Armored Prayer

[Rugs]

{This is, of course, only for the people that were signed on in the DLA plot thread to be a part of the mission}

Allistair watched specks of dust as they drifted in and out of the streams of golden morning light pouring in through some windows set high on the wall of the Homestead garage. It was empty for the time being, save him, obviously. Al didn't mind though. The past few days had been rough for the DLA, given the new tensions between Dutch and Mo. And all that as before his brother had his accident and went into a coma. That had been a serious blow to morale, but the resistance would live on, and fight on, if for no other reason than that they'd come too far to start looking back.

Al's dark brown eyes swept around to take in the garage. The place was a bit of a mess, as always, but it was an organized mess. To an outsider, it might look like a bomb had gone off in the middle of the large room, but those that worked within its walls could find whatever they were looking as if it was all catalogued. In a way it was; everyone knew tools went there, and small parts down under that table over there, with big parts on the other side of the room, and so on. Perhaps it wasn't the most efficient system, but it worked.

The gentle whirring of Noodle's wheel brought Al out of his thoughts and into the present. There would be a mission today. And he would be leading it. That scared and excited him at the same time; on the one hand, there was the usual tinge of excitement that came with the missions the DLA undertook, but on the other, he was in a position that had more responsibility than he used to, and he knew, that, even if it wasn't his fault, if he lost one of the people that would be out with him, he'd never forgive himself.

But worrying about that wouldn't do anything, and it certainly wouldn't help calm his nerves before the mission. Speaking of calming my nerves... His hand went into one of the pockets of his jacket, and came out with a packet of cigarras. He made a habit of not smoking inside, but today was special. He produced a lighter from another pocket and lit his cigarra as his thoughts went to the upcoming mission.

To make things short, he would be leading a small team to steal two tanks. Reconnaissance work over the last few days had found that they'd be traveling alone back to a Sith base after being patched up at a repair station near Flynt. There was a point along the route the tanks would be taken that would work nicely for an ambush, and that's where his team would strike. Once they had control of the two tanks, they'd have to rush out to intercept a heavily protected convoy that made its way through the canyon near Flynt every four days. If they could do that, they'd send a message to the Sith that they still refused to give up, and could do a bit of damage in the process. Of course, it'd be a hard thing to make a getaway in tanks, so once the deed was done, they'd call a team that would be waiting nearby in speeders for extraction and return to base. It would be a dangerous affair. A great many things could go wrong, and one wrong move could spell the end for all of them. But, if they were able to successfully carry it out, they'd finally put some pressure on the Sith, if only for a little while.

A thin cloud of smoke formed in front of him as he exhaled slowly. Now the only thing left to do was wait for the rest of the team to arrive. He'd have a good group for this outing, with Grizz, Kabi, Mo, and even that odd Mark kid. He was sure they'd to just fine.

[Twysper]

Mark's presence lithely prowled into the quiet garage with the elegance of a born predator. He was wearing his favorite little uptilted half-smirk, and it did nothing to conceal the outline of his thoughts. Mark knew the details of the mission, he had even contributed, and relished the prospect of the damage he could inflict on the Sith with a fifty ton tank.

With the mission close at hand, the recent internal squabbles among the DLA had gained near complete apathy from him. As far as Mark was concerned, if someone had a problem, they could settle it with blasters in ten seconds, or be nominated for use as bait for the Sith, leadership or not. Leaders were not supposed to fight over trivial matters, like the specific way an enemy was killed.

Mark was sixteen, with crisp facial features and long red-brown autumn-shaded hair, like it had been drawn with a pencil made from the crushed leaves of Fall. He was of lithe, muscular build and well-filled out from his time working on the Sampson estate. But these were not his defining features.

His most defining feature was an unquenchable desire for revenge on those that had killed his family, no matter the cost to himself and those around him. Under this viewpoint, the concepts of 'honor' and 'morals' were merely an excuse for those that couldn't get things done efficiently. Mark's heart was hard and on fire, like a flaming piece of coal fueling a locomotive engine along a winding track haphazardly laid by a mental asylum detainee.

A very efficient form of energy, this was, for the coal had shown no sign of diminishing in size since it had sparked to life in a hidden cave, where the first seeds of resistance had taken hold in the form of desperate, heart-broken farmers. Perhaps if one of those farmers hadn't been a retired special ops., counter-terrorist operative, things would've gone differently, perhaps the DLA wouldn't exist, but... there was no use in theorizing what could have been.

Mark settled himself onto a cluttered table before glancing up at Allistair. Dust motes swirled in the quiet air like will-o-the-wisps as they caught the light, before fading back into oblivion. For a moment, the only audible sounds were of Al's smoking, and the small whirrr of running machinery somewhere in the garage.

Mark thoroughly enjoyed his brooding silence for quiet contemplation, but he knew the mission to come would more then likely be full of them yelling instructions back and forth to each other vital for their survival so he might as well try and get Al to trust him now rather then later. But for that matter, why was Al in charge of this mission? Cold and jagged emerald eyes flicked up to regard the other teenager who was only slightly older then himself. Comparisons were drawn instantly, with the conclusion that they were not much different. Except, naturally, Mark accredited himself with superior intelligence and cunning.


“So where’s your girlfriend?” Mark was a master of disguising his tone of voice and actual feelings for someone, so the tone sounded slightly teasing, and coupled with a sly wink and a sleight smile, it was playful banter. The words, in the relative quiet of the garage, seemed to echo with nothing further to replace them in the air.

But that was the issue Mark had with him. Al cared about people. That was infinitely stupid from his point of view. His girlfriend, Kabira, was even coming with them on this mission. Mo was supposed to be coming too; this he was thankful for, though he didn’t know why she didn’t just lead the mission herself. With any luck, the mercenary that had showed up to help the DLA, Grizzelda, would be of slightly more use. If she wasn’t actually working for the Sith…

Suffice to say that Mark didn’t trust many people.

[Kella]

"The air is filled with fighting birds,
And below them's fightin' words!
Metal wings and sparking light,
Bombs invade the endless night!

Glory, Glory it forever stands,
May the Great Republic never end!
And the Sith come marching on..."

The feisty notes of the Battle Song of The Republic drifted across the plain as Grizzelda meandered lazily through the notes. Her voice was not particularly catching, but she sang on-key if nothing more. Nimble hands played a tossing-twirling game with a Heavy Blaster, vaguely falling in with the rhythm of another rowdy chorus. It was the sort of song that Grizzelda's voice simply remembered, and her mind was free to wander as the notes spilled ever forth.

