Louder Than Words |DLA|

Safety was perhaps the rarest of commodities on the war wrecked planet Dantooine. Most of the citizens; the weak shelled out exorbitant amounts of credits to the Sith just to gain a tiny sliver of peace and a promise to be left alone. But when you really got down to it, it didn't matter how big your bank account was, whether you were a Sith or DLA, a spy or Sith collaborator. No one was ever truly safe. Not here and today, especially not the invaders. But as glorious as it might have sounded, there was nothing clean or heroic about it. Only smelly fabric tugging at his face.

An irritated sigh escaped Lucca who grabbed at a terribly itchy peace of material that obscured his features. It was hot, uncomfortable and made his nose burn from all the tiny dust particles that plastered themselves to the artificial, cheap fibers. He held back a violent sneeze, letting out only a small, pathetic mewl. ”I want that off me.” He complained in a strained whisper, plastering himself against the wall, near Dutch. His mentor and leader was focused on the task though and the complain went unheard. Lucca clicked his tongue, unhappy about the development.

Especially hearing the incoming Sith patrol didn't elevate his mood. His muscles tensed, preparing for a fight. The Exhani martial arts were good in closed quarters but no amount of unarmed training could make you stand up to a blaster. At the thought, the boy placed his hand on the weapon, feeling very inadequate in his fighting skills when it came to range skirmishes. Lucca would always pathetically hide behind some really solid cover. Not the highlight of his achievements for sure.

The white haired slicer was perceptive to the danger though, despite his unprofessional, childish behavior and sprung into action on a moment notice. He elbowed the nearest Sith, quickly smashing his face into the wall. Disgusting crack of breaking bones filled the air, mixing with screams and groans of pain.

With a corner of his eyes Lucca noticed Dutch getting a blow to his head. Spark of fear rose in the boy's core and he threw himself to push the leader away from danger. Thankfully someone managed to take down the Sith. The slicer patted his friend on his shoulder. ”Getting old, eh Dutch?” Lucca commented with a shrug and followed the human silently toward their goal. Maybe this time something would change.

Siala trailed along apprehensively at the back of Dutch's group. What was she doing here? She was not really a fighter, she was ok with a blaster in her hand but had never really fired it in anger. She felt a little out of her depth, but then she was really here as support with any droids or computers they might encounter. She felt a little silly with this balaclava over her face, she had after much cajoling by the others been persuaded to relinquish her rainbow coloured poncho. They had claimed it would be too eye catching on the hot cramped claustrophobic streets of Smog City. The tunnels were not much better, however here at least she felt a strong sense of deja vu. It reminded her so much of Kanti on Arkania where she had been born 24 years previously.

It had really been a strange journey, leaving her home planet over a year ago escaping the persecution suffered by all Offshoots there to Dantooine for a better life with her father. It had been a better life to, working on a farm fixing the machinery and droids forming bonds with them. Then the Sith invasion had lost her her new home, her father and had damaged her dear friend AS-4S. Many of the members of the DLA, had tried to convince her that AS was dead, she was not convinced, his head may have been separated from his body but he still spoke to her. It was odd to her that no one else could hear him speak, but what did they know about droids anyway? The inactive head, hung from her belt, she preferred to do missions without him but this time he had insisted and she had not had the heart to try to dissuade him. Perhaps some rational part of her brain relaised that AS was damaged beyond repair and that he did not really speak to her, but that part of her brain was squashed by all the other parts. He was an emotional crutch for her but it did make her feel alienated from the rest of the DLA. Who wants to be friends with the weird girl who thinks machines are alive and that they talk to her.

However, she loved the DLA they had not only saved her life when she was threatened with exectution in a Sith camp, but given her the opportunity to be able to fight her oppressors and win back her home. For Dantooine was her home now and she felt and affection for it just like all the other members of the DLA. Lost in her thoughts she almost bumped into someone, she was not especially frighted. Clive would protect her after all, he had told her what to expect of battle having been in many himself, people had looked at her curiously as she talked to the old blaster. However, Siala merely shrugged it off, if they respected her that was fine she was not trying to be popular. She saw Dutch near the front doing some curious hand signals, Clive had told her that this was an important part of covert operations. So when faced with something she did not fully understand as always she picked up a holobook on the subject and plied some slightly reluctant but more senior members of DLA with questions. Suddenly Dutch turned round the corner, with another person she knew little off. Scuffling and groans could be heard. Siala moved quickly round the corner to with Clive drawn only to see that the job had been done.

Clive moaned and whined, he was most disappointed as he had been looking forward to shooting a few Sith since the plan had been agreed. She looked curiously from Dutch to the other man, feeling rather small between them but they did not seem to have heard Clive speak. Who was now virtually crying bitterly.

“Shhh shhh Clive, next time I promise there are plenty more Sith in this city.” She gently patted the blaster and smiled rather like an indulgent mother. They would see to it that the Sith would pay for taking yet another home from her. She followed Dutch and the other man, taking two steps to their one. The world for her was full of voices, and there had been many more since the Sith had taken her father from her, sometimes it hurt all those voices. They came unbidden and she did not always want them, the Sith would pay for that to. But she was not mad.... not mad...

Nom Jervada wondered again how exactly this had all happened. Yes, he knew that he'd been shot down over Dantooine and crashed into the hill country, to be rescued by the ragtag guerillas known as the Dantooine Liberation Army, but he pegged the true culprit behind this as the moment he could still recollect clearly...

"Rina, I have to go. Toprawa is my home, and it's right in front of the Sith advance. They'll reach it sooner or later, and I have to be there, to take care of my home."

