The Lost Fleet Returns

[Maxwell Gandel]

It had been a long trip from the unknown regions. A long and boring trip. Then again, Admiral Maxwell Gandel thought to himself, it would have been just as boring had he stayed in the unknown regions. At least this way he was getting something done.

"Seven years," Gandel said aloud as he stood on the command walkway of the Imperial Star Destroyer Decimation. He turned to look at his XO, the ship's captain, Anton Mercils. Mercils stood near the forward viewports, watching the swirling colors of hyperspace pass them by. "Seven years since Thrawn left. What do you suppose he's been up to since then?"

"Forgetting about us, apparently," Was Anton's glib answer. The captain leaned his weight against a support strut and looked back at Gandel. "I don't know, sir. It's been more than a decade since we've been in Imperial space. I don't blame him for forgetting about us. A lot has probably changed."

Gandel nodded his agreement. "And then, some things never change. A decade," He repeated. "More than that, really. What do you want to do the most when we get back to civilization, Anton? What planets do you want to visit?"

Anton didn't even have to think about his answer. "Imperial Center. My sister was there, before we left. I didn't get to give her much of a goodbye. I wonder if she's gotten married by now." The two officer stood in silence for a few moments, both watching the hypnotic lightshow that was hyperspace. "What about you, sir?"

"Hm?" Gandel grunted his question. He'd been distracted by thoughts of just that, and it took his mind a moment to process what Anton had said. "Oh, me. Imperial Center for me, as well... but just to visit. After that... well. There were so many places I wanted to see. Corellia, for one. Mon Calamari, for another. Once we get in contact with Imperial Command I think I'll order a mandatory shoreleave to Mon Cal. Give the crew a chance to go swimming, eh?" Gandel smiled, pleased at the prospect of actually going someplace with civilization and Imperial Order.

"I wouldn't mind that, myself," Anton replied. He started to say something else, but was interrupted by a nav officer calling out from the crew pits.

"One minute to hyperspace reversion!"

Gandel and Anton glanced at each other, Anton straightening from his relaxed position. Gandel didn't stand as much on formalities as some other admirals did. Maybe that would change when they got back to Imperial space. Both men faced forward, watching the ship revert to realspace. "Welcome to Bilbringi," Gandel said with a smile as the shipyards came into view. "Welcome home."

**************

Bilbringi had always had busy spacelanes. Before the war, there had been innumerable commercial and private ships coming and going, along with all the new ships coming out of the yards. During the war, there had been a significant military presense from both sides, each in their turn. Now, after the Thrawn attack, there was an even greater military presense. That, coupled with usual traffic, made Bilbringi Traffic Control a very large, very busy place.

Several sensor stations monitored incoming and outgoing traffic around the clock, ensuring that chaos in the spacelanes was kept to a minimum. A young human manning one of those sensor stations got a very rude awakening shortly before starting his lunch.

*beeeep*

*beeeep*

*beeeep*

*bee-smack*

"Yeah, yeah, I got it. You want my attention." The young man sighed longingly for his unstarted lunch, then looked at the sensor screen. Something was obviously wrong. The sensor panel didn't beep like that for every new arrival, just new arrivals that were out of the ordinary. Glancing over the sensor screen, it slowly dawned on the man that something was wrong. Very wrong. Discard-your-lunch-and-pay-attention wrong.

smack

Alarm claxons blared throughout Bilbringi traffic control. "Alert!" The young man cried out, "Alert! Sensors show an Imperial armada reverting to realspace in sector fourteen!"

The senior man on duty materialized out of nowhere behind the young man's chair. "Show it to me," He ordered tightly. The young man did so, and heard his supervisor say things that definately weren't allowed to be said while on duty. "Open a comm channel to the Warrior." The Warrior was an MC90, the head NR warship on guard duty here are Bilbringi. They'd probably already picked up the Imperial forces, but it never hurt to be sure.

"Go ahead," The decidedly military voice of the Warrior's comm officer responded.

"This is Bilbringi Traffic Control. Tell me you see what I'm seeing," The supervisor demanded.

"Three Star Destroyers and assorted escorts? Oh yeah, we see it. Use SOP and clear the area of civillian traffic. We'll take care of the rest."

**************

"Sir," one of the Decimation's own sensor operators was reporting, "Scans are picking up multiple warships of unknown design..."

"Things must have progressed quite a bit since we left," Gandel said. He wanted to sound confident, but his gut was already telling him something was wrong. He should have gotten a communique from traffic control by now, a hail from one of the ships on guard duty, some sort of contact. Instead, silence. "How many Star Destroyers?" He asked, hoping for an answer that didn't come.

"Ah... none, sir."

"It's not possible for them to have completely phased out the design, is it?" Anton asked, keeping his voice low so only Gandel could hear.

"A decade is a long time, Anton..." But even as he said it, Gandel himself had doubts. The ISD class was a good design, powerful enough to take on any other warship one on one. There was no need to phase it out.

"Sir," The sensor officer was at it again, "I'm not detecting any Imperial IFF transponder codes. I'm not reading any comm traffic on standard Imperial channels, either. And what I am picking up is encrypted."

"Military comm traffic is always encrypted," Gandel told himself as much as Anton. "In the time we've been gone, they could've changed their encrypts a dozen times over."

"What's their footing?" Anton demanded, noting that several of the larger warships had positioned themselves between the 105th and the shipyards. "Fighters?"

"They've scrambled fighters... and it looks like they've got their sheilds up."

"Something's wrong," Gandel finally admitted aloud. "They're too hostile. It's like we're... like we're an invading fleet..."

That's why Thrawn never came back, the thought suddenly struck Gandel. Something happened. To the Empire, the galaxy. Thrawn went back to what he thought was friendly territory and never made it out...

"No," Gandel breathed. The Empire couldn't have fallen. This was all one big mistake. "Comms, set to broadcast this on non military frequencies." When he got the nod that they were ready to broadcase, Gandel took a deep breath. "Bilbringi garrison, this is Admiral Maxwell Gandel of the 105th Imperial fleet. Confirm your identity, please."

"Relay orders to prepare for jump," Anton ordered, heading for the crew pits. He paused at the edge, turning towards Gandel. "Admiral, I suggest we go to a combat footing. Whatever's happened here, I don't think it's wise to stick around."

Gandel nodded his agreement. Anton would take care of the details. There still had been no response from the unidentified warships. They'd assumed a military formation, but weren't moving to attack. Not yet, anyway.

There was a silence filled with the mutterings of crewers at their workstations and the sounds of working machinery. He could hear Anton at a comm station, broadcasting jump prep orders to the rest of the fleet. The unknown fleet began to move...

[Remus Voltaire]

Music drifted quietly through Remus' quarters as he sat at his desk looking over reports and construction status. He'd only came to Bilbringi for his preferred method of random inspections as it kept the contractors for the New Republic on their toes as well as the security forces. No one liked to see the Admiral bearing down on them with an angry look about him. Remus Voltaire wasn't a violent man by nature, in fact all he wanted was peace but he knew one motto that made very much sense to him: if you wish for peace, prepare for war. The Empire was still out their, shattered but still there with random warlords mucking about and harassing eachother and the New Republic. This thought made him look down at the picture of his parents, people who had been slaughtered by the Empire to make an example of them. That was all that he needed to see to keep his resolve in the fight against the Empire, they were monsters, butchers even, and he'd see them all thrown from power and perhaps put before a court if they didn't die during the battles.

There was a small beep and Remus without looking up pressed a button on his desk, permitting the person entry to his quarters. A short, stocky man entered the room wearing the emblems of a flag captain. He was a vicious looking man, especially compared to Remus whose calm presence hid a boiling hatred beneath it. Flag Captain Brin Fruli had no such compunctions, if he was angry, he immediately let you know and it was easy enough for the crew to be intimidate but such a diminutive figure when they realised the uniform covered a rather muscular body built up from years of service in the New Republic Marine Corps. The only reason Brin wasn't a marine any more was simply because he didn't care for it, so he retired his marine commission and went through some academy time, easily passing through into the service of the New Republic Navy. Remus found him rather amusing as well as a probably one of the few people he considered a close friend.

"What's up, Brin?" Remus asked as he looked up to look at his executive officer.

"Just reminding you that your due on the bridge soon, Remus. I know how you get caught up in your paper work," Brin said with a chuckle.

"Ah, is it really that time already?" Remus looked at his desk chrono and made a face. "I really need to pay more attention to time, don't I?"

"No comment, sir," Brin said with a small smile.

"That no comment says a lot, Captain," Remus said with a chuckle and stood up, closing up the collar of his Admiral's uniform he'd let hang open while he did the paper work.

Without another word, the pair moved through the officer quaters to the bridge, which was a standard military style. It wasn't the glossy white of Mon Cal vessels as Remus really couldn't stand how their viewscreens, no matter how heavily modified, still made his eyes water. Thus Remus' own flagship was a Liberator-Class Cruiser, which he had chosen to name the Pax Republica. It was a name he thought suited his own philosophy, a warship named for peace.

Just as Remus stood there, looking out at the depths of space, several flashes of light indicating hyperspace reversion caught his eye. For some reason the new arrivals sent a chill down his spine, which only got worse as he picked up messages from the comm station as The Warrior started relaying data to the rest of the ships. The weren't Republic, which meant only one real answer.

"No warlord is that stupid..." Remus remarked as he watched the ships while the defense forces clustered into formation and fighters launched.

It was then that something rather odd occurred, the Imperial ships sent the most unexpected transmission across general channels.

"Bilbringi garrison, this is Admiral Maxwell Gandel of the 105th Imperial fleet. Confirm your identity, please."

"The 105th?" Remus asked looking over at his Republic Intel officer who was now quickly sorting through the files at his disposal.

"This can't be right, sir... Those ships are under Black classification, only the Emperor would have known about them. Oh frak... Sir, these ships were assigned to Grand Admiral Thrawn for Unknown Regions actions..."

Remus turned and looked back at the Imperial forces, unable to believe something connected to Thrawn had been out there for so long after the Grand Admiral's defeat.

"Opening hailing towards them and order the Revolution and the Peacekeeper along with some support ships to form up with us and make ready to give chase, those Imperials are getting edgy, they'll likely jump pretty soon."

The bridge crew moved to obey Remus' orders and then a comm officer nodded to him, indicating that they were now hailing the Imperial forces, giving Remus his que to speak.

"Attention Imperial forces, this is Admiral Remus Voltaire of the New Republic. Stand down immediately and surrender your vessels. This is your only warning."

[Maxwell Gandel]

Attention Imperial forces, A voice crackled across the comm lines, this is Admiral Remus Voltaire of the New Republic. Stand down immediately and surrender your vessels. This is your only warning.

Gandel raised his eyebrows in surprise. The new republic? He said it aloud, noting the relative silence that had descended across the bridge. Well, this was certainly unexpected. "Bring up the tactical display," Gandel ordered. "Put all ships on alert one, but keep fighters in their bays. If we can't make a jump before they get within weapons range I want them to know chasing us is a bad idea."

The bridge's tactical holographic display sprang to life in front of Gandel, orange gridlines mapping out the surrounding star system in as much detail as the 105th's sensors could manage. Friendly warships showed up outlined in blue. The enemy warships were displayed in green. It was quickly evident that the 105th had gotten too far in-system before they'd realized something was wrong. Having passed beyond the edge of a planetary gravity well, they would have to turn around and retrace their steps before they were able to make a hyperspace jump.

The enemy must have known as well, becuase a number of their warships were accelerating towards the 105th. "Navigation, if we turned around and headed for the edge of the gravity well right now, how long would we need?"

"Five minutes," Anton responded from the crew pits, already on top of the situation. Gandel nodded. At the speed the enemy warships were closing, they could be within weapons range by then. Perhaps, then, it was time for cool heads to prevail.

"Prepare to broadcast," Gandel ordered. "Navigation, turn us about. Anton, have the fleet withdraw to the edge of the gravity well. Comms?"

"Ready to broadcast, admiral."

"New Republic forces... Admiral Voltaire. I have no intention of surrendering my fleet, sir. But neither do I intend to fight you. My fleet is withdrawing as we speak... all I ask is that you let us go in peace."

Perhaps it would work, perhaps it wouldn't. It was worth a try either way. What the hell is going on here, Gandel wondered.

[Remus Voltaire]

"New Republic forces... Admiral Voltaire. I have no intention of surrendering my fleet, sir. But neither do I intend to fight you. My fleet is withdrawing as we speak... all I ask is that you let us go in peace."

"Peace?"

Those of the bridge crew who weren't busily working turned to look at Admiral Remus Voltaire, a man who had fought a personal crusade since the beginning of his military career against the Empire. Remus' eyes now had a cold glint to them that the crew was familiar with, he was going to attack and hound these Imperials. He would remember this fleet, that Admiral, until the day he found and destroyed them both.

"Captain, order my battle group to form up and move in, be ready to trace their coordinates as well, I'm not going to let them get away. I'm not going to let yet another damn Imperial loose to cause havoc."

"Yes, sir!"

The bridge crew moved like lightning, relaying orders as Remus stalked around the tactical hologram at the center of the bridge, observing the enemy fleet. He smiled coldly as his group of Liberators and support craft began to move in while the rest of the forces stayed in place to defend the shipyards.

"Hail them again."

"Connected, sir."

"Admiral Gandel, I order you again to stand down and surrender or I will consider you a hostile. Don't think for a moment I won't have any sympathies blasting that force into space dust either. The time of the Empire is over, now and forever. I won't let you pieces of bantha fodder ruin or terrorize this galaxy anymore."

Remus gave the cut signal with his hand and then gave one final order as he prepared a plan of attack in his head.

"Battle stations."

[Maxwell Gandel]

...The time of the Empire is over, now and forever. I won't let you pieces of bantha fodder ruin or terrorize this galaxy anymore.

Gandel's last hopes fell as he listened to the New Republic admiral's words. Something unpleasent had happened to the Empire in the 105th's absense. Something called he New Republic. "Admiral, the enemy warships are accelerating. They'll be in weapons range within two minutes."

Gandel's mind snapped into focus as those words emerged from the crew pits. It was time for action, not for introspection. "Order the Plague and the Dominator to fall to the rear of the fleet," He ordered. "Tactical, I want us back there with them. Open fire as soon as you think we might be able to score a hit. With any luck, that will keep them at a distance."

The 105th began it's flight from Bilbringi, it's three star destroyers bringing up the rear. They weren't built for speed, Gandel knew, they wouldn't be able to outrun the fastest enemy warships. But if there was one thing a star destroyer had going for it, it was raw firepower. Slowly but surely, the distances closed. "Range!" Anton called out from the crewpits, and it began. Emerald fire sprang from the guns of three star destroyers, lancing across space at the ships that persued them. Crimson energy answered back, turbolaser blasts from the persuers.

It quickly became evident that the enemy's targetting systems were superior to that of Gandel's own warships. Far more shots were hitting the shields than should have been possible. "Looks like we missed out on some technology advancements. Tactical, can our shields hold until we reach the jump marker?"

"I think we can manage, sir. We're pumping everything we can from the forward shields to the aft generators... it should be enough to last until jump."

"And meanwhile," Gandel muttered, "All we're doing is annoying them. Anton, where are we jumping to?" He avoided the urge to lean over and look down into the crewpits. One bad hit could send him sailing over the edge... and he didn't fancy a stay in the medical bay just now.

"Deep space sir, random coordinates." The deckplates took up a slight vibration as the shield generators worked to dissipate the energy from enemy fire. Anton went silent for a moment, appearing on the command walkway several seconds later. "Sir, if what he said is true... if the Empire's days are over in favor of this... this New Republic..."

"Then we'll be hunted," Gandel nodded. "No matter where we jump to, they'll trace our jump route and come after us. Which means multiple jumps."

"But where to, sir? We can't just keep hiding in deep space. We're too short on supplies..." The bridge shook slightly, and Gandel frowned. The enemy must be getting closer, landing more frequent and more powerful volleys.

"All in time, Anton," Gandel replied. "First, we need to get out of here. Tactical, how do our shields look?"

"Holding, sir. But they're weakening fast. Those ships are heavily armed for their size."

"Time to jump?"

"Less than a minute."

Gandel nodded, mostly to himself. He watched the 105th through the forward viewports, saw ships staring to streak away into hyperspace. Crimson turbolaser blasts also passed by on either side of the ship, near misses. Finally, thankfully, the Decimation and it's accompanying VSDs jumped as well. Gandel chewed the inside of his lip. The enemy had been right behind them when they jumped... it would be extremely easy for them to trace the jump route.

"Calculate another random jump," He ordered at last. "Have the fleet move as soon as we're back in realspace. Then we'll figure out where to go next."

The admiral heaved a sigh. This was not going anything like he'd planned. Hiding an entire fleet was going to be extremely difficult... and provisioning it without friendly supply caches was going to be even worse. "I'll be in my quarters," he said, and headed for the lift.

[Maxwell Gandel]

Gandel entered the conference room just minutes before the briefing was set to begin. He noted with satisfaction that all of the 105th's senior captains had been able to attend in person. Having performed a third random jump, the fleet should be sufficiently safe from their persuers. "Admiral," Anton nodded as Gandel took an unoccupied seat. Gandel nodded back, and the captain turned to one of the other men in the room. "You may begin your briefing, Lieutenant."

Lieutenant Raschfield stood from his chair, datapad in hand. "Thank you, sir. Gentlemen, for the record this is an intelligence briefing on the enemy forces encountered at Bilbringi." Raschfield manipulated the datapad he held, and the room's lights dimmed. The table around which the officers sat took on a slight glow, and a three dimensional hologram sprang into life several inches above it's neatly polished surface.

http://i16.photobucket.com/albums/b18/Maxwell_Gandel/X-Wing.jpg

"This has been designated the X-1 starfighter," Raschfield began. "Sensor records show a number of them were present at Bilbringi. They appear to be very similar in design to the Z-95 Headhunter that was being produced shortly before our deployment to the unknown regions. Since our fighters did not engage this ship in a direct dogfight, we have no hard data on it's capabilities. Visual inspection, however, yeilds four wingtip mounted laser cannons. There also appear to be small apetures at the nose of the craft, which we suspect to be missile tubes." Raschfield manipulated his datapad, and the appropriate areas of the model changed color. "It's top observed speed is slower than that of our TIE fighters. We believe it fills the role of a space superiority fighter within the enemy navy," he finished. He paused, perhaps to allow the assembled officers to ask any questions.

Gandel would have liked to know whether or not the ship was shielded, and what it's maneuverability was like, but the sensor recordings must not have been detailed enough to yeild that information. So far, things were not looking good. Imperial doctrine had always been that starfighters were expendible and easily replaced... they won through quantity, not quality. With the Empire as they knew it gone, every fighter they had was precious. This X-1 outgunned the 105th's TIE compliment... with any luck, it would be far less nimble.

Raschfield, seeing that nobody wanted to ask any questions, manipulated his datapad.

http://i16.photobucket.com/albums/b18/Maxwell_Gandel/E-wing.jpg

"This fighter has been designated the X-2. There were only limited numbers visible amongst the enemy fighter compliment, which suggests one of two things. Either it's obsolete, or it's extremely new. We have hardly any solid sensor data on it, but visual inspection once again shows us it's external weapons compliment: three laser cannons. Speed and maneuvering capabilities are unknown, as is whether or not it's shielded."

This time, Raschfield moved on after only a short pause, and a t-shaped starfighter appeared above the table.

http://i16.photobucket.com/albums/b18/Maxwell_Gandel/B-wing.jpg

"This is the X-3. It's top observed speed was even less than that of the X-1, and it's heavily armed and armored. Sensor returns on this fighter were good enough that we know it to be outfitted with heavy shields. Note the weapons clusters at each wingtip, and under the cockpit." The appropriate bits of the model changed color, though they hardly needed to. Gandel raised both eyebrows. The ship certainly was heavily armed... that, coupled with it's shields, made Gandel strongly suspect that it was a bomber. Raschfield confirmed his suspicions a moment later.

"There also appear to be two missile apetures near the center of the vessel," The lieutenant was saying. "All things considered, we've classified this fighter as a bomber. It's weapons loadout and shields mean it's probably not very manuverable... a sitting duck for TIEs. It will no doubt be under escort by other starfighter classes whenever encountered, but should nonetheless be considered a primary target."

"That brings us to the last observed starfighter..."

http://i16.photobucket.com/albums/b18/Maxwell_Gandel/A-wing.jpg

"This is the X-4. Sensor returns on this starfighter are incredibly sketchy. We've tentatively classified it as an interceptor due to it's speed, but other than that we know little about it. We strongly suspect that this starfighter is outfitted with electronic warfare packages, sensor and comm jammers."

"Is it as fast as our TIEs?" Gandel asked. So far the enemy starfighters had outgunned his fighters, but had been slower because of it. To a trained and experienced pilot, that could be a life saving edge. But if they had a fighter that could match the TIE in speed and manuverability...

"Actually, sir," Raschfield said flatly, "It's faster."

A slight murmer went around the holotable. Gandel frowned, barely listening as Raschfield went on to detail what little was known about it's weapons. To Gandel, it didn't matter. Even a single blaster cannon mounted to a ship that was faster than a TIE could be enough to cause the 105th's fighters real trouble. Had it been this fighter that had won the war for the New Republic?

After the briefing oon the X-4, the meeting took a momentary break. Raschfield was preparing a brief on the enemy's capital ships, but even less was known about them than the mysterious starfighters. Only three had proven familiar to Gandel when he'd looked over the sensor readings himself. Apparently, the New Republic wasn't above continuing the use of corellian corvettes and nebulon frigates. And then there had been the Mon Cal ships... Gandel had seen a Mon Cal passenger liner before. He'd even thought about traveling in such a ship some day. To see one outfitted for war had been truely disturbing.

The more Gandel thought about it, the more it became clear the the galaxy had changed a great deal. Before he did anything, he would need intelligence on the situation. The more and the sooner the better.

[Maxwell Gandel]

"I think we've found something useful, sir."

Gandel drew his attention from some deep inner thought and focused on Anton. The Decimation's captain stood before him on the command walkway, face slightly drawn. Gandel imagined his own face looked much the same - it came from worrying about how an entire fleet was going to survive in a suddenly hostile galaxy.

Despite provisions running low throughout the 105th, Gandel had taken things slowly. Fleets of probe droids - one thing the Imperial fleet had in great quantity - had been dispatched through hyperspace to scout nearby star systems. They were looking for signs of New Republic fleets, bases, and supply caches. Signs that any remnant of the old Empire had survived. Signs of hope.

Apparently, one had been found. "What is it, Anton?" Gandel followed his executive officer down into the crewpits, to one of the sensor stations that was reviewing data from the probes. Displayed on one screen was what appeared to be a small outpost of some sort, half burried in one of the larger asteroids of the system's main belt. Ships darted to and fro, and lights blinked placidly on the outpost's exposed sections.

"Pirates, sir." Anton smiled. Pirates were always enemies of the established government, hunted and persecuted for their illegal activities. And they were always in need of something. It was possible, Gandel had discussed with his senior captains, just possible, that a pirate outfit might be willing to assist the 105th in it's intelligence gathering operations.

"Are you certain?"

"Yes sir," Anton responded crisply. "The probe captured sensor and visual recordings of starfighters that show marked ammounts of wear and tear. Some even appear to be cobbled together from two or more fighter types. We've termed them 'oddballs'... most of them use a TIE's ball cocpit, but replace the solar panels with other components." Gandel raised an eyebrow, silently urging his XO to get to the point. "They have only a pair of corellian corvettes for capital ships, both of which also show considerable wear," Anton hurried to finish, "And none of them display transponder codes similar to those used by either the Empire or the New Republic."

"Any small transports?"

"Yes sir, old YT freighters and some shuttle classes."

Gandel nodded, a smile spreading across his face. "Excellent."

**************

In they heyday of the Empire, pirates had been mercilessly hunted down and destroyed. The appearance of an Imperial frigate, much less a whole Star Destroyer, had been cause for panic and evacuations. But it was a Star Destroyer that was paying a visit to the pirate base - the Decimation herself. Gandel stood on the bridge, watching the tactical holo from the moment it sprang to life.

A few moments passed as the massive warship's sudden presense registered itself with the pirate hideaway, the pirate's activity continuing on as if nothing were amiss. Then, suddenly, pandemonium broke loose. The two battered corvettes began to withdraw, pausing as if confused before bravely - if foolishly - approaching Gandel's ship. No doubt orders had been given to help cover an evacuation.

Squadrons of oddly cobbled together starfighters - Anton's oddballs - launched from both the corvettes and the asteroid base's hangar bay. Gandel let them panic. He wasn't here to fight... quite the opposite. "Play the transmission," He ordered, noting that the oddballs were staying well out of gun range, as were the corvettes. They were that smart, at least.

Attention pirates, Gandel heard his own voice through one of the bridge's secondary audio channels, flat and tinny, This is Admiral Maxwell Gandel, of the 105th Imperial Starfleet. I come bearing an offer of mutual cooperation, an offer I believe you will find most generous. If you are interested, respond on this channel.

Gandel had purposly left out the part about what would happen should they refuse his offer. There was no need to panick them further by letting them know the rest of the 105th was only a microjump out, ready to surround the base in seconds, ready to pound it and it's occupants into spacedust. Absolutely no need at all.

Suddenly a cackling, hacking laughter cut across the bridge. The pirates, it seemed, were responding. "Well admiral," A rough voice full of mirth said as the laughter subsided, "That was a hell of an opening. Tell me, what do I have to do for an encore?"

Gandel gave the signal to begin two way visual communication. He stood straight, hands clasped behind his back, head tilted slightly to one side. The beginnings of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "If that's an expression of interest..." He said, leaving the last words for the pirates.

"Aye, admiral, if that's your real rank," the image of the pirate who was speaking appeared before Gandel, a two dimensional representation fashioned by the bridge's holoprojectors. He was far too jolly looking to be a pirate, Gandel decided, though he knew full well that looks could be decieving. At least he was human. The man nodded sharply, displaying crooked teeth to match his cackling laughter. "An Imperial Star Destroyer shows up on my doorstep from right out of the wild black yonder, come from force knows where, and offers me a deal instead of blowing me to smithereens? Aye, it's enough to get my interest." Even though the blue fuzzy lines of the holoprojectin, Gandel could see the glimmer in the man's eyes. Yes, he was interested allright.

"Very good," Gandel said. "I need information. You're going to give it to me."

"An' this is mutual cooperation, is it?"

Gandel allowed his smile to grow fully. "All in good time."

[Maxwell Gandel]

The deal was a fairly simple arrangement. Gandel not only needed information, he needed supplies. Pirates, as a rule, made a living by stealing just the kinds of things Gandel wanted for the 105th. They had a working knowledge of the galaxy and it's current state of affairs, and they could help resupply the fleet.

The Imperials had a variety of things to offer in return. Having been on a mission of exploration, the 105th had been outfitted with a great many probe droids. Very few of them had actually been lost in the line of duty, and Gandel had no qualms about handing half a dozen or so over to the pirates. Presumably they would be used to scout hyperspace jump points ahead of an attack, but it didn't really matter what they were used for in the end.

In addition to probe droids, the 105th also had military training and experience they agreed to share with the pirates. Some assistance repairing oddballs - which the pirates called "uglies" - and a few lessons on combat dogfighting tactics were enough to seal the deal.

After a week, the 105th knew as much as the pirates did about the state of the galaxy... that the Emperor and Vader were dead, that Coruscant was taken, that the rebellion had won. Reports of Thrawn were sketchy, at best, but Gandel knew most of the galaxy considered him to have died at Bilbringi.

"Yer serious?" Lauren Askaza, self styled "Generalissimo Askaza", leader of the Point Blank Pirates, raised both eyebrows and regarded Gandel with something approaching disbelief. Of course, ever since an ISD had dropped into his lap and wanted to be friends, he'd given up thinking anything was impossible. The question had just been a formality... he was fairly certain Gandel was serious.

"Quite serious," Gandel replied as predicted. Askaza nodded, real hand rubbing the stubble on his chin while it's mechanical counterpart drummed a rythm on the table. "My fleet is in desparate need of resupply. Looting a freighter or two here and there is helping, but we need more. Much more. And we need it soon."

"Why don't ya just go back to the remnant?" Askaza demanded, leaning forward to glare at Gandel. "They could resupply ya." He nodded, almost to himself, "Aye, and then ya'd be back in friendly territory ta boot."

Gandel shook his head, "No. The leaders of the remnant have let it collapse into ruin. You said yourself they're not actively fighting against the New Republic. They're more concerned with their own survival... if I went to them, they'd have my fleet patrolling their borders, not taking the fight to the enemy."

"Yer crazy, mate," Askaza said even as he started grinning like a maniac. "Ha! Emperor's black bones, that must be why I like ye so much. But even I know when I'm outnumbered, eh? One fleet, against the entire New Republic Navy? You won't get far."

"I'll get a lot farther when I'm resupplied," Gandel said seriously. Askaza sighed and contemplated the far wall for a few silent seconds.

"Aye... Allright then, admiral. If yer set on doin' this thing, I'll help. Hell, it's crazy enough it just might work, eh? And the payoff is certainly worth it."

*************

"He what?" Anton asked curiously. The captain fell into step with Gandel as the two men made their way from the Decimation's hangar.

"He offered to help," Gandel replied. He'd been as surprised as Anton when Askaza had said he wanted to help with the raid. Pirates, as a general rule, usually avoided big fights. "I think the prospect of having a star destroyer there to back him up helped bolster his confidence."

"What's he expect in return?" Anton asked suspiciously. Pirates never did anything for free. Especially not dangerous things.

"Part of the... how did he put it... 'booty'. After we take what we need, his people get to strip the place to it's hull supports. I don't think they've ever had the chance to ransack a New Republic space station before. Even without the supplies we'll be taking, there's got to be plenty of things there they'd find useful. And," Gandel admitted, "Part of me things he wants to do it just so he can say he did."

"An admirable goal," Anton said dryly. "How are we working them into the plan?"