It had not been so very long ago that she'd fixed that slugthrower 'Buttercup', whose owner now lay in a coma. She'd been talking to the man only days past. If there was any give left to Grizzelda's shell, the events might have made an impact, but as it were, twenty-nine long years had chiseled away nearly every scrap of impressionability. Whatever the galaxy had to offer, chances were she'd seen it or heard it before, in some incarnation or another. That was the allure of adventure, of the physical and concrete. Things might fit the same basic frame, but circumstances never presented the same way twice. People were much more predictable, and perhaps that's why Grizzelda preferred to keep relationships... professional.

She was more impacted by the idea that she could probably steal back the spring she'd given away... it was a rare gauge, not easily acquired. However, something in her gut told her to leave it be. The fact that of all her scars, no injury had proved fatal had long past taught her to trust that gut.

Various eyes followed her as she walked along through the humble settlement, and she'd made speculating the reasons somewhat of a game. It could have simply been her song, carried from distant stars, and yet somehow tasting of home. A few eyes, perhaps, were drawn by a well-toned figure, flaunted by the close-fitted earthy green tank-top. Or, maybe, it was the glint of the sun on the practical armory that donned Grizzelda's lower half. A belt lined with grenades and throwing disks, thigh holsters on the left and right, and the sheen of hip-sheathed dagger were only a few of the ostensible weapons, and it was not hard to guess that even more tricks lurked on her person. At least one dagger was guaranteed to lurk in a suede combat boot, but beyond that? There were sure to be many surprises.

Other suspects included the confident air with which she walked, inherently present in her six-foot frame, and the possibility that she'd acquired a reputation for being something of an enigma, which wasn't so far from the truth.

But more likely than all, it was a simple combination of these things. On the streets of Coruscant, or the slums of Tatooine, she'd be invisible, but here on the soft plains of Dantooine, any time-taught rogue was bound to stand out.

Grizzelda's mind drifted back to the song, and it settled into a thoughtless humm as the shadow of the garage drifted over her. Her purpose for being here was simple. She'd impulsively decided that she'd be more use out in the field, than tending to the armory (most of which she'd already managed to restore). It had been a simple matter of informing the Toydarian of the fact, and signing up for the next interesting exploit. This had been the one.

Some scientist somewhere had taken it upon himself to announce to the world that the sense of smell had the strongest memory. Perhaps there was some grain of truth to this, for Grizzelda's mind had already conjured up images of dim Cantinas, swaying Twi-leks and Paazak under the table, even before registering the scent of Cigarra smoke.

Grizzelda couldn't really condescend the habit; it had seemed like a good idea to her as well. Twelve years ago, that is -- there were ways to get a bit of stimulant without compromising one's lungs -- she'd been smart enough to figure that. She'd experimented with it once upon a time -- but what Corellian teen didn't? A wretched coughing fit had proved it not to her liking, and she hadn't touched the stuff since.

As it were, that distinct smell managed to bring another thought bubbling up from her subconscious, and so, by the time she stopped in front of the two boys, still playing that tossing game with her gun, a slight smile had curled across her face.

"I just figured out how that Aqualish kept cheating at Paazak," she mused, distant but self-satisfied. A subtle shake of her head brought the focus of hazel eyes back to reality. A "G'day, Al," was offered in a cordial tone, followed by a pointed "You're Mark." Catching her blaster one final time, she gestured to the younger boy with its barrel. "Which really leaves only one important question, in the way of introductions," she continued, absent-mindedly holstering her blaster. "Do you know who I am?"

[Rugs]

For a time, Al was alone with his thoughts and his cigarra. And the slowly expanding haze of smoke that was coming from said cigarra. He sighed contentedly after a particularly deep inhale, and the smoke oozed from his mouth like water from a fountain. That's much better. Already, he felt a good deal more relaxed than he had only a few moments ago.

He tapped the cigarra contemplatively on the work desk that was next to him, and a few flecks of ash drifted down onto the smooth stone floor as he thought over his habit. Truth be told, a few short months ago, it was something he'd never even consider doing, yet here he was, smoking. Was it the best habit? No, and he knew it was bad for his health, but then again, so was being a member of the resistance. The truth of the matter was, Al didn't really care. It wasn't something he'd started after the resistance was born, as a way to deal with the stress. If the smoking helped, then so be it. It was a coping mechanism, nothing more.

The faint rustle of movement caught his attention and his dark eyes flicked over to see Mark making his way in. So there's one of 'em, Al thought as he drew in from his cigarra once more. Al only vaguely knew Mark. From what he could tell, the kid was distant, if not a bit cold. The thing that stuck out the most to Al about Mark, other than that irritating little smirk of his, was the younger teen's hard, biting eyes. Even now, as the kid took a place on one of the tables in the garage, those icy green eyes flicked up to look at Al.

Allistair couldn't say why, but something about the way they looked disturbed something deep within him. Perhaps it was the sense of... bitterness, maybe? Hatred? Al couldn't put an exact word onto whatever was within them. A boy that young should not have eyes like that. But, then again, Mark had lost everything in the Sith attack. If anyone had a right to right to be angry, it was him.

The two sat in silence for a few moments before Mark finally spoke up.

“So where’s your girlfriend?”

Al glanced up to bring his brown eyes to meet with Mark's green for a moment before he shook his head and chuckled to himself. Any idiot that'd seen him an Kabi together recently could probably tell he had feelings for her, and she for him; it wasn't really that hard to see. Sure, he'd gotten a bit of teasing from some of the guys--and girls, for that matter--around the Homestead, but, for some reason, he didn't feel like going through it again with a boy who was three years his junior.

"Where's yours?" His voice, like Mark's, conveyed a sense of playfulness, but his expression was such that it seemed he was asking a sincere question. As far as Al knew, Mark flew solo, as it were. Whatever the case, he hoped it'd put a stop to that line of conversation, at least for the time being. It probably won't.

He stuck his hand into one of his pants pockets and withdrew an item he'd not yet put on. It was a handkerchief. It was a vibrant crimson, and it'd been a gift from his father. Originally, it'd just been meant as something to keep the grease off in the garage--a joke of sorts, at the way Al seemed to have a habit of getting covered in grease when working. But, after his father was killed, it took on a more sentimental meaning to the young man, and he was almost never without it, now.

Holding the still-smoldering cigarra in his teeth, Al proceeded to shrug out of his jacket, leaving him in only the orange shirt that fit well on his well-built form. It would be a bit too warm to be traipsing around in the jacket today, and he liked it too much to risk having something happen to it; silly as that might be, he only had one. The jacket went on the table next to him, and he set the handkerchief down in his lap to continue on with his smoke. Normally, it would go around the bicep of his right arm, but that could wait until he was finished.

