A Change in Circumstance.

[Vhirran Fernil]

Colonies
Balmorra
Bin Prime Spaceport.




To call the hustle and bustle of Bin Prime's only spaceport anything other than 'non-existent' would have been a gross understatement. The few shuttles that had docked were less than reputable in nature; spice trafficking and other dubious solicitations made up the majority of professions that passed into the city. As the dome surrounding Bin Prime reflected the harsher instances of radiation that passed through the atmosphere, Vhirran could think of a number of places that he'd rather be.

"Vhirran! Uba koumihase, cheeska cag see bantha poodoo!" A thunderous voice spoke from behind him. He was smart enough to recognise the Huttese language when he heard it, which could only mean one thing.

"Kawalisa!" Vhirran replied in turn, swivelling around on the bar stool he had fallen into some time earlier. His dark eyes glanced, somewhat cautiously, at the imposing Devaronian that stood before him. Clad in a set of thick, leather armour with cortosis-weave joints, the sentient creature made Vhirran look unassuming in comparison. "My favourite drinking buddy. How have you--".

A huge, gauntlet-clad fist glanced off of the side of Vhirran's face. His mug of Corellian ale hit the floor first, followed by his slim frame.

"Uba gee cheeska mi um baw wah jotke tee-tocky! Peee doth mah phabeka?" The Devaronian snarled.

"I told you this last time!" Vhirran clambered back up to his feet, using the stained bar counter as a support. "I can get you your credits. I just need more time. That's not too much to ask for, right?"

The DH-17 blaster pistol that rested inches from his head gave Vhirran the answer he needed. A single bead of sweat ran down the side of his temple; the only outward sign that Vhirran was uncomfortable, given his present situation. The jacket he wore was old, brown and snug around his shoulders, but contrasted well with his dark trousers and leather boots.

"No chance of an extension, then?" Great, Vhirran thought. Barely even five minutes into his fresh start and it already looked like he was going to meet his maker.

Could this day get any worse?

A series of dull footsteps, which reverberated off of the metallic flooring heralded a new arrival.

"You'd better run while you still can, Kawalisa." Vhirran grinned, and looked over to where the sound was coming from. The footsteps drew closer and closer. "My partner's coming back right now, and he's been known to break skulls every now and then." There was silence. Silence as cold and unforgiving as the Devaronian that threatened to end Vhirran's life in an instant.

A foreboding shadow stretched along the floor, and grew closer, and closer to the duo. The footsteps resumed.

"Last chance, Kawalisa! Do you have a death wish or so--.." The approaching figure rounded the corner. An Ortolan, so small that it barely came up to the Devaronian's waist, stared at them from a few feet away. Its trunk swayed in the gentle interior wind, whilst its black eyes switched between the bloodied Vhirran and his menacing counterpart. One step. Two steps. It vanished back around the same corner.

The Devaronian erupted with a shrill laughter. "Botaffa bom dotlibahve, Vhirran. Ateema uba chateua!"

Vhirran's bluff, and probably his last chance at surviving this ordeal had failed.

Apparently, the day could get a whole lot worse.

[Professor Mors]

Balmorra. In general, Vassyl had a certain fondness for the world. With an unique and bloody history, it had produced its heyday of tacticians and arms advancements, some of which extended into the present and ongoing conflict. And yet, despite its utopian districts and towering compounds, Doren found himself thrust into the very armpit of the sprawling capital. In congruence with a stubborn, recurring narrative, a slew of independent gun-runners had begun a wide spree of thefts, seizing and abusing various munitions and wartime materials produced all over Bin Prime. With rebel activities quickening at an ever-alarming rate, the last thing High Command needed was a cabal of well-armed thugs making their pay off of Imperial resources. Normally, the Line Captain would have left this sort of investigation to one of his troop leader, but this was a special case: this was the Gank.

The majority of the bulbous-headed killers often hunted in small groups, and usually settled for simple assassination jobs. The Red Talon was different however, a deviant criminal group that saw a larger potential for income by way of mass-robbery and illegal munitions sales. Though the species was not known for its lack of cunning, Talon operatives displayed a shrewdness to rival even the best Imperial analysts. For months now, they had run Doren ragged from Mygeeto all the way down to Nar Shaddaa and back again. Though Vassyl hated the very sentiment, his pursuit had, for lack of better expression, become personal. Hence, when a large and particular evasive cell made waves on Balmorra, Doren was the first to answer the call. Now, clad in midnight black and flanked by nine of the stormtrooper corps finest, Vassyl marched towards an archetypal, seedy, tavern, filled with karmic bloodlust and an appetite for violent intervention.

