Triumph Burns

[Zarkan]

Ark shook his hands attempting to throw the fine mist of meat, blood, and bone of his metallic digits as he stepped back from the ruined lift. The large cyborg soldier watched warily as the other Mandalorian’s stepped onto the lift. The elder warrior followed with some trepidation slowly testing the lift with one foot before finally once satisfied with its sturdiness fully entering the congested contained space. Arkanados knew that the lifts on the Par’jila where designed with high loads; still even on this venerable warship the group of warriors was an unusual group and the elevator saged slightly under the combined weight in the moments before; with a slightly concerning groan, began its move up the shaft.

The large cyborg had barely left the lift when the pair of turrets opened up on the group. Ark’s shield lit up with bright cyan flashes as the emerald green plasma bolt’s exhausted themselves against the wall of energy. Ark maneuvered his bulk to try and protect his fellow vod with his armor and shields even as they began to wane under the hail storm. The warriors quickly destroyed the pair of automated turrets before the one known as Genthus charged towards the bridge forcing the door to open moments before the bulky Mandalorian was sent skidding back across the scuffed beskar floor smoke rising from the man’s scorched armor.

Rage was a strange thing with so little of a man remaining. Still, while the burning haze of bloodlust and fury were long lost to the aged cyborg a wave of cold piercing anger still surged through the warrior’s mind. Ark’s long cybernetic legs pounded like positions as the darkly clad Mandalorian raced down the corridor. The cyborg paid no mind to the sparks and ricochets of the group’s blaster rifles. He did momentarily slow as a grenade impact shattered his shields, but by that point, it was too late for the small terrorist team a few small pitted scorch makes were not enough to stop the man-shaped tank bearing down on the traitorous hounds.

Ark swung his lower arms like great beskar clubs as he came in striking distance with the first of the terrorist each blow shattering bone and plasteel alike and sending broken bodies flying. The Mandalorian however, paid the men some shooting other’s attempting to flee no more mind than a normal man might swatting a mosquito as he crushed and pounded his way through the hastily established firing line and headed straight for the purple armored man who seemed to lead the group. The purple imposter drew and a heavy blaster pistol fired several bolts at the armored cyborg as the back-peddled towards the front of the bridge. A lucky shot burned through one of the ark’s vison sensors narrowing his field of vision, but that would not be enough to save him.

The command console tore from it’s mounting as ark slammed the armored figure trough it and into the bank of consoles at the front of the bridge crushing the man’s armored torso nearly flat the pressure forcing the rapidly dying man to expel a mix of stomach fluids and blood across the front of the cyborg’s chest and face. Ark stood straight before throwing the man’s rapidly cooling corpse aside like a child’s rag toy and drawing one of the heavy blaster carbines magnetically clamped to his thigh. Wielding the heavy rifle like a grossly oversized pistol the Mandalorian began carefully firing at the remaining dogs as he waited for the rest of the group to join him and secure the bridge.

[Blue]

There was no feasible way that Wrell was going to be able to take all the armour with him. He simply did not have the room to carry it all on his person. This was a Bad Thing. Torn between the mission of vengeance and retrieving the stolen beskar'gam from the terrorist's body, Wrell was forced into compromise. Strapping the helmet to his belt, and the pauldrons too, the smith squeezed his way into the elevator with his bulky cargo, collapsing his bevii'ragir to make room. His gaze was fixed on the body he had semi-stripped, even after the elevator doors shut. There was silence as they rose through the mighty, dying vessel. Wrell had no interest in breaking it. But he was shivering with barely contained rage. My work, in the hands of such... osik! Tainted! Unthinkable! Unacceptable! The opening doors revealed more treachery, high-powered weapons glaring at them. Near the front of the elevator, Wrell leapt out of the way and into the nearest piece of available cover, readying his blaster rifle in his hands and adding his own pinning fire down the way in time with the one called Eris. One turret down, then the other followed swiftly. A howl of rage, cut short by explosive means. They followed. Wrell began to sing in Mando'a. "Into the Forge: life, breath. Out of the Forge: fire, death!" he chanted, as the one called Arkanados battered his way onto the bridge. "Drums roar, bes'bev sing. Light burning, blades ring!" Wrell continued, his voice rising as he sprang into the air. With a roar, his jetpack ignited, sending the smith hurtling into the large room. The keen sound of metal pierced the noise of battle as the spear elongated once more, a pistol shot claiming a nearby life. Most of the fire was concentrated on the first Mandalorian; they had little time, skill, or awareness to aim at Wrell as he hurtled into their midst. "War is called, foes shall cower! For Vengeance is ours! VENGEANCE IS OURS! VENGEANCE IS OURS!" Wrell screamed. He had become a whirlwind of death, scattering the firing line into further disarray. "VENGEANCE IS OURS! VENGEANCE IS OURS!" he kept repeating, stabbing, clubbing, kicking, headbutting, hip-firing. Until all that lay around him was death.