His attention was drawn again to the sound of someone entering. Grizzelda was the arrival this time. A grin touched his mouth at the sight of the tall woman, who was just a few fractions of an inch taller than he. The mercenary could oft be found at the armory, and he'd met her not too long ago when he'd headed out there on a whim during some free time. He liked her well enough. "Grizz," he responded to her with a slight nod in her direction. Then his eyes flicked to Mark, to see how the younger man would answer Grizz's question.

[Twysper]

The serene truce that existed in the room had been broken. A boundary had been infringed upon.

Mark’s eyes flashed darkly at Al for a moment as the older boy’s quick retort hung in the air; such an obnoxiously foolish question did not warrant the breath for a reply.

You damn well know why. Snakebite eyes venomously answered without a word.

To some, Mark appeared bipolar. While this mistake was relatively common and admissible, it happened to be completely false, for his inner emotions were a radically fluctuating constant. Hate and rage in a liquid ratio; occasionally coiled and stationary, sometimes flaring up like a cobra’s hood to issue a death sentence. But always present in some form.

He irritably fingered the balaclava hanging loosely around his neck with one hand. A constant of his ensemble, even when he slept. It bore the image of a skull on the outside, some said to inspire fear in the Sith army while out on a mission, others because the resistance members of the DLA were as good as dead if caught wearing it in hostile territory. Mark wore it because it was one of the only times he felt at peace with the world, ironically enough. It meant he was out setting up the latest deathtrap for Sith soldiers, or on a mission, with the possibility of killing Sith soldiers. It would be needed shortly if the perimeters for today panned out.

Mark’s eyes shifted from resting on the grease-smudged floor of the garage back towards the doorway as Grizzelda sauntered in, humming to herself. His cunning gaze skimmed over the weapons on her belt with a slight air of envy first, before making second and third passes to take in the rest of the entity foreign to Dantooine. She mumbled something about Paazak mostly for her own benefit, then there was a hello being offered to Al at a louder volume, and a brisk acknowledgement directed towards him, before she continued, pointing her blaster at him for a moment with an ease born of repeated use.

"Which really leaves only one important question, in the way of introductions," "Do you know who I am?"

Gears turned behind Mark’s hard emerald eyes and he settled with a relaxed nod, foregoing the opportunity to confirm and question rumors that had been going around Homestead at the expense of whatever measure of respect he might have. His peripheral vision also noted that Al was looking at him with an air of expectation.

“Yes, I do. Hello Grizzelda.”

A hand was wryly proffered, though Mark made no move to shift from his spot on the table.

[Kella]

“Yes, I do. Hello Grizzelda," he said, and she could rest assured that at the very least, Mark was aware. She was willing to acknowledge this attribute, even despite Al having greeted her as 'Grizz'. There were some who, even given that, would still have been so self absorbed as to have failed to make the connection. There was some matter between his ears -- that was for sure. Time could only tell what other attributes the teen held, but Grizzelda could be certain of two very distinct impressions. The first was, whatever skills he had would be raw and unrefined -- her own days as a Corellian street rat could attest to that. The second was simply that whatever appeared on the surface... there was quite a bit more going on underneath.

And, of course, she could not help but notice that his every word and action was steeped in a wry sarcasm, as if he met the world without the smallest scrap of sincerity. Therefore, she perceived the outstretched hand as more of a mockery of polite mores, than observance of them. As such, she decided making any mischief of the gesture would simply be adding insult to injury, and therefore responded by mirroring the gesture, and offering a brisk shake.

On a deeper level, it could be perceived as simple observance of fellow humanity. Humans were as plentiful in the galaxy as they were outflanked, and where they met together among those so far superior to themselves in evolution and biology, they tended to stick together. The handshake, despite having drifted its way into galactic etiquette, had originated in the human culture, and continued to be most often employed within the race. For a race that was good at everything, and great only at making trouble, it was important to remember that what truly distinguished them was some inner fire. Grizzelda pondered this now, as she did every time that brisk, quick shake was remembered. It was her way of paying homage to human spark, and having concluded the ritual, brought her mind to the more important of the matters at hand.

"So, Al, what does our hand look like? Everyone puts their money on the aces, but sometimes all you need is a simple straight to win. Then again, it's less about the cards than it is the poker face, no?" Grizzelda grinned. "We callin' their bluff? Or is the bluff ours?"

[Rugs]

Al's quip back at Mark seemed to have the desired effect. The younger boy's expression hardened, and his stare grew venomous for a moment as he glared at Al. Al, for his part, only raised his eyebrows and grinned stupidly, as if he hadn't a clue what was upsetting Mark so. But Mark didn't say anything else, and so Allistair saw no need to press things further, though the urge to do just that certainly rose for a moment.

No, instead he turned his attention to Grizz when she came in, and watched to see if Mark knew the offworld woman. Al nodded in satisfaction as he took another drag from his cig and held the sweet smoke in for a heartbeat before exhaling slowly. The smoke oozed out of his mouth slowly, clouding up the air in front of his face before subtle currents, fueled by the air conditioning system, dispersed it and made it fade away.

Grizzelda turned her attention to Allistair then, presenting a question about the mission in not-so-simple words. Of course she'd go with using cards for the question, he groused within his skull as he exhaled smoke once more. Oh, Al knew how to play the various card games; it was hard to grow up in a place like the Sampson estate or live in a place such as the Homestead without knowing how to do that. But, the truth of the matter was that Allistair was quite terrible with cards. He'd long since stopped playing in games where people bet things after losing a few things, the least of which was a newly-acquired pack of cigarras. That'd hurt. More than he could say. And as such, it had been the end of Al's stint with playing in games that had stakes.

Of course, he didn't know if Grizz knew of his luck, or lack thereof, but he couldn't help but chuckle a bit at the way she phrased the question. "I think we'll be callin' their bluff today, Grizz. The scouts say our Sith friends won't have much protectin' the tanks as they make their way back to their base. So the Sith have either gotten real cocky or real stupid. Whatever it is, we'll catch 'em with their pants down." He laughed as he took another breath through his cig, followed again by another exhale. "Could be that they have somethin' planned for us, though. I guess we'll see when we get out there, eh?"

{Crappy, I know >< sorry}

[Twysper]

Mark, from his vantage point on the table, listened quietly to the two converse. Listening was the best way to learn things with any subtlety and he was well on his way to perfecting the art. Time spent ranging around cantinas in Flint had not been idly wasted; at any given point in time, Mark knew the majority of local, latest gossip. He had started to ‘work’ as an information broker, with the luck of the devil for catching important fragments of conversations. He had purposefully steered away from all major events though. It was not his bid to die.

