that brought down the evil empire with a single proton torpedo. The galaxy changed, often for the worse, and his role was to ride the whirlwind for as long as he could, and maybe have a little fun doing it. He wasn't about to die a pointless death fighting the overwhelming darkness.

The blue tunnel of hyperspace resolved into countless stars and a beautiful blue-green orb. Lyell had never been to Lothal before, but he was struck by how similar it was to Dosuun - and how different. The planet's colors were softer, the drifting clouds thicker, as if it were a gentler place. That was easy to believe; Dosuun was regimented, strict, drab, its beauty too formal and rigid. Lyell had heard that Lothal had been heavily strip mined many centuries earlier, under a different Empire, and had undergone a long recovery. The bitter thought occurred to him that the First Order might well do the same to fuel their inevitable next war. Regimes like that thrived on blood and glory.

As a recent conquest, Lothal was still extensively patrolled by the First Order navy. That was why these refugees needed a smuggler, not just any shuttle. Lyell held his breath as Ca-whatsit transmitted the clearance codes, staring out the viewport at the several Star Destroyers lurking above the pristine world, and let it out slowly as nothing happened. It didn't matter if they were scanned on the way in; the Rascal really was empty, just as their faked travel credentials indicated. The difference was that they wouldn't be landing at whatever spaceport they were assigned, and that they wouldn't be leaving with a hold full of agricultural products.

"They've given us a 'mandatory flight plan'," Lyell observed with a smirk. "The fun starts when we deviate on the way in. All you, buddy."

[member="Cale Gunderson"]

 

[Cale Gunderson]

Cale let out a chuckle almost nervously. There had been too many Sith to rise up, even if they didn't outright call themselves them. The Dark Side was all the same, a force of chaos that corrupted everything it touched, and controlled those it couldn't. Cale's entire life had been a deception, a lie created to make him a better servant to the One Sith when they'd risen. He himself hadn't even known the truth until he'd been thrust into the role of an observer in his own body.

Blood was on his hands, he'd served their machine, it didn't matter that he hadn't been willing. "You'd think with all their conquest they'd have better things to do than stalk my flight path." He grumbled, easing the Rascal onto the course given to him. They could trick the First Order's sensors, but eventually someone would report that they never showed. Then they'd be on the clock, and would have to earn their keep.

"Probably my fault, I'm real intimidating to intergalactic tyrants." He joked, gesturing to himself. The man still had muscle on him, but he hadn't kept himself to the physical standards of the Alliance Navy, or that of a Jedi in recent times, and of course there was the arm with nerves so damaged replacement was impossible. Rather than keeping to his old ways he'd decided the bottle and a host of spices were preferable. The nightmares couldn't bother him if he was too trashed to comprehend them.

That's what he told himself anyway.

Grabbing a stimstick from his pocket, he thumbed the self-igniter and placed it between his lips. He inhaled deeply, the nicotine calming his frayed nerves as a flight of TIE Fighters soared past. They weren't for them, but they just as easily could've been. Too many would be smugglers had thought they were in the clear before he'd ordered them vaporized based on a hunch the force gave him. He could only hope no bloodthirsty Knight of Ren was observing them in one of the massive destroyers, preparing to act on a hunch all their own.

[member="Lyell Pavish"]

 

[Lyell Pavish]

Lyell blew out the breath he'd been holding as the TIE patrol passed the Rascal by. He'd flown through some pretty rough situations before, but this was his first true blockade run, the first time he was going up against a galactic government with nothing more than his wits, his copilot, and his raggedy old ship. "I'm sure they're shaking in their boots," he replied, keenly aware of the fact that a single salvo from one of those Star Destroyers would turn them into a fine mist on the solar wind. He almost wanted one of those stimsticks for himself, to smoke away the stress. Almost. But he had enough expensive vices; going through a pack of those a day wouldn't help his financial woes.

