A Line in the Sand (Jom, Sarela)

[Professor Mors]

This was taking too long. Though his head cleared the small crater with little issue, Doren would not be easily visible from where he lay. For the time being, the cacophony of battle seemed to ebb away from the crash site. If the Captain was going to move, there was no telling if a better opportunity would present itself. With an exasperated growl, Vassyl steadied his upper body once more, and began to inch out of the hole at a sea snails pace. What felt like an hour passed before the entirety of the Captain’s body slumped onto level ground. Struggling to crawl with little payoff was rapidly depleting Doren’s stamina. Having solved one problem, the winded, wounded warrior searched about for something to assist his efforts, when dull glint caught his eye some feet ahead of him.

With a pained chuckling, the Captain zeroed in on the shattered remains of a fuel pipe, snapped neatly down the middle. After sliding forward a precious few inches, Vassyl took up his makeshift tools, and began to dig the unorthodox pitons into the soil as a means to gain greater leverage. With a less taxing technique in hand, Doren temporarily dismissed concerns of mobility, and began to address his third objective: shelter. And, when fortune had otherwise abandoned the young Jaeman, the fog parted before him, like some ominous gesture from the heavens. It was then that the Captain espied one of Hav5’s drive wheels. Partially submerged in the earth, the tire and its key mechanisms had apparently popped off and rolled a ways from the impact point.

It was large- but not too large. From what Doren could tell, a hollowed section here or there could make for a convincing hideaway. But first, the Captain had to reach it. Even with the aid of his discount climbing gear, the journey was agonizing. At times, Vassyl could feel the gashes on his legs and lower torso swell and tear. Not dissuaded from his goal by mere pain, the Captain worked out a series of timed rests. Taking care to stop in place and level his breathing, Doren fought nausea and fatigue, ever defiant of his body’s deep seated desire for sleep. Finally, Vassyl arrived at his rubbery retreat. Drawing his side-arm with one hand, the Imperial scanned the shifting mists for friend or foe. With his other arm, he hoisted one of the broken pipes, and began to rap it against the drive wheel’s metal casing with purposeful rhythm. Doren had taken care to run Sarela through a few basic distress codes- which Mister Etro would also know from his days at the academy. With any luck, one or both of them would hear it: and Doren, for his part, might even gain a reprieve.

[Sarela Malkova]

The more Sarela walked through the shifting fog, the more disoriented the young Sephi became. Everything looked the same and her wound had begun to bleed more profusely, the entirety of her left side having become numb. Sarela honestly had no idea how she hadn't passed out somewhere along the way, the man with the partly missing face passing through her mind from time to time, grateful for whatever greater force had made it not be Doren. Wherever the Captain was, Sarela could only hope he was in much better shape than herself, numbness threatening to send the woman to the ground from the sheer force of utter exhaustion.

Hours upon hours seemed to pass as the cries of battle eventually ebbed away and then a rhythmic rapping began, seeming to echo around her. Sarela stopped for a moment, listening as the sound carried, starting again, mouth parting. Though she hadn't been with Doren for very long compared to most of his crew, a few months at best, she was a quick learner, understanding and having been taught the basic distress codes that Imperials used in their time of need. Either it was her Captian or another. If not Doren, Sarela contemplated that it might be Etro or another survivor from within their party. Legs burning, Sarela began following the tapping sound to the best of her ability, wishing that the shifting mist would lift and unobscure her path. It would be the Sephi's luck when so close to a friendly face, to run into some foreign hostel. Luckily for her, the rhythm rap from metal upon metal grew louder the closer she got, a wet cough escaping when she was only a distance away, "Doren?" Sarela called out, following the sound more closely, distress codes apparent. The call of her voice was soft by any manner, a way to not scare her Captain once she did stumble upon him. It would be horrible for him to mistake her for a hostel force and shoot first and ask questions later.