"The good generalissimo will be sending us a list of assets he intents to commit to the fight. Once we have it, we can put a strategy together."

"Hmm... all of their oddballs - uglies, whatever - are shielded. That's an advantage our TIE squadrons don't have," Anton thought aloud. "We could put them on the front edge of the assault, let them soak the initial hits before out fighters enter the fight."

"Use them for cannon fodder?" Gandel raised an eyebrow. Even though these people were pirates, he found the thought didn't sit well with him.

"It's a thought," Anton shrugged.

"Indeed. In any case, I think it's time we gather the fleet's senior officers. We've got a raid to plan."

[Leto Tariq]

Thwack!

Leto touched a hand to his stinging cheek. "That's the best you can do, is it?"

"Oh, so you think you can do better?" Mischa smirked and swung a fist at Leto again, something that only the Captain's quick step backward could save him from.

Frak, she's getting better. Leto raised his fists, watching Mischa's movements warily. Cantina music played in the background, giving the room a more up-beat atmosphere.

The Rats were off duty, but deployment would come soon. There was a tension in the air among the squadron after their last mission, and the chances of finding any sort of alcoholic beverage on the ship to ease that tension was as likely as a lucky spit destroying a death star. That only left sex and fighting.

And Leto was certain this wasn't sex.

"What do you think of the two rookies?"

"What do you mean?" Leto asked. He swung a fist at Mischa's head, which she easily side-stepped.

Slag.

"The two new ones that are replacing..." Mischa paused.

"Checks and Bounder?" Leto finished for her. "They're dead, Mischa. You have to get used to it."

Hypocrite.

Mischa swung outward, catching Leto hard in the gut. The truth was, it was never easy when one of his pilots died. Not on anyone, especially for himself. And Leto hoped to the Force that never changed.

They danced in silence, one swinging at the other. Leto's fist caught Mischa on the chin, and she quickly returned the favour.

"You're losing your touch, Orion."

Leto grunted.

"Force, I could use a drink."

"How do you propose to get any? There's not a single drop of spirits on the whole ship."

"I think," Leto said, "I know where there is."

Mischa's face brightened up. This didn't stop her from catching Leto in the chest with a well-placed punch.

"Jon'son. He has to have a supply."

"Great. And you think he'll just give it away?" Mischa swung again, missing Leto's nose.

"I could pull rank."

"You think that would work?"

"Frell no. But I'm getting desperate." Leto brought his fist around, striking Mischa in the side of the head. She stumbled a step.

"Frak, maybe Janson was right... you do suck," he said jokingly. Then came pain.

You are a frakking idiot, you know that? Leto struggled from the ground to his knees. His tongue tasted blood where Mischa's punch had damaged the lip.

"You really shouldn't let your guard down like that, Captain."

Leto grimaced. He really was a fool, sometimes. "Mischa, I-"

"Captain Tariq!" A voice came in from his comlink.

"Mischa, I didn't mean to say-"

"Admiral Nerys requests you on the bridge," the electronic voice sounded.

"You'd better move, Captain," Mischa said, "You don't want to anger the brass."

Lieutenant Mischa left, but not without giving Leto a quick shove that knocked him to the durasteel again. Leto wasn't sure if it was playful.

"... Captain Tariq?"

Leto picked up the comlink, "What the frell is it?"

"Admir-"

"I know about the frakking Admiral!"

"O... okay, sir..."

"Let her know I'm on my way."

"Y-yes, sir."

Idiot, he told himself, shrugging into his uniform.

Now let's see what Admiral frakking Nerys has to say.

[Mischa Margolin]

“Idiot” Mischa thought as she stalked angrily through the corridors of the carrier, unwrapping her hands as she went. “Every time I let myself like Tariq just a little bit, he just has to say or do something to make me reconsider.”

He did get a few good shots in, physical ones, before she’d laid him out and she rubbed at her jaw, wincing at the pain and feeling the slight swelling already arising on the left side. “That’ll look pretty tomorrow” the pilot grunted.

Her left hand ached as well from the last punch she launched at Leto and Mischa supposed she should head to Medical and have them look at it. They’d had plenty of experience treating her various break, bumps, and the occasional dislocation before.

She had a better idea on how to fix it up herself though and walked down the portside corridor in the direction of the pilot’s quarters. A little medication of a different sort and the help of a friend to pop her swelling digits back into place was all the first aid Margolin needed.

Stopping in front of the fourth berth down, Mischa started to just bang on the door out of habit. Thinking it was a bad idea to inflict any more damage on her poor abused extremity, she hit the chime instead. There was no answer for a moment and she briefly considered punching in the entry code and letting herself in. Finally a gruff male voice issued from the tiny speaker next to the door. “Who is it?”

“It’s Misch. Let me in.”

A second later the door to the room slid open revealing its lone occupant standing in the doorway, his tall muscular frame nearly obliterating the view of the interior of his quarters from sight. He didn’t say a word, just looked at her with one eyebrow raised amusedly as the petite redhead pushed passed him.

“Don’t know how, but I think Tariq’s wise to your stash, Big Man.” Margolin said to her wingman. “I suggest it be disposed of in fitting fashion as soon as possible.”

[Jon'son Dethrider]

<I>"Frak, they're all around us!" Mischa yelled.

Jon'son felt the sweat rolling down his spine under the flightsuit armor. The view was too obscured, the scopes didn't do shavit from the sensor jamming, it was hard to see what was happening around them from the explosions. The comm wasn't working worth a crap with the static interference that lingered in and out.

"Shut the frell up, Vacuum! Maintain your field of fire, we're going to be fine!" came Tariq's voice over the fizzled audio.

"Oh, Force, Orion, they got Checks!" That from Mischa again. There had been twelve of them in the squadron. Now there were seven. "What are we gonna do?"

Jon'son, bringing up Mischa's rear in his E-wing, swore again. "Where the frak did this second wave come from?" he said.

It was a rhetorical question. Nobody frelling knew.

Behind them, a Howlrunner's laser batteries came alive again, the flashes of green laserfire battering Bounder's shields like pelting rain.

"Stone! Vacuum! Orion! There's a frakload of 'em behind us!"

"Shoot for targets," Tariq ordered. "Lasers only! We don't have enough torpedoes to waste on frelling pirates! We got a convoy to protect!"

Ahead, Tariq's X-wing branched to join the convoy again. On Jon'son's panel, a flashing light blinked and hooted, and a burst of whistles from Stone's astromech kept repeating a warning that their shields were approaching critical. They were going to have to shoot their way out, fast, or get slaughtered by those things. Or else fried into ash by those turbolasers from that Carrack cruiser. Great frelling choice.

"Spearhead through those A-9's, Vacuum!" Jon'son said. "I have your back!"

"Copy, Stone!" The X-wing to his right dodged to his left, then swung its nose up reflexively to engage one of them.

"Move it, people! And watch it, the damned Carrack is still dangerous!" Tariq clipped in Jon'son's helmet.

Space was full of those pirate raiders, Jon'son opened up, his laser cannons on full auto, blasting. Red laserfire tore through a Howlrunner that sprang from his right, the explosion filled the canopy--

"Help!" Bounder cried. "They're on my six!"

"Oh, please, help!"</i>

"No!"

Jon'son came awake, sweat drenching his hair and face, running into his eyes. His light spacer shirt was wet. <I>Oh, damn!</I>

He sat up. He was still in his quarters, on the thin bunk, the dark durosteel walls securely in place.

A chime was heard at the door.

Jon'son rubbed at his eyes. Even aboard a large capital ship with all its security couldn't keep the dreams out. Nothing could stop the dreams.

He pressed the intercom button and replied in a gruff voice. "Who is it?"

"It’s Misch. Let me in."

Jon'son stared at the door. Now why would she be back here already? By this time she would be passed out on the counter of the bar, unless they ran out <I>again</I>. He swung his legs over and got to his feet. He felt his gut churn, and it wasn't just the dregs of what they had for dinner. Whatever that was, it wasn't good.

The door hissed open and he stood in the doorway, observing his wingmate had just been in another spar. He wondered if she took on Orion again. A quizzical eyebrow rose up.

“Don’t know how, but I think Tariq’s wise to your stash, Big Man.” Margolin said as she shouldered passed him. “I suggest it be disposed of in fitting fashion as soon as possible.”

The sunburn that mostly covered the left half of his face began to itch suddenly. Not just bad, but <I>real</I> bad. The explosion he flew through seared his face pretty good, but eventually it would peel and recover.

"He knows about the shoe polish bottle?" he replied, a tinge of annoyance suddenly apparent in his voice as the door hissed closed.

[Mischa Margolin]

"Well I think he knows something?" Mischa replied. "And don't look at me like that, I'm not the one who told him."

"So why aren't you passed out in the lounge anyway?" Jon'son asked grumpily, still in the process of clearing his head from the nightmare filled sleep Margolin's chiming had interupted.

"I wasn't in the lounge, J.D." Mischa responded, this time it was her turn to sound annoyed. "Contrary to popular belief I don't always handle my after mission effects by drinking myself into oblivion. This time I decided to take it out on Leto."

"Oh please tell me you didn't..." The man started to say before Mischa cut him off.

"No, it wasn't anything like that. He asked me if I wanted to spar and I took him up on it. It wasn't my fault he had to go and open his big stupid mouth so I was forced to shut it for him." She said with a shrug. "Besides it was either that or jump his bones and uhm, no. Don't think so.

Anyway, he's fine. Well he will be once the swelling goes down." The pilot smiled at the memory of her CO flat on his back and wiping the back of his hand over his bleeding lip. "All I know is he mentioned something about you having the good booze, maybe the only booze on this crate. But I was not the one who said anything about it."

"So where's the Captain now?" Jon'son asked. "Reaching passed a clothing hamper next to the wall and moving aside the vent cover set in the wall behind it. He retrieved a glass bottle from the space he'd revealed handed it to his wingmate adding, "You look like you need this right about now."

"Thanks, Big Man. You're my hero, as always." Mischa took the bottle, took off the stopper and poured herself a generous amount into a glass sitting on Stone's nightstand.

"Tariq got a comm from the Admiral." she tipped back the glass and swallowed most of the contents in one draught. Shuddering a bit before continuing. "I left out of the gym is a hurry, so I don't know what it's all about. But I'm pretty sure it's nothing good."

"When it comes to us, it usually isn't" The E-wing pilot said as he poured his own, smaller volumed drink. Noticing Margolin's expression as she lifted her hand again he asked. "Need me to pop those knuckles out for you again."

"Would you please?" She asked raising her hand as he grabbed it and she gritted her teeth as best she could against the discomfort as his huge hands reduced the fragile, dislocated bones as best he could out of experience.

"You need to go have medical take a look at that." Jon'son said once he was done.

"Yeah well I didn't see you heading over there for that nasty thermal burn on that pretty face." Mischa said, looking with genuine concern at the mass of reddened skin on the man's face. "Does it hurt much?"

[Gabriella]

"There. This should be the last of the tests we need to run; at least until your next quarterly check-up, Admiral."

Gabriella glanced to the medic as the woman set the blood samples into a small carrier and readied them for the lab. "I'll notify you through the secure channel if anything has changed. I'm sure it hasn't. The rest of your physical went well so there's no need to worry."

"There's always a need to worry," the Admiral responded as she finished buttoning up the front of her blouse. She gave the bicep of her left arm a gentle squeeze. She knew it would be tender for a few days; the shots always left her arm tender for a few days afterward. On rare occasion, the area would bruise; a dark, ugly looking mark. Luckily, no one but she and the medic ever saw it. "As always, come see me if you feel any signs of an adverse reaction."

Admiral Nerys nodded then left the med facility aboard The Second Chance; a Mon Cal Cruiser that had been presented to her the first year she served as an Admiral in the New Republic fleet. The significance behind the ship's name is only known to she and some of her superior officers. They were old enough to have known of the bio-engineered disease that plagues Gabriella and will for the rest of her life. Luckily, the medical staff of the New Republic had found a combination of drugs that slowed the progress of the non-communicable disease drastically. A side-effect the medical team had not expected was that the drug combination seemed to slow down her own biological aging process by a considerable bit. The woman was forty, but didn't appear to be older than her mid to late twenties. Also, luckily for Gabriella, very few knew about that and even fewer were aware of her age.

The disease did not leave Gabriella without any physical defects. Bio-engineered by the Empire to reveal hidden Rebel bases, the disease altered the appearance of her eyes. Some had commented in the past that they could swear to see the stars in her eyes. Others found that fact disturbing. To see a galaxy - or portion of one - in someone's eyes could be rather unnerving. Unfortunately, the starmap revealed in the copper-flecks of her eyes led to the death of her parents; along with many others. Subconsciously, Gabriella will not look at her own reflection for longer than is truly necessary. A mirror only serves to remind her of the fact that she and her brother were the very reason their family was destroyed and the lives of numerous others were as well.

The act of maintaining eye contact without looking away was not easy to learn. Once she and Simon had learned of the truth in their past, it was very difficult to look someone square in the eye without fidgeting or looking away. The eyes are the windows to ones soul, or so it had been said, and for anyone to see into the soul of Gabriella Lioncourt-Nerys would be like suffering a long, agonizing death to the woman.

"Admiral Nerys to the bridge," a metallic robotic voice hailed over the central communication system of the ship; echoing in the corridors and reverberating in the turbolifts. Gabriella let out a breath and straightened her formal attire as the turbolift slowed to a stop at bridge-level. With a swoosh, the doors slid open, revealing the officer closest to her and most trusted by her. Captain Dervis. "Admiral. We've received a transmission from Admiral Voltaire of the Pax Republica." A brow, perfectly manicured, piqued gently. "This can't be good." She twirled her hand, indicating that Captain Dervis should proceed and get straight to the point. He continued as the two walked with haste onto the bridge deck. "The Pax Republica has readied its battlestations, Admiral. Apparently a ship of the 105th Imperial forces appeared near the Bilbringi shipyards."

Gabriella came to a dead stop and looked to Captain Dervis, both brows lofted. She let the name sink in and regained her composure. Plum-copper flecked eyes shot a commanding to look to a few of the bridgecrew whom had stopped doing their tasks and were looking up to the Admiral. The look was all that was needed as each immediately returned their attention to the tasks at hand, looking a bit sheepish for eavesdropping.

"Only the Emperor and Grand Admiral Thrawn would have known about the ships of the 105th fleet. They were assigned to the Grand Admiral for action carried out in the Unknown Regions and reported as lost."

Captain Dervis shrugged his shoulders subtlely as a brow piqued. "Play back the transmission from Admiral Volataire."

The communcations office complied. The bridge suddenly fell into a deathly silence that felt so think that one could cut it with a knife as the transmission played. Admiral Nerys looked to Captain Dervis and shook her head. "I told you this wouldn't be good. Send for Captain Leto immediately. Hail Admiral Voltaire and establish a rendezvous point then prepare for a hyper-jump."

Orders were followed and Captain Dervis relayed the message that Captain Leto was on his way and would arrive shortly. Gabriella nodded and moved to the forward viewport, Dervis at her side. "The Womprats won't be pleased about being sent out yet again. They've hardly had a break between missions and they have more than earned it." "They'll love you even more now," Captain Dervis teased with a slight smile tugging at the left corner of his mouth. "Love to have my head on a platter? You're right. What in the world is an Imperial ship presumed lost doing at Bilbringi?" For the moment, the question was left hanging in the air without a response. That, along with other questions, would have to be answered later.

[Ceryll Tana]

In a brilliant blaze of glory, the large Mon Cal cruiser burst into flames and began to tumble towards the planet below. Bits and pieces caught fire as they passed through the atmosphere, until the once beautiful ship had been reduced to nothing more than a smoldering hunk of metal doomed to crash on the surface.

That can't be good.

Biting her lip hard enough to bring tears to her green eyes, Ceryll sent her X-wing into a sharp turn, barely avoiding a spray of green turbolaser fire from behind. With a moaning roar, the TIE fighter swooped to follow. No amount of banking or spinning could lose the stubborn fighter and Ceryll began to panic. What was that maneuver she had just learned…what was it??

She had gone into this simulation quite sure of herself. She had done well in similar situations, but had never expected such fierce opposition. Ceryll was used to being the best pilot in her class...but her current position was beginning to cast doubt into how much of an accomplishment that had been in the first place.

Slamming the stick to the side, Ceryll sent her X-wing into a rather lousy snap-roll that made metal screech. She grimaced as the green - indicating the state of her shields - faded to a warning orange. The stubborn Eyeball refused to be shaken and continued to rake her aft shields with green lasers.

"Need help, Red?" Lt. Adok Borys queried over the comm, a hint of something resembling amusement in his voice.

Before she could reply, Adok punched four holes in the cockpit of the TIE with his red quad lasers, sending the speedy spacecraft twirling off to the side. There was a white light of an explosion and Ceryll finally released the breath she had been holding. "Thanks."

Adok didn't reply, but immediately banked to the right. Ceryll followed. One of the two Mon Cal cruisers they had been told to escort had already been destroyed by the TIE bombers. The other was making for deep space as fast as it could, swarmed by several TIEs. Red and green lasers were exchanged between the other X-wings and the enemy fighters, though the feisty Imperial ships seemed to have the upper hand.

Green fire lanced across space and struck at Ceryll's cockpit, ricocheting off of her shields. The orange turned to a bright red and there was a squawking alarm, which Ceryll flicked off angrily.

"Reinforce the shields from the weapons, Ritz," she ground out, quickly bringing her X-wing about to target the offending TIE fighter. It had been trying to come around for a second pass that would probably have finished her off. Ritz, the nervous little astromech seated behind her, twittered and the red returned to orange. At least that was better than nothing.

The TIE juked and barely managed to keep from going into a head-to-head with the X-wing. Pulling back hard on the stick, Ceryll managed to keep on its tail until it had stabilized. Her targeting brackets turned green and she fired twice. With a whoop of joy, Ceryll watched as her turbolasers sliced through the cockpit, immediately killing the pilot.

"Nice shooting, Red," Adok offered over the comm, his X-wing dropping into the space beside her as they each headed for the intense part of the fight.

The cruiser was gradually leaving the gravitational pull of the planet, but the TIEs were thick and the Star Destroyer had begun to take aim. Ceryll bit at her lip again as one of her other wingmates - she couldn't identify which - muttered over the comm.

"It's taking a beating."

Ceryll felt her chest clenching. So far, she had only one kill in the entire simulation, her shields were almost non-existent, and one cruiser had already been lost. Definitely not what she had been expecting of herself.

Adok was diving towards the cruiser, taking the lead. "Let's work at picking off the bombers first…keep the Mon Cal clear of those frelling fighters until they can make the jump," he said.

Swallowing, Ceryll snapped an affirmative and headed into the fray.

[Leto Tariq]

Leto marched out of the ship's gym in a foul mood, fixing his uniform so he at least looked like a captain.

Being summoned by the Admiral could only mean one thing; they were being sent back into action. It was far too soon and his men had hardly recovered from the last flight. Frak, Checks and Bounder's memorial had only been the morning before.

And then there were two rookies he hardly knew, yet soon he would have to trust them with his life.

Leto stopped at the bridge, straightened his uniform and wiped the blood from his chin.

Frak, Mischa, you had to hit hard.

The doors hissed open and Leto stepped in and saluted. "Admiral Nerys."

"Captain Tariq," she replied in greeting.

"What the frell happened to you?" Asked Captain... Dervys? Dervis? Dervy as far as Leto knew.

"Sparring, sir. Took a few punches," Leto responded.

"Sparring? With what, a wookie?"

"Not today, sir."

Gabriella waved them both to silence. "At ease, Captain Tariq."

"Yes, sir." Leto dropped the salute and clasped his hands behind his back.

"Not long ago, we received a transmission from Admiral Voltaire. They encountered Imperial ships at Bilbringi."

"An attack?"

"Negative, Captain. After entering the system, they broadcasted a message," the Admiral stroked a button.

"Bilbringi garrison, this is Admiral Maxwell Gandel of the 105th Imperial fleet. Confirm your identity, please."

"You're kidding... they couldn't possibly have thought Bilbringi was under Imperial control."

"Apparently, they did."

"Where have they been, under a frakking rock?"

"No, Captain. The 105th was stationed in the Unknown regions and was reported as lost."

"I guess they were wrong..."

"The two fleets engaged," Gabriella said, "but Admiral Voltaire reports the fleet made a jump into hyperspace."

"Where are they now?" Leto asked. They were coming closer to the real reason she called him to the bridge, now.

"We're not sure; the fleet made another hyperspace jump." The Admiral stroked another key, switching on a small galactic map. She pointed to a sytem, "We suspect the may make an attack here, against a New Republic supply depot, so they can restock and refuel their ships.

"Captain, I want the Rats there in case they do attack."

Leto straightened. "Sir, my men still haven't recovered from our last battle. They need rest."

"I'm sorry, Captain," Gabriella said, and he could almost believe her. "We can't afford your rest, not yet. Debrief your squadron and jump to the station."

"But, sir-"

"That's an order, Captain."

Leto ground his teeth and forced a salute. He left without a word.

Outside the bridge, he grasped his comlink and began issuing orders to his squadron to meet him in the conferance room for debriefing.

Frak, they won't be happy.

[Adok Borys]

Adok looked toward the X-wing keeping formation on his wing, and then toward the TIE bombers boring in toward the cruiser that was making for deep space. He flinched a pair of laser bolts impacted his rear shield, the indicator in the cockpit the flash, though it still stayed green.

“Red, it looks like we’ve picked some eyeballs on the six. Light up the dupes, I’ll keep the eyeballs busy.”

“Roger that, Dock. I copy.”

He jinked his fighter up, causing the next shot from the eyeball to pass harmlessly underneath the ship, and then glanced over his shoulder. Time for some fancy flying. He jerked the throttle back to the reverse thrust position, and then used the control stick to reverse the fighter, so that it was stationary, and Adok had a shot back right into the TIE. As he jammed the throttle forward again, he fired a quad burst from his blaster cannons, then flew threw the expanding cloud of debris that had been an enemy fighter mere moments before.

Adok cursed under his breath as three more TIEs vectored in on him, snap-rolling the X-wing to evade the dangerous field of fire. He managed to line one of the TIEs up with his blasters, and then lit it up with a barrage of fire, scorching through the brace that attached the solar panel to the cockpit, and sending the TIE careening away from the fight. He noticed the shield indicator on his display, flashing, so he reversed thrust, causing the TIE that was shooting at him to overshoot, and leaving him with a clear shot up its engines. Adok was happy to oblige that shot, and the fighter vanished into a cloud of plasma, and the third fighter came blazing through that plasma, forcing Adok to snap a shot off. He managed to nail it in the cockpit though, taking another fighter out of the fight.

He spared an instant to breathe and inquire into the status of his pupil.

“Red, you still holding together?”

“Dock, I haven’t managed to get any of them yet.

“It’s alright Red. And umm...Frak! I’ve gotta go. Just get those bombers.”

Adok glanced down at the console at the light flashing. Someone was had lit him up with a missile. He frantically scrolled through the targets on the computer, trying to locate the missile that was homing in on his fighter.

He located the vector, but it wasn’t one or two missiles. It was six missiles. He flipped the shields to double forward and gulped.

This is gonna HURT!
He was so focused on the missiles that he didn’t notice the assault gunboat that had slipped in behind his fighter until a pair of well-placed ion blasts disabled both of his port engines.

That’s a problem.

Adok tried to run his now sluggish fighter up to get a shot at the missiles that were homing in on him, but to little avail, given that he had lost half of the power in the engines of the X-wing. The first pair of missiles hit, indicator for the first layer of shields flashed amber, then the second pair and third pairs of missiles hit, and he didn’t have any more shields and that Assault gunboat was still out there.

Then the missile warning light flashed again, and then ion cannon impacts. Adok decided not to stick around and wait for the impact of whatever missiles were heading toward him, so he pulled his ejection handle, ending the simulation.

He stood up, stretching his shoulders as the pod opened, and noticed Ceryll shooting him a strange look.

He shot a strange look back at her and climbed out of the pod as she did the same.

“Yeah. I got vaped. It was several somethings with concussion missiles. Of course that scenario is actually designed for several more fighters than we had, generally at least half a squadron. Of course, they’d still be outnumbered.”

He could tell that Ceryll was near tears, so he shrugged and continued.

“I’ve seen some action...”

His sentence trailed off as she interrupted him.

“Dock, why? Why should we train in a scenario where we are outnumbered so badly?”

“Red, it’s training. We’re supposed to get vaped and then learn why and study why, so that if we were in an actual combat situation, we wouldn’t make the same mistake. I guess it keeps an edge.”

She nodded. “I guess I can see that.”

Adok nodded, then his commlink chirped.

He listened briefly and then spoke into it.

“Understood.”

Adok closed the commlink and then stuck it back in its proper place on his belt.
“Well Red, apparently the good captain wants to brief us about something. He was rather vague though, probably because he wants to build suspense for us to attend his meeting.”

Adok turned, bowed, and gestured toward the door.

“And now fair lady, our captain awaits our pleasure on this fine star liner. Shall we?”

[Gabriella]

(Please pm me if I need to edit this post.)

* * * * *

Stone-faced, shoulders poised to the point of appearing arrogant, Gabriella watched Captain Leto leave the bridge; obviously boiling that he and his squad were being sent out yet again. She knew it wasn't the fact they hadn't had any rest since returning from the previous mission; it was because Captain Leto and his squad mates had just held a memorial for two of their comrades.

Truth be told, she truly felt for the Womprats. Though she cannot show emotion and must remain calm, cool, and collected nearly all the time, it didn't mean that she didn't ache whenever one of the crew was lost. One would think with the death and destruction she had witnessed and partook in over the past twenty plus years of her life that she would have grown accustomed to it. But she hadn't and she prayed nightly that she never would. For Gabriella that would be the equivalent of forfeitting her soul and the minute one forfeited their soul, all hope was lost.

Captain Dervis pulled her attention from the fading figure of Captain Leto. It was needed elsewhere. The Admiral left the bridge, escorted by Devis and several other ranking figureheads, and headed to the war room. Everyone seemed to be talking at once, throwing in their strategies and ideas, fears and misguided worries. Little did anyone aboard the ship know that the Admiral knew quite how well the Empire worked. She knew the ins and outs of their ships, she knew the weaponry, the tactics, and even a few slick tricks. After all ... she learned from the best.

"Silence! I can't hear myself think with everyone speaking at once." Gabriella stood at the head of an elongated black slate table centered in the large, closed chamber. Pieces of complicated looking technical equipment beeped and blipped softly in the background. She was getting a headache and ordered the lights to be dimmed. However, she didn't want the other officers present to know the real reason for lowering the lighting, so she had a galactic map projected from the holo appear behind her.

With her arms crossed, Gabriella nipped at her lower lip gingerly as she went into deep thought, delving into the mind of an Imperial Naval Officer. On occasion she'd look at the transparent map hovering mere inches above another long table set near the front wall.

"Until our intelligence - or Admiral Voltaire makes contact with us again with further news and information, we don't have much to go on."

A glance to Captain Dervis and he re-played the transmission The Second Chance received from the Pax Republica so the other men present could hear it just as she had.

"For those of you who are not brushed up on your history ... The 105th Fleet had been assigned to Grand Admiral Thrawn nearly a decade ago and had been presumed lost when none returned from the Unknown Regions. As you heard, the hailing officer of the invading ship proclaimed to be aboard one of those presumedly lost vessels.

"Currently, I am going on the assumption that this Imperial vessel is quite possibly running low on supplies, as well as fuel. Since they'd been chased away from Bilbringi's shipyards, they will be looking for a supply depot. Or, possibly, a ship that they can outgun to take what it needs from them. Or even just take it for themselves.

"I've ordered the Womprats to prepare to go out and bring back the intelligence we need in order to devise a better plan. Currently, we are trying to hail Admiral Voltaire so we can better co-ordinate the efforts of tracking down this newly found vessel. As you can see, there are a few areas they could possibly be heading to."

"Coruscant isn't too far from Bilbringi, Admiral. If they made a quick, short hyperjump, they could be there - or near enough to it - by now," Lieutenant Jercik interjected. Gabriella glanced to the holomap again, nodding slowly.

"That is a possibility, yes, Lieutenant." However, she thought, if I were aboard an Imperial ship that was suddenly startled and scared into turning tail and fleeing Bilbringi by a solitary New Republic Liberator-Class Cruiser, I certainly wouldn't be headed to Coruscant.

"Admiral, might I suggest sending word to Coruscant?"

"It's already been taken care of, Lieutenant," she said. This mysterious Imperial ship must be extremely low on supplies for it to be run off by the Pax Republica. Of course, it is a formidable vessel but a Star Destroyer would stand a good chance against it.

"Captain Dervis, order all battlestations and crew to stand-by status. Make sure everyone is ready to go at a moment's notice. You know what more to do and if you all will excuse me." She nodded curtly, strode from the private meeting and headed straight for her quarters. Something about all of this was not settling right in her mind and she needed to be alone to try to figure things out.

[Ati Quai]

Space.

In one's younger years, it was that siren call that beckoned a person away. So captivating to think that there was so much to see, so many places to go, so many things to do. It's only after you've seen the ugly side of it that you can begin to appreciate how much of a sinister mistress space itself can be. She can welcome you with open arms, inviting you into her embrace. All the while she's got vibroshivs hidden in the sleeves of her robes waiting for just the right time to hit you where it hurts.

Like, say, a few snub fighters with just enough luck to take down the better part of one's shields. It was nothing that Ati hadn't seen before in his days, but for whatever reason, they were harder to dispose of than usual and thus, he found his Corellian freighter limping its way into the nearest place he could find. Some random supply depot, but at least it had the parts that he needed.

If there was a bright side to the whole situation, it was that this delay wouldn't hinder any shipments since he had just dropped his last cargo the previous day. This trip was simply to relax a bit. Didn't quite work out as he had planned. Then again, with his droid programmed to perform ship repairs, Ati wasn't stuck doing all the work himself. He was able to catch up on a few hours of sleep between installments of patching up his ship, all the while Kaybo would finish the work that Ati started.