Or at least, it hadn’t been.

An image of his home being destroyed flashed in the back of his mind. Locked behind barriers, struggling to return to the conscious mind; these nightmares had plagued him lately.

Now… Now he wasn’t so sure. Had he slipped so far as to sell himself for the chance to kill a few more soldiers?

His family being obliterated within the same second; his memory had engraved an image of his little sister’s intense gaze boring into him before she was enveloped in flame. She had only recently appeared in these recollections.

He had. Peace was not to be found in this life for him.

Revenge was.

Mark’s mood darkened. His hand twitched next to the semi-automatic on his hip anxiously. There was foreshadowing, the sixteen year old thought, in the way it comforted him.

This was war. He was going to take back Dantooine or die. He could meet this ultimatum single-handedly or with company. These were all facts. Cold things that coiled around Mark’s core, creating excess steam that threatened to rend him asunder. He realized he had been grinding his teeth and zoning out. This was unacceptable. Mark needed control to function properly.

He blinked the world back to focus, and folded his arms loosely. Grizz and Al’s figures were edging on being out of his peripheral vision. His irritation shifted from himself towards Mo and Kabira. When would this hell of a wait end?

He had a war to fight.

[Kella]

"Could be that they have somethin' planned for us, though. I guess we'll see when we get out there, eh?" Al concluded.

Grizzelda offered a slight nod. "We shall see indeed."

Now, it is important to note that Grizzelda possessed an ability that not even she knew she had -- in fact, few who had it did. She could read microexpressions, the quick, subconscious shadows of emotion that will overtake a visage -- only for the smallest of moments -- before the conscious mind of the observee is even aware of the expression. And, as such, the fact that Mark was... brooding, over something, did not escape her attention. He looked restless, impatient, and that brought mixed feelings to Grizzelda. On the one hand, those who fought with passion were more likely to come out on top. On the other hand... being filled with too much hatred, too young... it caused even more pain. And that, Grizzelda could say from experience.

"So," she said, turning her eyes on Mark, "What do you bring to the table?"

It was probably a safe bet to say, at any given moment, that Grizzelda had at least one ulterior motive. At current moment, she already had a relatively good handle on Al's strengths -- the things she could use, play off of, in a pinch. She needed to get a feel for Mark. In fact, it seemed that at times, that's all people were to Grizzelda -- tools to be assessed, used, then abandoned when her work was done. But, with the aforementioned bet on ulterior motives... well, one could never really be sure with Grizzelda.

[Twysper]

“I have all the aces.” Mark replied vaguely, offhandedly, back at Grizzelda. His ragged green eyes looked at her for a long moment, to get across his point; he was not about to show his hand. Call it paranoia, but Mark did not trust many people. Information was valuable and key in destroying a being. Whether it was a politician, or merely a neighbor.

Those that wanted a view as to his actual state of mind would have to figure it out for themselves. The teenager shifted to slide off the workbench, before beginning to slowly wander through the garage. In this room, waiting, he was starting to feel like a caged animal, barred from fulfilling his sole purpose in life.

Eventually, he worked himself into a sincere-looking grin; the fact that Mark had to actually make an effort to summon what usually came automatically spoke volumes to him about his anxiety for this particular mission.

“What do you suppose is keeping Mo and Kabira?” Mark asked with a bit of mustered good humor. “We’re providing improv entertainment for the Sith today, as it were. I’d hate for the audience to leave.”

OoC// *fluffeh post is fluffeh*

[Meira]

Si'bul! I have you now!

The shout echoed loudly through the garage and heralded the arrival of two beings. The first, a small, sandy boy, crowned by horns and wearing an expression that combined great amusement with slightly greater fear came scrambling through a doorway into the garage. At the sight of Al, the boy slid to a stop, a large grin on his face.

I swear by the frozen wastes of Mirial that I will be the end of you!

The threat grew louder as the second being approached. The increased volume struck the grin from the child's face as his eyes opened wide and his feet found motion again. Quickly he scrambled past the three already in the garage and tried to climb over a pile of large parts. The clatter of metal pieces falling to the ground gave away his position, even as he tried to hide and the second being finally appeared.

Light green skin preceded jet black hair as the woman sped in. She was garbed in her usual attire, light, simple pants, a corset tank top, bot in earthy greens and browns. Slung across her shoulders was a case that contained her disassembled bow, "Aditi" and her arrows. Like her prey, Mo came to a sliding halt at the sight of Al, Grizzelda, and Mark. Those crystal blue eyes morphed quickly from those of a hunter to surprise at the sight of the three, and the slightest touch of pink embarrassment touched her cheeks. But the sound of yet another part falling to the ground stole Mo's attention and all pretense was dropped as she surged forward in her pursuit of the rascal.

Si'bul saw that his attempts to hide had been in vain and let out a sharp squeal as he abandoned the parts pile and attempted to escape under a table. He slid across the floor bellow the table and jumped to his feet on the other side, turning back to smile at Mo. A mistake.

The Mirialan woman, light and nimble as she was, launched herself into the air, landing on top of the table. She lowered herself down into a crouched position, smiling right back at the boy, before springing toward him. The table lurched back an inch or two with the force of her leap, the grinding of metal against duracrete filling the cavernous space of the garage.

Si'bul barely managed to spring backwards, avoiding Mo's outstretched hand by the slightest of measurements. His shrill giggles soon followed, a welcome sound after the earsplitting rasp of metal and stone. Mo, sure that she'd had the boy, landed a bit too hard on the ground, costing her precious time as the child scampered away. She righted herself and continued her chase, leaping over speeder bikes that little Si'bul had to circumnavigate, until finally, with a well timed jump, she grasped his shirt.

Mo pulled the boy in as she landed on the ground. But her boot slipped in a small puddle of grease, causing her to pitch backward. She stumbled a step or two, turning her imbalance into something of a dance as she lifted Si'bul and spun around. The two finally came to rest on an old couch that had been left at the far end of the garage. Si'bul's shrill laughter peaked then subsided, only to rise again as Mo tickled at his stomach.

When are you going to learn Sib... It'll be many years before you can outrun me.

Si'bul squealed and kicked wildly until Mo's attack ceased. He fell back along the couch, breathing heavily and still shaking with the occasional giggle. Mo, too allowed her head to fall back against the couch. For a moment, the two simply breathed together.