Lothal gradually grew larger in the viewport as they taxied in, thus far following the flight plan they'd been assigned. Soon the great blue-green sphere filled their field of vision, individual mountain ranges resolving themselves on each continent below. The Star Destroyers loomed closer, too; they were well within weapons range now, easy prey for tractor beams if some bored First Order lieutenant decided they merited detaining. They hadn't done anything illegal yet, but having grown up around these highborn officer types, Lyell knew all too well that many of them liked to throw their weight around simply because they could. Who was going to stop them? A couple of freighter jocks?

They were nearly at the break point, where they would have to change course. The pickup was out in the countryside, near some old Jedi structure, and that was many clicks away from where they were supposed to land. But before they could pull away, the comm unit crackled. "This is Commander Karys of the FIV Blightsting. Freighter Rascal's Chance," she stumbled over the words, as if in surprised distaste at such an unprofessional name, "you have entered a restricted system still in the process of being officially integrated into the First Order. You will observe additional security procedures. Cut your engines and prepare to be scanned."

Lyell suppressed a groan, shooting his copilot a dark look. If it was this hard to get in, before they had any contraband, it was going to suck to get out.

[member="Cale Gunderson"]

 

[Cale Gunderson]

Stifling a groan of annoyance and rolling his eyes, Cadmon exhaled a cloud of smoke before opening up a line to respond to the Commander's hail. "Sure thing Commander, cutting them now." Cale wasn't as worried as he had been the last time he tried to smuggle something, a group of rebels, into the space of an Imperial group. They'd prepared fairly well, yet they'd still ended up in a fight sooner than expected. His calm nerves came from the fact that aside from some unremarkable goods in the form of foodstuffs, there wasn't anything on board for the First Order to find yet.

To them, the crates of food were going to be sold for profit, not used to feed the mouths of hungry refugees. Lyell was right though, they were making it hard to get in, which made him imagine getting out was going to be a real fun time. But that was something they'd worry about when they got there. Plenty could go wrong before then if they didn't play their cards right. Making sure that he wasn't transmitting, he looked back at the other smuggler and chuckled.

"You know, a guy who names his ship the Blightsting must be great at parties. Ladies must love that edge." He joked, stimstick hanging between his teeth as he cut the power to the Rascal's engines as ask-well, ordered. They just had to get through this bit, then they were in the clear for a little bit. Hopefully just long enough to pick up their passengers and make a run for it.

[member="Lyell Pavish"]

 

[Lyell Pavish]

Latching onto his copilot's calm, Lyell chuckled. "Edgy is all they've got to express themselves, I imagine." He imitated a high-pitched whine. "Nobody understands us! The galaxy is darkness and misery!" He rolled his eyes; that was far too close to sentiments he'd heard growing up on Dosuun. Many former friends who'd gone on to military or political careers seemed to genuinely believe that only the First Order could bring stability to a wicked, corrupt galaxy, and that justified everything they did along the way. Sure, the galaxy was wicked and corrupt, or at least large parts of it were. But Lyell hadn't yet seen a government that could make it all perfect.

Further mirth was cut short as the comm crackled again. "Freighter Rascal's Chance, you are cleared to dock at Capital Starport. You will immediately submit your cargo for further inspection. Blightsting out." Lyell sighed loudly. "Double and triple checked. Good thing we won't be landing there. They'd probably rip the paneling off the walls of the cargo hold just because they're karking bored, even if there's nothing to find." This was the moment of truth, then. As soon as they hit the atmosphere, they would deviate from the flight plan they'd been given. They could probably fool the Star Destroyers for a little while, but when they didn't show up at their assigned berth...

Well, the timer was about to start on this run. Lyell offered Scale, or whatever it was, a nod of encouragement. Time to see how well he flew under pressure.

[member="Cale Gunderson"]

 

[Cale Gunderson]

​"We must acquiesce to order!" Cale added mockingly just before the two's jabs at the First Order were cut off by the Commander's next set of orders. He shook his head, they'd just as soon jump right to Bastion and waltz up to Carnifex to talk politics then land at that station, but the First Order wouldn't know that until it was too late. Turning back up the engines, Cale's hand raced across the instruments and flipped a switch. Suddenly, the First Order's trackers would follow a ghost signature, while the Rascal itself would disappear. It was a nifty little gadget, and he'd have to use it more often.