And despite the remote location of this place, it had served well enough for the uses that Ati required. The Junkpile was spaceworthy once again, with the shields repaired better than he had figured they would be. Not that he planned on doing anything stupid, but he was confident that snub fighters wouldn't have the same success this time around.

Another bonus was that the hyperdrive was also back in working order, if not a little skittish. It would hold enough to get him to an actual system where more serious work could go into it to restore it to its original strength and capacity. The latter was something of a priority. While he was a ways from anywhere that he planned to end up, part of him was hoping to get back to the poodoo pile of life that was Nar Shaddaa. He had connections there, after all, and people he could trust at least as far as he could throw them. The Junkpile would have the chance to be fully restored and credits weren't a problem.

One advantage to not always having a high order of standards on the job's that he took. Most of the time he liked to help out the little man, the disadvantaged, but there were times when the big fish simply paid him too much for him to refuse the job. And then there were the death threats that were implied if he did refuse. Even he wasn't dense enough to overlook those.

Be that as it may, he had secured himself a sizable amount of credits which he planned to put right back into the pride and joy of his life, the little hunk-o-junk that carried out his smuggling duties. He had even thought about a few modifications that he might be able to add, though that would all have to wait until he was actually able to perform them. By then, he just might not have enough money to go around.

-Repairs are complete, Sir.-

"Well done, Kaybo. Go back to the shop and get yourself an oil bath. When you're finished, I imagine that we can leave this little shanty of a place."

A simple duck of the droid's head was enough of an answer before the droid made its way from the cockpit and eventually out of the ship. If there was one thing that Ati did over anything, was take care of his ship and his droid. Oddly enough, there were times that those priorities flipped around. For the most part, droids were devoid of the usual emotions that came with sentient beings. But something told Ati that despite all of that, if the droid felt appreciated, it would continue to function properly. That, and the working relationship that Kaybo and Ati had was by far the longest and most successful of any of Ati's relationships.

With Kaybo gone once again, Ati decided to take one last nap before he planned to leave the depot and continue on.

[Pietur Legatus]

Pietur Legatus sat sprawled in the center of her new quarters surrounded by what appeared to be the remains of a small explosion. An open case nearby testified to the origin of the mess. From somewhere under the piles of scattered articles, her com-link chirped at her -a brief search uncovered it hiding in a shoe. The Captain's voice abruptly informed her that there was to be a debriefing held in the conference room. As she made the appropriate confirmation, Pietur glanced around her small quarters at the strewn belongings.Ah well, unpacking can wait. It shoulda been done lightyears ago anyways, a few more hours won't hurt. Hurriedly bundling anything within arms reach into the small storage drawers, she shunted the rest to the perimeters of the room to clear a path, before making an exit in her normal calm and collected manner -tripping over a pair of socks on the way out.

The blonde paused for a moment in the hallway, sorting out her directions. Right, the debriefing should be....this way. Confidently swinging left, she moved briskly along until she turned a corner and came face to face with what appeared to be a storage room. Dang it, wrong yet again. You'd think this place would be small enough for a soul to memorise in no time... Hurriedly she retraced her steps, this time continuing to the right of her door. This route looked much more familiar. Breaking into a quick trot, Pietur covered the last of the corridor, smacking the door controls and bursting into the room.

Multiple pairs of eyes turned to stare.

Frak, she cursed again, what a way to start out. Flashing a grin, she eased sideways into the nearest chair uttering a muttered apology as she did so. At least she didn't appear to have missed anything, that would have really have got her off on the wrong proverbial foot. A quick glance around confirmed that the other pilots were here too. Why would he call us all in? Unless.. Pietur let out a hissed breath. As far as she could gather from what her wingmates were willing to share (and that was very little), they had only just got out of their latest dogfight, losing two of their own in the process. They don't muck around none, do they?

[Jon'son Dethrider]

A hand rose up to touch his face after she asked the question. Jon'son jerked his head back slightly to prevent her from touching his irritated skin. She got the hint.

He shrugged. "I'll live. Doc says it should just peel and heal up in time. Why? You wanna rub some lotion on me?"

Mischa rolled her eyes.

"Thought so," he winked, and downed another swig of the hard liquor. The truth was, he didn't feel particularly adept at the moment for her antics; the alcohol coursed through his system and the latest nightmare still vibrated in his memory. But if he was ever going to get out of this excuse of a unit, he had to look as if he were in control. While Jon'son was the XO of the Womprats and theorectically subject to command any officer of line rank under him, only Leto was going to be giving the Rats orders.

"Still having the dreams?" she asked.

"About getting spaced?"

Mischa nodded.

"Yeah." He touched the burn on his face, then set down the bottle of shoe polish.

She shook her head. "I don't sleep that well myself. Haven't since this last one."

A chime rang in their quarters. His wingmate sighed as she walked over to their desk and thumbed on the comlink, still shaking off the pain from her other hand.

The communit came to life. It was the voice of their superior, Leto Tariq. His tone was strained, but full of quiet authority.

"Just came back from the CO's office. We're being called in for another one and bringing the rookies with us."

Groans from both of them were heard over the comlink. Jon'son slumped onto his bunk.

"Sorry, guys. I know we all need the rest, but I'll brief you all on what we're up against this time."

Jon'son pulled his thoughts back to their situation. "Me and Vacuum will find the rest of the Rats and head our way down there." Mischa thumbed off the comlink and sighed.

Jon'son smiled, but it was a sour expression. "Well, at least we get to see the new kids on the block."

"Live fast, die young--" she began.

"-- and leave a good-looking corpse," Jon'son finished. She laughed.

Jon'son shook his head. A lot of civilians believed that NR pilots, especially the Womprats, were all steely-eyed, boot-tough, deadly as a nest of wingstingers and as sharp as a room full of needles. That they could chew up nails and pee thumbtacks in their starfighters. The truth was that a basic Womprat pilot was usually just a kid out of flight school, or a major screw-up demoted to their squadron, or an insubordinate like him and Vacuum. It didn't take a genius to pass basic flight entrance exams. If you could find your way to the simulators and spell your name for the computer, you were probably bright enough to get in. How long you stayed alive after that depended on how well the training took and how good your officers were.

He wondered if the commander in charge of this Mon Cal cruiser was a desk rider-- a person with no field experience at all, much less in combat. Maybe this person wanted to show Orion who was in command.

A long moment hung suspended between them. Finally, he shook his head. "Might as well face it and get it over with. At least I can finally get some sleep afterward."

She nodded. "That's about how I see it, Big Man." She eyed the locker on her corner.

He got up and began to gather his pilot gear and flight suit to dress up for launch.

"Hey, Stone?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for saving me back there."

He shrugged. "We got something in common, Misch. We both should have died a long time ago."

She nodded as she undressed. "Yes. I know."

"I hope I don't dream again when I get back."

"Me too..."

Minutes later, a slender short figure, accompanied by a burly, tall figure, exited the quarters on their level of the battleship and proceeded toward the briefing area in their flight gear.

[Cayenne Rudal]

Cay cracked her neck, sitting up and not so carefully exercising muscles sore from being in one position for too long. So maybe lying on my bunk typing up emotional garbage for over an hour isn't the best way to pass the time, she thought to herself with a mixture of amusement and regret.

The short red-haired woman rubbed at her eyes before glancing at the small cubby where her spare boots and other little things were stored. Her mind looked beyond those, though, directly toward a bottle of Whyren's Reserve she had stashed there. It called to her, whispering in her ear that she could drown her sorrows in blissful--

Idiot. On the ship? Like hell you'll do that. You're not that stupid. Despite her inability to take insults from anyone else, Cay could rag on herself all day long without batting an eyelash. It was one of her many quirks. One hardly anyone knew about. Well, no one, now that Bounder was gone.

Her thoughts drifted toward the memory of the memorial service and her reaction afterward. She couldn't remember what someone said -- frak, she couldn't even remember who -- but it had completely set her off. Even more than normal, and that was saying something. Cay was not a woman who could keep her emotions in check with anything less than one hundred percent of her concentration. Her mother had been wise to name her after an exotic spice.

At this point, Cay didn't feel like remembering what she'd said. Other than telling someone to shut up and stomping out of the room, her red hair billowing freely behind her. She should have gone to the gym then, but Cay hadn't felt like seeing anyone for a while.

Now, part of her wanted to apologize to her surviving squadmates. But part of her didn't. It was like it had been her last salute to Checks and Bounder, the latter of whom had always managed to put up with her, no matter how much she dished out. She'd miss that. Terribly.

Shaking her head, Cay reached over to turn off her datapad when her comlink chirped. "Cay? You done yet?"

"Yeah, Cap'n," she replied. For some reason, back when she'd first signed on with the 'Rats, she'd started calling Captain Leto Tariq by that short name, and it'd stuck. He'd never asked her to stop, at least. Not that she would if he did, short of an official order.

"Meet us in the conference room in fifteen. We've got debriefing to do."

"Debriefing? Didn't we just--"

"I feel the same way, Spice. Just get here." The comlink clicked, signaling the end of the conversation.

A second later her fist slammed into the wall. "A briefing. Again. So soon. Damn. Cap'n must be really pissed to cut me off like that. He knows better than to pull that kind of a stunt on me." Glancing down at her knuckles, Cay winced. "That was a bad idea. Great move, Spice. We could be flying out tomorrow and there you go hurting yourself." Cay hardly ever talked like that around others, even her fellow 'Rats. She would have been mortified if anyone ever overheard her verbal monologues.

Taking a few minutes to straighten her attire and tame her hair, Cay stepped out of her quarters and headed for the conference room, passing Dock and Red along the way. Neither of them spoke to her, which wasn't surprising in the least after her earlier performance. Cay preferred it that way. It was normal - she'd mess up, others would leave her alone, and she'd be responsible to bring herself back into the fold again when she was ready, and they'd be waiting for her. She flashed both of them a grim smile before heading into the room a few steps ahead of them.

[Leto Tariq]

'We can't afford your rest', Leto thought bitterly, 'Debrief your squadron and jump to the station.' Easy for you to say. Like to see them send their asses again and again out there to be butchered.

Leto paused at the door to the conference room and composed himself. The Womprats were going to be angry enough without him contributing to that anger. As much as he wanted to.

Right. Better not put it off any longer. Tariq pressed a button and the door hissed open to a clamour. It would take more than impending doom to shut the Rats up.

He glanced around the room, counted ten faces.

Looks like I'm not the only one late to-...

Chancbacca, Lieutenant and possibly the most veteran pilot - at least in experience and years spent in the cockpit - in the squadron entered.

... Frak.

"Okay, listen up everyone," Leto began.

"Sir, tell me we're not getting sent out there again," someone said. Leto recognized Joker as the speaker. Strange, Leto remembered the callsign had seemed rather fitting at the time... after Joker's first brush with actual combat, however, Leto couldn't remember the man smiling again.

"Yes, we are being sent out to a New Republic supply depot to investigate a suspected attack by the Empire." There were groans from everyone; someone even boo-ed. "Look, I know how you feel. Checks and Bounder are dead, our fighters haven't been fully repaired from the last mission and frakking know I haven't had any sleep. But we're the Rats. So sit down, shut up, and maybe we'll get through this one alive."

Leto triggered a hologram. An Imperial Star Destroyer flew into view. "This was recorded by Admiral Voltaire around Bilbringi."

"It's a frakking antique!" Mischa called out. Leto nodded.

"After entering the system, the Imperial forces immediately broadcasted a message. From the message, it seems they thought Bilbringi was still under Imperial control."

This caused a low murmer among some of the pilots. It seems they were just as surprised at that as he was.

"The 105th fleet, what they claimed to be, was deployed to the Unknown regions by Thrawn years ago. Until now, they were thought to be dead," Leto triggered another view of the Star Destroyer as Republic and Imperial forces engaged. "They was a brief exchange of fire when the 105th immediately jumped. Admiral Voltaire's forces tracked them, but the 105th jumped again.

"It is suspected that they are low on supplies... food, fuel, parts needed for repairs. Which is why the Republic is sending us here, to an aging Republic supply depot. There is a good chance the 105th is planning a raid on that depot for those supplies. We're being sent out to investigate and determine if there is a threat."

Leto looked at the faces of his men. Joker, Bandit, Stone, Dock, Furball, Spice, Vacuum, Hyper, Jammer, Legs, Red... they were his family, his friends, his squadron. They were the Womprats, and he would be willing to give his life to protect any of them. Force, but he hoped he would see those faces again.

"Bandit, Hyper, your flying E-Wings with Stone. Watch our backs, listen to Stone. And take care of those frakking E-Wings... we won't get new ones anytime soon."

Not unless we're lucky, Leto added to himself.

"The rest of you, you're with me in X-Wings. Fly careful, watch each others' six. Now suit up; we launch in two hours."

[Ati Quai]

While Ati took his brief nap, Kaybo was more or less let loose upon the masses of the supply depot station. At least those in charge of the droid services. Needless to say that they were quickly growing tired of the droid that was about as brash as the pilot he accompanied.

Oh, dear. I do trust that you're not finished repairing that droid, are you? I really do not think that his leg is supposed to bend like that?

What's that you say? That's his arm?? It most certainly does not go there. And my good sir, the color is entirely wrong. Red only looked good on an HK unit and even then, it really was not at all flattering. Why not just paint that R2 unit pink while you're at it? You'll give it a terrible complex, to go along with the height disadvantage. You might as well send that unit straight to the compactor with how you're fixing it. Alright, alright, it's your decision.

After the bantering with the so-called mechanic, Kaybo continued down the corridor to the oil baths. As Ati had said, the room was waiting for the droid who was able to enjoy a little relaxation of its own. Kaybo did, after all, do just about as much of the flying and duties on the ship as Ati did. In some cases, he did more since Kaybo was also programmed for basic medical procedures.

Once that was finished, Kaybo made his way back out into the corridor, making a note within his databanks that if Ati ever tried a new color on his frame, that Ati would find himself missing a few precious commodities. And in a feat of daring, the droid managed to snatch up a few spare credit coins that 'just happened to be lying around.' Silly humans, always leaving their things unprotected for some random passerby to take. Kaybo was, of course, holding them for safe-keeping.

Once back aboard the Junkpile, he alerted Ati of his return by mimicking the fire alarm as loudly as he could. There might have even been a chuckle when the pilot sprung about three feet straight up into the air. There was definitely cursing. Not bothering to wait for the pilot to arrive, Kaybo took it upon himself to begin the preflight checks so they could leave this depot as soon as possible.

[Maxwell Gandel]

Once again, the briefing room was alive with holograms. This time, a three platform space station surrounded by containers and cargo ships was displayed. "This is the target," Gandel informed the gathered officers. They included the captain of the VSD Plague, the ship's fighter commander, and the Decimation's fighter commander. Askaza was also on hand, as the commander in chief of the pirate group.

"A New Republic supply depot," Gandel continued, "Lightly armed, poorly defended, it represents out best chance at quickly resupplying. A probe droid operating under stealth at the edge of sensor range confirms little civillian or military traffic. A few freighters coming and going, nothing more. The station sports only a frigate and three squadrons of starfighters as mobile tactical assets."

The holodisplay highlighted the frigate that ran patrol around the supply station, and added three larger than life starfighters to indicate the fighter squadrons. When Gandel pushed a button on the holotable's control panel, a pair of corvettes also appeared, the entire holodisplay shringing to accomodate a larger operational area. "Askaza's corvettes will enter first. Our engineers have outfitted them with sensor and comm jamming packages, which they will use to jam all non-fleet comm frequences. With any luck, these corvettes will keep the station from calling for help."

"We'll keep 'em quiet," Askaza promised gruffly. "Don't you worry 'bout that."

Gandel nodded, and continued. "Along with three squadrons of uglies, Askaza's forces will move to engage the station's starfighter defenses, drawing them out of position. With no convering fire from the station, they'll be easy enough to pick off when the main force arrives."

"And with no fighter cover, our bombers will have an easier time making runs on the station," Anton added. Gandel pressed a button, and two great red wedges appeared on the map.

"The Plague and Decimation will arrive fifteen seconds after the pirates. The Decimation will enter here, and engage the frigate at close range while launching fighters to assist in the fighter battle. The Plague will enter here, between the enemy fighter groups and the station. They too will launch fighters before proceeding to engage the station proper. Bomber groups and assault transports will assist in their attack."

"While this is going on, shuttles and more transports will also be launched," Anton broke in. The appropriate icons appeared in the scene. "They will assist other bomber groups with disabling or destroying any transports that attempt to flee. When that's done, they will move to the containers to begin the capture of supplies."

"The ammount of fighters we're throwing into the fray should be more than enough to overwhelm their figher defense," Gandel added as the briefing wound to a close. "And the ammount of bombers in the field should be enough to get rid of any transports. If all goes as planned, the engagement should be decided in minutes, leaving us ample time to pillage it."

"If enemy reinforcements to arrive," He finished, "The Decimation will handle them. Several frigates and the Swarm will also be on standby. If there are no questions...? Good. The fleet jumps in twenty minutes. Get your men ready for battle."

[Mischa Margolin]

Walking out of briefing room, Mischa tried to ignore the grumbling comments coming from a few of her fellow pilots as she headed for the hangar. She’d learned long ago that complaining didn’t help and she tended to drop it after the obligatory sentence or two of her own verbalized annoyances.

Walking into the hangar, she immediately headed over to her ship to do her own walkaround. Not that she didn’t trust the techs, hell at least the ‘Rats had some of the best people in the fleet taking care of their equipment. She just liked to do it as part of her pre-flight routine.

Herron, the tech who usually took care of Mischa’s fighter was just disconnecting the fueling hose from the port wing as she walked up and her astromech, ByteMe, was already socketed into his place behind the cockpit. He beeped out a greeting to her and she gave one in return before getting Herron’s attention.

“Hey, Vac.” The middle aged man called out from up on the wing. “No rest for the wicked I see.”

“You know how it is, Sarge. They call…we go. How’s she check out?” Mischa replied running one hand along the underside of the port lower S-foil.

“No real damage from the last furball.” The Tech said. “Just had to replace the firing tip of the upper starboard canon. Should be good to go whenever you are. I’m all set here. Gonna go head over to see if Red or Spice’s ships need anything.”

Mischa thanked Herron before he walked off then went back to her inspection. The old girl still looked good in spite of the action the ship had seen over the years. Another testimony to the skills of the crew chief and his subordinates. As she continued to look at the craft while zipping up her flightsuit and pulling on some pieces of her gear, she felt that familiar pre-battle combination of excitement edged with just a hint of dread building up in her gut and smiled. Yeah, this is what she lived for.

Glancing around the hangar she saw her fellow Womprats busy at their own pre-flight routines. One of the rookies, Legs, she gave a reassuring grin to across the space between their fighters. Further down she saw Jon’son looking over his own fighter and gave him a wink and thumbs-up as he looked her way.

Furball, the aptly callsigned Wookie was having what sounded like an argument in Shyriiwook with his astromech. She couldn’t understand the language, but judging by the tone of both droid and owner it wasn’t a pleasant exchange.

[Chancbacca]

Following the end of the briefing, Chancbacca, the only Wookie in the squadron, and possibly in all of Starfighter command let out a mournful grown. Leave it to a wookie to sum things up with a sound like that.

shaking the mop of hair falling from his head, the wookie lowered his eyes and moved out into the ship. It wasn't unheard of for the wookie to keep to himself. After all, for much of his career, he'd been the target of every practical joke, and alot of teasing.

Problem with all that was, he had more experience in combat then most of the generals and admirals he's served under. I mean, how many of them have actually torn the arms off of Separatist Super Battle Droids, when they were new.

Furball as his flight techs loved calling him, moved into the hanger. His lead Tech, moved over and smiled.

"How you doing Furball? We repaired the lower Laser canon, but you might experience some slight power fluctuations. The port Torpedo Launcher has been cleared. And I don't suggest flying through Tie debris again when your shields are down."

"It's not like I had a choice. A hunter goes where the prey is" The wookie said in his native language. If not for a speech defect, he'd be alot harder to understand. Fortunately, most of the crew, at least those he interacted with and flew with knew enough to make communicating easier.

The Wookie moved over to the Orange pile next to the fighter and pulled on the flightsuit. He hated wearing it, The suits of the ARC-170 were bigger, and more comfortable, but these were alot more advanced, and more likely to save his life if he had to eject. Again. The boots were the worst though, There was no way he'd be able to climb in those boots.

"Is Droid loaded?" the question would be a strange one, except for the fact that Chanky had named his R2 Unit Driod, or at least the Translation of Droid into Wookie.

"Yes Lt. and updated with the mission profile. You're ready. Good luck and May the Force be with you."

Looking around, Chanky watched his squadron mates doing the same thing, looking over their fighters, and getting ready for the mission. Another mission this soon. Too Soon Humans are fragile beings. some of them couldn't take loss like this very well. While never easy, the Human mentality could break with pressure like this. Wookies, natural hunters expected loss. While not easy, and the lost are mourned, it's to be expected. And it was well within a Wookie's personal honor to avenge those that were lost. Over the years Chanky had avenged alot of lost friends.

But the 105th. Chanky remembered reports of the fleet being dispatched. He was serving in the fleet at the time.

His train of thouhgt was interupted by Droid, lots of beeps and noices coming from the green and Red droid.

"You will not readjust the inerial compensators again! I told you, I fly better feeling more motion then humans! A wookie needs to feel the world around him, not be isolated from it. you will keep the compensator at .76 gravity and I don't care what your last pilot said."

More beeps followed but Chanky, now moving up the pilot's ladder stepped into the cockpit and rasied his arms above his head. Shaking his arms, he gave a loud wookie battle call, indicating the discussion was over.

[Ceryll Tana]

* * * * *

As soon as the good captain dismissed the 'Rats, Ceryll had made a break for her quarters. Most everyone else had headed for the hangar, but the rookie only needed a few minutes on her own.

She had spent nearly ten of those minutes hastily typing out a message to send to her family. From the moment she had heard that they would be heading out on her first mission with the Womprats, sending something to her parents had been one of the forefront thoughts running through her mind. Then she had quickly composed another message, one that could be sent if the worst was to happen.

Along with the urgency she felt in notifying them, thoughts of her mother's warm smile, her father's strong embrace, and her little brother's cocky self-assurance had almost been reason enough to let the tears flood her cheeks. The thought that she might never see them again had crashed around inside of her skull insistently, adding to the quivering of her fingers.

Ceryll was perfectly disgusted with herself. Wasn't this what she had always wanted? Her entire life had been building up to this moment! All of her hard work…now she could finally prove to the other and to herself that she was worthy of being a part of the squadron. She could pull her weight and make a difference.

For another five minutes, Ceryll had stood before her small, square mirror and brushed ferociously at her dark hair. Ever since her childhood, it had been a way to work off her stress. When Jat had been a pest all morning, young Ceryll would lock herself in her bedroom and brush her hair. Her entire family had known that it was a time for them to leave her alone.

She continued to stroke at it, even though any snarls that may have existed had been thoroughly destroyed. Gradually, her shaking hands steadied and Ceryll quickly drew her hair back into a tight braid that trailed down to the center of her back. A brief stretch and a long exhale later, she was ready.

Upon entering the hangar in which her X-wing was located, Ceryll crossed the expanse just as one of the techs finished his tweaks to her craft. He cast her a winning grin that had an encouraging affect, because the young woman's spirits were lifted.

"Hey, Red," called a friendly voice from behind her, just as Ceryll had finished zipping her flightsuit. She spun and spotted Adok Borys approaching from his own X-wing. "Excited?" he asked with a somewhat eager grin.

Swallowing, Ceryll managed a small smile. "Sure. As excited as anyone else." She wished she could feel as confident as he looked.

Dock cuffed her across the shoulder and winked. "You'll do fine, Red." Placing his hands behind his back in a studious pose, he eyed her X-wing. "Looked it over yet?" he asked suddenly.

Ceryll cocked an eyebrow and crossed her arms. "I thought the techs took care of that…"

"Oh, they do fine work. But it's just common sense to make sure everything is up to speed." Dock shrugged and began to circle the fighter, gesturing for the rookie to follow. "You know your ship better than anyone else, Red…or at least you should. That's the point. It'll get to where you can almost feel when something isn't right," he stated, becoming extremely serious as he locked his gaze with hers. "The smallest malfunction could get you or someone else killed."

Ceryll nodded thoughtfully. "Never can be too careful," she agreed.

Dock grinned. "Exactly."

The two circled the X-wing, inspecting it thoroughly. Adok pointed out what to look out for and Ceryll listened intently, trying to store all of the information into her memory banks. The simple fact that the lieutenant was taking the time to help her out made her feel more comfortable. Perhaps she could become part of this team.

Climbing the ladder up to the cockpit, Ceryll's astromech, Ritz, tootled a friendly greeting and immediately followed with a stream of cheerful musings that she had no chance of understanding. The blue droid swiveled his dome and continued to talk to himself, ending in an off-tune whistle.

"You'll learn to understand 'em eventually," Dock commented as he returned to his own X-wing

Settling into the seat, Ceryll sank back and made a final check to be assured that she had all of the gear needed. Then she began to scan her controls, running her fingers along the stick and planting her feet gently over the right and left rudders. This was her X-wing. She had flown it once since her arrival as the newest Womprat and the thrill had been almost too much, but now she was going into what could very well be a combat mission. The thrill was dampened slightly, but was replaced by an excited dread that she had never experienced before.

Somehow, Ceryll couldn't help but wonder if this was an emotion she would be becoming very familiar with…if she survived long enough.

* * * * *

[Adok Borys]

Adok smiled and shook his head. Apparently, they don’t teach these new pilots how to look over their fighters at the academy. I hopefully set her straight though.

He shrugged and walked around his fighter again. He noticed that the astromech droid being lowered into the slot was not one of the R2 units, so he called up to the tech, “Hey, what’s the deal with that droid?”

The tech signaled for hoist to stop and turned to face Adok.

“Lieutenant, it’s one of the R5 models. We’ve had to assign this one to your fighter because your usual Artoo unit apparently blew its motivator.”

“Carry on then. I’ve got to fly this bird outta here, so that droid had better work out.”

“Sir, I think this droid will be just fine.”

Adok shrugged.

“If it doesn’t work, I’m gonna come back here, and, well, I, actually don’t know if I’ll even be able to get back here if that droid doesn’t work, It’ll be your fault though.”

“Sir, the droid will work.”

“Fine put it in the fighter.”

Adok turned around and began to walk away from his fighter, then changed his mind, pivoted on his left foot, and strode purposefully toward it. He climbed up the ladder that was positioned against the side of the cockpit, and then lowered his lanky frame into the seat. He buckled himself into the seat, and lowered the cockpit.

When he was fastened in, he gave a thumbs up sign to a tech on the ladder, and began to boot up displays. He heard the astromech twittering behind him, and began to read the translator that was installed in the cockpit.

“Yes, I am a little nervous, you silly droid. I’m going into combat.”

Adok blinked, and then read the translation of the beeps that the astromech shot back at him.

“My call sign is Dock and the last pilot you flew with called you Sparky? I’m not sure if I like that.”

The astromech responded to that comment with a raspberry.

“Ok. Ok. I’ll call you Sparky.”

Adok smiled and began to power up the rest of his instruments. He ran his engines through their ignition cycle, and snapped a half salute, half wave at the tech that was standing a safe distance.

He smiled and spoke to the droid again. “Well, Sparky, looks like we’re good to go.”

His hand touched the fuzzy dice suspended under the console. For luck...

[Jon'son Dethrider]

Lieutanant Commander Jon'son Dethrider glanced up from his handheld datapad, distracted, then noticed Mischa in the distance giving him a thumbs-up. He winked and returned the same gesture. The hangar bay of the Mon Cal Cruiser, <I>Second Chance</I>, bustled with a sudden burst of frenetic activity that only came with the arrival of a new adversary that threatened the New Republic's security. The rumoured arrival of the 105th Imperial fleet had everyone on edge.

Dozens of techs crawled under the 'Rats starfighters, checking every little detail. Flatbeds were stacked high with colorful plasteel crates and large, metal shipping containers stenciled from dozens of different worlds. A trio of ASP-7 droids stomped along beside a few loading droids. Thick air carried the warm tastes of ozone, lubricants, and sweat inside the hangar.

Jon'son was no exception to inspecting his starfighter as he paced his footfalls around his E-wing until he made a full circle, stopping at the ladder that led up to the cockpit. Under the canopy of it, words were scribed in yellow paint across the fuselage of his E-wing:

<center><img src="http://img432.imageshack.us/img432/5780/abandon7ph.jpg"></center>

The young tech glared at the Womprat pilot, arms crossed, one hand tapping an impatient rhythm. "Everything is in order," he said loudly, trying to hurry Jon'son along. "I've checked every nook and cranny on this junkpile and it's all tuned up and ready to go. I don't see why you're checking my work <I>twice</I> now. I have another E-wing waiting on me."

The tech either wasn't likable, or simply wasn't trying to be.

But Jon'son nodded politely, returned to the datapad he cradled in his right hand. He paged down through the checkpoints, comparing his datapad's glowing green screen to the notes he scribbled when he arrived from the last mission. So far, everything he had noted to be repaired, had been done just as so. A sarcastic reply would have gone a long way to clearing his palate, scoring cheap points off the moody tech, but decided against it.

"Looks good," was all he replied.

The tech straightend his uniform glaring. "I'm glad you approve, <I>Sir</i>."

A tight smirk strained at the corners of Jon'son's mouth. "Personally," he began, fighting to keep the irritation from coloring his dark brown eyes any blacker. "If you had carried that tone with me in the galley after our last one, I would lay you out without breaking a sweat. Next time you service my ship, you better check that attitude, or I'll check it for you." The pinched expression on Jon'son's face spoke volumes. Plus, it was hard to retort when he was literally a foot taller and twice as big.

"I'm sorry, Sir." The tech snagged his service cap from the small of his back and tugged it on smartly. He nodded a respectful salute to the Womprat. "Lieutanant," he said, skimping a bit on the title but maintaining a professional manner even when his inner sense of decorum agreed that Jon'son deserved little more than flat competency. The tech returned to his duties and carried on to the next starfighter.