When Mo lifted her head again, her face still held the smile, but her eyes had changed to a more serious tone. She lifted the child up and sat him in her lap. He turned his dark brown eyes up to her, his smile fading slightly as if he knew what was about to come next.

It's time to feed Tiny. She said looking down at him.

You mean it's time for you to go. He retorted, a slight touch of resentment in his eyes. Mo sighed.

And it's time for me to go.

Si'bul took one of Mo's hands in both of his for a moment, looking down at it and comparing the difference in their skin. Mo did her best to hold a straight face. Ever since her confrontation with Dutch, she'd kept herself out of the big picture of DLA workings. She'd stuck with the hunters as they gathered what food they could from the woods around Homestead. But when Dutch... well... she couldn't ignore her duties any longer. She'd started back up with the recon teams and soon enough they had a mission plan all laid out. This time, with Al leading them all.

The feeling of Si'bul's arms around her neck brought Mo out of her thoughts. She wrapped her own arms around the boy. Si'bul then climbed down off her lap and the couch and walked back toward the door. Mo sat and watched him walk away for a moment before standing up. It hurt sometimes to see what all this had done to him. Only six and Si'bul had learned to shoulder the possibility that he might not see Mo again. Si'bul offered a weak smile to Al as he passed, and then he was gone.

A few moments later, Mo joined the three. She nodded her head in greeting to both Mark and Grizzelda. When she turned to Al, she offered her own defeated smile. That is until she saw the cigarra in his hand. The defeat changed to frustration. Before Al could say anything, she plucked the toxic thing from his hand and snuffed it out on a nearby table before flicking it back at him. Leader of the mission or not, Mo still saw Al as a younger brother. And as a big sister, she had certain duties. One of those was to put a stop to his nasty habits.

So what's the skinny little brother? She asked, smiling up at him.

[Rugs]

The balance of the conversation shifted to rest between Grizz and Mark for a moment, and Al was content to watch. There was something to be gained from it, perhaps, in noting the way Mark seemed to brood to himself before Grizzelda spoke. Even when Mark did speak, his answer was short. Concise. It didn't reveal much. Interesting. Whether he was holding a real answer back intentionally, Al couldn't say, but there was probably more to the young man than met the eye. Then again, that could probably be said about all of the good people in the DLA.

Mo's voice suddenly echoed through the garage, as if summoned by Mark's question. There was one word in her cry that stood out in Al's mind, so much that the hand with his cigarra froze halfway to his mouth.

Si'bul

Now, Al didn't mind the boy, per se, though he wasn't really much of a kid person. However, last time Si'bul got into the garage, he'd made a mess that took forever to clean up and straighten out. The state of organized chaos that Al kept the garage in worked for the most part, but it didn't take much to push it from being a good, purposeful mess to just being an all-out mess. Al really, really didn't want to go through cleaning things up again. Not that it mattered.

Oh, Si'bul arrived, followed by Mo, and Al just shook his head and kept puffing away on his cig as the two continued their game of chase. Yep. He'd have to straighten up again. In the grand scheme of things, it was just an annoyance, though. Compared to some of the things that could happen to him with the Sith polluting his homeworld, Al knew he had nothing to complain about. And besides that, the people of the DLA, even the ones he might not have been too terribly fond of on a personal level, were his family. They fought together, celebrated together, mourned together, bled together, and if the time ever came, they would all die together, fighting for the cause they believed in so strongly. Al didn't have the heart, nor the right, to tell them to stop, though the mess made him cringe. Si'bul's farewell to Mo only reinforced that fact.

Smoke lazily wafted out from Al's mouth as he leaned back with a sigh. Well, Mo was here. Now the only thing left to do was to wait on Kabi, and then they could move out. His hand went up again, taking the cigarra to his mouth-- and then the cigarra was gone. Al's brow furrowed, and he looked up to see Mo putting it out on the table and tossing it to him. He caught it deftly, and the muscles in his jaw stood out starkly as he clenched his teeth to keep from saying something. Mo's intentions were good; he knew that. She was looking out for him more than he was for himself in taking his cigarra away from him. But it was so irritating. It wasn't something that was worth getting into an argument over, though, so he let it go.

"Well, sis, the skinny is that our Sith friends are makin' some tanks available for us. The short of it is that we intend to take those tanks." A wicked grin touched Al's face as he looked up at Mo. "And then we'll return to sender. And by 'return to sender' I mean 'blow as many Sith to hell was we can and get out before they call in some reinforcements.' A normal day's work, more or less."

[Kella]

“What do you suppose is keeping Mo and Kabira?”

Mark’s question was answered in short time, by a familiar sort of commotion.

“Speak of the Devil,” Grizzelda muttered, raising her eyebrows conspiratorially at Mark. She watched the boy enter, followed by the woman who could have been no one but Mo.

A soft exhale, almost a laugh, widened Grizzelda’s resident smirk into an actual smile, as her eyes drifted to the ground. The sounds of the garage drifted to another time entirely...

”Grizz! You little Rascal! Get back here!”

The thundering of massive feet. A shudder of shelves as the mechanic whipped around the corner. An elated giggle.

“Hurry up, Z!” Aaron said. His bright eyes, easy smile. He ducked under the cracked door. Into sunlight.

Grizzelda’s laugh filled her own ears, as she looked behind her as she ran, peering through the strands of auburn hair that fell over her eyes. The face of old Beksa, red from running. He wasn’t really mad. She looked down at her spoils -- his favorite mug. She’d give it back tomorrow.

“You drink too much of that swill, Beska!” She said, humor in her voice. “Call it an intervention!”

“Get your weaselly tail back here Grizz-- Hey! don’t you--”

Tipping a barrel of bolts, Grizzelda dove out into the sunlight as well, the sound of cascading metal bits and swearing on her heels. Ran around the corner. Aaron standing there, taller than her. A look of admiration. Their other friends, gathering around to hear the story.

The laughter faded from her ears.

Those were the sorts of days where Grizzelda had laughed and smiled, smiled and laughed so much her sides ached and her face burned. It had been a way to lose herself, to lose her cares...

But it was like a drug. It only worked for so long, and then the truth of all the broken pieces came roaring back. Now, every laugh, every smile, every movement had behind it a cold calculation, a quiet manipulation, a definitive purpose. But that was survival.

Oh Coronet I miss you.

For the briefest of moments, a shadow of sadness flickered across Grizzelda’s face.

The briefest of moments.

You didn’t carve your way through the slum streets by laughing and smiling. You didn’t make a reputation as a swift and subtle mercenary by being sensitive. You didn’t hold your own as a human woman in a galaxy of cutthroats and war by being Nostalgic.