"I know Nom," Rina'attuna had said, placing a sky blue hand onto her boyfriend's peach-colored one. "Do what you have to do, and come back to me safe."

A week later he'd made his second mistake, by signing on a dotted line and becoming a Private in the Toprawa Defense Forces. And just a short while later, bam, Dantooine.

It was tempting to just surrender and become a prisoner, except he'd already seen the Sith here weren't too keen on taking prisoners. And besides, he'd left behind his rather garish Republic-issue armor and replaced it with civilian clothes. Long sleeve tan shirt, a black vest, burgundy pants, and black leather boots.He did have his drop leg holster though, holding the same pistol he'd crashed with, only lightly used.

What was important was his full, and comprehensive, medical kit. He had everything, capable of dealing with blaster wounds, broken limbs, slugs, stabs, and even minor cuts or bruises.

The human medic looked at the others, reviewing what he knew about them. There was Coma G-, Er, Dutch, then some other fighters, and lastly a few non-combatant types like him. Lucca, the slicer, and Siala, the Arkanian Offshoot mechanic type who was a little... Odd. She seemed to be suffering from some kind of mental condition, either natural schizophrenia or else some kind of adaptation to trauma. Nom couldn't really say, as he'd never been studying psychiatric conditions beyond very cursory examinations.

There was a scuffle, and as soon as it was silent again, Nom darted around the corner and checked the fallen Sith for pulses. One had died, likely bone had shattered and been drive into his brain, then another had a broken nose, and two were merely unconscious. Nom took the effort to drape the wounded man in a position where blood wouldn't pool down his trachea and asphyxiate him.

"You can thank me later," He whispered to the passed out Sith guard, before moving over to Dutch with a pen light, getting directly in his way and shining it into his pupils, trying to discern if that blow to the head had caused a concussion.

"How did you handle it, losing him?"

"We never lost him."

"You know what I mean."

Mo sighed. Mary had that look in her eye, the kind she'd seen on the faces of just about everyone she knew. She was sure she'd had the same look as well, and often. Mary was being torn apart from the inside out. Grief was a wound that couldn't be bandaged. Mo doubted it could ever be truly healed. Just seeing it on Mary's face caused a pang in Mo's heart at the memory of her parents.

But the Mirialan woman had no words for what Mary was going through. What the Sith had done to Callum marked a new low, even for them. It was one thing to lose a loved one. It was completely different to have to face such a horror every day. As Mo struggled to find the words to inspire hope in Smog City's grieving DLA leader, Mary's eyes took on a fire that threatened to consume her completely.

"Well I'll tell yeh how I'll be handling it." Mary said, pulling a knife halfway out of its sheath on her hip. "I'll be giving that baroness and her cur a taste o' their own medicine."



"We're ready." Mo replied to Dutch's call. She sat, perched on a raised duracrete slab at the top of the arena, her balaclava removed for the time being. Their ascent to the top of the arena had been fairly uneventful. Guards had been posted at a small side entrance, but dispatched and hidden quickly. Their uniforms had been borrowed by some of their fellows who now stood watch in those men's stead. From there, service passages were relatively lightly guarded and they made their was up with no incident.

Now, those who'd come with Mo had worked their way around the top of the arena and relieved those sentries of their duties and uniforms as well. All had the best rifles the DLA could acquire, as well as new ones gained this night. Mo, never one for blasters or rifles, had her trusty bow with her, as well as an assortment of arrowheads. After checking in, she pulled the parts of the bow from the pouch she carried it in on her back and assembled it. Were it not for the specialized magnetic accelerator, Mo's chosen weapon would have been all but useless to her, but it's quiet hum ensured her arrows would be hurled at deadly speed. Even if her target was far off.

Down below, in the crowd, Mary stood in a line, waiting to be herded into the arena as she had been a number of times before. She kept her head down, a hat sitting low over her brow. Fellow rebels were all around her, but they did not acknowledge each other. They simply milled about, waiting for their turn to walk through the security gates.

"Next! Hurry up!" called the security officer.

Mary stepped forward into the scanner, holding her arms up as the machine whirred and buzzed around her. It beeped three times, a red light flashing. The security officer waved her over to another standing by. The man used a handheld tool to scan her again, stopping at her ear when it sounded.

"It's m' hearing aid." Mary said, plucking her comm from her ear and handing it over. The officer looked at her suspiciously, and then at the device. "Wouldn't want to miss the speech. The las' one being sooo inspiring an' all."

"Turn around." growled the man.

As she did, he knelt down and began to pat his hands around her ankles, then continued patting as he moved up each leg. His hands traveled high, and Mary had to grind her teeth together to keep from throwing an elbow into his nose. He stood, his hands now moving over her hips. He stepped far too close; she could feel his damp breath on her neck. And still, his hands traveled higher. Mary kept her eyes fixed forward, her mind imagining all the creative ways she could cause this man pain. He chuckled to himself and she bit down hard on her lower lip. After giving her body one more squeeze, the officer gave her a shove and told her to move on.

"The people are all almost in." she whispered as she moved through a corridor into the main floor of the arena, refitting the comm into her ear. "Don't make us wait too long."

Perspective. Grandoise reflection, philosophical examination, existential revelations. Grizzelda thought that perhaps these were the things she was supposed to think about, and she leaned out over her elbows and looked at Smog City below. Spread out before her was a low spot in the city, a break from the neat blocks and various high-rises whose peaks disappeared into the belly of the thick brown fog. She lay on the roof of a 37 floor building, 103.2 meters above the rusted durasteel lanes which marked the spaces between buildings and lead into the open plaza. Though the smog provided great cover -- just thick enough to make her invisible, just thin enough that she could see everything with perfect clarity -- it reeked of an acrid, acidic burn that made the back of your throat sting and your eyes and nose water. But the cloth filter pulled up over her nose and mouth fixed that.