Setting the datapad down on a utility cart but leaving it on, Jon'son sighed and waved Bandit over. The E-wing pilot's normally gaunt face looked positively drawn and haggard today, and his green eyes were bloodshot from long hours and lack of sleep.

"You look like hell, Bandit," Jon'son observed.

The pilot laughed, a weak chuckle that died prematurely. "Hey, I only had five hours after the last one. Lucky us, eh?"

"You gonna be okay?" Jon'son asked, nodding his commiseration.

Bandit nodded. "Yeah, Stone. A few stims and some caffa will keep me frosty."

Jon'son dismissed his solution with a raise of an eyebrow. "That's all I need is another Hyper."

"At least he's awake."

Stone mused. "Good point. Get saddled up and tell Hyper his ship is getting finishing touches from my tech."

Bandit shrugged, looking forward to a long hyperspace jump into the black himself now. Guess that dinner he was putting off in the galley would have to wait longer. "Will do, Stone." He stepped back and turned toward the area of the two stationed E-wings.

"What a hunk of junk," someone chimed from behind. The voice was feminine, but hardly soft. "Whoever's flying this heap must a total laserbrain to battle in it." The offhand insult wasn't nearly so attention grabbing as the casual way with which she tossed it out.

Jon'son pulled his attention away from his ship and smiled inwardly as he faced Mischa. Her green predatory eyes sized him up in a quick glance.

"Yeah, and I think your callsign says it all, Vacuum," he replied, his eyes flashed playfully.

"Touche." A flush warmed the back of her neck.

"Just came to tell me 'May the Force Be With You?'" He raised that eyebrow again, and folded his burly arms.

"More like good luck, Big Man," she retorted, her lips pursing.

Jon'son nodded to her in acknowledgment. "See you in the black, wingmate." Her anger and frustration were still apparent, but also he noticed a slight air of amusement about her. The way her lips tipped up in one corner, and the jaunt set of her shoulders.

"Same here, Stone. I'll watch your six." She stepped away and made a beeline back to her X-wing.

Jon'son smiled to himself and occupied the last minutes before launch by turning back to his E-wing and giving another look over, then climbed directly up to its cockpit.

[Gabriella]

The Second Chance was bustling with activity. Word had spread throughout the ship faster than a wildfire scouring the drought-ridden forests of Achillea's third continent about the Star Destroyers of the Imperial 105th fleet. Nerves were on edge, moreso than they had been in the past, and tensions were running high. Tempers were short and Gabriella had heard a few members snapping at each other as she made her way from her personal quarters to the bridge. Of course, the moment the bickering ones spotted the Admiral approaching, they snapped to attention, saluted, and all conversation - bickering or otherwise - ceased.

Gabriella strode past; shoulders perfectly squared and her head held high. She didn't even pass a glance to those she past. It wasn't the rank that brought all activity to a halt. It was the fact that she was out of formal uniform. Evidently the crew had never seen an Admiral clothed as she was. It was very amusing and it took every ounce of training she had received over the years she'd dedicated to serving in the military not to smile.

Her flightsuit wasn't the standard orange suits the squadrons wore. Hers was black, sporting gold accents where appropriate, such as the trim around the worn patches or the color of the zipper; the collar of a black turtleneck hugged her slender neck. For now, her flowing red locks were left free to cascade as it wished. The woman cut an imposing figure as she moved through the corridors.

The reaction was more profound when she emerged on the bridge. Every crew member immediately stood from their stations, forgetting protocol briefly as their jaw's dropped. Some seemed forced to support themselves by placing their hands against their consoles or the top of the station dividers. Finally they remembered and snapped to full attention with a salute.

The sudden silence that befell the bridge captured Captain Dervis' attention, taking it from the magnificent image of space engulfing the viewport. The ghostly reflections of the bridge behind him left his brows knitted. Ever so slowly the man turned from the viewport, immediately settling his gaze on Gabriella. She stood at the opposite end of the bridge, meeting his gaze. She noticed the way his eyes moved over her, from head to toe and back up again. She also caught the light twitch that jerked the corner of his moustached lip and the spasm that bounced his right brow twice. Again, it was all she could to do to not smile. She found the entire scene quite amusing.

"Admiral," he stated, clasping his hands at the small of his back to assume a more appropriate stance.

"Captain." She nodded once, curtly.

After a moment of silence, "You know I can't let you do this," he said. The bridge crew was so quiet that Gabriella wondered briefly if they were still breathing. All it took was one shift of her eyes to send them all back to their duties.

"I outrank you. Captain. It's not like you can stop me from doing it." Her posture took on a more prideful stance; a stubbon stance.

"No, I suppose I can't. Though, I could arrange to have the ship's doctor declare you unfit to serve as a commanding officer."

She gave a soft, derisive snort and shook her head. "No you couldn't. And you wouldn't risk a court marshall for mutiny."

Gabriella saw his adam's apple sink then rise with the hard swallow he took.

"Why are you doing this? You've already proven yourself." Captain Dervis closed the distance between them, motioning with a nod of his head for them to step aside to speak more privately.

"Because I cannot issue an order that I would not do myself." Gabriella's star-filled plum eyes settled firmly on Dervis'. He knew how she felt as they'd had this same argument before.

"Do me one favor. Wait until the Womprats are fully deployed before you leave the hangar. Trust me on this." His brows rose, silently questioning, asking if she'd at least do that much for him.

"I had planned it that way, Captain. The techs are going over my ship with a fine-toothed comb in a hangar separate from the others."

Dervis nodded.

"You know my private frequency. Use it." Again, he nodded. With a salute, Captain Dervis returned to the viewport and ran over the battleplan in his head as the rest of the ship was readied for battle.

Gabriella left the bridge and made her way down to the private hangar her own X-Wing was housed in.

[Pietur Legatus]

So they were going out again. The mumblings around her reflected the discontent of the others at the announcement, particularly that of the Wookie, who let out a loud roar. Regardless of their personal opinions, the pilots all filed out of the room and headed for the hanger -a sure sign of their respect for their captain. Pietur tailed the others, glad she didn't have to find her way herself. She was sure she could get there in a rush if need be, but then again, I was sure I knew where the debriefing was -one of these days I need to get my internal compass fixed. The woman did ,however, know where to find her x-wing. The droid she had immediately christened Chuck-chuck (upon hearing his distinctive welcome) rolled towards her, shrieking cheerfully."Yup, we're finally getting a chance to stretch our wings," she told him. "I just hope we're ready for it". The murmured remark was more to herself than anyone else, but a nearby tech picked up on it and offered a smile."You'll be fine. Just take care of those ugly black 'balls for us and you'll be home in no time." With a wink and a grin he wandered off, appearing to have finished with both her and her x-wing. "Well you heard the man Chuck, lets show these imps how things are run around here now!"

Circling the ship carefully, she noticed an old weld-mark just under one of the foils, repairs to the damage done before her time. Brushing it with her fingers, she almost fancied she could hear the battle that had caused it.

Pungent ozone burned her nose. A man's panicked voice filled the air. "There's one on me! Frak, I'm hit! I gotta.."

She pulled away hastily. Imaginations are best reserved for story-tellers and news reporters, she told herself sternly, and I'm not employed as either. Whistling a cheerful tune Aubin had taught her to brush away the shadows of the scene, she carried on with her checks. A smile sent her way by Vacuum caught Pietur's eye, and she grinned back, the anticipation starting to build. It continued to grow as she checked herself, ensuring that everything on her flight suit was where it was supposed to be, and while she rapped Chuck smartly over the head for luck. Giving a last glance around her to the others preparing themselves in their own fashion while trying to appear unaffected by what they were preparing for, she climbed into the cockpit, settling herself into the worn seat with a wriggle. A run through the systems while the droid did his own checks behind her was the last thing that needed to be done. "We good Chuck?". Pietur grinned at the loudly whistled affirmative. "Right then,here we go..."

[Leto Tariq]

Leto tore off his uniform quickly, throwing it aside carelessly to the floor. It was going to show signs of such reckless treatment, but Leto could care less. He didn't fancy dressing up like some of the other officers and the damn thing always made him uncomfortable. He opened his locker door and pulled on his flight suit carefully. Unlike his uniform, his flight suit was important, it served a purpose.

Leto checked the seals on his suit and reached out for his helmet and paused. Every crack, every bump and every scrape in the paint was evident in that helmet. It had been with him ever since his first days in the Alliance and was more than show its age. But he would never replace it, not until it was utterly destroyed.

His fingers traced a patch of paint over the top of his helmet, the letters cracked with age and wear but the word was still legible. "Orion." His callsign. One day, he was going to find out what exactly "Orion" was.

Probably "Onion," but they ran out of paint, Leto thought and smiled, inadvertently glancing at the mirror. More importantly, to the note attached to the mirror.

Toad, Flash, Viper... every Rat who had died under his command, ending in Checks and, finally, Bounder. He tucked the list away in his flight suit.

Just in case.

Leto let his head crash into the locker with a clang. So many of his squadron dead, Checks and Bounder gone only a few days ago, and now the Republic was sending them out again for more to die. Damn Empire! Damn Republic! Damn them both!

"Fell asleep again, Cap'n?" someone said.

Leto looked up and saw the squadron's fiery-haired with an equally fiery attitude pilot. "Hey, Cay. I haven't seen you since the memorial... and the briefing room, of course."

Cayenne bit her lip, said, "About that. Leto, I-"

"I understand," Leto interrupted. "Bounder was your friend. Bounder was everyone's friend, but more importantly Bounder was close to you and I could see that. We all could. And I know you miss Bounder, more than anyone, probably. So don't worry about that outburst; everyone's emotions were strained."

Cay smiled, seemingly in relief. "Thanks, Cap'n."

"And I need to know now if you're over it."

"What?" Cayenne said, taken aback.

"I need your head in this completely, Cay. I won't let you risk your life and our's because you weren't keeping your attention where it needed to be. There's always time to grieve later; I don't want you to get yourself killed."

"Aw, you really do care."

"Of course I do. I need every knuckle-dragging pilot I have in the cockpit. Even you," Leto said, smiling.

Cayenne saluted and grinned, "Yes, sir."

"Now get moving, we're launching soon."

"Oh, frak," she said, taking off for the hangar with Leto in close pursue. They broke off to their X-Wings, Cayenne's droid Spit whistling in greeting.

Leto paused at his fighter, looked over it. It was as scarred as his flight helmet, maybe even worse. He kicked a technician's leg that was sticking out from under the fighter. "How is she?"

There was a clang as the technician dropped something, followed by cursing. He rolled out from the X-Wing and rubbed at his forehead, glaring up at Leto.

"This is a delicate machine; frak, I don't know if it will even run!"

"She'll run."

"Not if you don't take better care of it, it won't!"

Leto pointed to the astromech seated behind his cockpit. "I don't recognize that one, what happened to the old one?"

The technician glanced back and pointed to Leto's old astromech from the last mission, lying motionless on the hangar floor.

"Yes, what's wrong with that one?"

"Have you even looked at it?" the technician asked. Leto looked past his shoulder at the droid, laying lifeless with more than half of it's dome blasted off completely.

"Couldn't you fix that?" Leto asked, much to the annoyance. The R2 unit in the X-Wing turned to Leto and whistled hopelessly. "What? It isn't my fault you machines can't keep yourselves together."

"He thinks you're bad luck."

"What?"

"Bad luck. We don't know how, but many of the droids have begun to think of you as some sort of symbol of death."

"Oh come on. I may have lost a droid every now and then, but..."

"You've lost a droid in almost every single mission you've flown in."

Leto sighed, "Okay, maybe I do deserve it, but they're only machines." The droid retorted with something angry, although Leto had no idea what it had said. It didn't sound very nice, though. The technician only shrugged.

The pilots began climbing into their fighters and performing system checks while technicians and other personnel evacuated the hangar.

"Okay, machine," Leto said when the cockpit was firmly closed, "how does she look?"

The droid whistled.

"Don't worry, she'll fly." The droid whistled again, and Leto read the screen. "'I don't want to die.' Oh, would you just shut up already!"

"This is Stone, systems are green."

"Dock, all systems are go."

"Spice, she's ready to fly."

"Okay everyone," Leto said after his squadron finished reporting. "All fighters, launch."

The X-Wing hummed to life and Leto was only a moment from taking off when the craft jerked violently and the engines died.

"Wait, hold that order," Leto commanded. His hands danced around the craft, checking the systems. "Fix it," he ordered the droid.

Come on, girl, he thought. You can do it.

There was a cough from the engines, a sputter and then it hummed back to life.

That's my girl.

"There we go," he said into the comm system. Someone started laughing. "That's enough, Mischa."

"It isn't me!"

"Well who the frell is it, then?"

"Sorry, sir!" Pietur's voice said, in between laughter. Leto sighed. "Pull it together, Legs."

After that, the fighters launched without any trouble, the Womprats forming into formation.

"We jump in ten..."

"Nine..."

"Eight..."

"Seven..."

"Six..."

"Five..."

We'll make it through this. We have to.

"Four..."

"Three..."

Leto straightened, tried to calm his nerves.

"Two..."

"One, all fighters execute hyperspace jump."


A full squadron of Womprats leapt into hyperspace; only a few would return home.

[Ati Quai]

The wind had kicked up on occasion, adding even more dust into the air than was usual on the desert planet. Ati paused a moment, raising a hand to wipe the back of it against his forehead, then wiping the layer of sweat against the fabric of his shirt. It was hot. Real hot. Which didn't help his concentration much as he continued to search throughout the area, ducking into this alley and that.

He had been trying to track down the same group of people, robed people. No idea who they were, except that they had managed to get their grubby hands on part of his payment for a shipment delivered on time. Hadn't even had a chance to see what was inside before they'd just up and taken it. Didn't make much sense, really, since even Kaybo hadn't been alerted to the presence of those that quickly made themselves scarce.

The chase had been going on for what seemed like hours. Run down one alleyway only to see a blurred figure running where he had just been. Run back that way and two figures were several blocks down. After a while, he was convinced that there was a group of them working together, trying to throw him off the trail. Thus far, it was working.

None of it made much sense at all, nor did the fact that he had some odd-looking contraption hanging from his utility belt. Some kind of rope-weapon or something. What had some peedunky in the cantina called it? A whip? Primitive. Very primitive. Might as well just had a stick to chase people around with. Still, for whatever reason, he had it with him, along with his blaster which was all he really needed. Musta had some bad stim to end up in this kind of shape.

The sound of footsteps came from behind and he saw another pair of those figures hauling the same basket-like container that he had been chasing for twenty minutes now. Three steps in that direction to pursue, and they were running down the alleyway behind him. What the frell?

Finally, it dawned on him. Quit running around like a burnhead chasing these figures. Just go where they'd have to end up in order to leave the planet with their package. Genius. Watching the figures disappear again, he finally turned to walk out of this area of alleys. Perhaps out in the open, he'd better be able to get an idea of where they were heading to. However many of them there were.

Stepping out of the alleyway and into the market square brought about yet another thing that simply made no sense. The whole situation was made even more bizarre by the fact that the Jawas and many others in the area suddenly started to part the way for him. Much like an old sea dividing to allow others safe, dry passage, the street was clearing quickly. After a couple of moments, he decided that it wasn't necessarily clearing for him, but rather for the dark robed figure that was standing thirty feet his opposite.

Why does this always happen to me? he thought, dark eyes watching this new figure. Had to be part of the gang he had been chasing, but...Pifgah!

There was a soft snap-hiss in the air as the robed figure removed something from his belt and then engaged whatever it was. Some small metallic cylinder with a long glowing red blade coming out of it. Sure, I get a handheld vine and he gets some cool laser sword. Makes perfect sense.

Ati stood there, half in awe and half in disbelief as the figure tossed the lightsaber back and forth from one hand to the next, performing some fancy shmancy move each time a hand got a hold of it. Swinging it this way and that, spinning across each wrist. People began looking expectantly between the two and the dark robed figure seemed to have it in his mind to chop Ati up and feed him to the rancors. One small problem.

Without breaking anymore of a sweat than he already had, Ati yawned as his hand moved to the blaster at his hip, lifting it with ease and pulling the trigger once. The bolt scored a hit directly in the robed man's chest and he fell like a stone. Holstering the weapon, Ati just shrugged as the crowd began to mob him with cheers. Cheers that sounded...like...

"What the frell!!" The sound finally dawned on him once it registered into his mind and Ati bolted straight up in his bed, eyes wide and searching around. He just caught a glimpse of the snickering droid as Kaybo departed the room and presumably made his way towards the cockpit. Oh, someday, that droid was going to be de-commissioned and Ati would be there to see it.

He sat on the makeshift bed a few moments, rubbing over his eyes a couple of times before finally getting up. With another muttered curse, he made his way out of his chambers and up towards the cockpit. Figuring that the droid would be busy with the checks, imagine the surprise when Kaybo was seated rather comfortably in the co-pilot's chair with a magazine in his hands.

"I'll assume that with you reading, the ship is nearly ready for take-off?"

-Reading? What do you mean, Sir?-

"Reading. The magazine in your hands that you seem to be eyeing like a rancor at an all-you-can-eat Gamorrean feast. What is that?"

-Oh, this. Yes, sir. This happens to be MechTech Illustrated, and for your information my fine human companion, I only look at the pictures. Pictures, after all, can say a thousand words and I've really not the time for that sort of trade-off. Besides, check out the turbo boosters on this one!-

"Oh! My! God!" Ati stood there in stunned silence for several moments after his initial outburst. The droid simply shrugged, or as much of a shrug as was possible for a droid and then went back to thumbing through more pages.

-Oh, dear. Nevermind that one, Sir. I want one of these. Do you think th--

"No, I don't. One droid is more than enough for me at this point." Ati went about finishing the start-up procedures for the ship, though he couldn't help but to chuckle after a couple moments. "Of all the droids in all the galaxy, mine's the one with the perverted mind. Fitting...somehow."

[Chancbacca]

As the lines of Hyperspaces moved past the cockpit of his fighter, Chancy settled into the pilot's couch as comfortably as he could. It wasn't easy. Even though he was small for a wookie, it was a tight fit in the cockpit.

Looking over the settings on the controls, he nodded his approval. even the control panel that exploded in the last battle looked completely operational. The worst had to be the S-Foil activator. It had come loose and hit him in the head during the battle, and continued to swing. Not being able to take the time to secure it to the side during battle. In fact, Chancy had to land the X-Wing with the s-foils still in attack position.

But it appeared that everything was in place, he just hoped the Wings would split when called upon.

by shifting just a little, the wookie was able to withdraw the rather large (considering the size of the cockpit) knife. Not a tech knife like vibro blades. this one was made of stone or possibly bone from some large animal. And from a pouch he took out a stone. Using the stone, the wookie began sharpening the blade. Seemed a strange thing for a starfighter pilot to carry, but on the chance he was shot down and had to eject in atmosphere, the knife would come in handy, and had. in his LONG career, the wookie had put down on a planet 5 times. The occupying Imperials never stood a chance.

After making sure the blade had as sharp of an edge as possible, the wookie, still bored, began tinkering with some of the controls. Always trying to improve on the operation, and make things easier on the wookie.

Someday, the Squadron would have enough time to REALLY overhaul the fighters and get them back to fully operational status.

How much longer? And who would have to fly his Wing. If it was one of the rookies, he hoped they would understand him. Not every human understood Wookie, event he common dialect he spoke publicly, and with the speech defect that made it easier for humans to understand.

Above all, he hoped he would be able to return to the Ship with everyone still alive.

[Mischa Margolin]

Still miffed that Leto would have thought she was the one who laughed about the problem with his ship, Mischa whacked the flickering projection lens for her heads-up display just a bit harder than she should have and lost the image for just a few seconds.

ByteMe blatted something rather rude sounding at her, and Mishc told him to pipe down and do something useful like running a diagnostic in the faulty HUD lens. The cranky R2-B1 tootled something back at her about not hitting the fracking thing so hard next time and a few seconds later the flcikering turned into a steady glow.

"Thanks, you cranky old piece of scrap." Margolin told the astromech fondly as she glanced at the starlines streaking by.

Calming herself and mentally preparing as best she could for whatever was waiting for them on the other side of the jump, Mischa saw Stone's E-Wing off to her port side and waited until he looked her way before tapping on the side of her helmet signaling him to open the comm channel between them privately.

"You okay over there, little girl." Stone's baritone voice asked in her earpiece.

"Never better, big man." came Mischa's reply through the mic. "Just wanted to tell you that if I don't make it back, I stashed the datapad with my personal log in my locker. There's some stuff on there I'll need you to take care of for me."

"Misch. Enough of that." her wingman replied. "We're both going to retire at the same time, get us a beat to hell cargo ship and open our own transport service. Stick with the plan, Margolin."

"Yeah and if you get killed, I'm running off with Tariq...or maybe that Rogue Squadron Captain. What's his name...Antilles. Dorran?...Corran?...whatever." The redhead said with a laugh.

"So you plan on keeping me alive by forcing me to stick around to keep you from making some huge mistake like that huh?" Jon'son replied, Mischa hearing the smile in his voice. "You play real dirty, Margolin."


"I learned from the best, Big Man. Let's make sure we all come back this time, even if it is my turn to buy a round for everyone." the X-Wing pilot replied. before switching back to the main squadron channel.

[Gabriella]

As planned, Gabriella waited until the last of the squadrons had left the hangars, then went to the private hangar that held her own X-Wing. One of the technicians, Brendellman, rolled out from underneath the ship and scrambled to his feet, sporting a crisp salute to the Admiral as she crossed the hangar bay's expanse. "At ease. Is she ready?"

"Yes, sir! Er. Ma'am. Uh .. Admiral?" The tech, obviously nervous by the presence of the Admiral stumbled over exactly how to address her. "Relax," she laughed while tugging on a pair of black gloves. Brendellman handed a helmet to her and gave her a lopsided grin. "By the way ... you never saw me here." The tech nodded, saluting again, coming to full attention. To get the tech to leave the hangar, Gabriella gave him a lazy salute and watched him spin on his heels and run away. It'd been years since she'd entered a hangar bay and the odors brought back bittersweet memories of a life she once lived. It seemed like forever since she last sat in the cockpit of a starfighter.

"Hello, A-4." Gabriella looked at the ship as she greeted the R2 unit who would accompany her on the mission. The droid bleeped a greeting in return. "Run diagnostics, A-4." Gabriella scaled the ladder to the cockpit then slipped gingerly inside. Once she was comfortably seated, she tugged on the helmet Brendellmen had given her and ran through pre-flight sequences. Words scrolled across a small screen across from her lap. "I thought they fixed this quirk you have, A-4. No, I did not leave the iron on. As I've told you before, I don't iron my own uniforms. Someone else does that for me." The R2 unit droned a worried tone, sounding like a human 'ohh'. Another question appeared on the screen; this one made Gabriella smile. "No, I don't think we'll run into your former owner on this mission, A-4. And to be honest, we don't want him to show up. I don't want anything to happen to him. I'm sure you'll see him again one day." A-4 blatted out a few tones and Gabriella just rolled her eyes. The diagnostics were run and displayed on the screen. All systems were go. Gabriella flipped a few switches, pushed the primer button, then the ignition. The X-wing's engines roared to life and the ship lifted from the hangar bay's floor a moment later. A gentle easing of the flightstick took the craft out of the hangar. Gabriella purposely kept a safe distance behind the rest of the squadrons. She didn't want them to know she was there or would be entering battle with them.

Gabriella's X-Wing hadn't been taken out and entered into battle for years. However, she made sure to have a few trusted techs keep it updated and in tip-top condition. Because she had it planned in the back of her mind since the day she was promoted and taken off the roster of active fighter pilots to sit in the cockpit of her X-Wing again, she had her ship re-painted to coincide with her call sign of Shadow. Standard colors of the Republic's X-wing's were white and reddish-orange. Gabriella had her ship painted solid black. Even now against the midnight black backdrop of space, the ship would look like nothing more than a shadow moving across the stars. The only time her ship was even visible was when weapons were fired or if she happened to pass near a source of light.

"Dervis?"

"I'm here Admiral." Captain Dervis responded over the secured private channel she had set up long ago for the purposes of carrying on private transmissions with the Captain.

"Just checking."

Captain Dervis left the channel open, viewing the oncoming battle from the safety of The Second Chance's bridge. Gabriella flipped her ship's onboard com unit to the same frequency the squadrons would be using. As she lingered behind the others, she watched their formations; smiling as she overheard the conversational banter taking place amongst wingmates. She missed those days and sometimes wished she weren't an Admiral and could be in the heart of it all once again. Blips and beeps from A-4 pulled her from memories of days long past. "No, A-4, I didn't leave the shower running in my quarters. Would you stop worring?!" The droid fell silent and continued scanning the area while maintaining routine checks on the X-Wing. In preparation, the S-foils were locked into attack position and Gabriella ran a second weapons check. Just to reassure herself. "Captain. Remind me to have the R2 unit melted down for scrap upon return."

"Admit it, Admiral. A-4 has grown on you and you find it endearing."

Gabriella just grumbled something inaudible and resumed silence.

[Adok Borys]

Adok stretched out his tall frame as much as he could in the cramped confines of the X-wing cockpit and then tried to crack his neck. He stared out of the canopy of his X-wing at the swirling vortex of hyperspace, he could feel himself, starting to fade into a half-awake state from the hypnotic effect that hyperspace travel was having on him...

The three men sat around the table. Adok looked at the pot. Three hundred credits. Adok tossed a hundred credit chit into the pot. He glanced at one of the fellow players and recognized Leto Tariq. Adok tossed in a chit for two hundred credits.

The third player at the table spoke. “Dock, I’ll raise you fifty creds.”

Adok recognized the voice of Elek Donat, the commander of the group of fighters, from the Remembrance, the converted carrier that he’d flown a Headhunter from for several years. He smiled as smoke from the commander’s cigarra wafted into his nostrils, and chunked a fifty credit coin into the pot.

“Donat, here’s your creds then. I’ll call you.”

Adok grinned as he laid down a two and three of coins, and then tossed another card to onto the pile of currency in the middle of the table.

Then he woke up, and blinked as the cockpit of his X-wing snapped into focus, and then the console chimed again. He stole a glance at the chrono and mentally cursed. Frak! Ten seconds to reversion.

He watched the timer count down to and tried to straighten the jumble of thoughts of being suddenly awakened from a bizarre game of Sabaac. “I hate dreams like that. I didn’t even get to see what that third card was. Damn!”

The R5 unit that shared the fighter with him let out an electronic raspberry.

Frak! Did I just say that out loud?, Adok wondered.

Then it was time, the swirling mists of hyperspace spat out twelve fighters.

Adok looked at his sensors. Yes. It’s a supply depot.

Then Orion’s voice filtered of the comm. “All ships report it.”

“Dock, reporting in.”

“Stone, standing by.”

Chancbacca roared.

“Spice, ready.”
“Red, ready boss.”

“Vacuum. Systems are go.”

“Legs, ready and steady.”

As the pilots were reporting in, Adok was reading his sensors, and he choice a moment to interject and astute observation.

“Orion, Dock. Over.”

“Orion here. Over.”

“Orion, it’s a supply depot. I’m not reading anything but a supply depot.”

“Yes Dock, it’s a supply depot.”

“But Orion, there’s nothing here but a supply depot. Why did they pick this supply depot?”

“Dock, Stone. Shut the frak up.”

“Roger that. Dock out.”

Adok looked at his sensors again and muttered to the empty cockpit. “It’s a supply depot. There’s nothing here but a supply depot.”

Unfortunately, Sparky heard him, and let out a series of beeps and whistles, which Adok had to read on the astromech translator. “Pilot, I agree with you.”

Adok smiled. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, Sparky.”

[Maxwell Gandel]

Pirate Fleet

Lauren Askaza had never been one to shy from danger. In fact, he often ran headlong towards it. Like now, as he oversaw the first stage of Gandel's attack plan from the bridge of the corvette Desparate Gamble. An ironically appropriate name, Askaza reflected. The pirate's only other corvette, Crazy Ivan, flanked them to port. A squadron of uglies filled the space between the two corvettes, armed to the teeth and ready for blood. Every ship in the pirate fleet, starfighter and corvette alike, sported a garish coat of fresh warpaint.

Askaza liked the warpaint. It helped psyche up his men, and it set them apart from other pirate bands. They'd all developed their own supersitions about certain patterns of warpaint, even Askaza. For some, it provided a sense of quiet confidence. For others, a reckless air of invincibility. Whether or not it intimidated the enemy was besides the point.

Askaza grinned. Like the savages of old, he and his men would ride screaming into battle with faces painted.

He checked the bridge's chronometer. Only seconds until hypersrpace reversion, and the fight would begin. It would be the biggest confrontation the Point Blank pirates had ever been in, involving every starfighter they had in their posession. It would be their biggest victory, or their ultimate defeat.

"Three!" the bridge's astrogator called out gruffly, "Two! One!"

The Point Blank pirates burst from hyperspace, stars swirling around them until they found their final resting place. The supply depot seemed to snap zoom into focus before them, and it was time to begin. "Launch all starfighters!" Askaza barked, eyes gleaming. He could feel the upswell of excitement within him, knew that every pirate in the fleet was feeling the same thing.

Uglies boiled out of the two corvette's hangar bays, joining their hyperspace capable brethren on the star studded field of battle. "Tell me what's out there," Askaza ordered.

"I see the frigate," Askaza's tactical officer reported immediately. The woman was deft and compitent, with a mind like the edge of a vibroblade. "Looks like one squadron of fighters on patrol. X-wings and a few E-wings. Multiple civillian contacts, light freighters and tugs. Two bulk freighters."

Askaza grunted his acknowledgement of the report. So far, so good. Askaza briefly contemplated ordering the garrison to surrender, but he knew as well as anybody that they would refuse. And so be it, then... he'd been looking forward to a fight anyway. "Jam 'em," He ordered.