It was all too easy to return those feelings to their box, a small little thing that Grizzelda seldom thought about, and even more seldom opened. Something about Dantooine, about these people, this family, had flicked it open unwanted. But with the casualty of tucking away a cigar case, Grizzelda returned to her usual frame of mind.

Her subconscious had been putting on a show of paying attention, much to Grizzelda’s gratitude, and she drew her eyes back into her own control, the material world -- the only one that really mattered right now -- coming back into focus, as it should properly be.

“So what’s the skinny, little brother?” Mo asked.

Grizzelda smiled at Al’s answer; "And then we'll return to sender. And by 'return to sender' I mean 'blow as many Sith to hell was we can and get out before they call in some reinforcements.' A normal day's work, more or less."

“And then I think I’ll take us all out for Custard,” Grizzelda added coyly, “Sith’s treat.”

There was no evidence of the cold nostalgia of moments ago, that even now, left her slightly chilled. Such was her way. Lonely, yes, but necessary. But Grizzelda had already moved on; to thoughts of Sith, sliced and diced.

[Dire Wolf]

Lanara strode confidently down the halls, the only femininity about her form being the soft curves of her face and golden blonde hair whose bottom fringes of the back were tied up to the top while the flanks were tucked behind her ears. Her otherwise lithe form was protected by a matte black shell of durasteel and machinery, so thick and heavy that only the strongest of creatures could heft its weight. Fortunately the suit's mini-motors turned the weakest of snivveling cowards into the strongest of creatures.

The woman hated the suit of armor, but couldn't deny its potency. It could take a direct hit from a blaster bolt, leave her with nothing more than a broken rib from a slug, but unfortunately it was little more than butter against a lightsaber. At least... last time she heard, the Sith didn't have much in the way of Dark Jedi on their side. Hopefully that trend continued.

Her helmet was the only true thin part of the armor, and that was simply because it offered her with maximum protection with all things, field of view included, considered. That particular hunk of steel was pinned against her hip and her elbow, and the downright terrifying heavy repeating blaster was slung up on the opposite side. While she may not have particularly enjoyed the armor, watching her enemies dive for cover as she whipped out the snub nosed heavy machine gun - equiv and opened up a can of whop ass on 'em was nothing short of hilarious. Not to mention satisfying.

But all of those musings weren't why she was walking towards the garage with the demeanor of a killer about her shelled body. Scuttlebutt told her that there was going to be an ambush on a Sith armored column today, and she'd be damned if she wasn't a part of it. Lana would do just about anything to prove that she was worth her weight to the DLA. Guarding the perimeter and teaching the newbies how to shoot a gun straight simply wasn't enough. For her, anyways.

The door to the garage screeched open, presumably resuming the group that was to be taking part in the raid. A brief flare of bronze sparked to life within the dull grey forge of her eyes mirroring the audacity within her as she walked up to Al. The rumors she heard said that he was in charge of this one, but to be frank it was all an assumption. Mo could just as well be in charge of the op.

"Al... Mo... sorry about Dutch," she said with a tinge of sadness in her voice. All that she heard was that he fell into a coma, not much more than that. Hadn't talked to them since she'd heard, though to be frank she hardly had the chance to talk to the trio at all. "But... I's wond'rin' if I could ride out with y'all and help ya take out those tanks. Bein' a REMF loses its novelty fast, sir."

Only after the blonde stopped speaking did she realize that she fell into a position of parade rest. Her back was straight, feet shoulder length apart, and her hands were behind her back. Each thumb interlocked and hands straightened, not that any of the miltia men could see. It was a habbit, but also a sign of respect from the woman. She considered these men to not only be her superiors, but the organization as a whole to be as good as a military force. If she hadn't she'd have simply would've addressed them without the formal posture or mannerisms.

[Otterling]

((OOC: UGH, not the best post but I'm getting warmed back up so bear with me. ))

The soft whir beep of the machinery Dutch was hooked up to filled in the silence that otherwise pervaded the room. Kabira stood still as a statue at the side of his bed staring down at him though she’d long ago stopped really even seeing him. She was seeing memories now, the vibrancy of his life, of his strength. It was a strength she genuinely missed. So much had happened so fast in the last few months and in the blink of an eye, Kabira had lost almost everyone she’d ever cared for. She was down to Al now really, he was all she had left, the only one she was really truly close to in any way. She’d made a few friends around the DLA of course, Nikki and Kiala among them, but the friendships were still raw and new and lacked the feeling of real family Kabira had shared with Dutch, Mo, and the rest of the Sampson crew.

She reached out and tentatively curled her fingers around the limp digits laying against crisp white sheets. His fingers were still warm but didn’t move at her touch and something in Kabira’s heart broke a little. She’d reached out to that hand countless times since the accident, hoping he’d just wake up and reach back, but her hope had been in vain so far. A subtle but insistent click caught her attention, reminding her of Surge’s presence in the corner of the room. He’d seen her sneak in every night to stand at Dutch’s bedside but his usual snarky comments had died after the first time Kabira took out her rage and pain on the droid and spent the rest of the evening putting him back together. It had been for the best that no one else had heard the commotion.

Kabira glanced up at Surge and could have sworn she saw something almost sad in the way he cocked his head at her. “Don’t you have a meeting to go to?” he asked in a voice that seemed to lack it’s usual bite. Kabira managed a halfhearted smile and nodded before letting the fingers in her grip fall limply back to the bed. She glanced at her chronometer as she left the room and let out a cuss that rang all the way down the hall before breaking into a full tilt run. She was late. She hated being late and moreover, Al was waiting for her. Things between them were still…confusing to say the least. Her heart still hammered ridiculously every time he was in the room and she felt that irritating urge to giggle and blush still. She’d heard some guy in the hall mention her as “Al’s girlfriend” and she decked him on general principle in case he was making fun of her, but there was a part of her that really liked the sound of that regardless.

Kabira skidded down the hall and pulled up short just before the door leading into the garage. She glanced over at her reflection in one of the thin copper pipes that carried water through to the boilers and snarled at the way she looked. Her eyes were a little puffy and red still from crying and her hair was a hot mess. It sprang out from under her cap at every angle conceivable and she struggled to shove as much of the unruly locks behind her ears as she could. Grease still smudged across her nose and cheek from the last carburetor she’d worked on before sneaking down to see her surrogate brother and she rubbed at it futilely for a few moments before giving up with a frustrated wave of her hand. It wasn’t as if Al hadn’t seen her looking worse after all. At least, that was the thought she was clinging to as she hurried the rest of the way into the garage.