The closer she got to the sound, the quicker her pained breaths became, ready to drop the ground in exhaustion. The numbness was ebbing away, torn and cut muscles burning her insides in a painful mixture of agony. Calling out once more, Sarela's throat burned from the effort, another wet cough leaving from her lips, mixing with her voice, which was much louder this time, "Doren?" Unable to go any further, Sarela sank against some metallic structure, breathing in slowly and deeply. As she sat there, a spark of fear formed. What if the Captain's body was broken and unable to move, and the distress calls where his only way of communication? Trying to stand once more, the Sephi's legs gave out, causing a soft cry of pain to escape as her back bumped back against the metal at her back, shifting the shrapnel and causing searing agony to run through her body, bringing tears of frustration to her eyes. She could only hope that Doren was somehow close enough to have heard her voice, throat closing up from the pain to keep from crying out more, another cough escaping, along with a warm wet liquid.

[Professor Mors]

The first time the voice cried out, Vassyl pondered if he was in the throes of a hallucination. This was not his first visit to death’s door after all, and his mind had a sick sense of humor when it came to fading from consciousness. Still, the Captain listened on, forcing himself to pick apart the pitch and timbre. Eventually, understanding fell upon him, his eyes widening with revelation. “Sarela!”, Doren wheezed, falling into a painful coughing fit. Vassyl’s lungs were, on average, rather dependable. In spite of this, dust and smoke from the crash had invaded his windpipe to a strident degree. Clearly, this would not be so easy. Of course, Doren was in no place to move again: at the same time, further efforts would be required to help the Sephi pinpoint his position.

Calling out wasn’t the answer. If sound alone could do the deed, Vassyl percussive gesture would have finished the job by now. Not wanting to throw his voice out in his entirety, the Captain realized he couldn’t allow his ally to forge ahead in the wrong direction- or out of earshot. “Sta-”, Doren started to hack out, “Stay where you are!”. Hopefully Miss Malkova’s hearing was less compromised than Doren’s own. Either way, any further hollering would only serve to worsen Vassyl’s condition. Thus the question became how to grab his associate’s attention without passing out in the process. Doren spent several minutes looking about aimless for some sort of solution. In truth, the young Jaeman had little idea where to start.

The Captain’s frustration began to build proportional to the blood he was surely losing. Gritting his teeth, Vassyl cursed the whole situation under his faltering breath. They were so close now. If he could just reach her, the two would increase their survival expectancy ten-fold. Even if Doren should fade, at the least, he could pass on his equipment for Sarela’s continued then. The Captain glared angrily and the enshrouding mists, pouring all sorts of malevolent thoughts towards the damnable weather. Then came a shift in fog- and a shift in clarity. Almost gleefully, Doren tossed one of his climbing rods some few feet out, and watched the sickly fog dance about its trajectory. A loose gear followed thereafter. Grinning ear to ear, Vassyl gingerly tore a long, sinuous cable from the inner wheel. With some effort, Doren swung the line over his head in a makeshift lasso, and sent it hurtling forward. That was sure to find Sarela. And once it did, all she’d need do was follow the trail to sanctuary- humble though it was.

[Sarela Malkova]

Clenching her side, palm wet with blood, her head jerked up at hearing Doren’s voice. Eyes blinking, she swallowed, fighting back a cry of happiness. No doubt, now that the pair knew they were in close proximity, they’d need to remain quiet, to keep from drawing unwanted attention. Heart pounding, the young woman got to her feet, breathing hard, fighting back the pain that threatened to wash her away in its embrace, drag her under into blackness. If she could only get to the Captain, then she’d be able to take a moment to rest, so that both of them could collect themselves and formulate a plan. With the mist still shifting around them, she waited for a moment, hearing a banging noise off to her right, the skidding of metal along the ground. Had that been Doren trying to signal his location? Swallowing once more, she licked her dry lips, ears perked and listening as another noise cough her attention, the shift in the fog noticeable. Moving carefully, hands outstretched before her, she heard the slapping of something off to her left this time, a long cable disrupting the fog around them enough for Sarela to see it. Heart beating fast, Sarela made to grab the cable before the fog could obscure it from view, which would only cause Doren’s attempts to guide her to him for nought. Wincing as she leaned down to take the makeshift guide in hand, she began following it, giving a soft pull so that he would know that she was coming.