"This is Big Brother. Sabotage and Stage Teams are nearly at the first sabotage point. Sniper Team, you all set Green? Everyone else, check in." Dutch's voice crackled over the comm. Bosco, the DLA's weaponsmaster, and Mo had also chosen their own vantage points. Between the three of them, every area of the arena's bowl was covered.

"Copy that," Grizz said. "Clear skies ahead. Figuratively speaking."

At the plaza's center loomed an arena, like the nest of some massive beast. Most cities put parks, or art, or historical buildings on display, but the fact that this city lead to what was a thinly veiled temple for worship of the Sith was all to fitting. In the center of the arena's floor, a multi-teired stage had been erected, the sides emblazoned with the baroness's colors, corners embellished by flags proudly flaunting the symbol of the Sith empire. Just outside the lowest tier, a blue containment field wavered, chest-height for the average man, along which security personnel were stationed with all the trappings of a Sith uniform -- black coat, white arm band, boot-tucked pistol, shoulder-slung rifle, constipated expression.

Around the stage was an open floor, and beyond that row upon row upon row of seating, ringing all around the walls of the arena, which easily broke forty meters. The walls of the proverbial barrel. She lined her sight up with the scope of her rifle and continued to survey the situation in more detail. Citizens were trickling into the space around the stage from every opening, flowing toward the stage. Eventually even the nose-bleeds were full (a not-outdated name, given the voracity of the city's smog). The people looked like bees, twitching and buzzing and tumbling over every surface.

It made the empty, still stage look all the more sinister. The Baronness would be making a grand entrance, by way of hover-platform, along with the other officials of the proceeding. Grizzelda skimmed the faces of each of the guards, then lowered the scope. She watched the arena, and waited.

A low rumble and the constant touch of people brushing past to go this way or that were the only real constants within the grounds of the stadium. Besides the seemingly omnipresent patrols of armed guards and their war droids. While Marcus hadn't called himself a soldier in years he still found himself sizing up the three men and the death machine that took point.

Each one seemed to carry the same loadout, save for the droid which carried a much larger and less man-portable medium repeating blaster. The men were well armored with visors over their face, so it was tough to read their expressions but the general consensus he got from them was "bored as hell." There was the rare exception that seemed high strung, no doubt a new recruit that didn't quite realize just how broken the civilian populace was. The presence of the patrols were more a show of force than an actual deterrent. If there was any risk of a riot or armed resistance he seriously doubted that the Imperial dogs would have held the rally at all.

A gentle pressure against his hand interrupted the thoughts on how he would kill the four possible assailants should they get froggy. His lips spread out in a thin smile as he looked down at the little six year old girl at his side. "Daddy! When can we le-" she was interrupted by a coughing fit. He only sighed heavily as he crouched down to her level and wrapped his free arm around her tiny little body. His daughter did the same, but her arms came nowhere near to touching. Mirri was getting sick with something, probably a cold, and being surrounded by the acrid smoke wasn't helping it along any. He made a mental note to take her to the doctor on his way home, and maybe go a little bit lighter on the drinks. For her sake. Would it happen? Probably not.

"Soon, Meerkat. We'll leave as soon as the nice lady is done talking." Marcus did his best to sound warm and optimistic, but it was obvious that his daughter saw straight through it.

"I heard she was a really mean lady."

"No, honey, she's nice. Do you want up?"

Marcus glanced back at the nearest patrol to see if their droid had picked up on the his daughter's little voice. The dull cacophony of a thousand voices talking in a hushed tone drowned out his daughter's voice and then some. Mirri's voice brought his attention back to her rather than the potential threat, "No. I want to go home."

I do too, Meerkat. I do too, he thought to himself as he assured her that they'd be going back home soon. Afterwards he rose to his feet, took his daughter's hand once more, and observed just a little harder. There was something off about the situation they were in. Marc got the feeling that something very bad was about to happen very soon, or was it the other way around? He couldn't be sure, but what he was sure of was that it was a danger to his daughter.

So he continued to do what he had done for the past six years of his life: observe.

"C'mon Nom I'm fine."

Growled Dutch with a wave of his hand as he then placed it on the medic's shoulder. He moved his comrade next to him and with an affirming squeeze and a nod He continued on as people chimed in their confirmations. Mo's voice lilted into his ear, and he fought the urge to smile. He looked to Lucca, Siala and the others with a roguish wink. Once everyone had checked in he went over the plan real quick in his head and placed his fingers on the communicator.

"Copy that. I won't keep you waiting anymore Freckles. Time to make this schutta pay."

A flare of righteous fire would bellow out from within Dutch, the image of his cousin still burned into his minds eye. It wasn't bad enough that the Sith made every DLA execution quite public, but to display Cal in that fashion... The Sith thought they would wear down the rebels with it. Qualm them with depression and fear. Instead a great fire erupted, more potent than ever. At the center of it all, was a handful of young folk. Some barely out of their teens, an army of orphans with nothing more to lose. Except each other.

"Alright folks, first stop is the comm room. Let's clean it out and let the kids do their thing."

Dutch hoarsely whispered with a nod to Lucca and Siala. He went over the floor plan he had memorized, the very one Lucca and Glitch had dug up weeks ago. Right fork. Left turn. Left turn. Descend short stairwell. First right. Second door on right. And then they were there. Dutch pressed his back against the wall to the right of the door. He motioned for Lucca to hack the keypad to it. It really did scare Dutch how key each person they had brought with him was. If anything happened to any one of them, the mission could go askew.

Dutch wouldn't let that happen.