Her eyes fell immediately on Al as he leaned against the table. Mo was the next figure she recognized followed by Grizzelda. The other young man who looked about her age had to be Mark since there was only one other boy coming with them the last she’d heard but it took her a moment to recognize the last member. The name started with an L, that much she knew, and she recognized the stiff demeanor that marked her as a military person. Kabira frowned a bit as she wracked her brain for the name that simply would not come to her and shrugged it off as unimportant. Someone would mention the woman’s name at some point and the mystery would be solved.

Kabira strode up to the group and put on her best sheepish smile. “Sorry I’m a little late, guys. Surge was having…uh…issues and I had to help him out. Got him all straight though,” she lied as smoothly as she could. It wasn’t TOO far from the truth. She HAD been in the medical wing after all. “So, now that the gang’s all here, shall we get our respective @$$3$ underway? We have some Sith to smite.” She managed to shove some excitement into her voice and tried her best not to make direct eye contact with Al. Of anyone here, he’d be the one best suited to notice something amiss and that was drama she really didn’t need right before a mission.

[Rugs]

"I'll hold you to that, Grizz," Al said wryly, with a boyish smirk at the mercenary. "I do love a good custard every now and then." If for no other reason than to be able to forget for a little while. Custard was an interesting thing for Al. It was something he'd had very little of since the invasion, and when he was lucky enough to get his hands on some, it took him back, to a time when everything had been right. Back to a time when they'd all just been simple farmers, or mechanics, or whatever it was they did. Back to a time where they hadn't been lost in some unsung war, while the rest of the Galaxy went on about its business.

Back to a time when everything had been right.

But their current situation was the one they'd been given, and there wasn't anything to be gained from bemoaning it. Nope, there was nothing for them to do but fight and hope they could find a way to get back to those happy days, even though they probably all knew in their hearts that even if they won their fight with the Sith and Dantooine become free once more, things would probably never be the way they had been before. Still, they'd fight on anyway. It was the only thing they could do.

Al's mind came back to the present with the sound of a new arrival. He looked up, and saw Lanara coming into the garage. That was a surprise. As far as he knew, she wasn't set to ride out with them on this mission. But when she came to a stop before him, back straight, posture erect and respectful, she asked to do just that.

And so Al found himself with a decision to make. Taking her out would mean one more person to go along with the group. One more person that he would be responsible for, should things go south unexpectedly. Were Lanara an ordinary new recruit, he might have denied her request.

However, Lanara was not an ordinary newcomer to the DLA. Most of them tended to be like the rest of the people that made up the bulk of the resistance: farmer, merchants, mechanics--ordinary people; Dantooine's children, who were standing up to fight to defend their home. But every now and then they got an offworlder, like Grizz. Or like Lanara.

Al didn't know much about the woman, but he knew she was military. Or former military. She had knowledge and experience that might prove truly invaluable on this mission, if not their entire struggle against the Sith. That and she probably knew how to take care of herself as well as, if not better than most of the people gathered in the garage. It made Al's decision an easy one.

"I'd be love to have you ride out with us, Lanara." Al met the woman's gaze as he spoke, though it was respectful, rather than confrontational. "With you along, I don't think our bastard friends are gonna know what hit 'em when we meet 'em on the plains."

He finished with a nod, and just as he was, the sound of another approaching drew his attention once again to the garage's entrance.

It was Kabira.

Al smiled a bit without even knowing it. He liked Kabira. For more reason than that she was a fellow mechanic. I need to stop now before I turn red in front of everyone. That didn't stop the

"Welcome to the party, Kabs," he called to her when she'd arrived. "Now that the full gang's here, I do believe it's high time we head out, don't you all agree?" He stood to his feet, and stretched out a bit, finally ready to get the show on the road. "I'd hate to keep our guests of honor waitin' on us."

[Meira]

Colonel, we have report that the tanks are now en route from the repair station. ETA, one hour, twenty minutes.

What is the status of our convoy?

Supplies are still being organized, sir. We should be moving within two hours.

Shaw sighed, rubbing his temples with the fingers of his left hand. These sith were slow, sluggish even. It was moments like these that he missed being a mercenary. There were not cargo manifests that had to be checked and confirmed. There was only the group, the people, fighting together and getting paid to walk away afterwards. But he was in this too thick now, he couldn't just up and leave, even if he wanted to. But Shaw didn't want to. He had a personal stake in this now. Those blasted so called "freedom fighters" were making a royal mess of things, and it was a stain on his honor as a soldier that they still breathed. No, Shaw would see this thing through.

He dismissed the corporal with a wave of his hand and turned back to the papers that had been brought to him just before the corporal came to give his update. The rebels had been focusing their attacks on the sith convoys lately. Shaw had found it necessary to double the defenses on each convoy lest they be taken. This particular run was to be a test. Laden with just as much armor as supplies, Shaw was fairly certain there was no way the rebels could take this one, not with their level of fire power. And as soon as those tanks were back, he could slate them to move out with patrols to start putting some real pressure on the rabble. Shaw scrawled his signature across the request for upgraded armor on the transports, giving the approval and slid the stack of papers to the side of the desk.

A private, who'd been standing by, took the papers almost immediately and was out of the room with them in an instant, leaving Shaw alone. It wasn't the soldiers themselves that were slow, Shaw had made sure of that. It was the beurocracy. Not a single rifle could be loaded without proper authorization. It was maddening. The worst part about it was that all that paperwork kept Shaw at a desk longer than it allowed him to be out in the field. Well, not today. Shaw pressed the call button on the comm that sat on the desk.

Yes, colonel? Came the quick reply.

Prepare my transport. Have it ready to go with the convoy.

But, sir... you're scheduled for a brief...

I don't care about the frakkin' briefing. I'll brief the baroness when I have some gorram news to report! I'm going with the convoy. Prepare my transport!

....Yes sir.

Shaw leaned back in his chair, a slight smile stretching across his scarred face. Today would mark an important turning point in his career. He could feel it in his bones.

[Twysper]

({Timeskip agreed upon with Rugs. =3 And so, here... we... go... })

A dirt-brown path snaked quietly through the rolling green hills of Dantooine, and the grass of the plains wavered in the airy breeze. All was calm and serene; the perfect picture of a rural landscape, seemingly spared from the rest of the world’s chaos, for it bore no outward marring.

Yet its normally clean, earthy soul had been saturated with the blood of innocents, killed in the Sith’s swarming invasion of the planet. Large pockmarked craters left by bombing runs were prominent wherever there had previously been a group of people banding together to live on Dantooine.