The walk in-and-of-itself didn’t take the young woman all that long and, soon, with a sigh, she found herself looking at the Doren, her eyes going wide as her gaze took in his wounds. Not even giving pause for thought to the shrapnel sticking out of her abdomen, she quickly began assessing him, jaw clenching, “Captain, I’m so sorry I didn’t find you sooner…” Sarela’s voice was barely above a whisper within the make-shift sanctuary the Captain had found for them. From a few pockets in her tattered breeches, Sarela produced a rather small amount of medical supplies that she’d brought with her if something like this situation were to occur. Beginning with the small bits of shrapnel in Doren’s body, she carefully pulled them from the skin, applying a spray-bandage as she went that would close the smaller wounds off and stop further bleeding. In total, the process took the better part of fifteen minutes and sweat was dripping down her cheek and neck, blood running from her side, body numb. Sarela would only care for herself, though, as soon as the Captain was tended to. Her hopes were, with the smaller pieces extracted, the Captain's overall blood loss would slow to a manageable amount. Though she could do nothing for whatever internal wounds might be plaguing Doren, she could at least care for the more minor ones.

Next, Sarela ran her hand along Doren’s body, searching out any missing shrapnel, hands shaking from fatigue. Once she was fairly certain most, if not all had been removed and applied with the spray, Sarela cleaned the gash on the back of Doren’s right thigh, applying a Bacta patch to the wound, which would hopefully do the heavy lifting for her in healing the Captain. Taking a few moments to search out any other wounds, she was happy to see the bleeding halting, a tired smile forming, “That’s the best I can do for your external injuries, Captain… but I can’t have you going to sleep on me. I don’t know if you have a concussion and the extent to whatever internal wounds you might have. Take a moment to rest, and then describe where all your hurting on the inside, okay?” Sarela’s voice was soft and, finally, as if her strength was slowly ebbing away, she sunk onto the ground, wincing, knowing that, even if she bled out, at least the Captain wouldn’t.

[Professor Mors]

Vassyl could not help but growl and offer the occasional Hutt curse as he underwent first aid. The removal of one of the larger metal shards proved so excruciating that Doren had to bite down on his tunic collar, or risk snapping his teeth out from their sockets. The Captain desperately sought the deathly embrace of sleep, or whatever coma his body was willing to accommodate- but per the field doctor’s orders, such lofty exits were out of the question. After what seemed like hours, Sarela finally brought her hands to rest, and Vassyl was afforded some measure of peace. To be sure, he ached all over, and soreness remained constant. Still, if nothing else, the various fonts of the Captain’s blood had seemingly dried up. In spite of this, Doren did not have long to celebrate.

From where he lay prone, Vassyl quickly notice the wobbling motion in his companion’s knees. Clearly, the good medic had purposefully neglected her own health so that she might aid the Captain first. By rights, such an act was noble in the eyes of the military, and would likely earn Sarela a medal- if not a promotion. Now however, it fell to Doren to ensure such honors were not awarded posthumously. Disregarding the severity of his injuries and any intention of stealth, Vassyl released a guttural war cry, pressed his hands into the earth, and lifted himself up with any might still lingering on his person. The tone of the Captain’s voice became strident and pitched from the pain, but he would not be denied.

In a rush of pure adrenaline, the young Jaeman rose just in time to catch his companion before she hit the ground. Tucking the delirious Sephi’s head close to his chest, Vassyl braced himself as the momentary strength abandoned him. Dropping back onto his rear, the Captain let slip a second howl of agony, and felt his eyes begin to drift back towards the darkened recess of his skull. Once more, Vassyl called upon the fires of his frustration and circumstantial rage, and clung to consciousness for dear life. Blinking hurriedly, Doren tracked the pace of his breath. With some effort, the naval officer gradually regained agency over his lungs, though his heart still thumped about erratically. Looking down, Vassyl got a clear picture of his medical aide’s own injuries.

The sheet metal embedded in the young woman’s abdomen had begun to rend flesh as she’d worked, and now a small, fresh cavity was threatening her own plasma levels. Not wasting any further time, Vassyl scrambled about for Sarela’s fallen toolkit. Upon locating that which he sought, Doren clawed about for the necessarily salves. Thankfully, while his old colleagues at the academy had thought little of basic first aid training, the now-Captain had paid due diligence. Taking up the synth bandage applicant Miss Malkova had employed prior and holding between his molars for immediate storage, Doren groped about for a second, less appetizing instrument. Yes, it was not difficult to recall the distinct label on the small, cylindrical spraystick.