Coming to a stop just before the doorway, the Captain raised his officer's sidearm and motioned to his silent comrades. The ominous quiet was soon broken by the soft click of automatic rifles and the low whir energy cartridges. Once the outstanding preparations had been cleared, Vassyl shot two fingers forward, and leapt over the threshold. Doren's compatriots shuffled in thereafter, and a wall of white plastoid dominated the entryway. Doren hardly had time to denote the squabbling trio at the bar, as a dozen sets of beady, sinister red eyes on either end of the bar locked onto the uninvited posse. The seconds began to slip by slower and slower. Barrels were hoisted, glasses shattered, and a cacophony of voices cried out, some of fear, some of anger. Then, the familiar chorus of searing crimson bolts filled the open air, as a firefight erupted in spectacular fashion. Gritting his teeth, Doren sent out volley after volley: there would be no escape this time.

[Vhirran Fernil]

From Vhirran's perspective, it had all happened in an instant.

Time itself seemed to slow. He could see the malice that haunted the Devaronian's eyes, the twitch in its finger as it readied to unload the DH-17 blaster pistol into the side of Vhirran's head. Perhaps, for the first time in his twenty three years of life, he was finally ready to kick the bucket.

Zap!

The blaster bolt rocketed past Vhirran's head, a blur of red and grey that singed the ends of his hair follicles. It slammed into the wall beyond the bar, smashing bottles of alcohol and scattering debris in all directions. It was a small, gracious distraction, and Vhirran used the time afforded to see what had knocked the Devaronian's aim. A rogue blaster bolt, likely intended for one of the other trigger-happy patrons in the bar, had slammed into the shoulder of the Devaronian. With a pained, blood-curdling scream it dropped, and the wretched sound died out amidst a stream of equally chaotic noises.

Stormtroopers? Vhirran was uncertain of whether he should be relieved or anxious. What was that expression - out of the frying pan and into the fire? He counted nine of them through a stream of blaster fire, alongside an entirely different figure. It wasn't just his appearance, either. The way he carried himself, how he conducted his mannerisms despite the situation. Vhirran could tell he wasn't like the spotless-white stormtroopers that had accompanied him inside.

Time sped back up again. Vhirran leaned down and yanked the DH-17 from the hands of its former owner, after which he swung himself up and over the bar counter. An audible clutter could be heard as he knocked stray glasses and bottles off of the top of the bar, and landed with a thud on the cold floor. Even cover as flimsy as this was better than nothing.

He turned his head, and found himself face to face with one of the Ganks that had been in the establishment alongside them. Presumably, they'd had the same idea, and the sentient creature didn't seem too fond with the notion of sharing his precious cover with a human from Garos IV.

"Haku doth uba mesohba?" The Gank spoke in the familiar language of Huttese, which made things worse considering that Vhirran could understand what had been said. He blinked twice. A moment of hostile silence was exchanged between the duo, before the Gank made the split-second decision to reach for its blaster.

Zap!

The sound was followed by a thud. One less to worry about, Vhirran contemplated. It didn't change the fact, however, that he was stuck behind a bar whilst two potential threats battled it out in splendid fashion. He weighed up his options. The Ganks would probably kill him on the spot, regardless of whether he helped them or not. Plus, having killed one of their own wouldn't exactly put him in their good books. The Empire, on the other hand, probably wouldn't be lenient with him either, considering his less than reputable standing in society.

"Nothing like a first impression.." The words were muttered under Vhirran's breath, and he rose from his crouched position behind the bar. Discharging bolt after bolt at the Ganks locked in conflict with the Empire, he couldn't help but find his eyes resting on the one that had previously caught his attention. A haze of crimson passed him by, and the smell of blood and burning flesh filled his nose. Vhirran could only think of one thing.

And who might you be?

Together, he figured they had a good chance of getting out of this in one piece.

[Professor Mors]

Per the usual, things were going about as well as they always did. And, such being the case, Vassyl experienced several near-hits on his person that sent his heart rate sky-rocketing-- just another day at the office. Regardless of the boons afforded by Imperial training, Gank cybernetics provided a sinister accuracy, and lethal flexibility. All feelings aside, as the armored brutes nimbly danced about, Doren could not repress the martial awe their performance invoked. Such artistry was soon disrupted by an unexpected melee behind the main counter, and a thundering crack of energy that resonated with imminent death. Then came a figure. Human, and a well-dressed one at that; or at least, better dressed than most of the establishment's parishioners. One of several citizens no doubt caught in an awkward situation, the Captain half-expected the stranger to turn his blaster on Doren and his cohort. The turn never came however.

Much to Vassyl's boundless surprise, the unknown gunslinger instead joined the fray on the Imperials' behalf, and began a ferocious counterattack on their now-mutual foe. Clearly, this fellow knew the winning side when he saw it. That said, the battle was far from won, as the Gank clustered together behind whatever barricades they could muster. One lucky round discharged inches from Doren's visor and struck hard through the eye-socket of one particularly unfortunate compatriot. The trooper whooped from dying pain as violet flames erupted from the sizzling wound, and crumpled no more than a foot from his superior's feet. The doorway was becoming less and less ideal, and it was time to move. Turning his attention back to his newfound ally, Vassyl hastily made up his mind. As the nascent reprieve of reloading began, the Captain bit his lower lip, and leapt towards the bar.