[Meira]

They pushed, the ingrained training... the soul of who they were as Mandalorians, on full display. They were disciplined and in control. The turrets were soon dispatched and Genthus turned their charge to the blast doors, the final barrier between them and the full control of the dying ship. Eris moved in her turn, rushing forward behind the battering ram that was Arkandos. The blast ahead gave her pause, long enough to see Genthus' form flying backward. Shifting course, Eris moved to squat down next to the man, checking to see if he still breathed. There was a lull in the wake of the explosion that allowed her to get to him. As the fire resumed, she saw that he was still breathing, at least. She did her best to heave the man a bit further to the side and behind the rubble of one of the destroyed turrets. She got most of his vital parts moved the few feet before she collapsed, breathing hard from the effort.

The others were breaching the blast doors to the bridge by this point. The cacophony of blaster fire and armor clashing sounded. Over it all, Eris was pleasantly surprised to hear Wrell's war chant. The stoically silent man had not seemed like one for the arts. She'd been sorely mistaken. With a huff, Eris made to rise, checking her blaster and preparing to join the others on the bridge, sure that Genthus would be right behind her. As she did so, she notice where she was standing. To her right, the door to Mandalore's quarters loomed. She paused, staring at it. No word from him since the attack on the ship. He'd been here, she was fairly certain of that. Sensing Genthus was moving beside her, she made a gesture, encouraging him to go on. From the sound of things, they hardly needed her on the bridge. And she needed to know.

She opened the door, and within found the destroyed trappings of the Mandalore she'd known and followed. The furniture of the front room was overturned, destroyed. The trophies he'd collected, mementos of battles past, and the odds and ends that one might surround themselves with were shattered, torn and ruined. The things that made Mandalore, the man, had been dashed. She picked her way through the room, trying not to step on anything... as if that mattered. But there was no sign of an actual struggle here. Nothing to show that there had been any real fight. Mandalore had not been here. If he had, it would have been far worse. But then, where was he? Part of her thought she should turn back, join the others. This could wait. But her feet would not turn back. They pressed forward, moving her to the door to Mandalore's private quarters. She keyed it to open, but the light turned red and a protesting tone sounded. Frowning behind her visor, Eris tried again. She'd never been denied access to Mandalore's quarters. He'd trusted her explicitly. Again, it turned red. With a growl, Eris pulled a small cord from her gauntlet. She rarely used the tool, as slicing was usually beyond her. But she could open a door in a pinch, if needed. She quickly plugged it in, searching for the manual override in her HUD. Finding it, she got a warning prompt but barely read it before dismissing it and entering the command for the door to open.

Eris was instantly pulled off her feet at the air within the room was quickly sucked into the vacuum of space that existed beyond the door. The cord from her gauntlet snapped as she flailed wildly. Her body was being pulled out of the ship through the large, gaping hole that had been blasted through the outer wall of Mandalore's quarters. All around her, the debris of his main room flew past. A particularly large chunk of broken sofa smashed into her, sending her tumbling sideways as she rushed dangerously fast past the opening. She flailed, reaching to grab onto anything. Her helmet blared with alarms as it quickly sealed. Warnings on the lack of air tanks flashed, and she was reminded that internal suit reserves were for critical use and would only last a minute or so. All of this while she spun through the hole and out into the debris field around the ship. With every tumble, the ship came spinning into view and then out again as she turned to face the vastness of space. She did not have her jet pack, so she could not correct the spinning. But she had to do something.