The plan here was simple, and already planned out. Lucca slices the door. They charge in, disable the engineers as silently as possible. And hope the guard droid isn't activated yet. Once the engineers would be down, Lucca would patch Glitch into the mainframe, Siala would reprogram the droid to kill any who tried to enter. And naturally, Nom would be around to patch them up as needed. Luckily there were several more physically able members with Dutch's group. Including Dutch.

"C'mon Kid, I've seen you hack into my room ten times faster than this, let's go!"

He whispered with a grin that oozed snark. If anything, Lucca was probably breaking records with the speed of his slicing. Dutch never could grasp those kind of things. If he wasn't able to handle it, he didn't really want anything to do with it. Give him a gun, or a speeder, or Mo anyday, but data encryption? Frak that. Dutch looked back at Nom with a grin before he spoke, his chuckles painfully forced to be silent.

"Hey... that light of yours wouldn't have a lightsaber setting would it? I think the Kid might need help!"

As the adrenaline rush began to let go, Lucca felt a pang of pain in coiled muscles. The boy exhaled slowly, his eyes darting to the Republic medic who checked on the Sith and a scowl of displeasure crept under sweaty balaclava. ”Don't get too worried.” He snapped, subtle hints of threat dancing at the edge of his words. The young slicer wanted to kill as much Sith as possible but Nom just saved a life of one. There was a conflict of business somewhere in all this...Lucca liked to be methodical and absolutely hated when someone ruined his work like that. A part of him wanted to just snap the Imperial's neck, he even made the move to fulfill that desire but someone joined the group which made the boy's attention to turn toward the odd Arkanian. That girl was crazy, no doubt about it – no one normal talked to their blaster.

But that distraction calmed the near-human down, enough to hold back anger at the soft hearted soldier and refocus on the task at hand. His green eyes darted to Dutch and with a nod he walked toward the doors. The keypad looked fairly simple, apparently the Sith didn't expect any troubles. The thought of it made him smirk. With typical for him carefulness, Lucca brought up his faithful datapad and with few movements on haptic keyboard the hologram came to life. String of code spilled, forming a sparkle cloud hovering above his head. The only thing left was to physically connect the datapad to the keypad.

”Ok, I am in.” He said, angrily pulling at the balaclava. With frustrated hiss, the boy pulled off the annoying material, releasing a shock of pure white hair that only highlighted chalk hue of his skin. “I can't work in this.” Lucca complained before diving into binary world. Piece by piece the slicer removed and replaced parts of the program's code, breaking through Sith firewall. ”Virus in place, checking the...” The focus was briefly broke by Dutch whose snarky remark, caused the near-human's pale cheek to flush slightly. ”Maybe you want to try.” The boy quipped, with a smirk before the kyepad came to life with a green flash.

Access granted.

”Heh.” Lucca snorted dismissively, even though proud like a peacock. ”All yours.” He whispered and pressed his body against the wall, next to the doors. The boy knew a decent amount of hand to hand combat but was never a soldier, trained to run in gun blazing. Instead he focused on his datapad, searching for Sith comm network to stop them from calling backup.

Almost...

Siala felt like she was in a dream. Things were going on around her that seemed and felt distant. There was a feeling of worry and uncertainty from the people around her coupled with grim determination. She kept close to Dutch and the slicer, who's name failed her at the moment she felt a little guilty at not quite remembering it but then he did not have wires coming out of him so she was no too interested. People around her were bustling, moving quietly, keeping eagle eyed watch or nervously checking their weapons. Siala dreamily floated through them as if she were a mirage an image not really attached within the universe but not really part of it. Some of the DLA fighters watched her with suspicion and confusion.

While she was not consciously thinking about it, this all mattered to her very much. Her father had been killed by the Sith, AS her droid had at least to her mind been seriously damaged by them. She had lived in the camps, she had seen good people die. Her own private rebellion of reprogramming the building and repair droids, had earned her beatings, torture and almost and execution. Somewhere in her mind below the clouds and robotic unicorns, was a cold dark centre that wished hurt and pain on the Sith, the Arkanian Pure-bloods and all those who ever hurt her.

Siala almost clattered into the Slicer, as he and Dutch stopped for a moment. She looked at them impassively then Dutch winked at her. She tried to remember if that meant there was something she ought to be doing. She smiled vacantly back at him, then remembered she was wearing a balaclava and he probably could not see her smile. He seemed to be explaining things to the other groups that she remembered were scattered over Smog City in strategic positions. She was not really sure what the objective was other than giving the Sith a bit of a bloody nose. This showed how much she had listened in the briefings Dutch and the others had given.

All Siala truly remembered was that there was a droid they needed her to reprogramme. Siala disliked the word 'reprogramme' in her opinion it made droids seem like things and they were not. Dorids were a people in their own right, it just so happened that they were synthetic and easily mess around with by people. Siala had for some time felt uncomfortable in reprogramming droids, but the more she thought about it the more she came to believe that it was her duty to reprogramme ones made by the Sith. These droids were used as slaves to kill, and she could free them of this make new friends for herself.

She kept close by the door way that the slicer was working on her brain working on two tracks, how to help the droid and what the Slicer's name was. It was something like Lucha? Or was it Luke, Lucca, Lucious maybe? Dutch was cajoling him a little trying to make him work faster, though he seemed to be making quick work of it to her. It never occurred to her that having Dutch and her hanging over him might be the last thing he needed. The door came open, Clive was in her hand at the ready, she stood a little behind the slicer, (ahhh it was Lucca), and waited for Dutch and the professionals to go in.

Dutch gently but firmly moved Nom out of the way, and the Republic medic tried really hard not to sigh.