Unfortunately, not all of the Talon members had synced their reload cycles, as another conniving shot blew Doren's own DH-17 to pieces. Groaning from the metal shrapnel borrowing through plastoid and into his forearm, Vassyl completed a less-than-graceful vault over the counter, and landed uncomfortably besides the sharpshooting gentleman and a clutter of broken glass. Stiffly and sorely, Doren recomposed himself onto one knee, and drew his scout's sidearm from a hidden compartment tucked within his right boot. Simultaneously, he unclipped a small spherical device from his belt, and held it up to his impromptu counterpart. Though Vassyl doubted this particular watering hole would take much to rebuild, he wasn't about to blow it to smithereens. No, an ion detonator ought to do the trick in this instance. His voice slightly warped through his helmet, Doren addressed his peer with a coy tone, "You can aim well enough: how's your throwing arm?".

[Rhoden Carbine]

Rhoden and Jorvan sat across from each other in yet another run down cantina. Why is this becoming a common occurrence? he thought sourly as he stared into his drink. He had taken a few week's of well-earned leave and as was common in such circumstances had immediately made his way to some obscure location on Carbine family business. He had hoped to make contact with an informant but had so far spent his time brooding in pitiful dank holes such as the one he found himself in now.

There was a commotion near the bar and Rhoden turned, some human that looked in the process of having his brains reorganized, Rhoden started to turn back to Jorvan but started as a group of armored Imperials jumped through the doorway and lit up the air. Jorvan cursed and dissapeared behind a stone outcropping. Rhoden simply remained in his seat, studying the leader of the group. The leader, Rhoden discovered as he studied the profile and fighting style, was Captain Vassyl.

Rhoden continued to watch as one of the Stormtroopers dropped and the Captain lunged toward the bar, where the human Rhoden had noticed earlier was now aiding the Imperials. Rhoden slid further back in his booth and carefully pulled out his blaster. Raising it he fired several times into the nearest hostile and ducked under the table before the body had even hit the floor. He rolled and shoved off from the floor bringing himself behind the wall just opposite of Jorvan, hopefully he had at least provided an interesting distraction, with any luck that was all the Captain and his new friend would need.

[Vhirran Fernil]

"You can aim well enough: how's your throwing arm?"

Vhirran hadn't even noticed Vassyl's sudden appearance from behind the bar until they were practically inches apart. His eyes stared down the barrel of his blaster pistol, which was fixated in the general direction of their attackers. How was his throwing arm? Detonators and imploders tended to be too unpredictable in Vhirran's line of work; you can trace a blaster bolt, but one mistake and your own explosive can take your arm with it. It was nasty enough to think about such a situation, let alone to witness it like Vhirran had.

The war shrieks of two Ganks dragged Vhirran back into reality, and he returned a volley of bolts in their direction before ducking behind the bar. They didn't have long. If the Ganks managed to surround the duo, they'd be easy to overwhelm due to the confines of the cover they were situated behind. He hated to admit it, but Vassyl probably had the best plan given their position.

"I'd find some cover, just in case. Wouldn't want to get any dust on that fancy outfit of yours." Vhirran retorted, with sweat running down the side of his forehead. His visage was scrunched up into a look of stern concentration, as though every bolt from now meant the difference between life and death. It probably did.

Vhirran hadn't noticed the other two bystanders who had been in the bar when the fodder hit the fan, but he did notice the precious few moments they had bought both the Captain and himself.

"It's now or never. Those Ganks will focus back on us unless we act now." Vhirran's pale, grey eyes settled on Vassyl's visor.

"Ready to blow this joint?"

[Professor Mors]

Fancy outfit; that was a new one. All the same, Doren was hardly in a position to disagree with his sharp-tongued associate. With some forced effort, Vassyl shrunk down onto his knees and free hand, and crept further under the overhang of the bar. Though an ion discharge wouldn't accomplish much in the way of property damage, any electric equipment or weapons left out in the open could fall prey to an overload, and possible discharge of their contents. It was a gamble, but if it played out as the Captain anticipated, they would be all the better by it. As his explosive-toting arm remained limber and pointed up at Vhirran, a sickening trickle of plasma began to run down from the large chunks of metal that stung into Doren's skin. Vassyl drove a canine deeper into his lower lip, before calling out to his remaining allies, "Code Blue!". With the troops scrambling for the nearest upturned table, Doren shot a curt nod to the roguish bystander, retorting, "Hold onto that jacket of yours".

[Rhoden Carbine]

OOC: Pass. Don't have anything for Rhoden to do while he's pinned down behind a wall. Unless you're fond of brief self-monologue...