"You'd think hammering the galaxy into shape into with an iron fist would keep them entertained, alas I guess even that's not enough." He shrugged as the freighter veered off course, the ghost signal taking their place. Coming into the atmosphere of Lothal, he took another drag to keep his mind off of the planet's reality. Whatever refugee's they rescued, millions more would remain under the First Order's fist. For the human dwellers who fell into line, life would remain much the same, who knew maybe it would even improve, but for those with opposing opinions or guilty of the crime of being non-human, life would become a nightmare.

If they weren't killed, evicted, or otherwise victims of the Order on an official level, they'd be subject to unrelenting discrimination. It was wrong, even with is decaying moral compass he knew that. He only hoped that one day they'd be free from it all.

[member="Lyell Pavish"]

 

[Lyell Pavish]

Lyell let out a long, low whistle. "Neat trick, Thunderson," he said, clapping the other man on the back. He was more and more glad of the company - they seemed to be on the same wavelength, and the other guy kept coming up with new ways to impress him, to boot. Still, they were on the clock now. As soon as the phantom signal failed to actually materialize into a ship that landed and submitted to inspection, everyone aboard the Blightsting would lose their druk. Ideally they would be mostly loaded by the time that happened, maybe even on their way out. But Lyell had been on enough runs to know that things pretty much never went that smoothly.

Fire ringed the Rascal as she broke atmosphere, and soon they were soaring over gently rolling hills and plains, a tapestry of soft greens and browns. Lyell really, really hoped he wouldn't have to see what became of this place when the First Order war machine was through with it. Maybe the FO would collapse in a few years, succumbing to the madness of the post-400-Year Darkness as so many governments had. Or maybe it would only grow, crushing even more star systems beneath its boot. Either way, Lyell intended to drink away whatever feelings this run brought up for him. He needed money, not sentiment. That was the kind of thing that could get him into trouble.

Not that money didn't get him into trouble. It was just the kind of trouble he could manage, not the kind that tried to make him play hero.

A ping on the sensors caught his attention, and he swore quietly. "Looks like they've got speeder bike patrols," he told his copilot, checking the incoming objects on screen. "We're way off our designated course, in restricted airspace. We need them to not spot us." No trees, no canyons, just long expanses of rolling hills; that didn't leave them much cover. "Got any other fancy tricks?" They were only a few klicks out from the pickup site now, and things would go much easier if they didn't attract the attention of the local garrison right as they were about to land. The Rascal might be able to blow the patrol up, but that wasn't exactly subtle...

[member="Cale Gunderson"]

 

[Cale Gunderson]

"Gun, Gunderson." He corrected as he brought them lower and lower, the rolling plains of Lothal coming into view. This world had rebellion in its blood, the archives in the temple on Tython had talked at lengths about the resistance against Sidious' Empire that had taken place here, and the sacrifices of two Jedi who pushed the guerrilla's to a victory they would both not live to see. Or maybe one did, his memory was fuzzy on that. Cale wondered if that spirit of resistance was still alive, if the disenfranchised, persecuted, and right minded conspired even now to reclaim their home.

In all honesty, he doubted it, the regime change was fresh, the First Order's vice grip on the planet still unrelenting, and spark of rebellion was bound to be smothered by the raging inferno of oppression still raging across the world. But perhaps in time.

The moment Pavish pointed out the patrol, Cale mumbled a curse as he took another drag. Some master mentalists might've been able to trick them, to make the minds of the scouts simply not comprehend the ship. But Cale had only ever made Knight, and he certainly hadn't been a mentalist. Not to mention, he was not only hesitant to display his attachment to the force, but the all surrounding life force had been rather uncooperative since Thyferra.