Calming her mind, Eris waited for the ship to come back around in her field of vision. When it did, she stuck out her arm and fired her grappling hook, hoping that she'd not been pulled too far out. For an agonizing moment, she waited. Then, it snagged and the line went taut. Her whole body jerked as her momentum was suddenly stopped. Quickly, she activated the small motor to pull herself in. Now more stable, she saw that she'd managed to hook a beam that had been folded outward by the force of the explosion and ensuing vacuum rush that had come with the attack on Mandalore's quarters. If it hadn't been clear before why no one had heard from him, it was now. Cowards! Eris picked her way across the broken ship, climbing back to the door she'd so foolishly opened. Once through, she had no choice but to shoot the controls. The resulting electrical failure cause it to slam shut. A moment later, the alarms within the, now empty, outer room began to shut off as air and gravity were restored to the room. Eris' form fell to the floor where she remained for a moment, panting from her efforts. But she couldn't stop. She had to get back to the others. Lifting herself up, she rushed from the room and back toward the bridge doors, entering to find the carnage the others had caused.

[Ysmir]

It seemed his comrades got the memo.

A little too well, actually.

Genthus did his part in disabling the other turret. But the headstrong warrior was beset by vengeance, and it clearly clouded his vision. As he charged forward toward the bridge doors, Hal stood from his position behind the rubble. "Genthus!"

Though it was too late. An explosion from the newly opened doors roared out from the bridge, followed by a surge of flame, and the pressure difference created by both was enough to blow even the massive Genthus off his feet and send him careening back into the hall from whence he came. Before Hal could move to go check on his comrade, a storm of blaster fire emitted from the bridge, causing Hal to dip back down behind his makeshift cover.

He reloaded his heavy blaster, checked on his grenades, and stood back up once Ark had charged the frontlines. Seeing Eris had checked on Genthus, Hal wasted no time. He followed shortly after Wrell, hoisting his heavy blaster up against his shoulder and peppering the surviving insurgents with powerful bolts that knocked them off of their feet. Mandalorian iron may have been capable of standing up to a direct hit from his custom weapon, but whatever these imitators wore was not. The supercharged energy cut through their paper plating with the greatest of ease, with one shot going clear through the chest of one of the fools and nearly cracking the transparisteel viewport that gazed down upon Manda'yaim.

With the efforts of Hal, Genthus, Ark, and Wrell combined, they made short work of whatever resistance was left within the bridge. The assault soon devolved into a rout, with some of the remaining insurgents reduced to falling to their knees and begging mercy from the Mandalorian avengers; but there was no mercy to be found, here. Hal pressed one such spineless cur up against the wall after dropping his heavy blaster, his robotic arm grasping the man's throat and lifting him up and off of his feet. Hal grasped onto one of his tehk'la with his free hand, wasting little time in shoving it violently into the stomach of that brittle, worthless armor. The insurgent coughed and gurgle as Hal twisted the blade within his body.

"Save your sniveling for the next world, coward," Hal said as he ripped the blade free from the last standing opposition. He dropped him to the floor, letting the man slide into a heap where he'd soon bleed out -- slowly.

Hal wiped the blade free of any blood and sheathed it along the back of his belt, bending down to retrieve his blaster. As he gazed around the bridge, his helmet registered no remaining lifeforms other than his three companions.

Three?

Hal checked each individual. Tal'galaar was not here. Hal swung his blaster around on its strap so that it hung loosely from his back, stalking through the bridge as he searched for any sign of her. He was ready to begin a more thorough search until she came barreling in through the doors last second. Looking past her in the doorway to the hall, Hal noticed the entry to Mandalore's quarters. Open, not like before. Hal reached up with both hands, unhooking the clamps that kept his helmet affixed to the color of his beskar'gam. Once it was removed, he held it in the book of his elbow against his body, and leveled a serious gaze toward Eris.

"Couldn't resist, hm?" he asked, though it was rhetorical in nature. Hal walked a few paces toward the door, staring now at the entryway to where their leader once resided. He was silent for a moment. "So you got your answer, then. He's gone."

[Fromikeable]

His head was still attached. It must have been, given the dull, thudding pain. Genthus stared at the ceiling as his hands explored himself for a moment, taking stock. Large shrapnel in his breastplate. Both arms still, good. Still two legs. His helmet was still on.

He was lucky. Or, rather, fortune was not on the side of the terrorists.

Still, moving much more than his hands was difficult. That much was proved when Eris appeared above him, then began to drag. Even as Genthus commanded his legs to scramble, to help her, they proved sluggish, uncoordinated. When his arms tried to reach out for hers, his grip failed, his arms shaking under the effort just to unbend.

As the ringing in his ears began to contend with the sounds of battle, Genthus at least managed to flop himself on to his side, pushing himself up. With some assistance from the wall, he was vertical, but with shaky knees and blurry vision.