Antipyretic cream was not typically used to treat gashes and cut wounds, so much as it was meant to halt decay prior to impromptu surgical maneuvers. In this case, Doren was hedging his bet on the compound’s ability to function as a temporary coagulant. “I’m not going to lie- Miss Malkova”, Vassyl haggardly bit out, “This is going to hurt". As carefully as he could, the Captain slowly depressed the trigger on the dispenser, unleashing the gaseous, icy blue substance. The concentrated mist began to latch onto and crystallize around the torn skin surrounding the jagged head of debris puncturing through the front of Sarela’s body. “But so help me”, Doren sputtered in conclusion, “We’re getting off this rock together. Anything less- is unsatisfactory”.

[Sarela Malkova]

Biting the inside of her lip, Sarela let out a gasped breath of pain, leaning against Doren's chest as he caught her. She'd been expecting to slap against the hard group, so the soft contrast of the Captain's body caused a muffled cry of euphoria to rock her body. Hand's shaking, her mind began to worry about the Captain, afraid that the strain he'd just endured in making sure she didn't slap against the ground after the energy had wavered. Head pressed against Doren's chest, Sarela clenched her eyes shut, fighting to catch her breath, listening quietly as the Captain's heartbeat picked up. Her voice was a mumbled apology, hardly audible, a cold sweat seeming to overtake her body, blackness at the edge of her vision threatening to take hold. When the Captain began moving her around, more searing pain took hold, and the young woman closed her eyes even tighter, face drawing up in agony. How the Captain had done so much better than she currently was, quiet and still as she removed the small pieces of shrapnel, Sarela's fuzzy brain could only contemplate such questions.

Though she could hear the Captain speaking above her, she had a hard time making out the words, having to concentrate and strain to make sense of them. So, the moment the antipyretic cream was sprayed on her skin, an icy blue mist latched on and crystallized around the gash, forming around her skin and the shrapnel, another cry left her, tears falling down her eyes. Voice raw, Sarela's crystal blue eyes looked up into the Captain's, a shaky breath escaped, "I... I apolo... apologize, Captain," her face was pale, paler than normal, and Sarela offered him a weak smile, "I wouldn't want to go against your orders. Never. S... so I'll try my best to live up to the standards you've upon me."

Body giving a light shudder, Sarela's eyes fluttered, closing. Here she was, warning Doren to not risk falling asleep, and darkness caused by the solidifying of the antipyretic cream threatening to draw her under. It was through force of will alone that she painfully opened her eyes back up, offering up another smile, "Thank you, Captain." Sarela was unsure what part she was thanking him for, but the Sephi believed that the Captain would understand where she was coming from. Focusing her entire attention solely on the Captain's face, Sarela tried taking a deep breath, only for her eyes to widen in pain once more. Pushing the pain aside, into a small confined bubble, as she'd done after being beaten to near death, along with all the times she'd been whipped as a child by her slave owner, Sarela shakily said, "I suppose it's up to fate, now, Captain, to decide how long it takes any rescue parties to find us." Though the two had found each other, now it was up to their fellow Imperials to find them.

[Jom Etro]

From the very beginning, Jom had an unusual feeling about this assignment. However, the last thing he expected was this this to come true. The party was being sent into an active combat zone. The turbotank they boarded may have felt safe to the officers directing it, but any soldier knew that no tank could fully protect you from the harsh reality of war. Etro has zoned out after taking a seat in the vehicle, attempting to find some reason to get into the air, but none came to mind. It was not until alarmed shouting from the Imperial crew pulled Jom from his thoughts. The pilot had looked up for several seconds, only to see Captain Vassyl jump up. What happened next, Etro was uncertain of. There was a flash and wave of intense heat, before all fell quiet.