The military grade comm and sensor jammers Gandel's men had installed sprang to life in an instant, blanketing the station and a good portion of the surrounding space with static. Short range communications would be able to punch through the static, but long range transmissions would not. In theory, anyway.

"The station is launching fighter squadrons," The woman at tactical reported promptly. "The frigate is moving towards us."

Askaza merely nodded. Thanks to the sensor jammers, enemy bombers would have a hell of a time getting an acurate lock on the larger warships, and sensor contacts with the uglies would be dodgy at best. The enemy would have to rely on good old fashioned eyesight to do battle with the pirates.

It was all designed to make sure they stayed alive until the 105h arrived. Askaza glanced at the time. Soon...

The corvettes roared forward towards the supply depot, shields up and weapons hot. Three squadrons of ugles boiled around them like a cloud of angry insects, ready to draw first blood. The distance closed, and Askaza didn't feel like waiting for the 105th.

[Leto Tariq]

And this week's award for "Stating the Frakking Obvious" goes to our good friend Adok Borys for his observation that there is, in fact, a supply depot. Thank you, Dock, for making sure we don't have to look outside the frakking window.

"Hyperspace jump successful, form up with your wingman. Furball, you're with Legs. Red, you're going with Dock. Bandit with Hyper, Joker with Jammer," Leto said, the Rats responding back and acknowledging his orders. "Vacuum and Stone, you're together again on this one."

Vacuum and Stone flew well together, very well. Whatever the bond they had formed, the two performed very well when winged with each other. Leto tried to avoid that sort of situation where one pilot relied on another more than the rest of the squadron, he wasn't mad enough to take any chances on this mission. He needed his pilots to perform at their best, even if that meant encouraging a little favoritism.

He was almost jealous. Almost. Well, maybe a little.

"Spice, you'll be flying with me on this one."

"Roger that, Orion."

The Rats moved into formation almost effortlessly. At least they were good with the basics.

"This is Orion hailing Republic frigate," he said. Sensors still showed nothing but the frigate and station. Leto hoped it would stay that way.

"This is the frigate Dorin. Good to have you with us Orion."

"Roger that, Dorin, and we absolutely hate being here." There was a chuckle over the comm from the frigate. That was a good sign.

"Dorin, you spotted anything?"

There was a pause while the frigate checked its sensor readings. "Nope, just empty space."

Leto smiled thinly. So far, things were going well. Maybe the Republic's suspicions were wrong after all.

"Dorin, what are the station's defences?"

"Not much; a few freighters, three squadrons of X-Wings and A-Wings. Most of the pilots are used to flying freighters."

Frak!

"Roger that, Dorin, Orion out," Leto glanced behind him. "Droid, see if sensors pick up anything..."

"Enemy contacts!" Leto was jerked back to attention by Red's voice. "Looks like pirates."

Leto glanced around wildly until he found the two enemy corvettes. They didn't look like any Imperial ship from the 105th, so these were either ships Admiral Voltaire hadn't encountered at Bilbringi or pirates making a quick raid. Either way, they were trouble.

"They're launching... freaks," Spice said and Leto agreed. They were definitely pirates; the Empire wasn't desperate enough to start using those ugly abominations.

Those ship would be at the station in seconds, and the only thing standing in their way were the Rats. The supply depot was launching fighters and the frigate was moving towards them, but the Womprats would already be fighting by the time the ships came in range.

Oh frak...

"Okay everyone, let's slag these bastards." Not exactly the greatest warcry, but it got the point across.

The fighter squadrons met, Furball the first to fire a shot and utterly destroying a pirate. The wookie roared in triumph over the comm.

Ping!

Leto's breath caught as a shot scraped across one of his fighter's engines, sending his droid screaming.

"Shut up!" His X-Wing twisted and spun, avoiding the shots flashing by from behind him. Leto grimaced; whoever this pilot was, he wasn't waiting until he had a clear target before he fired. Maybe that meant...

Leto jerked his fighter down quickly and came up behind the enemy fighter. The abomination tried maneuvering away in surprise, but Leto kept behind him. He smiled thinly.

"Aw, would you look that... they've painted their ships." Two shots from his blaster cannons sent the ship into a spin and another shot destroyed it. "Frakker."

Something exploded from behind him. "You should watch your back, Cap'n."

Leto glanced up at Spice's fighter now flying above and grinned. "Thanks, Spice."

He risked a look around. The other squadrons had joined them in the dogfight, and were managing to hold their own against the larger-numbered pirates.

We might make it through this one, Leto thought and ripped apart what looked like a TIE fighter with engines from a Y-Wing. Just maybe, we'll get lucky.

[Mischa Margolin]

If the pilots of those painted ships could see the predatory gleam in Mischa's eyes, it may have sent them running much faster than a barrage of laser cannon fire would. But that would have taken all the fun out of things for her.

Pirates, frelling trash-flying pirates. Her favorite target. Predacious scum.

If the fates had arranged things differently in her life, Margolin most likely would have joined CorSec and been hunting them anyway, so she grinned at the sight of the uglies boiling through space around them.

One of the fighters, an abomination that married the body and wing panels of a TIE interceptor in a new and interesting configuration particularly offended her

As the pilot of the garishly painted monstrosity flew at her with the single, oddly mounted canon of his craft blazing, Vac flicked the controls of her quad laser cannons to cycling fire and blazed toward the pirate’s craft depressing the trigger and letting the beams chew through the miscarriage of a ship.

The InterceptorUgly turned into a glittering cloud of shrapnel as Mischa roared above it. “Prettier now” she thought with a smile as she banked to swoop around and head back to cover Stone who was chasing down a ship that had been put together from so many different cannibalized parts that few were actually recognizable as anything the Empire or Allinace had ever used in the past.

Misch had to admit that the pirate flying the creation of some warped mind was actually quite good, but Stone was better and the more the pirate twisted and turned, the more fun she knew her wingmate was having. Finally tiring of the games, Jon’son got down to the business of blowing his quarry to dust with shots from the E-Wings cannons.

Just in time too as a couple of the now vaporized pirate’s mates in matching X/Y-Wing…things decided to join in the fun, flying straight toward Misch and her wingmate in a game of hard-vacuum chicken.

[Adok Borys]

In space, a dogfight is like a dance, where no one knows all the steps. Of course, in on the dance floor, the penalty for a misstep is not a blaster bolt scorching your fighter, or being reduced to a cloud of plasma.

Adok was engaged in the dance. Of course, he had an additional handicap. The boss had saddled him with a new pilot that he had to try and keep alive, in this mess. He figured now was as good a time as any to offer some encouragement to Red.

“Okay Red. Keep it together. Let’s burn these pirates, from this plane of existence.”

Adok heard Red’s voice reply to him over the comm channel.

“Dock. I’ve got one that I can’t shake. He’s on my tail.”

Adok heard the tremor in Red’s voice, and quickly thought up a strategy as a used his sensors to locate the offending fighter.

“Okay Red. Here’s the plan. Let’s make like we’re trying to crash into each other head on. Don’t worry. I’ll get that pirate off of you, but you’ll have to listen to me.”

Adok slewed his X-wing around so that he was heading for a collision with Red. He watched the range to the ugly that was on Red’s tail scrolling down on his targeting computer, and set his blaster cannons to quad burst.

“Red! Now! Break right!”

As soon as his wingmate’s fighter was out of his line of fire, Adok triggered the quad burst from his cannons, and shredded the cockpit of the offending fighter. Some of the energy from his bolts actually made it to the ion engines in the fusion of a Y-wing and a TIE/ln and the craft exploded in a spectacular cloud of plasma.

Adok shrieked a war cry over the comm system. “Boom, baby, boom! Ow!”

“Okay, Red. Your turn. Pick a target and vape it. I’ve got your six.”

[Ceryll Tana]

Ceryll tightened her fists around the stick, pressing her tongue against the roof of her mouth. The adrenaline from the close call with the enemy starfighter was coursing through her veins.

"Ritz, give me a target," she commanded, boosting her throttle.

Almost before she had finished the request, the tiny image of a mismatched TIE began to twirl in the corner of her tactical screen. Gunning her engines, she shot forward, aware of Dock's fighter keeping to his word and "watching her six."

The ugly was painted in ghastly patterns of blood red. The pilot was just as brazen as the decor of his fighter, spinning and dodging through the flashing laser fire and general scramble of the space melee. The ugly broke free from its wingmates and started to jink and weave. Slamming her foot down on the right rudder, Ceryll sent her X-wing into a curve that managed to place her directly onto the enemy fighter's tail.

But the pilot was good. Swerving and breaking from side to side, he almost managed to slip out from under her guns.

Squeezing down on the trigger, Ceryll sent twin bursts of energy zipping across space and watched as they made a scratch in the fighter's wing panel. The ugly bucked slightly, but still managed to keep just out and away from her fire.

"Frak…" she growled over the comm. The thought of what her mother would say to such language had to be pushed into the back of her mind as quickly as it appeared.

Ritz sputtered something that was probably meant to be encouraging, but the cheery tune dropped suddenly into a sharp screech. Glancing at the screen, she quickly read the droid's comment.

"Oh, shavit," Ceryll snarled violently as she once again found an enemy fighter targeting her, only this time with proton torpedoes. "Dock, got a problem here…"

Dock was calm and cool as ever. "I got it covered, Red."

Reinforcing her aft shields, she continued to give chase to the stubborn ugly. Sliding her brackets across the fighter, she switched the quad lasers and punched the trigger fiercely. Ceryll gasped as the four bolts sliced cleanly through the cockpit and set the pilot and everything else on fire. After a few seconds of spinning and flaming, the ugly exploded into a brilliant fireball, which Ceryll barely avoided by kicking her X-wing up on the right S-foil and screaming past.

She couldn't contain the small squeal of delight that escaped through her parted lips. "I got him, Dock!" she exclaimed, feeling her cheeks flushing.

Dock chuckled over the comm. "I saw it, Red. And your tail is clear."

Red bit down on her lip to control her smile of pride. "Let's go vape some more pirate scum."

* * * * *

[Ati Quai]

The rest of the start-up procedures had gone smoothly, and Ati quickly went around the rest of the ship just to make sure that nothing had slipped his eye when the repairs were going on. One could never be too careful, especially in this back-stars area.

-Sir, sensors pick up a squadron of fighters just coming out of hyperspace.-

"Any idea what they're doing here? Most likely just a rendezvous point or perhaps they need to refuel. I wouldn't worry too much about it."

-Sensors picking up two corvettes also coming out of hyperspace with more fighters.-

"Just a rendezvous point, Kaybo. Squadron comes to scout ahead before the bulk ships show up. Fairly standard procedure from what I've seen. Still...are they Republic?"

-Squadron, yes. The corvettes and other ships...not so much. I can't even get a definite read on what type of ships they are...uh, Sir?-

"Go ahead, Kaybo."

-Sensors just died, Sir. I am unable to get any readings at all now.-

"Well, so much for the joy ride out of here. Kaybo, make the final preparations and see if you can't do something to override the jammers. Looks like that upgrade we got last season is going to pay off, huh?"

One of the most recent upgrades he had added to the droid was a much more stable system, keeping sensor jammers and the like from causing the droid to go haywire. At this point, such a thing would be catastrophic since it would take the two of them together to get out of this mess.

Ati returned to the cockpit and strapped himself into the chair just as Kaybo was lifting the ship off the hangar bay floor. The Junkpile hovered as it slowly spun around to get a direct exit out of the hangar bay, and even from there, the first images of fireballs were visible in the space beyond.

"Break out the cocktails, Kaybo. Looks like quite a party. Getting our weapons online...now."

With a stream of blue light behind it, the Corellian freighter sped out of the hangar and made its approach to the dogfight in the stars. Sure, he would've preferred to avoid it altogether, but they were doing a good job of blocking up all the free space in getting away.

-Sir, with the systems still wonky from the sensor jammers, it will be nigh impossible to target anything out there. Well, even these sensors could probably get a bead on one of the corvettes if you're feeling particularly jaunty.-

"Not today. Just keep us clear of as much fire as possible. Looks like we'll have to do this the hard way. Besides, that other squadron, whoever they are, is terribly out-numbered right now and we know how much I love pirates."

-Pirates, Sir?-

"Of course. Who else do you know of that would drop from lightspeed and immediately deploy fighters and take out communications. Besides, if you couldn't get a reading on the make of the second group of ships, it's highly unlikely that they belong to the Republic. It's the only thing that makes even a mote of sense. Just get the override working and keep us from getting blown away. I'll see about buying some time."

It had been some time since he had found the need to manually fire the cannons on the ship, but it was like riding a swoop. Well, except for the fact that he really couldn't afford the crash along the way to getting things right. Climbing into the turret seat, he tossed the headset on and finished the last priming of the weapons, finally receiving the green light for go.

"Kaybo, see if you can find that one audiodisk that I like so well."

-The Best of Music, Sir?-

"That's the one."

As the distance between the starfighter melee and the freighter closed, it was indeed confirmed that the initial squadron was far out-numbered, though already they were going about evening up the odds. With the sensors still primarily jammed, it did make things a bit more difficult, but not impossible. It just meant that he had to really be careful not to fire upon any of the supposed friendlies. What he was discovering was quite surprising, given that the 'enemy' ships looked as if some mechanic took a little too much glitterstim when performing maintenance. Pieces of this added to parts of that. Made the Junkpile look like a luxury cruiser.

One thing that he found to be the easiest way to target the pirate ships, was simply to get a bead on anything that was trailing a normal looking ship. X-Wings and E-Wings were standard Republic fighters, after all, and didn't borrow parts from other ships. One such X-Wing seemed to be having a hard enough time shaking a trailing snub fighter, and the Junkpile moved in for intercept.

It was a strange thing, really, when in such a situation. Kaybo was doing well to keep tabs on the pirate ships and to guide the freighter in their general area. Ati was charged with taking them out. It was possible to switch the tasks of pilot and co-pilot, outside of the fact that the droid tended to get trigger happy and accidentally scored the Junkpile itself on one such occasion. After that, Kaybo was left to handle the flying and Ati handled the guns.

"How're the sensors and where's that music?"

His question was answered by a quite jovial tune coming through the headset, one that immediately brought a grin to his lips as both dual-cannons fired at one of the uglies. The last shot resulted in an explosion of the offending ship, perfectly in tune with the song "I Saw Mommy Kissing Palpatine." Ati's shot was then answered by the slight pitching of the freighter to the left.

-Oops, sorry.-

"Sorry?"

-The pretty lights of the explosion distracted me.-

Bloody hells. Still, with all the quirks and faults of the droid, its usefulness and reliability really did outweigh them. In the overall sense of things at least. Another of the uglies veered off from its course, leaving it momentarily alone and vulnerable. With Kaybo's guidance of the ship, the Junkpile's dual-cannons get another good bead and sent the pirate into oblivion.

-Sir, two of them are on our tail. I've angled the deflector shields to keep us from being obliterated.-

"No need to be so dramatic. Just find me another target, Kaybo, and perhaps our unofficial friends will get rid of the trailers. Just in case, fly a little looser than usual."

The silence that followed was likely due to both of them being rather stunned. Ati at having said that, and Kaybo at having received permission to fly somewhat reckless. Usually it was Ati who took care of the daredevil stuff, but Kaybo had seen enough to know what to do and how to do it. Even now, he was baiting another ugly into the trap.

[Gabriella]

The silence over the com was refreshing as Gabriella's X-Wing, The Shadow, made it's way through hyperspace. She thought back to the last time when she had been surrounded by so much silence. It took her a good few minutes and she still couldn't think of the last time. Wow. It's been far too long. Just as she was beginning to truly enjoy it a repetative beeping sounded, indicating the reversion to real space would occur in one minute. "Figures," she muttered.

"Dervis, back online."

"Welcome back, Admiral. Silence will occur again in five minutes when we make our jump," he replied.

The Admiral flipped the auto-pilot off the moment reversion was complete. She had just enough time to see the Womprats engaged in battle before another ship, a freighter she thought, filled the viewport. Reflexes took over, dictating the evasive maneuver that jerked the X-Wing up and into a backwards loop, barrel roll to avoid collision. "Whoa! Pick a lane, bud." She craned her neck to see if she could spot the ship that wasn't a part of the New Republic. She caught it from the corner of her eye as the vessel was banking around to take another run at the melee.

"A-4, see if you can get a read on that freighter." Words typed out across the monitor and she just sighed. "I know! And for the last time, no we didn't leave anything on back in my quarters. Would you just do what I asked and pull up information on those uglies. They don't look like standard Imperial ships." The droid buzzed a raspberry at her and went about doing as told.

Gabriella banked around herself, pulling back to get a better view of the battlefield. Frak! Two corvettes! It was easy to distinguish the Womprats from the enemy, even without the heads-up display lighting the ships up as green dots. Beside the fact that they'd just entered in a battle that left them seriously outnumbered and outgunned, that freighter was bugging her at the back of her mind.

"Whoever it is, seems to be on our side. That's one blessing I hadn't counted on. Thank the stars."

An alarm klaxon sounded in the cockpit, indicating that The Shadow had been targeted and the enemy had a lock on her. "Where is it, A-4?!" The droid located the enemy ship coming in above and behind her. A quick juke to the right and a spin-dive took Gabriella away from the ugly, but the pilot was good. He kept on her tail the entire time, keeping himself just within locking and firing range. A series of red bolts streaked past, narrowly missing the S-foils as Gabriella took the craft into another quick roll.

She increased her speed, pulling back steadily on the joystick to send the X-Wing heavenward. She jinked left, then right, and dropped suddenly, keeping a head-on course toward one of the two corvettes. Sure, it was suicidal, but she couldn't shake the ugly hot on her tail. The other X-Wings may have noticed an additional green blip or two on their displays, but they were otherwise engaged with their own fights.

One of the corvettes opened fire as the shadowy visage of the X-Wing became apparent, the shape of the craft highlighted as shots continued to zing past from above. Timing it perfectly, Gabriella suddenly pulled back forcefully on the joystick, causing the X-Wing to pull quite a few G's at the tight maneuver that saved her ship from slamming into the nose of the corvette. The ugly that was on her tail, however, wasn't so lucky. So intent on shooting her down, the pilot failed to see the obvious ploy and wound up exploding when one of the guns from the corvette fired, taking the ugly out in the blink of an eye.

She had forgotten what a rush it was to be in the cockpit of her ship and engaged in battle. "Woo-hoo! A-4? How are you doing back there?" The droid gave a bleep that sounded like a quivering voice and Gabby just laughed. "Relax. I won't get you killed. Beside, I think there's an iron back at the Second Chance waiting for you to return." She found it amusing, obviously the droid did not. His response was an expletive that she'd never heard from the droid before.

Quick hand work, natural reflexes, and years of training paid off well, but she knew that never was a guarantee. She was just as vulnerable out here as the Womprats were. Skimming the top hull of the corvette, Gabriella made her escape and headed toward the bulk of the battle. Some might have considered it odd that never once did she address or inform any of the other Republic pilots over the com, but she did this for a reason. She didn't want them to know who was at the controls of the X-Wing identified only as The Shadow.

[Chancbacca]

The wookie took pride in the fact he had scored first blood. The wookie screams were a trademark, going back to before most of the other pilots ever began walking, never mind flying.

But professionalism came through the battle Rage. Switching over to combat computer, he activated the auto translate system he had installed. it wasn't prefect, but relying on a human wingmate to understand him in combat was like asking that wingmate to read minds at times. especially when he was winged with a Rookie, like now.

"Raooorrr, Gurrrrr Roarrs rumble" was what the wookie said into the comm system. but the simple program turned that into very basic basic. "Legs, stay with me, I have lead" came the very mechanical emotionless voice of centuries old computer, one that didn't have an AI to bring out a personality


"Lead, I'm going to charge the Uglies, break them up and go for a torpedo run on one of the corvettes. give them something to worry about."

"Legs, arm torpedo systems, set them for standby and dual fire. when I give the word, slave your tracking system to my computer. we're going for a bridge shot. And we're going to fire twice.

"Copy, I have your back" came the reply from Legs. Although the wookie wasn't the best judge of human emotions, but the fear was easy to read here.

"Just do what I say, it will be OK, like swinging in the trees."

The two X-Wings moved out and shot straight at the formation of fighters. the battle was just starting to break up into individual dogfights, but the majority of the uglies were trying to keep unit cohesion Good, this works better this way.

The lead fighter, battle worn and dirty began firing it's lasers. The lasers firing in sequence, singularly. Not linked, so each hit packed less punch, but with uglies, that can be enough to take them out. And sure enough, As Chanky passed the closest ugly, the main control panels on the Z-95 frame exploded in a shower of sparks. The ship's Tie Ion Engines, attached the solar panels, died out, and it began drifting powerless.

"That's a kill"

Without warning, The rear X-Wing popped up above Chanky, not overtaking it, but fired dual linked laser blasts. the first 2 went wide, but the 3 following shots vaporized the Tie fighter with the wings and engines of a Z-95. The whoop of excitement coming from Legs, obviously happy to have scored her first kill.

but ther was no time to celebrate. Turbo Laser fire was now coming in at them. Their attack run becoming more obvious.

"switch to torps. Droid, give Legs the telematry. targeting the bride." the wookie, still juking to avoid the deadly lightshow incoming at his fighter put action to words. dropping his targeting crosshairs over the forward view port of the corvette. "remember, pull your trigger twice, it will use most of your totps, but it should bring down the shields and cause damage to their bridge. I'm going to continue up and over the hull of the ship. skirting their shields. Either follow me or go under. don't worry too much about folloowing me if your angle is wrong. Just watch the turbo laser turret."

The wookie didn't have to wait long. shortly after closing the channel, Droid signaled a strong targetling lock, and a second signal indicating that the lock was matched by Legs. The wookie squeezed off the first 2 shots, waited a one count and fired again. the four torpedoes were soon enough heading right towards the bridge of the corvette. Droid acknowledged that 4 more torps were trackign as well, Chanky then pulled up and over the hull of the capital ship. having already switched to lasers and setting for quad fire, he targetted the turbo laser turrets, hoping to take it out of commission.

here's to hoping!

[Pietur Legatus]

They came suddenly. First there was empty space, filled somewhat by -as Dock had pointed out- a supply depot, and the next instant her view was crowded with welded monstrosities on wings. Biting back several rather choicy remarks about scum who vandalize perfectly good fighters, Pietur nudged her X-wing over to join the wookie. A metallic voice filtered through her comm-system, guiding her actions.She fumbled to obey while trying to avoid the laser fire coming from both friend and foe. Fire twice..I can do that. "Copy, I have your back." A wobble managed to creep its way into her response, one that Furball obviously managed to pick up on. "Just do what I say, it will be OK, like swinging in the trees," he reassured her. Great, even the wookie can tell I'm scared frakless. Tucking in behind Chancbacca, the blonde attempted to cover his back as her wingmate directed his attention towards one of the uglies, shutting it down in a shower of iridescent sparks.

Nice one! Now its my turn.. Spotting an approaching pirate, she eased the stick back just enough to lift her above the fighter in front. Screwing up her nose in concentration she fired, adjusting the direction as her first couple of shots were flung wide of the target. The painted fighter exploded suddenly, leaving the two 'rats moving forwards through a hail of scattered parts. Pietur let out a loud whoop of delight as the adrenaline started to pound -that was more like it!

Chancbacca's steadily fed her more instructions as they approached their goal, and Pietur attempted to remember them all in the right order. Targeting...there. The targeting system locked in on the information sent to it by Furball's droid. Pull trigger twice...She sent her torpedoes curving after the wookie's. Follow me...pulling up, the battered fighter found itself on a collision course with the ship. "Ahh, change of plans Chuck, we're going under!" Dropping suddenly, she followed the hull underneath, spraying it with ruby laser as she went. May as well do some damage while I'm under here... Small bursts of sparks marked the occasional hit to the smooth curve.

Her confidence growing, Pietur popped out from underneath with a cocky smile plastered on her face. "Furball! How are things up top looking? I think we should..." What she did or did not think never heard the light of day, as a shrill shriek from the astro droid tucked in behind her cut the through her sentance. "Didn't your maker ever tell you its bad manner to interrupt", she muttered as she craned to see what the fuss was. Flashing lights from the control in front of her caught Pietur's attention.

Frak

In her jubilation Pietur had failed to notice that she was emerging into the firing line of a particularly twisted looking ugly. Clamping down with her left foot she swerved sharply, hoping to lose them that way. The fighter doggedly followed, splattering her rear shields with laser fire. "Chuck, divert power." The little droid bleeped and followed orders, the alteration delaying any serious damage by a few seconds at least. "Little help here Furball?" With a brief roar the wookie came down from above, raining red down onto the distracted pirate, who resisted a moment or two before his fighter gave out and sent him spiraling away, the solar panels welded onto the engine departing company with the rest of the ugly as it traveled. "Thanks, he was getting a little on the annoying side. I think it would be a good idea if I stuck by you from now on." At least if I want to hang around long enough for things to get interesting.

[Jon'son Dethrider]

Enemy fighters streaked overhead and space itself was pocked with explosions, flying debris, and frozen pirates. In the near distance, a Corvette's bridge smoldered, trailing black smoke which dissipated into space. Twisted, burned durosteel floated from the pirate cruiser like broken eggshells and charred corpses, that might once have been crewmembers, oozed through the breached hulls.

Thankfully, Jon'son Dethrider could not smell the battle in the filtered air of his cockpit. Only the stink of his own sweat, the ozone smell of overheated circuitry, and the tang of hot metal reaching his nostrils.

This, reflected the Womprat pilot, was the terrible beauty of combat. The unspeakable wonder, the sights that could never be forgotten, burned into the brain to emerge in the nightmares of old men and women-- those who were foolish enough, or unlucky enough, to live that long.

"Bucket! I said <I>increase</i> the power to the forward shields!" he growled to his astromech. The R-7 droid swirled his dome and replied in a burst of whistles and hoots.

"I don't care if that stabilizer is coming loose. We'll be frakked if we stay in this mess longer!" he retorted.

"Stone?! You okay?!" Mischa clipped in his helmet.

"As always, Misch. Furball's trying to put down that pirate Corvette. I say we help the wookiee."

"Copy that."

He blinked and ran his tongue across his dry and cracked lips, feeling the edge of the day-old stubble growing above them. He blinked again, rewinding the last few moments in his brain, finally recognizing two E-wings racing alongside him.

"Bandit! Hyper!"

"Stone?!" both called out in unison in his helmet.

"Cover me and Vacuum-- we're going to take out the rest of that Corvette and give Orion some space to take out the other one to free up communications." Stone tapped at the comm again and growled. "Frakking pirates are still jamming comms to the supply depot. I can't raise them."

"Just we?" Misch chimed back.

"Just follow my lead, girl!" Stone replied.

A movement caught his eye, and he pivoted his E-wing, engines whining. The weakened left wing, damaged in an air-to-air brawl with a modified ugly three minutes earlier, caused his fighter to shake slightly. In the distance, the form of a painted Howlrunner raced from behind the burning Corvette-- a shaft of sunlight glancing off its bubble cockpit, carbon scoring and warpaint streaking its extended wings. It moved rapidly to Jon'son's right, perhaps not seeing him. He zoomed in with his scopes, placed his targeting reticles over the exposed flank and squeezed off a laser burst.

There was a flash, and a jagged streak of a trailing explosion appeared across the Howlrunner's right wing. A hiss of disappointment escaped Jon'son's lips. He'd been aiming for the cockpit, hoping for a clean shot. A week earlier he might not have missed, but such subtleties of battle were for fresher pilots and fresher starfighters. The pirate spun out of control as the wing finally splintered away and tumbled into the depths of space.

Bandit chirped in. "Stone, we're spread out pretty far, and we can't watch your six and protect our rears at the same time. Can you give us a few seconds to close up?"

"No time!" he snapped. "Formation. Now. Or we won't get a second chance." He took a deep breath, shook off the tunnel vision that had locked his entire being on the fleeing Howlrunner, and jerked his stick toward the listing Blockade Runner. Misch in her X-Wing brought herself alongside her wingmate.

"Here they come!"

A pair of uglies flashed by on either side, curving in front of them to pass each other and began counterattacking around their position to defend their wounded. They were ungainly-looking things, but fast and hard to hit, those TIE engines capable of lightning in-and-out harassment attacks on an enemy. One of the pirates flashed a quick burst of laserfire and a shout was heard.

A moment later, Stone realized the scream came from Hyper.

"Frak! Bandit! What just--"

"They got Hyper! Stay in your attack formation and I'll hold them!"

"Copy!" he shouted, grinding his teeth. "Vacuum, torpedoes ready. Aim for the comm tower and engines."

A fierce growl was heard in his helmet and a flash of another X-Wing raced by his left. Chancbacca chimed in to signal his readiness.

"Alright, Furball! Let's take it out!"

He heard the chatter of Orion and others in his helmet's comm, and enemy laserfire danced across the cockpit of the E-wing. "Target acquired," yelled Jon'son, "it's away!" The E-Wing fired its proton torpedoes and raced upward out of harm's way, followed by Vacuum and Furball as they delivered their cargo of torpedoes.

A row of explosions worked their way up the side of the Corvette, from forward to aft, the last making a massive flash of light against the backdrop of space as its engines and ion gases caught fire. The pirate ship bloomed into a fireball as it exploded into a million pieces.

The sounds of whoops and cheers were heard over the static. Jon'son smiled tightly at the light show behind him.

"Good work, Rats," Orion chimed in his helmet. "That's one Runner scratched."

Stone hesitated for a second then announced over the comm in reply. "Orion, we lost Hyper..."

[Maxwell Gandel]

Pirate Fleet

Things were not going well. Askaza stared murderously at the sensor displays that showed the Crazy Ivan burning in space. That wasn't supposed to happen... the Imperial sensor jammers were supposed to keep the enemy from getting a solid target lock. The enemy had done it anyway, using eyeballs and raw skill to line up their shots in lieu of solid target locks. To make matters worse, the squadrons that had launched from the supply depot were almost on them, spelling the end of the pirate's numerical superiority. Not that numerical superiority was doing them a darn bit of good anyway, Askaza thought sourly. It looked as if the pirate fleet was about to lose the battle in a very one-side sort of way.