Sword. After another moment of focusing his eyes, he spotted the weapon still near to the door. Walking there was more of a limping, his balance kept by leaning on the wall. Reaching down for the blade caused him to stumble, but getting up was easier when he could put his weight on it.

Finally armed, he tested his feet and shoved off the wall. Stumbling through the door at a pace quicker than it should’ve been, Genthus made it onto the bridge in time to see the rest of the terrorists be smitten. Ignoring the others for a minute, he just focused on getting up the stairs to the nearest console, glancing it over before moving to the next.

And the next.

And the next.

By the time he reached the helm controls, he could already guess what he’d see. Sure enough, the blaring red alarms and warning messages were hard to misinterpret.

”He and his ship.” Hollering more loudly than he’d meant to, Genthus shuffled his feet as he tried to stand tall. Gripping at his side, he motioned at the consoles with his sword.

”None of the hyperdrives are functioning. Fuel is leaking into the lower decks, radiation into the upper. The fires are spreading. The hull breaches are widening. The Par’jila- Ha.” Raising his sword, Genthus brought it smashing down on the navigation console, rending the metal.

”Triumphant? This disgrace deserves to die!” Wrenching his sword free, Genthus turned to his fellows.

”This ship will burn to cinders in Mandalore’s atmosphere. And for every warrior that’s died on its decks and will die under its debris, I hope the Mando’a remember who and what is to blame.” Genthus pointed in the direction of the Mandalore’s quarters, his arm shaking; whether by rage or pain was difficult to say.

”This is what happens when we become the tools of tyrants! Damn the Mandalore, and the Mandalores before him!”

[Zarkan]

The loud retort of the heavy blaster carbine gripped in his left hand sent a wave of vibrations singing though his beskar plates as the weapon projected a small star that effortlessly burned and twisted the cheap mockery of a Mandalorian helmet as it turned it and the poor fool under it into a scorched amalgamation of smoking flesh and half-melted plasteel. As the last defenders of the bridge fell to the might of the Mando'ade tore through them ark slid the carbine back into place at his hip before making a quick scan of the bridge for his fellow warriors noticing a conspicuous absence in their ranks. "Where is?" His question was cut off as the small frame of the young warrior stepped into sight from the yawning opening of the bridge. The great cyborg took one step towards the pair of Eris and Hal before a loud noise drew his attention. Ark spun his hand snapping to one of the blasters clamped to his body before he identified Genthus standing his blade driven deep into the console in front of him.

Ark approached the man as he began to rant wrenching his blade from the console. "Save your rage for when it will be useful, pup." the elder Mandalorian growled as he moved past him. "You are dangerously close to words that would disgrace your clan and kin." He started pulling up the ship's status monitor on the bridge. "Yes, the Par'jilla is dying, but she is still too stout to break up sufficiently." Ark found what he was looking for in the ship layout before stepping back. "We can't allow the ship to crash down we need to break it up and find some way to deal with the slag that is left of the reactors or this dying beast is going to spread radiation over half the planet and start a nuclear winter when it vaporizes everything for several kilometers."

[Blue]

Wrell's breath came heavy as the sounds of battle ceased, not from exhaustion but from pure emotion. They touched the beskar'gam, wore it as if it was their own. Unthinkable. Unforgivable! A few breaths, in and out, in and out. Regain balance, focus. More work to be done. The other Mandalorians seemed to have escaped the combat alive. As expected. Wrell saw the one called Eris return from her absence. He spared a nod in her direction. The sound of rending metal brought his attention to the one called Genthus, adding more destruction in an apparent fit of fury, ranting about what was, disdainful. Injured pride? Thinks he could have done better, seen all paths? Wrell yanked his spear from the last body it had impaled and strode forwards until he was face-to-chest with the man, his visor glaring up. "Save your proselytizing until we are no longer standing on a mountain of our dead," Wrell snarled, his normally flat voice flared in anger. "Hm. Assign your blame once we have prevented countless others joining them." With a small motion his spear retracted, and he clipped it to his belt, dismissing the larger Mandalorian from his mind and moving away towards a yet-to-be-destroyed console. In a few seconds, a holoprojection of the Par'jilla emerged from the lenses nearby, flickering fitfully as power fluctuated or was re-routed to essential systems. "Hm. Largest fractures are here," Wrell pointed out, multiple areas becoming highlighted on the projection. "If we could detonate explosives in these places, it may break up the vessel enough to limit impact. Burn most remains up in the atmosphere. Lighten load on engines, perhaps. Send the engine block into space, rather than down to the planet." Wrell shrugged. "Might work. But I know weapons. Hm. Not ships."