There was a loud ringing. Why wouldn’t it stop? The Imperial pilot groaned as he opened his eyes. Everything seemed to be blurry, as Etro laid on his back. What Jom could predict to only be a few minutes passed until he could finally see. As the ringing ceased, all he could feel was a heavy presence over his legs. Shrapnel had slammed into his helmet and the visor over his left eye had a deep crack through it. Etro’s muscles ached. He might have dislocated his right arm, but other than that, he seemed to be intact. Jom groaned as he sat up slowly and inspected his armor. What was once a polished black was now scratched and tarnished. As for his legs, there was a large metal plate covering them. Gathering his strength, the Imperial winced in pain as he pushed it off of him, and slowly stoop up. The sound of blasters firing was clear. The pilot needed to regroup with everyone else. He toppled over in pain. Slamming back into the ground as dust flew into the air. His legs were in pain, but he would do what he could.

Now on his stomach, Jom looked around to see where he was. A short distance away, the smoldering wreckage of what could only be assumed to be the remains of the turbotank sat, deep in a crater. It appeared that he had been thrown from the wreckage in the explosion. Panic shot throw the young man. What had happened to to the rest of the group. He tried to remember everyone that was with him. Captain Vassyl! No. He couldn’t be dead. He simply couldn’t. Etro refused to accept it. But what about everyone? The medic... was it Malkova? Jom couldn’t remember...

These thoughts were quickly put at the back of Etro’s mind, as the discharging of blasters suddenly became much clearer. He looked away from the wreckage, unsettled dust clouded his vision, but the sounds of battle were getting closer. Realizing that he was missing his weapon, Etro gave a frustrated sigh. He had been holding his E-11, but it must have been thrown somewhere into the wreckage during the explosion. Checking what few supplies he had, Jom was relieved to see a blaster pistol was still in its holster at his side. At least he had that. Apart from the blaster pistol, the pilot was empty handed. Things were looking bad. He needed to decide on his next course of action... before the action came to him.

[Professor Mors]

“Apology accepted, Miss Malkova”, Doren offered in a soft, tired tone, “You’ve done very well- now rest, we’ll be here a while longer”. Yes, while Vassyl had no intention of dashing the Sephi’s hopes, the likelihood that a contingent would be sent to their rescue was slim to none under the present circumstances. If the Xexto were in the midst of full offensive, all available would be tied up defending the main fort and the forward command base. For all intents and purposes, the Captain and his ward were alone in this endeavor. If they were to attempt a tactical withdrawal, the duo would have to make the journey on whatever fleeting power they could muster. To that end, the slightly-reconstituted Doren slowly unholstered his main sidearm, and began to prime it accordingly.

To the Captain’s great disdain, as he moved to deactivate the safety and bring the trusted DH-17 online, a pitched whine begin to drone from the pistol. Eyes widening, Vassyl jerked his free arm out and away from Sarela and himself. Mere moments later, a hot shower of sparks shot out from where the barrel connected to the power coupling and primary magazine. “Fierfek!”, the Jaeman swore in earnest, coughing in light of the small trail of smoke that begin to emanate from the dysfunctional weapon. For all intents and purposes, Doren’s time-tested instrument of war remained visibly intact. Hopefully, there had been no internal damage, and something had merely shorted out. The likely suspect was dirt and dust, born of the crash, mucking up the blaster’s inner workings by force.

Not one for idle speculation, Vassyl soon held the pistol’s polaroid sight in his teeth, and began to vigorously unscrew the barrel turn by turn. Once the cylindrical vessel popped free, Doren set about rapping it lightly against the weapon’s main chassis, and observed a menagerie of particulate matter tumbling out and onto thigh of his jodhpurs. For once, his hunch was right on the money. Quickly working to reassemble his gear, the Captain eagerly began a systems reboot, only to scowl in irritation. The DH-17’s diagnostic software was thorough, but slow. It would be some time before Doren could make another attempt to bring it firing controls online. In the interim, Vassyl would need to take other measures to ensure he and Sarela remained in a defensive position.