The infestation now spread across the surface, replacing cozy farming homesteads with cold and unnatural permacrete military barracks.

Lush corners of the planet still remained untouched though, like this one, perfectly preserved almost like a relic from another time.

But this would not, be remembered as another time.

Not if the DLA had anything to do with it.

Dantooine was pained, but she was still beautiful.

Still worth fighting for…

~~~~~~~

Mark was lying prone in the tall grass of Dantooine's plains. His hands were currently occupied holding a looted submachine gun with calm ease. Alistair and Kabira were on opposite sides of him, each arrayed a few yards distant. Mark had the clacker for the IED they had planted in the dirt road within easy reach.

Together, they were the first ambush team, and they were in position

The DLA scouts had reported that the armored column was traveling with two humvees as support. The plan was to take out the jeep traveling in the front with the IED and temporarily slow the convoy with its charred hulk. Then Mo, Grizz, and Lanara would come over the top of the grassy hill that the road curled around to provide heavy supporting fire and a distraction, while the first team swept up from the plains and caught them in a crossfire, their primary objective being to seize the tanks without major damage to the vehicles while the main cannons were turning towards the second group.

Lightning speed and misdirection were key, as they were in most guerrilla maneuvers.

As soon as the majority of the Sith forces were wiped out, both teams would blitz towards the two tanks, attempting to seize control of them. If all went as planned, they would take their newly stolen armored column on to attack the Sith resupply convoy that would be coming through the canyons near Flynt, wreaking as much havoc as possible before calling in an extraction team and destroying the tanks, because, unfortunately, leaving a long set of tire tracks leading the Sith back to Homestead was not one of the mission’s objectives.

A lot could go wrong, and the mission was a long shot, everyone present understood that…

A vibrating rumble growing in intensity neared their position, and Mark softly moved to a crouch, allowing the submachine gun to hang loosely on its strap around his shoulders as he retrieved the clacker.

The sixteen year old breathed softly behind his balaclava.

He was at peace.

Mark was always at peace during a mission; a paradox.

The fragmented pieces of his life fell into place the exact instant he peered out of the cover of the thick grass that Dantooine provided, seemingly to help its protectors. Hard emerald eyes watched for a long second as the first jeep drove closer to the planted explosive device.

And then, when it was deemed close enough, Mark squeezed the detonator…


The directed explosion punched through the underside of the first Sith jeep’s chassis, sending it toppling end over end as its momentum kept it moving forward. Then the burned out remains settled on the road with a crash. Nothing moved from within.

The armored column ground to a halt.

The explosion was the agreed upon signal. Mark had already returned the clacker to his pocket and grabbed a hold of his submachine gun by then, and was nodding success towards Al and Kabira. He started to close the distance between them and the road before the second team even started shooting…


({ Not sure what you want to do with Shaw, Meira. He could actually be inside one of the tanks, or be in the relatively unspecified vehicle at the back of the line. Or be in another vehicle right behind the first jeep or be all blowned up already, or crawling out of the first jeep, seriously pissed off, or –something.- xD Talk to me, and we can work something good out; I’ll edit my post if need be. Or we could all wing it. =3})

[Kella]

"Boom," Grizzelda said under her breath as the explosive charge bucked the vehicle end-over-end. She paid homage to the success with a characteristic smirk.

She didn't need to glance at the other two women to know that they were there, seeing and processing the same things she was. The first, Lenara, was a woman of Grizzelda's own caliber. Being the military-type, she constrained herself to a few more rules than did Grizzelda, but they had as much in common as they did not.

The second was younger, with gumption out-proportioning her experience. Her weapons were outdated, but her skill made them relevant. She saw inklings of herself there, too, but knew with confidence that she and this girl had been marked for vastly different paths.

But these conclusions passed not as conscious thoughts, but as general impressions and feelings, for the paramount concern in Grizzelda's mind was simple.

She was here to blow stuff up.

"Ready-Set-Go," she said.

She looked down the sights of the bi-pod rocket launcher, its third degree steadied on her right shoulder. It was an old model, and what it lacked in accuracy, power, and maneuverability... it didn't make up for.

Grizzelda centered the crosshairs over the rearmost vehicle in the caravan -- another armored jeep. Nothing better than herding the cattle together for the slaughter. In movements and patterns as natural as walking, she compensated the launcher's position for off-set and trajectory. The trigger resisted her pull until the mechanism caught, and she could feel the launcher yank as the rocket sailed forward.

Three, two, one...

Down the hill, a second explosion rocked the air, tearing through the seams of the jeep like a knife through cake. What remained of the jeep after the throwing of shrapnell skidded to a halt some six yards beyond its original position, spitting sparks and smoke.

And that was why one bothered to learn how armored Jeeps were made. It rendered one much more able to take them apart again.

Quickly, she re-aimed the rocket launcher, angling it towards the center of the convoy. She intentionally aimed it low, just on the close side of the nearest tank. Again, she sent the rocket to fly.

Clods of dirt and rock sprayed from the impact site, sending the tank swaying on its shocks and white smoke up in the air. She'd done no damage to the prize, of course, but she'd jostled whoever was inside.

Two shots would have to be enough, the operation was too delicate and 'munitions too scarce for her to spend all day unleashing the wrath of rapidly expanding matter on the convoy.

She signaled that the other women were in the clear, and let them ahead while she shrugged away the rocket launcher, and procured the rifle slung across her shoulder.

Blaster bolts weren't going to do much against electromagnetically treated armor, like that which comprised the tanks. That worked to Grizzelda's advantage -- she could burn a few power packs without even so much as nicking the paint. And a that's exactly what she intended to do. Blaster bolts were bright, and they made noise. When you had more than three or four coming at once, there could be six or there could be twelve dozen and most people were at a loss to know. They made great intimidators.

She didn't even bother to look down the sight, rather, she steadied the butt of the rifle against her abdomen and rained red fire down upon the convoy, with an instinctual approximation of direction.

Quickly she moved, feet eating the slope as three skeletal faces bore down upon the Sith.

Her eyes spotted a flash of movement, a head tentatively exposed to assess the situation. She raised the rifle to her shoulder, the sight to her eye, and fired. With no recoil, she could watch the plasma become a black, cavernous hole, and the body drop out of view.

Boom. Headshot.

The Sith were beginning to fire back now, finally. But their patterns were easily predicted and easily dodged, at least for someone who'd been doing this as long as Grizzelda had.

And that's where the DLA, and she herself, had a distinct advantage. There were lots of Sith. They followed the same patterns, she'd faced them -- even worked with them -- before. She had met something like them. But they had never met something like her,