The amount of care these fighters took with head injuries was no less than scandalous. Or psychotic, or shameful, or some other adjective that meant things. Things that Nom had been forced to write about in his general ed classes at the Royal Naboo Academy of Medicine. Why they'd insisted on an Expository Writing class, he'd never known.

Most of that information had leaked out of his brain somehow, somewhere between dissecting his first cadaver and getting taught all about military medicine. Or maybe it was the shooting of targets on a long range that had ripped formalities about essays from his head. After all, the format of a works cited page honestly didn't matter when there was a war raging.

Still though, the risk of head trauma was severe. In the brief seconds the medic from Toprawa had been able to scrutinize Dutch's pupils, he was reasonably sure that there wasn't a concussion.

The lightsaber crack a few seconds later was quintessential for Dutch. Some cheer, a joke to cut the tension. That was the Coma Guy that Nom knew.

"Can opener, yes. Lightsaber, no."

While the sandy-haired human's joke seemed perfectly happy, darker emotions lurked behind the slender face. As Nom scratched the blonde stubble across his face, his mind was turning around in circles.

Rina. How the hell was he going to get word to her? And what would she think if she found out he was fighting alongside a bunch of guerillas on Dantooine of all places?

The damnable thing was that she'd probably be understanding. She was like... Like an angel. That was the only comparison Nom could make. Infinite patience, and deep goodness. That was what he associated with her.

But he still knew he was in for an ass-kicking when he got back, and he deserved it for signing himself up for this crap.

"We've got everything covered."

Mo nodded to the man. She wasn't entirely sure which one of her guys he was. The balaclava kept that from her. But it didn't matter. He moved past her and continued his circuit. They were taking no chances here. If this was going to be the grand display Dutch wanted, then he'd get just that. Most of Mo knew that this was the kind of message they needed to send. The smaller part of her just wished there was an easier way to do it. Then again... if it was easy, it probably wasn't worth doing.

Mo's eyes scanned the arena below her. It was almost impossible to make out anyone distinctly. Forget about those actually down on the floor. All these people, living in fear. Mo thought they had it bad in Homestead. She couldn't imagine what it must feel like for these people; crowded into this poisonous waste that the Sith had made of the city. The idea of not being able to see the sun or stars, of not having the freedom to run through the trees... it made her stomach churn. All the more reason to be here. She thought to herself as she stood up and pulled the balaclava back over her face.

"Hey you! Stop righ-" Mo's arrow had been drawn when she heard his boots on the stairs, knocked by the time the first word left his mouth, and was through the man's neck before the sentence was through. His lips closed and parted, over and over, like some fish gasping out of the water. He slumped and hit the floor in silence, his blood black as in in the darkness. Mo's feet brought her lightly over to the man and she freed her arrow from his corpse.

"Aaaaaaanytime now." she said over the comm, her eyes glancing down the staircase from where the soldier had come. Two other masked friends came trotting up and Mo motioned them down the stairs to investigate.

"I second that." came Mary's voice a moment later. All around her, people seemed antsy. Or was it just her? Her eyes shifted constantly. Her breath was coming in uneven, shallow spasms. All she could see was red, and hate, and revenge. Soon. she thought, soon. But it was hard to get the image of him out of her mind. They'd pay; for every drop, she'd make them pay for what they'd done to him. Teeth bore into teeth, nails into flesh. "What the frak is taking you all so long?"

A hushed stillness spread like an infection through the crowd as first a couple, then a dozen, then a hundred, then a hundred thousand gazes fell on the approaching hover-platforms. As the buzzing quieted, the brassy notes of the Sith Anthem squealed from the speaker system, with all the voracity and volume of a disgruntled goose.

Grizzelda let the cross-hairs melt with her vision. She breathed in, filling every corner of her lungs, stretching the space between her ribs, stirring the muscles along her spine. Then slowly, evenly, she pressed the breath out until her lungs were empty. Her breathing fell into a long, steady stride as the trembling of the crosshairs stilled.

Good snipers felt no sense of glory. They felt no excitement, no emotion, no sense of power. They were detached. Uninvolved. Indifferent. There was only the mark, the distance, the shot. Mechanical precision. Inanimate detachment.

Grizzelda was an excellent sniper.

The crosshairs smoothly followed the Baronness's head as her hover-platform glided on a cushion of raucous applause. Not yet. The timing demanded perfection.

Everything demanded perfection. Grizzelda would deliver.

The hover-platforms sunk into their places on the stage, Baroness at the center, flanked by a dozen or so of the necessary dignitaries and honorees. There was a young face, a Sith Lieutenant, being payed great honor for some wartime greatness or another. She was caught up in the magic, the energy of it all.

The anthem began its final verse.

"Mr Davion, its time."

The deep voice of an Ithorian thrummed behind him, seeming to win against the buzz of the arena around them. An annoyed look crossed the man's face as he turned to view the oddly crafted alien. Its presence and calm demeanor did nothing but irritate him. Anger coiled around the man's heart and his hand clenched into a fist. "Go frak yourself, hammerhead. She's my daughter, and I'm not going to have her sit through this while you drone on about how the people on that stage are gods. She's my daughter, an-"

"-and you see it fit to leave her alone at all hours of the day? Need I remind you that she had gone over a day without food when we picked her up. You were passed out on the couch." The caretaker of his child had grown used to the racial slurs and the barbed tongue long ago. "Must I bring the authorities into this, Mr. Davion?"