Or, rather, that was how it would look to the outrageously lucky New Republic starfighter squadron. Askaza knew better. "They'll be payin' fer that," He said mostly to himself, thinking of all the men that had died on the Ivan. "Without a doubt, they'll be payin'. Frag any fighter what lines up on us! I don' want them doin to us what they did ta the Ivan." Fighters swirled around the last remaining pirate corvette, laser blasts and explosions filling space with a riot of color.

It was then that the 105th arrived. As if from nowhere, the massive white wedges of two star destroyers suddenly came into existence. One was just ahead of the battle, right on top of the supply depot squadrons that had been about to join the fray. It was the VSD Plague, TIEs spilling from the star destroyer's hold the moment it hit realspace, fighters followed by bombers. Sheets of emerald fire lanced out in all directions, quadlaser salvos firing as soon as they found targets. Explosions blossomed amongst the New Republic starfighters, squadrons scattering in all directions to avoid the deadly laster blasts. But the Plague didn't linger. It's mission was to engage the supply depot itself, and that was what the ship's captain intended to do, ordering the ship forward towards the space station.

Nearby, the Decimation had appeared above and roughly alongside the New Republic frigate. The sheer surprise of seeing an Imperial star destroyer appear alongside them should have shocked the frigate's crew into several seconds of inaction, but they'd been trained well. The two warships began exchanging fire almost instantaneously, explosions blossoming like rare orange flowers against the shields of both vessels. The Decimation, intent on protecting her starfighters as she launched, began rolling on her axes so her hangar was pointed away from enemy fire. Fighters began pouring out of it then, spilling into space in search of prey.

In less than a minute, the tides of battle had radically shifted.

Imperial Fleet

Gandel watched it all unfold from the command walkway on the bridge of the Decimation. "Concentrate fire on the frigate's center," Gandel ordered. "Break her back." Once the star destroyer's turbolasers wiped away the smaller warship's shields, the thin central hull could be easily severed. "What's the status of the pirate fleet?"

"It looks like they've lost a corvette," Anton reported from the crew pits. "Moderate casualties among their fighters. That should change now, our TIE squadrons are entering the fight."

"Have our bombers focus on whatever transports are in the area. I don't want any of them getting away. Once they've been taken care of, they'll be free to help mop up starfighters."

"Aye, sir." Anton paused, listening to a report from another officer in the pit, "Transports are launching from the Plague to assist in that and the assault on the depot."

Gandel smiled. All was going well...

Welcome ta the party, Admiral! Askaza's gravelly voice barked over the bridge's comm speakers. Ya got here just in time. Those sensor jammers of yers don't work worth poodoo.

"I can see that," Gandel responded. "My apologies. If you need any major medical assistance, I can call in my medical frigate..."

Won't be no need, the Ivan explosively decompressed from multiple hull breaches... won't be no survivors.

"Again," Gandel said, and meant it, "My apologies."

[Adok Borys]

A feral smile creased Adok’s lips as another of the pirate fighters crumpled began to disintegrate under the bolts from his cannons, and then the fighter exploding, sending shrapnel flying through space.

He chose that moment to sing out to his empty cockpit, “Yeah. I love it when they explode that way! Burn you pirate scum!”

He noticed another explosion, but could not spare enough time to determine whether it is was friend of foe.

He centered the targeting reticule over another of the pirate’s fighters when the situation changed. Radically changed.

The space in front his ship was filled with the imposing wedge-shaped bulk of a star destroyer. Adok’s jaw dropped in surprise. A pair of bolts from a quadlaser spattered against his forward shield, and out of reflex, Adok jerked his fighter in a turn away from the ship.

“Red, Dock. This Imp is launching fighters. Lets give them something else to think about. Just don’t get shot up by the cannons in the destroyer. Let’s bring it. We’re gonna burn some of those fighters out of the sky.”

Adok couldn’t hide the glee that he felt in his voice.

“Dock, Red. Are you sure that’s really a good idea?”

“Follow my lead, Red.”

“Roger that, Dock.”

Adok frowned briefly after the conversation. She seems a little scared. I’ll have to buy her a drink.

The two X-wings began to race toward the TIEs spilling from the star destroyer’s launch bay. Soon, they were underneath the belly of the star destroyer, and Adok was jinking his fighter randomly, avoiding the quadlaser blasts that peppered the space around him.

He tried to jam the throttle even further toward its stop, and then his finger tightened on the trigger, and within half a second, Red had followed suit, sending bolts of energy toward the enemy fighters, sending them scattering from the path the two fighters were clearing with their fire. Some of the blasts ricocheted harmlessly from the shields of the capital ship, and none of them managed to find a starfighter.

Adok laughed and yelled, “Catchin’ alotta heat!”

He wasn’t aware that he’d also activated his comm system, sending his cry to the rest of the squadron.

Then the two fighters streaked through the cloud of starfighters out from under the star destroyer. Adok eased up. Adok blanched when he noticed that he’d activated his comm system, but decided to use it.

“Haha. Didn’t hit anything. Red, what say we do that again? Gotta make you into a fighter pilot.”

[Leto Tariq]

Come on, come on.

Leto rolled his figher to the left and unleashed another spray of fire, cockpit vibrating from the shots. The pirate fighter in front of him yawed to the left, Leto's shots grazing one of its wings. It went into a spin, and then jerked upwards so suddenly that Leto almost lost it.

"Damn... son of a bith is good," he called out to his wingman.

"I'm a little busy right now, Orion," Cayenne answered over the comm system.

"Okay... looks like you're all mine."

Leto pressed hard on the thrusters, sending his x-wing rocketing forward. As he suspected it would, the pirate cut its own speed and disappeared as Leto passed over it. Pulling hard on the stick, his x-wing spun around, vibrating from the effort.

Tariq grit his teeth. Come on, girl, hold it together.

Pulling off the stick and the thrusters, his fighter leveled out... with the pirate coming right toward him.

"That's right you bastard, I'm still on you." Lasers bursed from his fighter's guns, lancing out and colliding with the pirate's cockpit. The enemy fighter exploded in a shower of debris. A large chunk of charred scrap metal struck Leto's shields, sending the pilot's head bouncing into the side of the cockpit and adding another new dent in his helmet.

"Fifteen!" He shouted into the comm.

"Seventeen," replied his wingman.

"Frak..."

"You're losing your touch, Captain," Cay said jokingly. Leto smirked.

"Jammer, Joker... you two still out there?"

"Roger that, Orion. We're here."

"Alright... form up with Spice and me. We're going to try and make a pass over that lead corvette."

"There's a frell of a lot of fighters around that ship, sir."

"Scared, Jammer?" There was an explosion over the comm, followed by a quick cheer from Cay.

Now she's at eighteen.

"No, sir. I just don't want to die."

"Then fly carefully. Orion out."

Cayenne's fighter appeared next to his, and the two then dived towards the corvette, Jammer and Joker following closely. Laserfire from Leto and Cay opened a path in the fighters, all four pilots racing through to the enemy ship. Turrets opened up, firing at the closing 'Rats.

"Watch the flak," Leto warned. He responded with his own fire, shots racing out and impacting with the corvette's shields. Cayenne did the same, followed by Jammer and Joker. The ship's shields boiled with laserfire as the four Womprats attempted to burn at the ship's hull.

Green laserfire shot out from the corvette and space around them.

"Frak!" Cayenne called.

"Wave off attack, break off, break off," Leto ordered. Cay's and his own fighter blasted away from the corvette and were swallowed into another dogfight. His droided tooted.

"What?" It tooted again. "Well fix it!"

A loud whine answered back. "She'll hold together, dammit."

The droid would have responded again, but a sudden bright flash grabbed both pilot and droid's attention.

One corvette down... Leto smiled.

"Good work, Rats. That's one Runner scratched."

"Orion, we lost Hyper..."

Leto gripped hard onto his joystick, clenched his jaw. Hyper... gone. Leto swallowed hard, addressed his squadron.

"We have one more corvette to take care of, people. Let's slag those bastards and..."

Leto's voice drifted off. There, in space above him, was a star destroyer.

Oh frak...

"Incoming fighters!" Cayenne spoke. Leto's gaze shot around, catching the TIE fighters coming towards him.

He grimaced. "Let's slag some Imperials, Spice."

"Roger that." The two x-wings opened fire on the incoming TIE formation, red lasers burning into the fragile ships. Neither were keeping count; that stopped the moment they heard about Hyper. Now things were serious.

The remnants of the formation split up, only to be replaced by even more TIEs and pirate uglies. Space was lit up with explosions and laserfire, and the Womprats were stuck in the middle of it all.

Frak!

[Ceryll Tana]

Insane insane insane insane insane insane insane insane insane…

Ceryll wasn't entirely sure why that one word was pounding in her skull, sounding for all the galaxies like a death mantra. Her hands were still as she dodged green fire and pulled the trigger to send a few of her own guns to track a TIE or two. She didn't truly feel afraid, though the tremble in her voice would have suggested otherwise. Nevertheless, she wasn't afraid. Tense, maybe, but not afraid.

"There must have been hundreds of them. Pirates, all over the frakkin' place…"

"Chev!" shrieked Uli Tana, glaring menacingly at her older brother. Ceryll giggled through the hand covering her mouth, which brought a glare of equal menace down upon her. "No more stories for you, Ceryll," the little girl's mother said firmly, frowning disapprovingly at Uncle Chev.

Ceryll dropped her hand and moaned pitiably. "No! Please! It was just getting good…"

Ceryll's father smiled warmly at his daughter, then turned his gray eyes on his wife. "Let him finish this story, Uli. The girl will never sleep otherwise."

Uli didn't seem the least bit happy, but she consented, after casting another severe glance in Uncle Chev's direction. "No more swearing in this house."

The adventuresome tale continued in all of its glory. Uncle Chev's dark eyes were lit with a manic fire and his large hands dipped and swerved in the air before young Ceryll's eyes, tracking the movements of the fighters and pirate enemies.

"Lost many good men that day," Chev finished, leaning back heavily in his chair and accepting a plate of cake from Uli. He fondly eyed his little niece, who sat on the floor at his feet. Her green eyes wide with wonder, excitement, and even the smallest hint of terror.

Ceryll's face broke into a wide grin and she looked at her mother with hunger in her eyes. "I want to be a pilot like Uncle Chev, mama," the seven-year-old stated firmly.

Sadness came to Uli's eyes. "I don't want to hear that, Cerry," she murmured softly, placing her hand on her daughter's red head and smiling. "No more tonight."

Ceryll could still remember the day when her mother had entered her bedroom and engulfed her in an unexplained hug. It was only a few days later that Ceryll had learned of Uncle Chev's death. He had died in the cockpit of his beloved freighter, Titan, protecting a Republic space station from a band of marauding pirates.

She felt a cold chill travel her spine. She was fairly certain that Chev had never faced Imperials before. Never two Star Destroyers and innumerable fighters…

Grinding her teeth, Ceryll felt the weight in her chest as she pulled back on the stick and followed Dock's X-wing up and out from beneath the mammoth Destroyer. Her scanners showed that there were several TIEs in hot pursuit.

"Haha. Didn't hit anything. Red, what say we do that again? Gotta make you into a fighter pilot," her wingmate said over the comm.

Dock's X-wing flipped and dodged ahead of hers, brash and eager. She couldn't help but smile just a little as she gunned her engines and followed for another run. Captain Tariq couldn't have done a better job of teaming up such a pair of opposites.

"Affirmative, Dock."

Skirting the belly of the Star Destroyer, Ceryll slid her targeting brackets across the form of a seemingly unassuming TIE fighter, which had been designated as 'target 5' on her display. She squeezed the trigger twice and released two pairs of red lasers sprinting across space. Ritz blatted a confirmed hit as the TIE imploded.

"Great shooting, Red," Dock congratulated, even as he picked off a target of his own. Their second run had turned out to be much more productive.

Ceryll's heart skipped a beat at the praise. The thrumming chant in her head slowly began to fade away, making room for the other voice that told her to be confident. She was a good pilot. I can do this.

Ritz whined forlornly, announcing that she had a TIE on her tail. Grimacing, Ceryll threw her fighter into a tight roll to the left, breaking away from her formation with Dock. Her aft shields erupted in a brilliant glare of green light as the TIE pounded her with its guns.

"Dock, Red. I've got trouble."

There was a hiss of static, probably muffling one of Adok's more colorful curses. "Sorta busy…" he snapped, too preoccupied to sound even slightly apologetic.

Her scanners confirmed that he was in the process of shaking an eyeball off ofhis own tail, as well as firing on a target.

Ritz was supplying her rear shields with more power, but that wasn't doing much good. Her fighter bucked and yawed, but the pilot was too good to be gotten rid of easily. The TIE closed in, lasers flaring.

"Not good," Ceryll hissed, trying to dodge the fire from behind as well as above. The Star Destroyer's guns still pulsed, regardless of whether their own pilots were braving the underside of the nefarious warships. Didn't matter anyway. Their gunmen were skillful enough to tell friend from foe with ease. "Can't…shake…him…" Ceryll muttered, this time over the comm.

Her fighter was nearing the lip of the Star Destroyer, but there was what looked like a wall of TIE fighters headed directly for her. Wasn't likely that she'd get through those unscathed…

Frak it all!

* * * * * *

[Ati Quai]

Two more uglies were blasted into fireballs as the freighter continued to weave a lumbering slalom through space. It did make targeting a bit more difficult, but it also made his own ship a bit harder to hit. Keeping away from the two corvettes also helped, and only a large explosion catching the corner of his vision alerted him to the fact that one of them was now destroyed. That would help even things out, especially with the way that this Republic squadron was mowing through the snubs left and right.

"Kaybo, how are we doing with the sensors?"

-Almost there, Sir. I will need to redirect some of our power to the transmitter in order to break through. Considering the need for shields and engines, it leaves the choices to either targeting or communications. Neither of which will be shut down entirely, but any possible strength will be limited.-

"Gee, lemme think about that choice. I dunno, Kaybo," he paused, swiveling in the gunner's chair and unleashing a few blasts towards another of the 'uglies.' "I mean, we're in the middle of deep space, surrounded by things that want to kill us and blast us into who knows what. What do you think we should do?"

There was a heavy layer of sarcasm in the pilot's voice as he fired the dual-laser cannons once again, though the shots were just errant and the pirate fighter managed to roll out of the shots.

-Very well, Sir. Diverting power from targeting sys..-

"You're what?!" the smuggler cried, voice sounding very much as if he would climb out of the gunner's chair and personally dismember the droid right on the spot.

-Kidding, Sir. Power diverted from communications. Sensors online...now.-

Suddenly, the screen that Ati had been looking at lit up a bit more, showing a larger range of free space, and in it, the numerous fighters that were engaging each other in the largest space battle that he had seen since his days making supply runs at Bakura. Not that he was feeling particularly nostalgic at the moment, nor overwhelmed. Ok, perhaps a little overwhelmed, even for the normally self-assured smuggler. After all, what sort of smuggler wasn't self-assured, usually to the point of brutal arrogance?

Then he saw something else that made him blink. Twice.

"Kaybo, I think something's wrong with the sensors still. I've got two rather large blips that just showed up and one is..."

-Imperial cruisers. Two of them. And one's got a leak.-

"Frak! Switching to auto-targeting."

Climbing out of the gunner's chair, he was relieved to hear the cannons still firing without him at the controls. It meant, for now, that the targeting was working on its own and that he could get back to flying the Corellian freighter, rather than the droid. Once back in the cockpit, the pilot strapped himself into his seat and again took the flying controls, the Junkpile immediately veering in a hard right to get a little distance from the closest Star Destroyer.

TIEs continued to 'leak' out of the ship's hangar bay, filling the space with even more of a mess than there already was. It was easily apparent that this Republic squadron was going to be obliterated to high heaven with the new arrivals on the scene. Things had been evening out a bit, especially after the destruction of one of the pirate corvettes, but this was bloody ridiculous. Someone must have really hated this squadron to send them out here like this.

The Junkpile circled around quickly, moving into a bit of an attack run at the launching fighters. He kept his distance from the cruiser itself, at least as much as was allowable to still engage the TIEs before they could settle themselves in their new environ. The freighter pitched once as one blast came from the Star Destroyer, another similar hit would not be good.

The dual-cannons fired continually as the freighter accelerated towards the TIEs, picking up a Republic X-Wing that was having problems losing a tail. Somewhat off to the side of where the Junkpile was, the freighter was pulled into a roll to help cut towards the side, in hopes of engaging both the trailer and the subsequent TIEs that were waiting on the opposite end of the X-Wing. Talk about a rock and a hard place.

Coming out of the roll left the freighter at the perfect angle to get a nice, clean shot at the trailing TIE, without the possibility to hitting the X-Wing by mistake. Red blasts sprayed with fury from both cannons and after the second barrage, a fireball was left in the wake.

"How much communication do we have?"

-Very minimal. You may be able to reach that nearest Republic fighter, provided that they are on an open channel.-

"Worth a shot, I suppose. Set the frequency."

-Frequency set.-

"Republic fighter, this is Corellian freighter Junkpile. Follow me through this wave."

Whether or not the transmission would carry even that far was unknown, considering that much of the power designated to communications was re-routed to the transmitter for breaking through the sensor jammers. Once the transmission was sent, the freighter powered forward again, cannons doing their best to carve a path through the wall of TIEs in the near distance.

[Cayenne Rudal]

<i>"Let's slag some Imperials, Spice,"</i> Cap'n's voice came over the comm. He didn't sound happy. Not that he would, given the current circumstances: outnumbered, outgunned, surprised, fighting an unwinnable battle, coping with the death of yet another fellow pilot--

<i>Enough!</i> she berated herself. "Roger that," she replied. Seconds later she had torn a TIE fighter into shreds with her lasers, the solar panels spinning away from the explosion in a very satisfactory manner. Cay didn't bother to add it to her count. She couldn't, not with the weight of the onslaught sitting heavily on her shoulders, threatening to sink to the pit of her stomach, to make her sick, lose focus, lose-- <i>What the frell am I thinking? Snap out of it, Spice, you dimwitted bantha!</i>

Cay glanced at her scope. Two friendly blips were heading away from her and toward a large enemy ship - the VicStar that had dropped on them and sowed the battlefield with TIEs. Four others - one less than there should have been - veered away from the now-hulking carcass of a pirate corvette, having vented it to space with their torps. She smiled grimly. It was only a small victory, and a small voice in the back of her mind just had to pipe up with the odds of it mattering at all. With a mental slap of her hand, she silenced it. Temporarily.

She spent the next three minutes trying desperately to cover her back, blast enemies out of the sky, and keep an eye on Cap'n's six - not an easy feat in the best of situations. And this certainly wasn't the best of situations. Finally, the two blasted a hole in the enemy formation and sped through it before it closed. Ahead of them sat the VicStar their fellow pilots headed toward.

"Orion, I vote we take on covering Red and Dock's sixes. They're trying to take the house and I think we should help 'em out."

<i>"Agreed, Spice. Jammer, Joker, you get to watch ours while we babysit theirs. Understood?"</i>

<i>"Roger!"</i> chimed two voices over the comm.

Cay's eyes flicked to her scope. "Looks like we're getting some heat coming in from behind."

<i>"On it,"</i> Joker replied, shattering a TIE's port solar panel and sending it spinning off into space for two seconds before it exploded brilliantly.

Green laserfire shot over her canopy, flashing against her shields and prompting a sharp curse from Spice. Then it erupted into a giant ball of fire as Orion flashed by above her. "Thanks, Cap'n - now we're even."

"We're even as long as we both pull out of this, Spice," he replied, strain evident in his voice. The death of a pilot hit him hard... again. She sighed. He knew how to support her, as the way he had snapped her out of her earlier funk showed, but other than in the battlefield Spice had no way of returning the favor. Her irritation with herself multiplied and changed into anger at the enemy, and the number of enemies down quickly increased. Her recklessness resulted in a lot of strain on her recently repaired X-wing as well as her shields going down to near zero.

<i>"Spice, careful on that bird. She's looking shaky,"</i> Orion's voice sounded over her helmet speakers.

"Roger that. Spit's yelling at me for it." Her astromech squealed in warning as she veered away from the enemies for a few seconds and her port foil shook a bit.

"I know, I know, just have patience with me. Just check on it already."

He blatted at her before getting down to work. Cay chuckled lightly, turned her fighter's nose and returned to the fight, inwardly cursing the odds they'd been given. Then she overheard Red muttering about not being able to shake off her tail.

"Orion, Spice. Red's in a tight spot - I'm heading over there."

<i>"Understood. Be there in a minute."</i>

"Roger." She opened up her throttle and raced toward Red's location, eyes widening at the mass of TIEs heading her way. Ignoring Spit's high-pitched beeps and gritting her teeth, she came in from above and behind Red's fighter with her guns blazing. "Looked like you needed a hand, Red," Cay said with a tight grin.

[Gabriella]

(Let me know if I need to edit please :))

* * * * *

In the zone, Gabriella kept her speed steady and headed into the heart of the battle. Though her X-Wing was black accented with a gold stripe on either side of the craft's body, the flashing red lights on the S-foils would give away the fact that there was another friendly ship amongst the small squadron of Republic fighters. From her position, the battle was frighteningly magnificent! The friendlies danced an intricate waltz with the enemy fighters; dodging, weaving, juking, ducking, and spiraling amidst the stars, through brilliant fiery explosions and streaks of colored laser blasts. Not even Elrood, a famous galactic-renowned artist, could have painted a more terrifyingly beautiful canvas.

The Admiral listened in to the communiques exchanged among the Womprats. She did this for many reasons, one of those being to judge the leadership and the camaraderie between the pilots. It wasn't often that she had such an opportunity and the only time she was ever made aware of anything involving the Womprats - or any of the other squadrons under her command - was when someone had a huge gripe that worked its way up through the ranks. Of course, as was the way with humanity since it began, no one was ever happy unless they were complaining. She could hear and sense the brother/sisterhood within the brave pilots as they risked their very lives time and time again, coming to the rescue of a fellow fighter in trouble, or forming up on wings to bully the stronger enemy. Admiral Lioncourt-Nerys swelled with pride. It did the Admiral's heart good and sparked a renewed sense of hope that they just might make it through this without losing yet another crew member.

Gabriella guided The Shadow in to take up the rear of the Womprats zooming in to barrage the corvette, providing suppressing fire from the twin Taim & Bak KX9 laser cannons armed on each wing. She never made verbal contact with the others as her craft would zip over or under one or two of the X-Wings as they banked away from the corvette, leaving it derelict. "Excellent work, Womprats." She finally broke silence once she had confirmation from A-4 that the corvette would not be giving them any fruther trouble.

"Incoming fighters!" The alarmed voice over her headset snapped her head around. Gabriella jerked the control yoke sharply to the left to quickly turn around and see what the commotion was about. "Oh .. my ... god," she murmured as her mouth dropped open. Filling the canopy's view was a sight Gabriella hoped to not see during this battle. Three immense forms winked from hyperspace and immediately dispursed at least three full squadrons of TIE's. "A-4 ... how much longer before The Second Chance finishes her jump and joins us?" The droid showed the information on the heads-up display. One minute before the MC90 reverted from hyperspace and joined the party. "Even when she does get here, we're still heavily outnumbered and outgunned." The droid sounded mournful.

"Orion, Spice. Red's in a tight spot - I'm heading over there," came over Gab's headset. A-4 quickly lit up the display to show the fighter in trouble, and lit up Cayenne's ship.

"Understood. Be there in a minute," came the response.

"Coming up the rear," Gabriella announced to the open channel as she opened full-throttle and cut across horizontal from Cayenne's right. The Shadow barrel-rolled through a wave of enemy fighters, firing the whole time, opening up a short but clear path for Cayenne to fly in and finish the job. The X-Wing swung up, performing a backward loop and easily spun once the height of the arc was reached. As the loop was completed, Gabriella's ship levelled out and went head-on toward the TIE's spilling from the belly of the Imperial warship, firing repeatedly. Gabriella never kept count of how many she hit. It was enough to know that her shots were striking, sending enemy fighters spiraling out of control or to their fiery deaths. She cut straight through the mass of TIE's like a knife sliding through butter. However, one of the enemy pilots was good. Too good. He dove beneath her ship and banked around, coming in line with The Shadows ass-end. A-4 alerted Gabriella that the TIE had a target lock on her. The droid informed of this just as the first volley of shots from the TIE's L-s1 laser cannons overshot their mark, streaking by over the canopy cockpit. "Gee, thanks for the advance warning you worthless bucket of bolts." Fast, instinctive reflexes and years of training came into play once more as Gabriella took the X-Wing into an intricate dance away from the battle. Getting the TIE on her tail away from his comrades would at least give her a better chance of shaking him as well as turning the tide of their own little space battle to her favor.

Two shots from the enemy TIE hot on her tail struck their mark, disabling her hyperdrive. A-4 immediately set to work, trying to repair it as The Shadow altered course and headed back to the frey of fighters. The TIE on her butt got another target lock and she couldn't shake him. Then a miracle occurred. "Allow me to give you a hand, Admiral." Captain Dervis relayed over the open channel as The Second Chance suddenly appeared from hyperspace, weapons firing. "About time you showed up. I was beginning to think we were going to have all the fun without you." Her way of saying thanks for the assist and at this point, she didn't care that the Captain just gave way to the fact that their Admiral was behind a cockpit in the middle of a space battle instead of on the command bridge.

"Impressive." Captain Dervis murmured at the view placed before him. From the bays of the MC90 The Second Chance spilled forth five full squadrons of starfighters whom quickly entered the battle and worked in unison to aid the Womprats. The MC90 was in perfect position as it opened fire on the ISD, launching blasts from it's ion cannons, proton torpedos, and turbolasers. "Captain, keep providing that covering fire. We're going to need it."

"Yes, Admiral."

"Republic fighters. Womprats." The Admiral's voice came over the open frequency; "Emergency evasive manuevers. Retreat to the rendevous point." She ordered. Nothing more needed to be said. When the Admiral ordered, everyone jumped without question. "A-4, how's that hyperdrive?" The droid bleeped and blooped his colorful response; too colorful to repeat. "You have less than a minute to get it functional and jump us to the rendezvous point."

As she banked around to make a strafing run that would end with the leap into hyperspace, Gabriella's attention was drawn to the freighter as it attempted to escort the Corellian Freighter through the battle and toward relative safety. "A-4, see if you can pull up any information on that freighter again." The droid bleeped just as Gabriella's headset suddenly filled with static then picked up intermittant garbled speech. "...pub..lic frei ... er. Th..s ... unk..le. ollow ... m...ough ... his .. wave." A-4 decyphered the broken up speech into what may have been the full transmission. "A-4! I don't think that's what was said."

"Captain Dervis. Over."

"Yes, Admiral?"

"Before you meet us at the rendezvous, I want you to snag that freighter with the tractor beams. He is not a prisoner! I repeat, the pilot of that freighter is not a prisoner. Make him comfortable. I want to speak with him."

"Admiral?"

"I don't repeat myself, Captain."

"Yes, I know, but need I remind you that we are not a taxi service?" Captain Dervis inquired with a slight tone of jest in his voice.

"Do I need to remind you of where you stand in the ranks?" Gabriella shot back.

"No, Sir. Freighter will be captu.. er, brought aboard and the pilot made comfortable. Dervis Out."

Gabriella held her X-Wing from making the jump until she saw the last friendly blip on her screen vanish, indicating they had made their jumps into hyperspace. This also afforded A-4 the precious last seconds he needed to repair the hyperdrive. Once that was finished, The Shadow winked from view.

[Maxwell Gandel]

Turbolaser blasts raked the side of the frigate, most striking the invisible energy barrier of the ship's shields, but some finding their way through to the hull. Melted armor plating careened off into space wherever a blast of green energy found it's way past the shields - and that was happening more and more often.

"Sir," Captain Mercils addressed Gandel from the stairway that connected the command walkway to the crew pits. "Our assault transports have begun their assault on the supply depot. It's shields should be down momentarily. The VSD Plague is also entering weapons range of the station, though it's being harried by a squadron of enemy starfighters."

"And the freighters?"

"Bomber groups, with the aid of assualt transprots, have disabled or destroyed all but a few of the hyperspace capable cargo ships around the depot." Anton paused, ascending the stairs to the command walkway itself. He stopped a few steps behind Gandel, looking out at the New Republic frigate as the Decimation's guns pounded into it. "Our TIE fighters are having a difficult time establishing space superiority, despite their heavy numerical advantage."

"Divert several squadrons of bombers to assist," Gandel ordered. "Take down the enemy from range with concussion missiles. I want this fight finished."

"Aye, sir." Anton replied. He had just turned to head once more into the crew pits when the New Republic frigate's shields failed entirely. He stood, watching from the command walkway as the star destroyer's guns mercilessly ripped chunks of hull from the smaller warship. Overwhelmed by the Decimation's superior firepower, the frigate's thin central hull all but vaporized, splitting the vessel into two distinct halves. The forward portion of the ship, it's main hull, darkened as it's connection to the main reactor was severed. The rearward portion of the frigate, the section with the engines, veered off into a random trajectory before being caught by tractor beams.

And though the frigate had been broken in half, the Decimation continued to savagely attack. Soon massive holes were opened in the frigate's hull, explosive decompression rocking entire decks.

*****

"Listen up," The pilot of the TIE bomber designated Delta One glanced at his sensor screen. All of his pilots were there, twelve out of twelve. None had been lost so far. Up until this point, he'd been ordered to target and destroy escaping cargo craft. With that job done, he'd just recieved orders to assist in the fighter battle. That was just fine with him... loaded with concussion missiles, he could remain safely remove from the worst of the dogfighting. "The admiral wants us duck hunting," he continued into his radio. "So we're going hunting. Target an enemy starfighter from range, and fire three missiles at it. Then target another, and so on until you're out of ordinance. Command wants this fight finished five minutes ago, and we're gonna do that for them."