[Meira]

She came into the bridge, finding that the fight was over. How the hell had such terrible fighters manage to take control of the ship? Had their vod really become so complacent? The cocktail of adrenaline, from the fighting and her unplanned space walk, suddenly began to fall. Her breathing, still heavy from exertion, became more labored as her chest tightened. How had it come to this? What did it mean? Was he really-

"So you got your answer, then. He's gone."

Eris' visor turned to the man as he approached, gazing toward the empty room in the hall behind her. Her throat, already scarred and inefficient, was too tight to respond. But she wouldn't have had the opportunity in any case. Genthus' outburst stole that from her. His rage was met by both Arkandos and Wrell, who each responded with more measured words, and minds focused on what must come next. None of them, not a one, spared a moment for their Mandalore. How dare they!? She wanted to scream, but could not. Her whole frame began to visibly tremble for a moment as her breathing increased. Her shoulders rose and fell as the adrenaline kicked back in. These others, she'd have words with them, perhaps. They at least might mourn when the time came, after they'd saved the planet below.

But Genthus?

His words required a response.

Eris' hands moved in a swift motion, pulling the looped strap for her rifle over her head and allowing the weapon to drop to the floor. As soon as Wrell stepped away from Genthus, she began to move forward. The first two steps were slow, measured. But as she neared the giant man, she picked up pace. She was at a full sprint by the time she was within two strides of the man. She jumped to a console, using it to propel herself upward and forward at the last so that she might be more level with Genthus to deliver him the most forceful kov'nynir her small frame could muster. Large as he was, it could do little more than stagger him for a moment, but Eris didn't care. As she landed, she pulled her dual beskad from their place at her back, holding them wide as she crouched low.

"Speak again, Deshra." she rasped. "I'll cut your tongue out."

[Blue]

The words were met with silence, then violence behind him. Wrell turned, saw blades drawn, vod against vod. A good strike. Foolish, driven by heart, not brains. But a good strike. However, his admiration for a hit well delivered did nothing to salve his rapidly depleting patience, and he strode between the one called Eris and the one called Genthus before more blows could be swung. "Holster your rage!" Wrell hissed. "Or'dinii, the both of you! Keep it for when the sky is not falling upon the heads of our people! Hm? Think with this now, not this," he continued, jabbing a finger at the head, then the heart, respectively. His helmeted head swung back and forth sharply between the two of them for a moment, one hand moving to point back at the flickering image of the vessel they stood within. "We go to armoury, hm? Find highest yield explosives. Plant on the fault lines. Leave. Detonate. Break up ship. And, when we do not need to bury a hundred thousand more of our dead, then you can kill each other!" A pause, his words echoing into silence. Then he turned, the lingering scent of forge smoke marking his passing, and stamped his way from the bridge. "Children, damn children! Hm. Worked with beskar less stubborn! More sense, too!" Wrell grumbled, his annoyance ensuring the words carried to all left behind.

[Fromikeable]

Genthus would have expected the cold responses he received if he had been thinking much at all about consequence. But he couldn’t dislodge the train of thought from his mind. When he’d been a child, he’d heard nothing but prattlings and whispers about the eventual return to glory of the Mandalorians, their triumphant return to the galactic stage a thing of glory. It was supposed to be something to be proud of, something that every Mando’a and every clan could confidently hang their armor on at the end of the day.

Instead it was a crippled dreadnought, a revolving door of leadership, war crimes, and conquest. How he was supposed to simply swallow the idea was beyond him.

And as insults rang in his ear, all he could see in Wrell’s visor was the insistence that he do so.

Leaving the smith untouched, Genthus simply growled. ”I’ll not be told to ignore this disaster. And you-” As Wrell moved out of the way, Genthus leveled a finger at Ark. ”-watch who you call a ‘pup’. At least I can bleed for my culture, you Imperial spy droi-”

The sound of beskar on beskar cut him off, Eris’s helmet the last thing Genthus saw before the world kicked upwards. Stumbling backward into the console he’d ruined, he dropped his sword as he scrambled for purchase, arms slapping back against the metal. Once he was sure that he wasn’t moving any further, the pain registered, causing a quiet groan as he twitched his nose.