A sudden wave of shame hit the man as the Ithorian recounted his failings as a father. They were so great that the state had actually taken her away and placed her within a type of orphanage. Luckily they had afforded him time to see her every so often, albeit this was more for her sake than his own. That fist relaxed into a hand, his form deflated into the shape of a once proud yet defeated man, and the grip on his daughter's hand was released. Before the man allowed his little daughter to walk off with that wretch, though, he turned and fell down on a knee. "So I guess daddy's gotta go again, for now. I'll be seeing you soon again, huh?"

"Bye, daddy," the five year old said with a little grin before she wrapped her hand around Blythe's spindly fingers. Within moments they were walking off towards the other children, and Marcus found himself reeling even further from the complete lack of apprehension from his daughter. Had this become the norm? Perhaps a normal person's reaction would have been to quit the drinking that had destroyed what remained of his life after the military.

Not Marcus, though. Instead of renouncing alcohol he unscrewed the top to a flask and pressed the smooth metal opening against his lips to allow the fire water in. There it stayed for a few moments before the flask disappeared into his leather jacket once more, and he viewed the upcoming events with a certain level of suspicion. An eerie calm set about the stadium after the applause had subsided, and not just because the Baroness had placed herself on the stage. The calm seemed to be punctuated by the brassy and bombastic tunes of the Sith anthem.

Suddenly the man found himself on the hot, dusty surface of Ordo once more. He had been walking a patrol through a village when the same kind of eerie calm set in. Those eyes grew wide as he rushed after his daughter and that blasted Ithorian, but a rough hand latched onto a his shoulder. All he could do was watch as the two vanished into the crowd before being spun around to see one of the four soldier patrols standing before him.

"Davion," Marcus had a familiar face, "you were drinking during one of these. Again. Give me the flask."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I saw you. Its in your pocket," the soldier held out his hand as if Marcus would simply place his reserve of whiskey, the holiest of holies, in the man's filthy paws.

(OoC: Gonna try to move this along since there's so many of us!)

The brass knuckles that sat in his calloused palm felt slick with sweat. Whether it was the massive throng within the stadium that generated the heat, or his own nerves, Dutch didn't know. Grey eyes watched Lucca as the boy worked, and the corner of his lips tugged into a grin at his quips. He chuckled softly at Nom's response and patted the blonde man's chest with the back of his hand solidly. Every single person around Dutch right now was essential to the mission, and even more importantly, trusted by the leader. They could not fail, not this deep into Sith territory. Dutch looked to Siala and for a brief moment, his eyes looked worried before he blinked it away. He knew what the Sith would do to the girl if they were captured. The man had seen it time and again. The beatings. The rapes. The tortures. A hot flash of anger made Dutch's cheeks flush. Tapered instantly by the sound of Mo's voice as it whispered into his earpiece. He placed a hand on his chest at the little flutter of his heart, and growled at their words.

"Just hold on... nearly there... that's what she said..."

Dutch chimed back in response. He had no time to laugh at his own joke though. The door hissed open a crack. His gray eyes watched to see if anyone inside noticed the now open door, but all he heard was casually chatting voices from within. His pulse began to race at the looming fight. Please don't be active please don't be active please don't be active... Dutch thought over and over again. Last thing they needed was a droid to wreck their day. He nodded firmly and turned to punt the door open with his boot. Screams of shock sounded and he charged right in. One of the Sith within went to pull his pistol but Dutch's right cross sent him to the floor instead. A second later he heard the whirring of machinery, and cursed audibly.

"DLA DOGS!"

Shouted someone within the room, Dutch didn't know who. He quickly reached down to pull the man he had just sent to the floor back up. A couple blaster shots rang out, but Dutch had managed to pull the Sith in front of him in time to take the droid's blaster fire. Tall and all in chrome, it held a rifle aimed right at Dutch. He growled and shoved the now dead man into the droid, and barked a laugh as the sudden weight took out the machines' legs. "NOW!" Cried out Dutch to Siala. She was the only one among them that could disable the war machine. A sudden fist collided with Dutch's jaw, and he felt it try to dislocate. He rolled with the punch sent his way and grappled the owner of the fist before Dutch kicked his head back to send forth a vicious headbutt. The skulls cracked audibly but the other man fell. Dutch felt wet heat run down his face as the skin split. A superficial wound, but one that began to bleed profusely. With one eye closed to the flow of blood that ran down his face, Dutch looked around the now quiet security room. He counted heads. Everyone was there. A sigh of relief sounded from the man as he leaned forward to rest his hands on his legs. Blood pattered onto the ground and Dutch wiped some of it away with the back of his hand.

"Nom... wanna patch this up? Lucca, Siala, start patching Glitch into their servers."

Dutch said in between heavy breaths as he fought to sturdy his nerves. Of all things, he was incredulous at how nervous he was. Not for the fact that they were in the heart of the Sith. Not for the fact that his people were in danger. They were getting near the whole point of the mission. And Dutch had stage fright. In the ring, it was always just him and another. If he paid attention to anyone else, he lost. But never had he been in front of such an audience. A quarter of a city it felt. Dutch stood to straighten his posture and keyed into Mo's personal channel.

"Hey... we OK?

He started but turned away from the group and stepped away. Dutch's voice moved to more of a whisper, and he felt his heart flutter again. The past few months, she had been a rock for him. Somewhere calm, somewhere steady for him to go to. Where for a moment he could forget about the war, the resistance, the deaths, and just share a cup of caf with her. How he pined to do just that. Dutch glanced back at the group once more, his eyes softening at the sight of a few injuries, but grateful to see Nom going from person to person and checking on them. They were good and distracted. He took a deep breath, and just said the first thing."

... I'm scared Mo. We're OK right? You're OK? Nobody's seen you have they? Frak. Just... just be OK Mo... cheer me on babe, it's nearly showtime."