Acknowledgements came from every man in the squadron. Delta One nodded to himself. All those year in the outer rim, and they still hadn't lost their sense of discipline. Lining up a distant X-wing, Delta One begain tracking the distant ship as it wove through swarms of TIE fighters. The targetting reticule glowed red, and the unwavering tone of a missile lock filled his headphones. "Fire!"

An initial volley of twenty four concussion missiles streaked into space, followed closely by twelve more. The bombers began searching for more targets as another bomber squadron opened fire...

********

Gandel watched as space filled with missiles. Whatever advances the enemy had made in fighter production, there was still one rule of warfare that couldn't be denied. If you threw enough ordinance at a single target, it would die.

With the frigate dead, Gandel was ready to get this battle done and overwith. Already several transports and shuttles had begun docking with cargo containers near the edge of the fight, stealing their precious and varried cargoes.

Suddenly, an alarm claxon filled the bridge.

"Major contact, port side, we have weapons fire!" Gandel turned his eyes in the appropriate direction, and found to his amazement that a capital ship as large as his own star destroyer had entered the fight. The Decimation's gunners opened fire without orders, red blasts of energy from the enemy warship already incoming. "Well," Gandel said to himself, "It looks like I'll get a chance to see how we fare toe to toe..."

[Mischa Margolin]

Yeah, it was crazy to want to go play with the VicStar, but since when had most of the ‘Rats had a reputation around the fleet for being completely sane? Knowing Furball’s fondness for taking on really, really big targets she knew he’d want to make a run at the VSD and she had a plan to help him do just that.

One thing they would have on their side, this particular ship was an older type, and while Mischa had no doubts that the commander of the 105th would hardly have skimped on maintenance, there would have been no way he could have kept every in prefect working order out in parts unknown. At least that’s what she was hoping anyway.

“Byte” She addressed her astromech. “Pull up what you have about the shield locations on VicStars of this vintage and transmit it to these fighters.” A string of hoots and beeps issued from the droid until Mischa cut him off. “I don’t care what you think about what I have in, just hurry up and do it. Whiner. I swear you keep this up, it’s memory wipe time.” The red domed droid blatted something else her way before shutting up. “Yes I know, I see the damn dupes. Let me worry about them, just do what you were told you hunk of scrap.”

Opening the channel to the squadron frequency she told her fellow Womprats her plan, hoping that she wasn’t leading them into something that they’d all live to regret…if they lived that was.

“If Chanc is going to disable that VicStar’s bridge, we’re going to need to get those aft shields down. I’m thinking Stone and Bandit can take out the portside generator and Joker you’re with me on the starboard setup. Torp them and it should get through, then Legs and Jammer can blow those comm. scanning towers and Furball can have his fun doing whatever damage he can. We won’t destroy it completely, but we can leave it dead in space for a while and give those Republic ships and the freighters on that station a better chance of getting the frell out of here.”

“We’ll have to hit them hard and fast” Came a reply from Stone after a few seconds of silence, “but I think we have enough torps between us to handle it. And just for the record, I’d like to add that my wingmate is now just as crazy as the Wookie for thinking this up.”

“Yeah, but you still love me, Big Man.” Vac laughed in reply. “So is everyone else good on this?”

“Time’s a wasting, Vac. Let’s get this going.” Came Legs’ answer, new confidence in her young voice, which Mischa took to be a yes, following by a roar from her wingmate that sounded like an affirmative to Margolin’s ears.”

“I’m right with Vac.” Joker chimed in. “Even though I do share Stone’s opinion. And yes, I still love you too anyway.” He laughed.

The four fighters got into formation for a run at the Plague’s aft section all running at near full speed. “I’ve sent targeting settings to all of you. This is going to have to be precise so make every hit count.” Mischa said into her mic as the two teams split to head to their respective targets.

Furball, Legs, and Jammer were giving them as much cover as they could while still preparing for their own runs at the bridge section as soon as the shields were disabled.

“Incoming fighters on your six, Vac and Joker” Jammer’s voice came over the comm “One eyeball and a dupe closing fast.”

“Well do something about it Jammer,” Stone called out. “Just don’t waste any torps on them if you can avoid it.

Jammer hit the right rudder lightly taking him on a pursuit path with the TIE that was dogging Mischa’s tail. Lining up the eyeball in the targeting reticle the second it went green he lit into it with a cycle of bolts from the X-wing’s cannons slicing into the TIEs port solar panel and then through the cockpit venting the pilot within to vacuum.

“Thanks Jam, I owe you one at the first cantina we come to when this is over” Vacuum told her fellow ‘Rat. They were getting too close to the target for Jammer to take a shot at the dupe as well. It was time for him to join Chanc and Legs at the upper section of the VSD and he swung away from Mischa and her wingman. “See you back in the hanger, Vac.”

Concentrating her thoughts on the rapidly approaching rear starboard edge of the Plague she flicked the firing controls over from cannons to torpedoes and calmly prepared for the absolute second that the targeting conditions would be ideal for the bombardment. In his fighter, Joker had done the same, the thumb hovering over the firing button just a bit jittery.

He was so focused on the enormous warship in front of him, and in trying to calm his own nerves, that he didn’t pay enough attention to his six and the TIE bomber fired at him just as he and Vacuum were near the upper edge of the shield projector. The torp streaked toward Jokers snubfighter and his astromech gave an eerily human-sounding warning shriek causing him to glance at his HUD and attempt to evade the incoming missile, but it was too late. The dupe’s torpedo punched through his fighter’s rear shields and hit the aft of the X-wing dead on, instantly turning it into countless particles.

“Frak!” Mischa screamed out as she saw the blip representing Joker’s fighter disappear on her heads up display. “Dammit!” That was all the thought to Joker’s death she could allow herself the luxury of at the moment as the targeting grid went green. She let loose with a volley of four torpedoes in rapid succession at the hull over the aft shield generator. The schematic of the VicStar shield status on her console flickered briefly indicating a weakening, but not sufficient enough to show it had gone down completely.

“Shavit!” Vac uttered as she passed over the very edge of the Plague's hull, the dupe that had vaped Joker close behind her. Too close in fact and that was a fatal mistake on the dupe pilot’s part. The heavier, less agile bomber couldn’t pull up as quickly as Mishca’s fighter and he plowed into the hull of the VSD over the area that Vacuum had just deployed her torpedoes into. The TIE bomber completed the job that those said torps had failed to accomplish, bringing down the aft shields on the starboard side of the warship.

Meanwhile, on the port side of the Plague, Stone and Bandit had their own set of problems to deal with. Thankfully Furball and Legs had hung back a bit to provide enough cover for Jon’son and his wingmate to fire their own missiles at full force into the port aft section, doing the job the first time that Mishca needed help from the enemy bomber to accomplish on her side of things.

Stone gave a yell of victory. “Shields out on this side! Get to work you big ball of fur.”

Chancbacca gave a growl of affirmation in return as he and his wingmates flew toward the VSD’s bridge tower.

Bandit gave a victorious shout of his own as he and Jon’son shot passed the port side of the Star Destroyer. “Whoop! Did you see that?” the rookie yelled. “We got…” the shout was abruptly cut off as green fire lanced out from the side of the VicStar, obliterating the fighter as it passed through one of the bolts.

“Dammit!” Stone’s voice could be heard through Mischa’s helmet as the pilot wove his E-wing in an erratic path to avoid the laser bolts being fired from the side cannons of the enormous ship. “Furball, Legs, Jammer! If you’re going to do some damage to that thing, I’d appreciate if you’d do it now rather than later.

Hearing her wingmate and best friend’s exclamations, Mischa frowned grimly as she took her fighter in the direction of the blip indicating his location in the field of battle.

[Chancbacca]

Chancbacca knew what needed to be done, but knew that the last thing it would be is easy. But ever since Yavin, The alliance had been training it's pilots for close combat flying on large targets. It worked on the Death Star, they saw it working on any number of Imperial Stations and ships. The pilots called It TRD, Trench Run Disease or sometimes Trench Run Death for the high casualty rates for both target and attacker.

The cold, emotionless voice of Furball's translation program came over the Comms. "Jammer you have the most Torps, you take the lead, Legs, you save your two for the sensor towers. I'll come behind you two, covering for you, targeting the Gun towers. Jammer, fire as many torps as you can on vital targets, but save at least 2 for the towers. When we reach the mid line, open up, and let me come through the center. I'll swing forward and lead for the attack on the bridge. It won't cripple them, but may take out the Commanding officer and most primary systems. it'll buy us a few seconds, maybe minutes while they transfer control to the axillary bridge."

"Copy Furball. I have lead. Targeting as needed, Lasers are primary." Jammer came over the comm next.

"I'm on his tail, I'll cover him and hit as many guns as I can. I have had my Astromech lock in the port Sensor tower. I am target locked." Legs was showing a new found confidence, both in her flying and voice. After this engagement, Chancy was going to make sure he checked in on her.

"Copy, I have starboard. I'll lock in when Furball takes lead. See you all on the other side. This is where the fun begins boys and girls!" Jammer was in his element. The E-Wing was rocking, ready to His R7 feeding targeting and terrain following information. The tri lasers burning armor and weapons emplacements as they trio of fighters entered below the Capital ship's shields.

Droid, giving warning after warning, adjusted Furball's HUD to show danger points below and above the fighters now that they had themselves sandwiched between the Deck and equally destructive shields.

All three ships zigged and zagged, firing. The first two proton torpedoes from Jammer struck out and detonated against a Turbolaser emplacement. Secondary explosions confirming the hit. Another two fired, hitting a communications array.

The fighters, speeding along the hull had come to the mid line. "Jammer is locking Starboard Target now. Split to allow furball lead."

The translation program failed to translate the series of growls and roars that Chanky was now letting loose. For those who'd been with the squadron for some time, they knew it was battle calls mixed in with curses and theories on the ancestry of most of the Imperial Navy. The Ewing moved to the Starboard, X-Wing to the Port, And the trailing X-Wing zoomed into the lead.

The wookie, cramped as he was, was still able to reach across the cockpit, activating the targeting computer. The targeting scope moved over his right shoulder, and rotated down into place.

The process was repeated in the two other fighters. the surface of the VicStar was transformed into the golden lines of the computer images. Two red lines started on either side of the computer image, and began to close toward the center. The wookie's target was close to the center of the command tower.
The other two ships were targeting the flanks of the top of the tower. Legs set her firing sequence for linked firing. Using both of her remaining Torps to take out the sensor tower. she was actually aiming for the bottom of the Tower, in order to destroy both the tower and some of the superstructure. Jammer, who still had 6 Torps left, set for duel fire, and smiled. He was planning to pull up and over the command tower, and swing around for a second run on the after section. No reason to save any Torps for the return trip.

Furball only had the one Torp, so he set the fire controls to switch over to Quad linked bursts as soon as he'd fired the last Torp.

Numbers now scrolled down toward zero and the point to fire.

The numbers dove toward zero. At Zero, the red lines turned into four red arrows, all centered on his Target. Depressing the firing stud, the X-Wing shuttered once as the Torpedo fired right at the bridge. The targeting computer changed targeting displays, and Furball then rocked the rest of the superstructure with quad linked laser fire. His Torpedo impacted the bridge forward view ports. first blowing them in, and then as the bridge decompressed, the wreckage then blew out, along with the bridge atmosphere.

Legs was next, Firing her two torpedos, both streaking true toward the port sensor tower. The two projectiles hit exactly where she wanted them to. Just as she was coming up and over the superstructure, Chancbacca was there also. the two pilots fell in together, and immediately dove over the command tower. They pulled out of the dive right above the drive transmissions. the X-wings quickly pulled away from the VicStar.

Jammer pulled the trigger just as the computer told him to. he smiled and pulled up into the explosion. He knew he was going to have to make this a tight turn if he was going to get a shot at the rear of the VicStar. He saw Furball and Legs pull together and smiled. they'd get the clearance they needed. They survived the Run. So had he.

That was the last thought Jammer had as a Concussion missile fired by one of the Dupes slammed right into him. The missile was fired at Chanc and Legs, but missed, and failed to lock, But it did lock onto the E-Wing. The detonation overloaded the fighter's shields and shredded the ship itself. Igniting it's fuel cells.

A rage filled Roar filled the Rat's Comm channel as Furball registered the death of another WompRat.

The two X-Wings pulled from their path, and locked on to the Dupe, It was a long range shot, but Chancky's targeting skills were a match for the challenge. The quad linked shot burned thought he cockpit of the dude, who seemed to be celebrating it's second chance at a kill. Ending in a bright explosion.

Another Squad Mate dead! And more targets all the time. something had to be done, and soon.

The roar of Chank's anger had barely died down when a green streak passed right by his cockpit. Sirens went off all through his cockpit. The loudest one coming from the shield warning system. A quick glance told the wookie how bad things were. The shield generators were fried. The close miss overloaded them beyond the safeties. There was no fixing them now, they had to be replaced. not possible in the middle of this battle.

From this point on, Furball's fighter wouldn't be shielded. How much worse can this get?

"Captain, I have a problem." came the emotionless computer generated voice over the squad channel.

[Leto Tariq]

"Understood. Be there in a minute."

Come on, Captain, you know not to get seperated from your wingman like this, Leto berated. His gloved hands gripped the flightstick hard as he maneuvered his fighter out of the way of enemy fire.

The X-wing shuddered again as his weapons opened fire. Two shots passed over the TIE's cockpit, the third and fourth connecting violently with the fighter's aft. It exploded in a beautiful shower of molten debris. The droid squeeled.

"Would you frakking shut up already?" Leto shouted at the droid. The machine shouted a few words of its own, extending an arm and rapping violently on the cockpit window.

"Hey, hey!" Leto twisted and glared at the droid. "If you put a single crack in that, I swear I'll... oh."

A jagged piece from the TIE had managed to bury itself into the droid's dome.

Leto snorted and broke out into a grin. "Well, I told you to be careful."

If droids had eyes, its glare would have burned a hole through the ship. Leto laughed and sent the X-wing rocketing towards Red. Dock's X-wing formed up next to his along the way, both opening fire on the remaining TIEs and burning holes into the enemy fighters. With the space around them momentarily clear again, they could move into formation with their wingmen.

"It's about time, Orion."

"Sorry, Spice, I was temporarily delayed," he sent over the comm with a quick smile. Leto glanced to his side at the black X-wing flying next to them, nearly invisible against the backdrop of space.

"Admiral Lionheart," he said thinly. He didn't know why the hell she was there and didn't really care. If she wanted to get herself killed, that was her problem. "Red, you okay?"

"I'm fine, Captain."

Leto nodded and breathed a quick sigh of relief. That's my 'Rats.

“If Chanc is going to disable that VicStar’s bridge, we’re going to need to get those aft shields down. I’m thinking Stone and Bandit can take out the portside generator and Joker you’re with me on the starboard setup. Torp them and it should get through, then Legs and Jammer can blow those comm. scanning towers and Furball can have his fun doing whatever damage he can. We won’t destroy it completely, but we can leave it dead in space for a while and give those Republic ships and the freighters on that station a better chance of getting the frell out of here.”

Leto shot a wide-eyed glance at the star destroyer. Shavit, Mischa! You're going to get yourself killed. And he knew from experience that Stone and the rest of the Womprats - including him - would follow that plan.

"Red, Dock, Spice. Let's go keep these madmen from getting themselves killed," he transmitted and thrusted his fighter toward the VSD's aft. The other three followed suit, all four X-wings shooting through vacuum.

Their weapons opened fire swiftly on an approaching TIE squadron, mercilessly destroying them before they could evade. The survivors broke off and were replaced just as quickly by another squadron, lasers flying from the floating eyeballs and colliding with the X-wings shields. Leto's droid screeched a warning.

"I know!" He screamed back and pulled his X-wing into a climb to evade the incoming fire. "I don't want to die either!"

Another shot struck his X-wing and his warning systems joined the droids screaming.

"Frak!" He cursed, flipping his ship around and firing a few shots at his pursuer. His ship shuddered as a shot crashed into his wing, sending him into a spin. "Frak! Frak! Frak! Frak!"

The droid wailed, Leto clenched his jaw tightly and fought hard with the ship for control.

"Come on girl, come on girl!"

The X-wing broke out of its spin and shuddered as Leto tried to steady the craft. Something groaned from behind him. "Stop screaming and fix that, will you?"

"Orion, you okay?"

"Son of a bantha broke my wing, but I'm fine." Leto closed his eyes and took in a deep breath and said it again. "I'm fine."

And then everything went to hell.

“See you back in the hanger, Vac.” Joker said, and in two more moments exploded.

“Whoop! Did you see that? We got…” Bandit didn't have time to finish as a shot from the VicStar obliterated him.

The bridge of the VSD exploded, and Jammer did soon after.

Hyper... Joker... Bandit... Jammer.

Four pilots, four more dead. Thrawn all over again. Leto wanted to scream, wanted to howl, wanted to curse the Force, the Gods, the Empire, anything. Instead, he had to force those emotions back down and concentrate on the battle. There were seven pilots still out there counting on him.

"Captain, I have a problem."

"Roger that, Furball," Leto replied, voice calmer than he actually felt. "I'm coming."

Ceryll, Adock and Cayenne were already on their way towards the wookie pilot. With a bit of effort, Leto's X-wing joined them.

"Captain..." Cayenne's voice came over the comm.

"She'll hold together," Leto said quickly, half for himself. The fighter had been with him on countless battles and would for many more if he had anything to say about it.

"Republic fighters. Womprats. Emergency evasive manuevers. Retreat to the rendevous point."

"For once I couldn't agree with you more, Admiral. Stone, Vacuum..."

"We're right here, Captain," came Mischa's reply over the comm. Leto smiled; there was some relief at hearing her voice.

"Okay, Womprats," he ordered the seven pilots. "Let's clear ourselves a hole and get the hell out of here!"

Imperial and pirate fighters began closing in on them to protect the VicStar. Republic fighters shot past the Womprats, intercepting the Imperials before they could get close.

"About damn time," Leto breathed. "Execute hyperspace jump!"

He punched the controls and the battle faded away into the calm of hyperspace. Leto checked the scanners, read all seven fighters had made the jump. Four dead, but the rest would survive. And he thanked the Force for that.

Leto pulled off his helmet and sat it in his lap, breathing the warm, sweaty air of the cockpit. Stars sped by as his fighter made its way to the rendezvous point. For once, the droid was silent.

Hyper, Joker, Bandit, Jammer. He wrote the four onto his list of names, under Checks and Bounder.

I'm going to need more paper, he thought, and that was the final stroke. Emotions he had kept bottled up during the battle swam to the surface.

Leto stared out the side of the cockpit and wept, cried for the dead. At least he had a short time longer to grieve.

[Mischa Margolin]

"We're right here, Captain," Mischa’s voice was damn near mechanical in tone as she answered Leto’s command. The movements of her right hand on the controls to take her fighter into hyperspace felt just as mechanical, but did the job effectively anyway.

The second the pinpoints of starlight elongated into the streaks indicative of a successful jump and Mischa gazed at them for a second before pulling at her helmet’s chinstrap, yanking it off her head savagely and bashing it against the canopy once before dropping it back onto her lap.

She wanted to hit something badly right now, hit it so hard her hands would bleed from the repeated impact and produce enough physical pain to blot out the psychic anguish threatening to drag her down. Hitting anything in the cockpit of her running fighter though was probably not a wise choice.

“And what the frak would you know about wise choices, Margolin?” She berated herself. “One of your wise choices just got three of your own squadron mates killed. That has to be a new record for you in the book of stupid things you’ve done in your life.” Mischa thought, running one gloved hand through the sweaty, tangled mass of curls and tugging loose the clip holding it with clumsy fingers. “Guerfel! Halle metes chun, guerfel!” She cursed herself in Old Corellian, a habit she’d picked up years ago from the man she’d considered her adoptive father and reverted to whenever she was truly beyond angry with someone. Especially with herself.

Losing fellow pilots was something she had gotten used to over the years with Starfighter Command, especially since her transfer to the ‘Rats. It was something that came along with what they did. She had tried convincing herself of that at least and had nearly succeeded. Until now.

This was different. It was her fault they were dead and there was no denying it. Jammer had saved her ass and he gets repaid by being blown to bits by a dupe. Bandit made up the best damn stories about the other members of the squadron. Even if they weren’t true they always made the long boring patrols with him more tolerable. Now there was nothing left of him to retrieve for the memorial service.

And Joker, FRAK! He’d been her favorite gambling and drinking partner when Stone wasn’t in the mood to deal with Mischa and her antics. They always won thanks in part to his distractingly bad jokes told at the tables to resounding groans from the other players.

Last time they had hung out during downtime, he had shared his liking for a member of the tech crew whom he’d never gotten the nerve up to confess those feelings to. Mischa had told him to quit holding back and tell her how he really felt, feeling like a damn hypocrite the whole time and thinking that she should follow her own advice. He’d said maybe after the next mission, this mission, he’d invite her out for a drink and tell her how he felt before it was too late.

Her head fell back against the cushioned seat and she banged it against the headrest hard enough to blur the starlines streaking by even further. “Now it is too late,” Vac thought bitterly. Damn it! This hurt worse than anything she’d ever felt before in her life. Worse than Bentler’s death, far worse than the death of her mother because this was something she was responsible for.

Is this what Tariq had to deal with all the time? Did he still feel anything after losing so many over the years? She knew beyond a doubt he cared deeply for the people under his command, but how the frell did he deal with feeling like she had to be now without losing it completely? What was he thinking right now? Most likely blaming her for the latest losses as he rightly should.

Snatching up her helmet again, Mischa ripped the headset free from its mounting inside and jammed it on her head. Switching the comm channel to ship- to-ship setting before she clicked the dial to Leto’s frequency. “Leto?” Mischa spoke in a voice that was barely audible even over the sensitive mic. “I’m…I’m sorry. I should never have told them to go after the VicStar. I thought it would help those freighters and other ships from being destroyed by the Imps. I didn’t mean for so many of us to die to accomplish it. I…don’t want you blaming yourself for this. I know you always do”

There was no reply and she checked the readout to make sure she was transmitting on the right channel. “Leto, dammit talk to me.” Thinking of her earlier thoughts of Joker and her advice to him she took a deep breath and spoke again. “Captain... Leto…I…lo…oh frak it.” She tore the headset off and dropped it next to the helmet. “Coward” she said to no one in particular before turning her head to stare out through the canopy again blankly, ignoring the tears of pain, shame, and anger running down her face that she'd finally allowed herself to release.

[Ati Quai]

The wave of TIEs was like something out of a bad dream. Very much different from the one he had encountered just minutes before during which he shot a Sith in the chest, much to the delight of those around him. No, this was worse. Much, much worse.

Not having received a response from the Republic fighter, he could only hope that it would catch the hint as the blue trail lengthened behind the Corellian freighter, just as streaks of red lit the skies in the opposite direction. Another fighter had joined the first, and the combined firepower enabled the three ships to pass through the wave nary the worse for wear. Three TIEs had been taken down by his own ship, those with the misfortune of being directly in the path of the larger ship.

Once past the wave of TIEs, it was back to a bit of evasive maneuvers to keep any trailers from scoring a direct hit that would severely cripple the smuggler's pride and joy. The Junkpile was his life and it was what he had put every extra credit of his wealth into. After all, it had saved his life on more than one occasion, along with the droid companion that had come with the ship. The three of them were a good team.

Another alert came ringing from the rear of the cockpit and Kaybo soon expounded upon what that entailed. -TIE bombers on approach, Sir. I do strongly suggest that we vacate this area quite soon.-

"I can't very well argue with that."

The arrival of a Republic cruiser did well to settle him just a bit, but even the presence of that ship did not guarantee any sort of survival percentage for the more or less lone freighter in the fight. While Ati was a very capable pilot, the freighter's bulk did not allow for the most versatile movement when it came to evading enemy starfighters. Starfighters that were built to be be more maneuverable and, for lack of a better term, agile in combat. What the freighter did have that the TIE fighters did not, was much stronger deflector shields. It could take a beating, but Ati wasn't quite prepared to test the limits of that. Tried it once. Didn't care to do so again.

The Republic cruiser did help to take away some focus from his own ship, as well as the other Republic fighters that were still in the fray. One by one, the X-Wings and E-Wings blinked out of normal space, effectively leaving the dogfight behind. And, Ati noted, effectively leaving himself and his ship as a more appealing target.

"Angle the deflector shield to cover our rear and keeps the cannons on auto-targeting while I calculate a jump to lightspeed." One TIEs guns managed to get a good shot on the freighter, which caused it to pitch to the left and Ati heard something near the back of the ship make a displeasing sound. "We are leaving now."

Now, whether he actually did 'hear' the noise could be debated, but any pilot that has flown one particular craft for years and years does develop a bit of an extra sense when it comes to taking care of the ship. It becomes an extension of one's own mind, and the two work together as one. Or so he had always reasoned.

"Prepare to jump in three, two, one...jump."

Nothing happened.

Well, not entirely true.

"Kaybo, I thought we fixed the hyperdrive before we left. You told me it was fixed and fully functioning and...why are we going backwards?!"

-It would appear that we are caught in some sort of tractor beam, Sir.-

"Oh, Hell, no!"

-Mmm..oh, Hell, yes..Sir. Luckily, I believe that it is the Republic cruiser that we are being drawn to.-

"But we were helping them! We were shooting at the some ugly starfighters that they were. Didn't they see that? Oh, leave it to the Republic to stick it to the little guy when you're only trying to help."

-At least they have not fired upon us yet, Sir.-

"Yet? No yet. Uh...you didn't take anything else from that supply depot, did you? Outside of that magazine?"

-No, Sir, I most certainly did not and I shall thank to not make such outrageous accusations against me ever again.-

"Oh, stow it, Kaybo. I know you took the credits, too."

-Regardless, I believe that it is you that they are concerned with, not me.-

"Wonderful. If I've heard that a thousand times. Well, no point in fighting it, I'd wager. Not like we can outgun a Republic cruiser. Just...read your magazine, or something. Quietly."

Ati exited the cockpit and made his way through the ship towards where he, at the least, envisioned the sound coming from. A minor repair, and so long as he wasn't thrown into the brig upon arrival of the Republic cruiser, he would be able to fix it. And he'd used their parts to do it, out of personal inconvenience at being sucked up without consent.

Slowly at first, and later with a bit more speed until close approach to the ship, the Junkpile eventually docked within the hangar of the Second Chance. As Kaybo had said, Ati realized a short while later, at least they hadn't opened fire.

[Gabriella]

(Kinda short, at work. )

The Second Chance

Once the freighter was secured within the hangar, several armed security officers surrounded the vessel, weapons drawn. "Come out of the ship slowly and with your hands up." One of the men called out. They tensed as the hydraulics hissed, exhuming an exhaust cloud as the ramp was lowered. Out came the pilot, his hands visible. Two men were instructed to approach Ati and remove any weapons he might have had on his personage. "Come along." He was ordered. Ati would find himself flanked on all sides by the armed security officers and escorted to a holding room. Not a prison cell, just a standard holding room. Not a word was said and Ati's demands for an explanation as to why he was plucked from space against his will and now held here were ignored.

"Captain Dervis. Make sure the Womprats and the remaining fighter pilots are in the war room within the hour." Gabriella slid out of her flight uniform and left it on the floor of the hangar bay where her X-Wing was already undergoing all necessary repairs. Even the droid, A-4 was going to get a special treat. He'd be fixed up and dunked into an oil bath for his efforts out there in a battle they never could have possibly won. Luckily, she wasn't too worried about that memory wipe just yet. She had more important things to get done.

"Yes, Admiral."

As Gabriella made her way through the ship, several minor officers and bride crew caught up to her. Each spoke at the same time, shoving prints outs and information practically in her face. Its a wonder the woman could keep track of everything that was going on all at once. "Send a copy of all the information you managed to get on those warships to headquarters. Inform them that I am demanding a fleet rendezvous with us. Send them our coordinates and for heaven's sake, encrypt them!" She dismissed them all, informing them to send the information to the war room's computers and to have it all ready within the hour for the briefing she was going to conduct.

In the turbolift, she straightened her unofficial uniform which consisted of a black turtleneck, black pants, and black boots. No ranking insignia was present nor any of the pins, commendations, or cylinders. She wore this beneath her flightsuit for a reason. If ever captured, she couldn't be easily identified as a high ranking officer. The tortures a high ranking officer is put through by the hands of the enemy aren't pretty and there have been some in the past who were finally broken and spilled everything they knew just before they were finally killed. She'd be damned if she ever made it easy for the enemy.

Two men were stationed outside of the room Ati was being held in. "Dismissed," she informed the two who looked at her and hesitated in leaving their post. A slender brow arched gently. All it took was one look to send the two away without further question. She watched the men retreat until they were out of view then entered the room.

[Jon'son Dethrider]

The order was given by Leto over the commlink to the pilots in his squadron: it was time to boogey out of here, and it couldn't have been a better time to do so. Jon'son growled at Bucket, his astromech, and ordered it to plot the navcomputer to make the jump at the coordinates the <I>Second Chance</i> was transmitting via encryption so the Imperials wouldn't follow. <I>About frakking time!</i> he thought, as he looked back at the burning bridge of the Star Destroyer behind him and realized another Rat was lost-- this time Jammer.

The burly Womprat buried his feelings deep and checked his heading back to the Mon Calamari cruiser, and jerked his E-wing at a wide turn that the formation would find easier to follow. A row of cracking noises worked their way up the side of his fighter, from aft to front, the last making a loud report against the canopy next to his head. If the shields had not held, he would have been vaped on the spot. He clipped in his helmet to address the reinforcements arriving to help. "I'm picking up Eyeballs on my six! Watch our backs until we make the jump! The rest of you Rats group up and hug cover!"

"Yes, sir!" came the clipped replies from Cayenne and Legatus. He recognized the wookiee's growl of acknowledgment from Chanc as well. The X-wings moved past him on the right, sun glinting off its cockpits. Jon'son throttled up to follow, taking a slightly different course to cover more space and give him a clear shot from any threat. The reinforcements raced past them to intercept the coming TIE's heading on their six.