"Aside from blowing them up and drasticallt reduce our time frame to get the refugees and bolt? No." Of course it had to get complicated, why had he expected anything else?

[member="Lyell Pavish"]

 

[Lyell Pavish]

"Right," Lyell muttered. "Sorry." He could remember everything he needed to plot a course halfway across the galaxy, but there was just something about names. His fingers tensed on the controls as the blinking pip that was the incoming patrol drew ever closer; soon the scout troopers would be within easy visual range of the Rascal, and from there everything would get a whole lot more complicated - and potentially deadly. No more fancy gadgets, no space magic up his sleeve; it was time to get creative. "Keep her steady," he said, getting up from the copilot's chair and striding purposefully out of the cockpit. "I have an idea. A stupid one, but I'm not picky."

He knew the Rascal like the back of his hand, threading easily through her hallways to the cargo hold. Hurrying up to one of the crates, he released the mag-seal and pulled the lid free. Here was something else he remembered better than names, something his fancy university education had taught him: banthaweed, the cheap grain alternative he'd filled this crate with to sell their story, burned ugly. Really, really ugly, with great puffs of acrid smoke. Grabbing an emergency flare from the wall, Lyell struck the end off of it and threw the burning taper into the crate. Then he slammed a hand against the cargo ramp release and kicked the crate out, onto the plains rushing past beneath them.

A huge plume of acid-green smoke rose over the hills behind them, probably visible for several klicks. Lyell grinned as he hit the button to close the ramp again; that would get the patrol's attention, at least for a few minutes, and that was all it would take for the Rascal to lose them. Heading back to the cockpit, he slid back into the copilot's chair, a self-satisfied smile on his face. "A little less fancy than what you pulled, but it'll buy us a little time. We're just about at the rendezvous point. Hopefully the refugees are packed and ready, because we don't have all day to wait." Ahead of them, the great stone spires of the Lothal Jedi Temple rose up among the hills...

[member="Cale Gunderson"]

 

[Cale Gunderson]

Cale had become a Jedi Knight at sixteen, as had a lot of Jedi in recent history, stupid ideas had practically been his bread and butter. And this? This wasn't half bad as far as stupid ideas went. He only hoped that the reports of the smoke would keep the First Order occupied rather than make them more inquisitive. Cale had no intention of staying around long enough to figure that bit out.

As the pillars of the temple came into view Cale averted his eyes. He'd spent most of his life calling a place like that home, all while being a puppet whose soul purpose was to bring them crashing down. He pushed questions about how many lives had been shaped by that place like one on Tython had shaped him, or the one on Coruscant. The one he'd burned. Guilt threatened to consume him for a moment as he continued to puff on the stimstick, letting the narcotic push the worst of the flashes out of his mind.

"Here's hoping."

The Rascal was getting close to the landing site, which meant the fear of the looming danger swirling inside him would be multiplying endlessly in a few moments. What altruism remained in his heart screamed that the moment they touched down, it was no longer just himself and Lyel who'd be put down if they were caught. They'd be responsible for the lives of these people.

Fun thoughts.

[member="Lyell Pavish"]

 

[Lyell Pavish]

Past the Jedi Temple, a second set of structures rose into view. As the Rascal buzzed by the ancient structure, what looked at a distance like a ramshackle mass of durasteel resolved into individual structures: the small farming town they had come to evacuate. Lyell frowned as he considered the logistics. He wasn't sure exactly how many people they were scheduled to pick up. He only had four crew bunks (five counting his, but he wasn't giving that one up) and a scattering of sleeping bags spread across the floor of the cargo hold. Too many refugees and it might be standing room only, which would make for a very long and uncomfortable trip out of here.

Provided that they weren't all arrested or vaporized as they tried to make their escape, which would make elbow room something of a moot point.