Dutch quickly switched off to the public channel, and composed himself before turning around. All eyes were on him, but soon turned as a pair of blips sounded and an avatar of a Kath hound puppy sat on the Sith's screen wagging it's tail. Glitch was in. The monitors all began to flicker, one by one for a brief second as the savant hacker did her thing. Lucca was amazing at what he did, but Glitch made even him look like a kid trying to get his parent's terminal password to look at nude pictures. Like Dutch did as a kid.

"Ya'll are good to go, kick some ass boys and girls!"

Glitch sent over their channel. She had remained at Homestead, as usual. In his mind's eyes Dutch pictured her in her chair, with Candi draped around her shoulders like normal. It really did scare Dutch how much he cared for each and every individual in the DLA. Their greatest strength, and their greatest weakness all at once. Every death was painful, every victory sweet, and every moment precious. And every one of them depended on him. Dutch nodded as Lucca and Glitch finished their work and motioned for them all to follow him. It was time.

They encountered no resistance on the way to their next destination. Chances are the Baroness had arrived by then, as the crowd was deafening in it's tremble. He couldn't even hear his own boots on the duracrete as they ran, the thunder within the stadium far outweighed any noise the little band of rebels could make. Dutch peeled around a corner into a hall that lead to the stadium seating. A single guard stood his his back to them. Dutch pulled his pistol and strode forward, his jaw set and his brow furrowed. He walked right up and put the barrel to the back of the Sith's head, and pulled the trigger. The gunshot sounded, and several people screamed around them. The majority of the crowd didn't notice, all eyes were on the Baroness. And Colonel Shaw. The man that killed Dutch's father. The man Dutch swore would die a slow, slow death. He turned his gaze to the group behind him.

"This is it. I'm not asking any of you to follow me any further. Thank you. All of you, for what you did. It's showtime."

He turned away from them and stepped out into the crowd. Glitch clicked her comm, the sign that she had just switched on the stadium's new (and improved) show protocols. Instantly all the spotlights in the stadium swung to Dutch, and bathed him in pale light. His weapons glinted, as did the blood smeared across the left side of his face. Dutch stepped forward again, and trained his eyes on the stage. Don't look for Mo... he told himself, and instead turned his grey gaze to stare the Baroness down from across the stadium. She was... amazingly beautiful for what a monster she was. A deception that worked for her quite well. But the time for deception was over, at least for Dutch. All the screens within the stadium flickered to show Dutch as the cameras turned to him, his form now replaced the Baroness'. He looked grim, even to himself. A whole different man than the boy who grew up in the soft, grassy fields of Dantooine. A soldier now stared out into the crowd.

There were moments Lucca wanted to punch Dutch in the face. Like now, when the man's snippy comments didn't help Lucca's focus at all. ”That what she said jokes, Dutch? Really?” The boy asked in a voice betraying displeasure mixed with a superior disgust. The Echani mutt's judgment had to wait as the doors opened and the boy plastered himself tightly against the wall. He counted silent breaths, feeling blood pumping through his system with a frantic pace.

His muscles tensed when the Sith soldier shouted out, there were shots and screams, war cries and above all helpless cries of pain. Lucca closed his eyes,silently praying none of the latter belonged to Dutch or any DLA. The boy's anxiety raised to the point his body began to tremble with anticipatory fear. Loud Echani curse left Lucca's lips and the young revolutionist sprung from behind his cover and into the room, nearly falling on one of the Sith's. The goon turned rapidly, aiming his gun at the silver haired child but Lucca was faster. He hit the rifle that shot at the wall behind him – its owner yelped surprised but quickly regained his footing and took out a vicious looking knife.

This one wasn't so stupid...Lucca inhaled and blocked the blade with his free hand preparing a punch that went straight where the nose melded with the skull. Nasty crunch and the scream of agony followed but Lucca wasn't done. He stepped behind the dazed soldier and broke his neck with a brief snap. The human fell to the ground, but Lucca, drunk with this small victory, didn't notice another shooter that witnessed his friend's demise.

Sharp, burning pain spread on his shoulder blade where nasty wound erupted from the close range rifle shot. Lucca screamed, more surprised than in pain as the shock of this injury blocked any senses. For now. The boy looked around frantically, registering he was still alive so the shot didn't hit anything vital but the in few moments pain would be paralyzing.

Clenching his jaw, the boy stood up and walked wobbly toward the console, pressing few buttons on a haptic keyboard. Fingers of his left hand became numb, a fact that broke through slowly rising pain. Did it hit a never? Burned it out?. Lucca felt tears swelling in his eyes, though strangely, couldn't tie any emotions with them. Neither sadness nor fear, anger or even slight anxiety.

Thankfully there was Siala to take care of the process that went surprisingly fast. Lucca clicked the last line of code and virus loaded up, giving Glitch access to the main frame.Along with the image that appeared on the monitors a music began to seep through the speakers, replacing the horrid anthem. Lucca smiled weakly at this, his face even paler than normal chalky hue of Echani skin. Hints of green began to spread across his boyish features when the pain finally erupted in the injured arm and Lucca violently vomited on the console before him.

He looked at the mess, strangely unmoved. ” Well...Sh*t” Lucca complained weakly and fell to his knees, weak with pain with only one thought following.

Dutch is going to kill me...

Siala seemed to see all that went on as if she were looking through the eyes of everyone else. She vaguely heard the distant shouts of the DLA. She filtered gently back ot reality at least for the moment when the doors before her opened. The room beyond had a good number of Sith soldiers inside, Lucca and Dutch went straight for them. She pushed her self to the side of the door and looked round narrowly getting missed by a few blaster shots. She was uncertain till she saw it, a tall proud guard droid in shiny silver armour. She grinned widely and creepily

“There is the one who will be my new friend!”