Not broken, probably thanks to his own helmet, but quite close.

Peeling himself off the console, Genthus’s hands flexed into fists. Visor snapping in Eris’s direction, the little voice that cautioned him, that told him to let her have a well-deserved shot, nearly drowned under a wave of rage. A charge forward was stopped in the cradle by the appearance of Wrell anew, a (relatively) neutral face forcing a moment of reconsideration.

After a few terse seconds, Genthus’s hands relaxed. Scooping up his sword and restoring it to the sheathe on his back, Genthus let his glare linger a moment longer.

”I’ll help blast this monolith to pieces with relish.” Finally turning away from Eris, Genthus did his best not to let his limp show as he followed after Wrell.

[Zarkan]

"Wrell is right we have more important matters to attend to than idle prattle and sermons." The aged cyborg pulled up a display of the ship's arsenal as he turned his attention momentarily for the clashing group. "There are a secure armory two decks down if the manifest is accurate it should have enough explosives to bring down a small city." Ark turned to Gethus as he spoke straightening to his full height as the smaller armored form leveled a finger at the old warrior. Ark's mind seethed as Genthus began speaking. Ark screwed his hands into fists and took two heavy steps towards the Mandalorian before a flash of flying fury crashed headfirst into the man.

Ark's mind momentarily compared the sight to a small dog sinking its teeth into a bantha. Ark bit back a chuckle the interruption breaking his thoughts enough for most of the violent portion of his anger to bleed away. Instead, ark stopped and shook his head before speaking. "Eris enough, Mandalore would not have you sacrifice our kin for his honor." Ark's four receptors bore into Genthus. "As for you when you finally stop acting like a petulant teen and prove that you might be wise enough to have earned those plates guarding your sorry hide." Ark began dismissively gesturing towards the man before turning to follow well. "Then maybe you'll earn the right to be called something else, pup." Ark couldn't help, but silently agree with the smith's parting words as he followed the man towards the corridor.

[Ysmir]

Hal turned from Eris once her silence told him everything he needed to know. Maybe he wasn't dead; Mandalore was hard to kill. But at the very least, for the moment, he was gone. Their fate was in their own hands, and action had to be taken.

This ship was a crumbling disaster, its gravitational field the only thing keeping the burning wreck from breaking in five different ways and scattering them all to the void. They had precious little time left before the skeleton descended into Manda'yaim's atmosphere and became something akin to an asteroid. If they were lucky, it would land somewhere uninhabited and perhaps scare the absolute osik out of some wildlife, but if the day was any indication, luck was not on their side. Arkandos spoke true. Even if the initial impact didn't cause catastrophic damage, the exploding reactor certainly would. A blow had been struck against their people once today, and they could scant afford another.

Hal stepped away and examined the projection brought up by Wrell, ignoring Genthus' exclamations for the time being. The man was always brash, and he figured his emotions were getting the better of him. He crossed his arms.

"Four charges would get the job done," Hal observed as he pointed to a quartet of the many areas Wrell highlighted, "but five would be good insurance. The smaller we can get this wreck, the more of it'll burn up in the atmosphere before something really bad happens."

"As for the engine block, that's outside my area of expertise; but it's the crux of the problem. Any suggestions--?"

His question was cut off by a resounding THWACK that came from behind. Hal turned just in time to see Genthus recoiling and Eris drawing her weapons. Wrell was in the midst of their altercation before Hal could so much as get a word in, and that was fine by him. Besides, Viszla spoke true; there was plenty of time to kill one another when the fate of their world wasn't potentially at risk. Expecting conflict, Hal was relieved when both backed off from one another at Arkandos and Wrell's insistence, and Hal slowly took his hand off the grip of his marksman's blaster. He took one last look at the flickering image, committing the layout and the location of the weakpoints to memory.

He shot a glance to Genthus as he passed him into the hallway. "I didn't drag your ass off Onderon just so you could get yourself killed from running your mouth," Hal said as he looked up to the much taller man, giving him a rough but encouraging slap on the chestplate with the back of his palm, "focus up. Run it all you want when we're not hurdling through space in a graveyard."

Hal fell in line between Arkandos and Wrell. "Five of us, five weakpoints, as much explosive as we can carry. Then we meet back in the dock and try to outrun the shockwave. Anything else?"