As they closed in on the town, small shapes began to appear beside the structures. A blur of red rose up from several - landing beacons, small enough to attract attention only at this close of a range. That was smart thinking; although the plume of green smoke was now well behind them, on the far side of the Jedi Temple, it would make the patrol suspicious, and they would come to check the town before too long. It was time to do what Lyell did best, besides get drunk and waste money: efficiently load cargo and take it somewhere the law didn't want it to be. Before long the two men could make out individual beings, each using the landing beacons to wave them to a nearby gulch large enough for the Rascal to set down.

It would give them a bit of cover on the rolling plains, making it less obvious that a starship was stashed there. "Good place to land," Lyell said, nodding in approval. "Still, we've got maybe twenty minutes before that patrol shows up here and asks if the locals have seen anything. We need to be gone by then. Let's go see who's in charge and how many people we need to load, exactly." Out of habit, he thumbed his holster, releasing the snap that kept his blaster snug against his thigh so that he could draw it in one smooth motion. He wasn't expecting immediate trouble, but in his experience life was what happened while you were busy making other plans.

Lyell Pavish had many traits he would admit were flaws and vices, but he didn't consider being suspicious and overcautious among them.

[member="Cale Gunderson"]

 

[Cale Gunderson]

Cale only nodded, bringing the ship down in the gulch as directed. Rising up from his seat his arm fell to his side and unclipped his own holster, readying his weapon just in case. He didn't want to think that these people could be little more than an elaborate trap. He'd tangled with the First Order a time or two, but the notion of some sort of trap being set for them seemed excessive even for them. It also lacked their cold tactical efficiency, the Order rarely bothered with theatrics, instead preferring to win by the quickest and most effective way possible. He supposed that could be a driving force behind their military success.

Taking a drag and snapping himself out of the paranoid spiral of thought, Cale shook his head. "Yeah, clocks ticking." He replied, heading to the closest ramp and opening it up. Steam hissed as the the sealed vessel opened to the small village. Heavy eyes spotted everything from what he imagined would soon be Alliance in Exile soldiers, to scared children clinging desperately to their guardians if they had them, and each other if they didn't. Every one of them from the most menacing fighter to the youngest child were laden with exhaustion, and emaciated, starving.

They needed to get them all out of here, but first they had to find the man in charge. "Lead the way."

[member="Lyell Pavish"]

 

[Lyell Pavish]

There was, as it turned out, no man in charge. There was, however, a woman.

She was easy to pick out from the crowd of scared, starved, filthy refugees squatting in this half-abandoned town. Not because she looked any less worn or any better fed; she didn't. There was simply an air of command about her that set her apart, something in her iron-backed stance and the way the others looked at her, even the combat veterans. Thin lips drawn tightly together, steel-colored eyes, ebony hair cut short and then tied back to keep it further out of the way - this was someone who had risen to the challenge of not only surviving a hardscrabble existence but taking charge and making sure that everyone who looked to her survived as well.

Lyell ignored the desperate crowd - what was he going to do, give them all hugs? - and walked straight up to her, extending his hand. She took it, giving it a brief, firm shake. "I'm Lyell, captain of the Rascal's Chance." He left off his last name deliberately; the Pavishes were an old Dosuun family, firmly aligned with the First Order, and he didn't want to spook anyone. "This is my associate, ah..." He wracked his brain, doing his best to dredge up what the man had said. Gun, right? Gun something. "Gunderman. How many are we taking?" The woman looked him over, silently assessing him, rooting him to the spot with those piercing metallic eyes.

"Taerie Kaavo," she replied at length, glancing over at the battered freighter that had come for her. "Thirty-one of us, but we'll fit. You lose a little weight eating quarter portions of stale Galactic Alliance ration packs for as long as we have." Her voice was hard-edged, but somehow still melodious, a sharpened alto blade. Her gaze was full of dark, bitter humor. "Not sure it'll take off as a diet trend," Lyell joked back, probably insensitively. "Anyway, we should get you all aboard. There was a patrol back there that might be heading this... oh, sithspit." At that moment, five First Order scout troopers crested the ridge... and took off down towards the town.

[member="Cale Gunderson"]