She pushed her way inside, with Clive drawn, she occasionally fired at someone who got to close but for the most part left the fighting to the DLA. She pulled from one of her many pockets a device that should distract it. Really it was little more than a flair that pumped out a lot of heat hopefully it should almost blind the droid. She threw it as hard as she could, it smashed into the far wall and rebounded before the droid exploding in a bright green fireball. The droid stepped back wards its head moving from side to side trying to see round the heat of the flair.

Siala talk her opportunity she ran towards it and pounced on it's shoulders shots came at her trying to knock her off but by now Dutch and Lucca and the rest of the DLA had taken out most of the Sith. The droid tried desperately to shake her off, taking her hydro spanner she got to work opening up its skull and having root round.

“There there little one don't worry it will all be over soon.” She cooed to the creaking droid as it smashed into wall trying to get her off.

Finally it grabbed hold of her and pulled at her sending her spiralling to the floor, her back and side crashing into the hard ground with a dull splat. She dazedly turned to see it pointing its rifle right between her eyes. When suddenly it stopped...

Siala smiled wildly as the gun withdrew and it stood back silent. “Perfect....” She looked at the designation on his casing “G7 we are now friends.”

She then heard Dutch calling to her, and after staring dreamily back at the droid she ran to help upload the virus. Not really within her expertise but still a subject she had ordered many holobooks on, she was confident she could help Lucca. She stole glances at him hoping he was impressed but he instead seemed in pain. He suddenly threw up all over the console and fell to his knees. Finishing her part in all this, she ran straight for him and put a hand on his shoulder. Feeling something she took it away and saw read on her hand. Her brain snapped in fevered and eager to protect her all ready fragile mental state it suggested something and she accepted.

“HELP! He is leaking motor oil! HELP!” The blood had turned black on her hand and was motor oil, at least to her. She heard the voices again parts of her brain telling her this was a delusion and C7 and her faithful AS trying to shout down those voices but she painfully pushed it all away.

Nom carefully watched to make sure he wasn't in the line of fire before rushing to the injured Echani.

Triage was always the first step. Identify the injury and the severity, and then treat the most severe wounds first. Of course there was the added expectation that he treat DLA injuries first, which was pretty much common sense. No matter how many wounded Sith he treated, they wouldn't hesitate in shooting at him.

The first thing Nom did was open his medical kit and find a painkiller in a injection unit. He placed it directly against the artery in the neck and injected the Echani. Within seconds the pain would start to subside a little. Sadly, no medication could make it all go away, but this would help.

And help was about all that Nom could do.

"I'll be with you in a minute Dutch," the human medic called as he examined the wound on Lucca.

It was both burned and bloody, which seemed like a contradiction. It would definitely need some kind of field surgery, but that would have to wait until he had access to a safe place. For the moment, all he could do was pull out one of his few kolto patches and apply it to the wound. He also offered a quick word of consolation.

"You'll be fine, just hang in there until we get back. If the pain gets too bad, let me know and I'll give you another injection."

Nom then hurried over to Dutch and examined what was little more than a scratch. He quickly produced a disinfectant wipe and ran it over the bloody cut, then took a bandage and placed it on top.

"You'll have a bruise, but you're fine," The medic pronounced before retreating back out of the way and trying to be inconspicuous.

The sound came before the craft and Mo stepped under an awning before the hover platform made it's way over the rim of the arena and began its descent down to the stage. Mo spat as the anthem played and stepped back out into the open. As her eyes focused on the platform, the white noise static of her comm suddenly cut out. Then Dutch's voice came through, much more clearly. He'd switched to her private frequency.

"Hey... we OK?" he said.

"Yep. Baroness just arrived." she replied, but there was a tense silence for a moment.

"... I'm scared Mo." The words sent a cold shiver down her spine. Suddenly, words were flooding out of his mouth while she struggled with the lump that had formed in her throat.

"Stop it." she finally managed, her voice firm, but caring. "I'm fine. And so are you. You can do this."

"...cheer me on babe, it's nearly showtime."

"Be aggressive. B-E aggressive." she said, the smile evident in her voice.

A moment later the comm static was back and Mo was moving to her perch. Kneeling down on the raised walkway, Mo quickly located the arena entrance Dutch would be using. She pulled an arrow from her quiver and knocked it on the bow string. Then she waited. Soon Glitch's voice came over the comm and Mo knew they were moments away. The anthem had just reached its final notes and the Baroness and Colonel Shaw were waving to the crowd when suddenly the spotlights swiveled and Dutch stepped into the arena.

Mo pulled back against the resistance of the bow until it set into the ready position. The silence that fell in the arena was just as deafening as the roar it had been emitting only moments before. All eyes were on Dutch as he began his slow walk toward the stage. For now, he was safe from those up on the stage. They were too far away. But even from this distance, Mo could see by their posture that they were none too pleased to see this man. Mo scanned the crowd around Dutch as he walked. He could hold his own for sure, but there wasn't anything wrong with keeping an eye on his back.

The other sharp shooters were instructed to hold until the signal was given. They didn't want to give away their position just yet. But Mo happened to have a slight advantage with her bow. No flash when shot, and she could angle the shot to rain the arrows down from above. Which is exactly what she did when she noticed a Sith soldier pushing his way through the crowd behind Dutch. Mo quickly raised the bow, taking only a moment to align and then loosed the arrow, the magnetic accelerator making only the slightest hum. A few moments later, the arrow embedded itself down into the man's collar bone and he collapsed mid stride, civilians scattering away from him. It was now her turn to switch to Dutch's private channel.

"Go on, big papa. I got your back."