To make matters more awkward, the Captain sheepishly determined that his conceal-carry was otherwise blocked by the wounded Sephi. It was just one thing after another with this mission. Recognizing Sarela’s need for a reprieve was as dire as Doren’s own, he decided to hedge his bet that the Imperials would remain undetected in their temporary lodgings. In the interest of making their camouflage more realistic, Vassyl’s gaze fell on a thinner sheet of synthrubber that had peeled off from the inner part of the tire that constituted their hideaway. Holstering his weapon, the Captain groaned as his overworked shoulder popped, arm stretching to its limit to grasp at the flapping onyx sheet. Finally gripping a burnt hole at the corner of the material, Doren offered a celebratory, “Yes!”, and began to tug the lining free.

Some moments later, Vassyl nodded approvingly at the freshly adorned tarp, but frowned some in light of the shift in temperature. In the end, it could not be helped. And besides, the young officer was already coated in sweat and grime as it was. Having afforded Sarela and himself a little more cover, Doren shifted his gaze down at the exhausted Sephi, and sighed nervously at the next step in the plan. “Miss Malkova”, Doren began quietly, almost as if he didn’t wish to be heard, “Could- if you would, reach into the sleeve of my tunic. You’ll find my secondary sidearm therein, go ahead and take it. I- can’t reach it under the present circumstances”. The Captain was unsure as to whether the dust and soot would hide the crimson flush dotting his cheeks. For his sake, he fervently wished it would.

***
Mister Etro would not be free of company for long. As the young pilot labored to collect himself and prepare for a decidedly long journey, a shrill chattering pierced the swirling mists, no doubt within his earshot. Presently, three squat shadows began to edge their way into view. Their movement was awkward, like some sort of mollusc that had elected to walk on two tentacles like a biped. Still, Jom would doubtless be well familiar with the potential hostiles of this strange world. Finally, the bulbous head of a Xexto periscoped into plain sight, it’s dark eyes flashing hungrily at what had once been the Hav5’s observation tower, now partially submerged in the shifting sands. Lumbering forward, the insectoid-like being muttered something at its two comrades in an alien tongue, and continued on ahead.

Slinging what looked to be a primitive rifle out from over its shoulder, the hostile soldier began to saunter energetically over to the still-smoking ruins. Evidently absorbed in its salvaging operation, Jom wasn’t likely to register in the creature’s peripheral vision. Regardless, that didn’t mean that its two colleagues would remain idle for long. With each passing moment, the chance that the pilot would be discovered only grew. The decision then became primal- fight or flight. If Etro could get close enough, a physical ambush might maintain his stealthy approach. However, if things took a turn for the worst, his DL-44 was bound to outpace the simple slugthrower of his opponent. It was a maddening choice, but one that all warriors of the Empire knew: in that moment, all that remained up for debate was the outcome.

[Sarela Malkova]

A pained smile formed as Doren accepted the apology she offered the Captain and then provided the Sephi with a compliment to go with it. Sarela was happy at the thanks, though a part of her wondered if it would be enough to get the both of them off the planet. Both were in rough shape, though she genuinely hoped that her Captain was well and no life-threatening internal injuries were looming over the two. She knew that she was lucky to have no bleed out, the shrapnel having luckily penetrated Sarela's abdomen right as not to damage any of her vital organs. The disillusioned portion of her brain hoped that an Imperial might come across the pair soon, but it was unlikely, knowing fighting was currently happening. A group of missing individuals would hold little priority in the eyes of those in charge when an invasion was being brought down upon them by the local inhabitance of the planet. The entourage had been in the wrong location at the wrong time, and now Sarela and Doren were paying for it, as well as Jom if he was still alive out there. No, they were alone, at least for the moment, along with the foreseeable future depending on how long the fighting went on. As for actually travelling, Sarela was in no form to continue onwards, and the Captain was in no shape as well. Breathing in a shallow puff of air, the Sephi[/b] watched in silence as Doren began removing the holstering of his blaster.

Eyes going wide with shock and fear at a possible injury, there was little Sarela could do as the DH-17, hot sparks shooting out as Doren through quickly slung his arm away. Nose pinching at the smoke that filled their vacancy, Sarela's face moved away from the smell, body screaming in displeasure. No, there would be no more walking in the foreseeable future for the young woman. Letting out another breath, Sarela watched as began inspecting the blaster for lasting damage. She was no expert, with no knowledge at all when it came to the inner working of the machinery. For all she knew, the blaster was able to explode on the two, but Sarela trusted Doren enough that he wouldn't allow something like that to happen. Eyes still on the Captain, Sarela bit her lip as he began using his teeth to uncap the barrel of the pistol, feeling useless as she watched, unsure as to how she could help. No doubt, the helplessness shone of her pale features.

Throughout the endeavor of bringing the DH-17 back into working order, Sarela hoped that Doren wasn't straining the healing body too much, too soon. She then watched as the Captain once more strained, a small nose of protest escaping, which she quickly swallowed. Doren knew what he was doing, and Sarela wouldn't risk distracting him when he was already pushing his body well into the limits of most humans could withstand. Doren's hands gripped and pulling an onyx sheet towards the pair, a brief moment triumphant escaping Doren, causing Sarela to smile in earnest. Then, a chilled wind brushed Sarela's skin, a light shiver forming, her body stopping its movements as Doren called for her, to which Sarela gave him her full notice. Giving a nod of her head, Sarela reached up inside Doren's sleeve after being instructed to do so, her fingers brushing along the skin. Taking hold and unlatching the sidearm, the Sephi carefully took it out, placing it in Doren's waiting hand, offering the Jaeman a smile. At least she wasn't useless, even if she was limited to mundane tasks but, so long as she eased the strain from the Captain even the smallest amount, Sarela knew it was worth it. "Here you go, Captain. I'm sorry that there's not much more I can do to aid you." The distaste at being helpless was apparent in Sarela's voice; the young woman despising herself due to her weakened state. Voice hushed, she continued onwards with her thoughts, "Someone will come for us, Doren. I know they will." Feeling lightheaded, Sarela closed her eyes momentarily, a jolt of pain reverberating through her body, causing her to flinch. Thankfully, the crystallizing make-shift patchwork helped, keeping the shrapnel from ripping her open more-so and causing more damage than she'd already brought upon herself in her fevered search for the others within their party.

[Jom Etro]

Jom gathered himself together, repeatedly getting up immediately before falling back to his knees. It was an infuriating process, but with each attempt, the young pilot stood up further and further. With one final push, Etro finally got to his feet. The man’s triumph, however, would be abruptly cut short by an ear piercing chatter. Spotting a number of figures emerging from the swirling mist, Jom quickly ducked behind a large fragment of metal plating that had been lodged vertically into the ground. The pilot peeled out from behind his meager cover, trying to find out what he was dealing with.

Through the deep depths of the swirling mist that engulfed the area, Etro saw his opponents. They seemed to be using some type of slug thrower... That gave the Imperial better odds of survival, but not by much. He sat silently for several moments, listening as the Xexto communicated with each other in a foreign tongue. He tested a variety of strategies in his mind, trying to find the best possible way to get rid of the creatures.

In an attempt to get some sort of help. Any, in fact, Jom wives his left hand up to the side of his battered helmet. He whispered hoarsely into the comm, trying to reach anyone. “Is anyone there? I repeat is anyone there?” There was no response, although he desperately continued. “Does anyone read me? This is Jom Etro. Is anyone out there? Our tank has been destroyed. Hostiles are on the approach. I repeat, we are under attack.” He listened for several moments. Static engulfed his eardrums. “Blast it...” It would appear that the comms system in Jom’s helmet had been damaged. On the off chance that the message had been transmitted, it would barely be cohesive, if understandable at all.

Etro took deep breaths as he sat back and closed his eyes, trying to get a grip on the situation. His dislocated arm was causing him a bit of discomfort, but it was nothing that couldn’t be helped if he somehow managed to survive. It seemed that his best chance of victory against the Xexto trio would be to utilize stealth. Unfortunately, that meant that shooting them would be out of the picture... for now.

The pilot looked the ground beneath him in an attempt to find a shard of metal that he could use as a weapon. He continued his search for several moments, eventually finding one that was good enough. For a battlefield buried in shrapnel and debris, that felt harder than it should of.

Everything was in place for Etro to proceed. That was, of course, except his courage. The young Imperial closed his eyes. He could do this. He could do this... Yes. He had to. Jom slowly got back to his feet, still crouching behind the debris as he prepared to move in closer.