"About damn time," Jon'son heard over his comm from Orion. "Execute hyperspace jump!"

"Bucket!" Stone growled. "That navcomputer plotted?!"

The R7 astromech whistled, and Jon'son looked down at the display bar on his panel. "Finally!" He didn't hesitate as he pushed the hyperthrottle forward. The E-wing vanished in a flicker of pseudomotion.

Stone breathed a sigh of relief and exhaled slowly. "Guess I'm the only E-wing left again..."

There was no reason for him to remain awake and every reason to sleep. Lights were dimmed and he prepared to sleep the rest of the way through hyperspace travel. His eyelids fluttered, closed.

It was good to sleep. He had not been able to do so comfortably and without concern for a long time. Safe in the cocoon of the pilot's chair, nutured and looked after by the E-wing's life support systems, he could at last relax. Meanwhile, Bucket, the small and sturdy astromech, went about its business doing small repairs as Jon'son snored away.

<B>Hours later.</b>

Bucket jolted him awake. A glance in the ship's instrumentation indicated he was closing on his destination and was going to revert in a few minutes. Jon'son wiped the sleep from his eyes and prepard the E-wing for the jump out.

With another flicker of pseudomotion, the entire Womprat squadron reverted from hyperspace onto the new coordinates transmitted by the <I>Second Chance</i>, at an undisclosed location far from the battle they left. The Mon Calamari cruiser loomed ahead of them and a voice began to bark an odd mix of empathic and anxious.

"Womprat Squadron, this is <I>Second Chance</I>, you are cleared for landing, continue on your course and do not deviate."

Stone nodded compliance and moved to adjust his position. The X-wings slipped into formation and began to initiate landing sequences...

Jon'son Dethrider carefully manuevered his E-wing using his repulsorlifts and heard the clunks and scrapes as various support umbilicals lined up on his fighter. A final clunk caused his cockpit to lurch, and he heard footsteps scrambling on his hull. He pulled the canopy release. Bucket chirped and whistled in delight. In a moment it swung open, a blast of cool air entered the sweaty cockpit from a duct deliberately positioned above.

He pulled off the helmet, flipped the quick-release on his harness and slumped in the seat, basking in the blast of chilled air from overhead.

Someone patted him on the head from behind. He looked up to see an X-wing pilot, a pretty woman with a few curls of dark red hair tousled in places. She smiled and gave him a thumbs-up, despite the haggard look. He could tell she had shed a few tears as well.

"Welcome back, Big Man," she winked.

"Glad to be back, Misch," he replied, then added with a wry smile. "First drink is on you."

[Maxwell Gandel]

The enemy cruiser poured destructive energy into the Decimation's shields, red turbolaser blasts blossoming into firey explosions just meters from the hull. Gandel's command answered back, unleasing a torrent of green fire at the Mon Cal warship. For several seconds, enough energy passed between the two warships to power entire planets.

Starfighters wove through that every changing web of death, chasing each other in a deadly game of cat and mouse. A pair of A-Wings roared past the command tower, laser cannons blazing. Suddenly, a missile appeared from nowhere, catching one of the A-wings in the rear and tearing apart it's engines. The crippled fighter spun out of control, spiraling akwardly down into the shields above the Decimation's forward hull. The explosion that resulted was merely one of many, a pinprick to a giant.

Then, suddenly and without warning, the New Republic cruiser disappeared. Gandel blinked in surprise, having expected the enemy to stay and fight for longer than a few heartbeats. "Where are they?" he demanded, glaring out at the space where the cruiser had once been. Had they microjumped to the depot, attempted to put itself between the Plague and it's prey? Or were they simply trying to throw the Imperials off balance by leaving and reentering the fight from another direction?

"No new contacts on sensors," Anton reported from the crew pits. "It looks like a handfull of starfighters also jumped to hyperspace."

"Stay frosty," Gandel ordered. "If they show up again, I want to be ready for them and whatever tricks they have up their sleeve." Quietly, he puzzled over the situation. It was possible that the cruiser had just been stopping by for resupply and, in the face of two Imperial warships, it's commander had decided to run. If that was the case, though, it meant the warship would be clamoring for help. Gandel glanced at the tactical holo, and said "Tell those transports to get a move on, we don't have as much time to sack the depot as we thought. And what the hell is taking the Plague? She should have been engaging the station by now."

"It looks like she took a torpedo hit to the command tower, sir." Anton, as always, was ready with exactly what Gandel wanted to know. "A group of enemy starfighters coordinated an attack on her rear shield generators, temporarily overloaded them, and then hit the command tower. Her sensor domes are down and out, and there's no answer from her bridge."

"Damn," Gandel cursed. His situation was far too tenuous for his ships to take that sort of damage. Without a drydock that damage might not be repairable. And the loss of a fully trained command crew... "Turn us about," he ordered. "We'll engage the station ourselves. What's it's status?"

"Assault transports have made repeated torpedo runs against it, sir. The shields are failing as we speak." As Anton finished speaking, Gandel could barely make out one of the other officers calling for his attention. Gandel waited, wondering what news was being imparted. A moment later, he found out. "Sir," Anton said with a smile, "The station has sent us a communique... they want to surrender."

Gandel returned his first officer's smile, but it was as cold as ice. "Let them surrender. Order them to recall their fighters and power down all defenses... then land stormtroopers."

"Prisoners, sir?"

Gandel's smile grew darker. "We'll let the pirates deal with that."

[Adok Borys]

Adok listened to the pings from the alloy of his fighter, as the alloys in the hull expanded after its prolonged exposure to the vacuum of space. Upon landing the snubfighter in the hangar of the cruiser, he’d removed his helmet, and used the few precious moments alone in the cockpit of his fighter to center himself, to allow the passions of battle to fade. He took a deep breath and then exhaled, the tension of fighting for his life, draining from his body. He repeated the breathing exercise again and then popped his cockpit, allowing the metallic recycled air, tinged with the scents of lubricants and scorched equipment to enter the fighter’s cockpit.

He savored the metallic taste of the air, allowing one thought to cross his mind. It’s good to be back, in one piece of course. After allowing one of the techs time to position a platform to him to dismount, he stood up and descended to the deck of the hangar, where the crew chief assigned to his fighter was waiting for him.

The enlisted chief, recognizing his pilot, smiled and snapped a rather casual salute. Adok returned the smile with a wry grin, and just as casually, returned the salute.

The crew chief, Casull, by the name on his jumpsuit, ran an approving eye over Adok’s X-wing. “Nice job. Not a scratch on her.”

Adok shrugged and in deadpanned, “I fear my good man, that you seem to have underestimated my flying abilities.”

Casull started to snicker, and let out a chuckle. Two of the techs that were standing near Adok’s fighter had crept closer to listen in on the conversation as well.

Adok favored Casull with a confused stare and grabbed him by shoulders and then tried to get the crew chief to clue him in on the joke by asking a question, “By the force, what is so frelling funny?”

Casull tried, rather unsuccessfully, to Adok’s critical eye, to hide his laughter, and foment and answer to Adok’s question. He was more successful at the latter than at the former. “Dock, Dock, listen. It’s you. You are funny. It’s not the you, you. It’s the you, when you talk all stiff, like you were before. It’s like you’re a bad parody of one of the upper echelon.”

Adok folded his arms across his chest, and proceeded to lecture the crew chief. “Chief Casull, you have been found guilty of inciting me to drive you to laughter, how do you plead?”

This sent Casull into a fresh surge of giggles, while Adok smirked in satisfaction. Then Adok noticed someone that was walking toward his ship, the crew chief’s back was turned, and Adok let out a curse, carefully losing all traces of the accent that he’d assumed, “Frell, my peons. We have incoming,” he paused to gesture toward the engine, “It looks like the stabilizer in there is going to need to be replaced.”

Casull nodded, catching on. “I’ll check into it then.”

Adok frowned, remembering some of the details of the dogfight. “Oh, and Casull, make sure that you put some of the ordnance guys on my torp launchers. I didn’t use any of ‘em.”

The droid that had been assigned to Adok’s fighter chose that moment to release a howl of frustration. Adok amended his orders to the chief. “Casull, you’d better get someone set on unloading Sparky up there, or he’s liable to come after us with some pinchers or one of those little zappy astromech gizmos.”

Casull nodded at Adok’s instruction, but looked somewhat distracted for an instant, and then asked Adok another question, “Say, didn’t your squadron leave with twelve fighters, because I only see eight here.”

Adok frowned and glanced around the hangar bay. He counted again, to be sure, and then slumped to a seat on the stairs and cradled his head in his hands, letting out a curse, “Sithspit!”

[Mischa Margolin]

The infinitely boring trip back to the carrier was finally over. It seemed to have taken even longer than usual this time. Maybe because unlike during some other jumps Mischa had been unable to sleep for even a minute, just to stare out of the canopy of her snubbie and think, cry a little, then think some more. Even if she had been in the mood to talk, the person she’d most likely be talking to was sound asleep in his E-Wing.


Finally they had reached the deck of the Second Chance and the second her canopy popped she was out of her fighter and over the side without waiting for the crewperson to engage the ladder in position. The first thing she did, as always was scan the flight deck to count the number of ships that had made it back. Even though she knew there were four less now than when they went out, she still looked anyway. Some habits just stayed with you.

After conferring briefly with Sergeant Herron about the possible needed repairs to her fighter especially that frakkin HUD projection lens, she left the man to do his job and went to check on the person she considered the closest thing to real family she had left in the galaxy.

Spotting Stone’s ship was easy, it was the only remaining E-Wing in the ‘Rats lineup now and she fought back a wave of guilt-induced sadness again as she walked toward her wingmate’s craft, forcing a smile as she climbed the ladder to his cockpit.

Jon’son had his head back and his eyes closed, but the popped open with that one brow characteristically raised as Mischa tapped him on the back of his head and widened her faked smile by a few millimeters while giving him a thumbs up.

"Welcome back, Big Man," she winked.

"Glad to be back, Misch," he replied, then added with a wry smile. "First drink is on you."

“I’ll be happy to.” Vacuum said as she backed down the ladder to let Stone climb out of the E-Wing, “But let’s see how this debriefing goes first before we go making any big plans, okay?” She added in a serious tone as two of the techs assigned to his ship walked up.

As Jon’son talked to them about checking over a couple of things on his ship, Mischa gazed around the hangar at the typical scenes of post-flight activity until she spotted Leto’s fighter. The captain was pointing out something on the fuselage of his X-wing to the crew chief and Margolin felt relief once again at seeing him back in safely, but this time the feeling was accompanied by the guilt that she had let him and everyone else in the squadron, especially the four dead pilots, down. Mischa saw Captain Tariq look in her direction and she quickly turned her attention elsewhere, unwilling and unable to meet his eyes.

“Hey, Big Man.” She interrupted Jon’son briefly. “I’m going to go get out of this gear. I’ll see you at the debriefing.” She said before turning and walking through the hangar, headed for her quarters.

[Leto Tariq]

"Leto?"

He almost didn't hear the voice over the comm, but it was enough to pull him out of his thoughts. He grabbed his helmet and pulled it on roughly. Leto expected it to be some sort of report from one of his squadron-mates, or maybe an order from the admiral. He would be naive to think that his job was done when they had only made it into hyperspace.

Instead, though, it was Mischa's voice coming over the comm.

“..-rry. I should never have told them to go after the VicStar. I thought it would help those freighters and other ships from being destroyed by the Imps. I didn’t mean for so many of us to die to accomplish it. I… don’t want you blaming yourself for this. I know you always do."

Leto's face fell and then his jaw clenched. It was an effort not to snap back at her for being so stupid, for claiming the guilt on something she had no control over. He was the Captain, the squadron leader. His pilots' lives were his responsibility. It may have been Mischa's plan, but Leto had the power to stop it.

Fool pilot, Leto thought, and grimaced. He almost opened his mouth to tell her so, but stopped himself.

“Leto, dammit talk to me. Captain... Leto…I…lo…oh frak it.”

The comm suddenly went dead. "What are you trying to say, Mischa? Misch, are you there?"

Silence.

"Lieutenant Margolin, please respond," Leto tried. More silence. He cursed, flinging his helmet angrily from his head and bouncing against the cockpit window. "Frak!"

There was a series of beeps from the droid as it asked what was going on, but Leto ignored it. He pinched the bridge of his nose.

Nicely done, Captain, nicely done. He let his head crash back into the seat behind him and stared out the canopy. "What were you trying to say, Misch?"


Leto found the rest of the hyperspace trip to be uneventful and silent. He spent what time he had left trying to get any sleep that he could, usually to no avail. The battle and Mischa's message plagued his thoughts, making it almost impossible to sleep. Most of the time he found himself brooding, staring intently at the fighter's controls.

Finally, when it seemed he was almost into the grasp of sleep, a quick twitter from the ship jerked him awake. He blinked confusedly at the various instruments and sensors of the fighter and grunted when he found out he was nearing their destination and he would revert back to realspace in only a few moments.

Frakkin' great.

He yawned, tugged on his helmet and began preparing his fighter for hyperspace reversion while blinking back the sleep he almost had. He was looking forward to a shower and a few hours in his bunk.


Aboard the Second Chance


Leto struggled out of his fighter and helmet with relative ease, free hand working at his neck and enjoying the feel of the cooler air on his face.

"What the frell have you done to my fighter?!" The crew chief exclaimed, rushing over and staring slack-jawed at Leto's X-wing.

"I took a few hits out there," Leto responded tiredly.

"You're missing a frakking wing."

Leto shrugged and muttered a quick, "Sorry." He began going over the fighter with the chief, pointing out the various burns and scrapes that marred the X-wing's surface. The man groaned when Leto pointed out a rather nasty burn along the ship's fuselage. He looked around the hangar while the crew chief was distracted, counting the fighters to see if all eight of them had made it back.

All eight of them... his heart sank at that thought.

For the barest of a second, he caught Mischa's glance. She turned away quickly, and that made his heart sink even further.

"... and you've killed another droid."

Leto shook his head. "It's not destroyed." The droid moaned weakly as if to prove his point.

"Well I'll be a son of a bothan... so it did survive," he began directing technicians to help the droid out of the fighter, before turning to Leto and pointing a finger at him. "You owe me a wing."

"I'll keep that in mind," he responded and left the hangar and headed straight for his quarters. He had to get out of his flight suit, right frakking now.


The debriefing went smoothly, holding the 'Rats attention while he went over the battle's losses. One frigate, almost all the supply station's fightercraft, various transports and four of their own pilots. It was too early to know how many had survived on the station, but Leto had a feeling it wasn't many. The Empire wasn't renowned for its care of prisoners and pirates were even worse.

He paused and swallowed hard on his emotions before he moved on to the subject of funerals. Even so, his voice betrayed him a little, but he was too tired to really care about that.

The debriefing ended soon after that. Leto tried to catch up with Mischa, to question her about her message, but she evaded him before he even had the chance. He grimaced and made his way to the ship's refresher, eager to wash the stink of the cockpit away.

It was there, while he was struggling out of his uniform, that his comlink beeped.

"What?" he snapped angrily into the comm. There was silence for a moment, and when Captain Dervis responded there was an edge to his voice.

"Admiral Lionheart requests the Womprats attendance in the war room."

Leto cursed under his breath and spoke into the comlink again. "Right, we're on our way."

He sighed and pulled his uniform back on and began issuing orders to his pilots. So much for that shower.

[Maxwell Gandel]

The supply depot was now under Imperial control. Stormtroopers stood guard over the station's crew, all of whom had been sequestered in the docking bays. None were certain of the fate that awaited them. Some, including the station's commander, seemed to think that they might be destined for some sort of prisoner exchange.

But Gandel had no need of bargaining chips. Especially not the kind he had to feed. So, instead dealing with the prisoners himself, he turned them over to Askaza. The pirate leader had seemed very pleased with this turn of events. The slave trade, it seemed, hadn't missed a beat during the changeover of galactic governments.

"Oh, aye," Askaza was telling Gandel, "I'll find good use for 'em. And while that's a nice bonus, you'll recall our original arrangement...?"

"Don't worry," the Imperial Admiral said, not impatiently, "you'll get your leftovers. We're hauling off as much as we can as fast as we can, but we certainly won't be keeping all of it." Askaza nodded, apparently satisfied. Gandel almost thought the pirate had been expecting a double cross. Some Imperial commanders likely would have done just that. But there had to be some rules that goverened the interactions of warriors. The station's crew, for example, had surrendered. In return, Gandel was giving them their lives. Askaza's men had fought and died alongside the men of the 105th. In return, they were entitled to just as much of the rewards.

"Admiral?"

Gandel glanced away from the holoprojection of Lauren Askaza, noted Anton standing just outside the range of the transmitters. He nodded to his XO, acknowledging his request for attention. "One thing you won't be getting," He informed Askaza, lest the pirate get any ideas, "are those starfighters." As Gandel had directed, the station's surviving starfighters had landed in their hangar bays. As soon as the 105th's stormtroopers had found then, they'd been secured for capture. Working examples of enemy starfighter models would be invaluable to the 105th, and the fleet's engineers were going to strip them down and put them back together again as many times as they needed to figure out what made them tick.

"Ah, don't ye worry about that," Askaza chuckled. "Ye can have 'em. But, ah, if ye don't mind my asking, what did ye plan to do with the station?" Gandel raised his eyebrows, surprised at the question. The 105th couldn't spare the manpower to man the thing. Even if they'd had enough free crewmen Gandel wouldn't have allowed it - the New Republic was sure to come back in force. His plan had been to use the Decimation's turbolaser batteries to slag as much of the thing as possible before jumping for hyperspace. He told Askaza as much. The pirate grumbled a little bit, but nodded. "Aye, I guess you've got a point. Not much good wasting people to man it when the NR will come back to check on it... unless..." Askaza smiled the kind of smile that was usually associated with a chemical imbalance.

"Unless what?"

"Well, if it's not here when they come looking fer it..." Askaza got a thoughtful look on his face. "Those ships of yers... they got tractor beams, don't they?"

Gandel couldn't quite believe what he was hearing. "You're kidding me, right? You want my fleet to move an entire station? Those things are brought to their destinations in pieces, assembled on-site. There's no way we could move it."

"Hrm," Askaza grunted. "You always so negative?"

Opening his mouth to respond, Gandel ended up only smiling and shaking his head. "You know, Lauren, despite myself I find I may be starting to like you."

"Say it ain't so," The pirate flashed a toothy grin.

"I still think you're crazy, of course." Askaza shrugged, smiling away the insult/compliment. "I'll have my engineers look into it," Gandel promised. "But I still say it's not possible."

"Never know until ye try."

"Indeed. But let's wrap this up, I need to oversee the cargo transfer operations." Gandel looked over at Anton, holding his gaze for just a moment to let the captain know he'd be with him momentarily. "Do any of your men need medical support?" He continued, "The fleet's medical frigate is only a short jump away. You're welcome to the use of her facilities."

"We'll be fine, Admiral. Got us some bacta tanks back at the Rock. I'd ask fer some help with repairing some of our fighters, but I understand you'll be having yer own problems."

Gandel grimaced at the mention of repairs. The Plague had finally been raised, communications routed through their auxiliary bridge. Luckily, not all of the primary command crew had perished. A close up inspection of the damage by a TIE had shown why - the torpedos hadn't directly hit the bridge, which occupied only one deck of the command tower. Instead, the warheads had detonated below the bridge. The resulting explosion had knocked out the main data feets connecting the command tower to the rest of the ship's major systems, and decompressed surrounding decks. Shrapnel and debris had penetrated the bridge from below, killing several people in the crew pits outright before decompression and hard vacuum had begun claiming others. While most, including the ship's XO, had made it out alive, the captain had not been so fortunate. Gandel would miss the man sorely.

"Yes..." Gandel gathered himself. "Yes, we will have to deal with that. At any rate, any transports you want to use to pick up your prisoners and cargo will be given clearance to dock." Finalizing things with Askaza, he ordered the connection terminated. As the pirate leader's fuzzy blue representation faded, Gandel at last gave his full attention to Anton. "Allright... how bad is it?"

Anton held the finalized casualty report up so he could read it. "All in all, we lost eighteen starfighters and one assault transport with it's crew of two. Several other assault transports were damaged, but are repairable. Of the fighters lost, fourteen were TIE fighters and the remaining four bombers. Seven pilots managed to eject and have been recovered." Anton looked up from the report, looking more disgruntled than Gandel had ever seen him. "The pirates lost nearly a squadron of fighters themselves. And the attack on the Plague cost us thirty three men. There were others wounded, but the Plague's sickbay is handling them."

"In any other situation, I would say that's a pretty good casualty ratio." But this is no ordinary situation, Gandel didn't say. He didn't have to, he could tell that Anton already understood. The harsh reality of the situation had finally hit home, and it had hit with the impact of a sledgehammer. Every fighter lost, every pilot dead, each and every casualty was gone for good. Irreplacable. The 105th was on their own, and if they truely intended to fight the New Republic they would be taking casualties. Casualties they couldn't affort to lose. "How goes the looting?" He didn't try to gloss things over with the ship's captain... 'cargo transfer operations' was only for Askaza. Anton knew better.

"Faster than expected, actually. I've even got tech crews on the station stripping out whatever important equipment the enemy didn't trash when they surrendered. With any luck, there will be some useful information in there somewhere."

"What's our biggest take so far?" Gandel asked. It was an important question, the answer to which could determine the 105th's next move. If the depot has been weapons heavy, another raid would be needed for food and medical supplies. Weapons could also be sold on the black market, providing the 105th with some ammount of cashflow. If the depot had been food or medical supplies, or both, then the fleet could sit and think for awhile about their next move. Gandel fervently hoped it was food.

"We're still sorting it all," Anton said tentatively, "But thus far it looks like mechanical components, repair parts, and ordinance. Food, water, medical supplies, and fuel are also coming up in mixed quantities, roughly in that order. I'll write up a full report when we're finished sorting."

"Focus on getting everything aboard. We can sort later, and I don't want to be around if that warship we ran off comes back with friends."

"Aye, sir. We'll have everything done within the next few hours. Whatever we can't haul aboard in that time will get vaped along with the station."

Gandel nodded, and Anton left. The admiral found himself contemplating the stars beyond the bridge's viewports. He'd never been in a war before... at least, not one like this. Every engagement he'd been in had been led by Thrawn, and had been decided quickly and with minimum casualties by the alien genius. Now, Gandel feared that his own attempts at leading a war would only find him slogging through waves of blood.

Fifty Three men dead, and the war had only just started...

[Cayenne Rudal]

Cay let her head fall back against the seat as the stars elongated into lines in the jump to hyperspace. She sighed heavily. Four more pilots lost. Her heart began that dull ache she'd become so familiar with since Bounder's untimely death. She missed him so much, especially at times like these when the silence of space threatened to swallow her whole.

Spit whistled at her.

"Yeah, I'm... no, it's more like I will be okay. Just not yet."

The droid's tone was mournful.

"That's about how I'm feeling too. Hopefully we'll get some rest after this. Now why don't you check out the damage done and see if there's anything you can patch up between now and docking, okay?"

He hooted at her before settling down to work, leaving her lost in her thoughts once more.

The warning chime sounded a while later, jolting Spice out of her nap. She was startled to find that she had managed to fall asleep, and pulled the lever just in time to revert back to normal space. She glanced out her canopy to see her seven remaining squadmates appear around her. The Second Chance sat in front of them, growing steadily. "Womprat Squadron, this is Second Chance, you are cleared for landing. Continue on your course and do not deviate."

The next few minutes went by smoothly as Cay fell into autopilot mode maneuvering her fighter into the bay. Shortly she was locked in and able to disembark. Scrambling out of her seat, Cay dropped to the floor - grunting as her knees were jarred from the landing - and started looking around for her wingmate. Cap'n ain't gonna be in a good mood after this one. After a moment's search she spotted him talking to a tech. His ship looked horrible. She was surprised, with that much damage, that he'd been able to pilot the thing back in at all. Her admiration for her captain grew a few notches at that point.

Cay frowned. The way he took off from the hangar spoke volumes about his current condition. She knew she wouldn't be able to talk to him until at least after the debriefing. With a slight shake of her head she resolved to corner him - for lack of a better term - as soon as possible.

* * * * *

Her head hung low as the debriefing ended. Their losses had been horrible. And the supply depot was probably lost. Cay feared that the lives of those on the station were lost, too. She wanted to scream, wanted to cry, and really really wanted to kick something. Hard. Maybe I should go to the gym after I cool off a bit. No, first I gotta talk to the Cap'n. But Leto was elusive. He seemed to be trying to talk to Vac, but she couldn't tell. Why would-- no, it's none of my frakking business, I'm sure. She shook her head and made her way back to her quarters, somehow figuring that he needed more space before she ambushed him.

Then, a few minutes later, the call came. "You're requested to meet in the war room right away," an emotionless voice sounded over the comlink.

"What in the frell is going on?" she demanded. But there was no answer. Prob'ly got some ensign to give the call out. Guess they know better than to stick around when giving me bad news now. With an angry grunt she threw her unruly hair back with a tie and stomped out of her quarters, nearly running head on into Leto in the process. "Got the bad news too, eh?"

"Yeah."

"You okay, Cap'n?"

He shot her a dirty look.

"Sorry, stupid question. Wanna talk about it?"

"If you can walk at the same time," he snapped as they started moving again. Her startled look spoke volumes. "Sorry. I'm not in the best of moods right now."

"No one would be after that battle," she said soothingly. Me? Being the soothing one? Geez, is this ever a role switch. "Know what's going on?"

"No, I imagine that's why they're having a meeting."

"You sure are hella touchy today, Cap'n. Look, it wasn't your fault. We had frelling bad odds out there. And yet you pulled us through - in that near wreck of a fighter to boot."

"Not you too."

"Huh?"

"Tech was giving me a hard time about it."

"Hell, I'd give you a hard time about it if I were them, Orion! That thing was beat up!"

"Tell me about it."

"I don't think you really want me to, now, do you?"

He stared at her and actually smiled a little. "No, probably not. You sure can be a babbler, Spice."

"Keeps the mood lighter, I guess."

"Since when were you the mood lightener? I thought it was your job to be all crazy and emotional."

"Yeah, usually. Otherwise they'd have to give me a new callsign. Listen, Leto," she said, all seriousness now as she stopped walking. Leto stopped as well. "If you need support, someone to talk to, or just need to know someone's on your side, you can talk to me, okay? You've been good to me since Bounder... died, and I certainly am happy to return the favor. Besides, you're a damn good wingmate and, well, what else are wingmates for?"

"Thanks, Cay. I appreciate it."

"I'll even listen in on women issues."

He choked a little on that one. "What?"

Cay giggled. She couldn't help it. Waving him off airly, she said, "Oh, never mind. Just thought I'd put it out there. We'd better go - don't want to keep the good Admiral waiting too long."

Leto shook his head before following her to the war room.

[Ati Quai]

As the door to his 'comfort room' opened, Ati half-expected to see one of those floating torture droids following the woman in. After all, the lack of real courtesy show to him - outside of plucking his ship out of space and escorting him to a nice room with nothing at all in it - had left him feeling very much like a prisoner. And what had he done? Oh yeah. He'd tried helping a grossly outnumbered and outgunned squad of Republic fighters from being obliterated. At least they hadn't bound his hands and feet. A small mercy, he decided.

Dark eyes looked up to see the woman into the room, noting that she closed the door behind her. Didn't seem to be armed with any blunt objects, either. Another apparent plus.

"So, you here to question me or answer my own questions? The robot patrol that brought me here wasn't too forthcoming."

Not that they were actual robots, perse, just the fact that they showed about the same emotional capacity as one. Hells, even Kaybo had sparked more emotion at times than those fellows.

"Both."

The red-haired woman made her way to the other chair across from him and seated herself. Her dark eyes looked him over briefly, though even a dumb smuggler from Corellia could figure out that she was doing far more than just a cursory once-over of him.

"So, ask your questions," she stated, sitting back rather smugly into her chair.

"Where in the holy Hells of Kessel do you people get off beaming me aboard this ship? Is this how the Republic goes about repaying kindness? By abducting those that help out and then locking them in a room? And where is my ship? And my droid?" His voice dropped a bit, almost conveying a bit of sincere worry.

"You...didn't let him loose on this ship, did you? Tell me, you didn't let that droid loose."

Gabriella drummed her nails on the tabletop as the smuggler went on and on, wondering if he was ever going to shut up. "Yes," was her response to the first batch of questions, stated with a matter-of-fact tone. "Don't worry. Your ship is being repaired in one of the hangar bays and the droid is likely down getting an oil bath, along with making a new friend. Next question."

"He just had an oil bath and unless this new friend has the newest model of turbo boosters, he's not gonna be interested." The smuggler smirked a bit himself at that one, knowing that she would be clueless as to what he was talking to.

"Oh yes, we know. One of our techs already found the magazine and is currently bringing it to the droid unit so that the droid can read it while enjoying the oil bath." Her turn to smirk.

"He doesn't read. He looks at the pictures," he whispered back, almost conspiratorily.

Gabriella leaned forward, dropping her own tone. "Yes, I know." She gave him the slyest wink as she leaned back into her chair again.

"OK," he answered, giving that sarcastic grin that wrinkled his nose. He sat there another moment, as if pondering the meaning of life or some other such galactic enigma. The only real enigma plaguing him was how he was going to get out of here. This ship, this system, this room.

"So, you're repairing my ship, fixing up my droid. That's all fine and good and it is quite appreciated. However, there's just one little piece of this puzzle that needs fitting into the picture. Me. Yes, I said it. Me. Why am I here? Why was I not allowed to make my own jump away from the supply depot and be on my merry way? Wait, you want to pay me, right? Is that what this is all about? If so, then by all means, speak away, Sister."

"Pay you? You'll be lucky if I don't have you arrested for violations of Authority Starship Code Safety Regulations, Questionable Activities, Outstanding Threat to Order, and for a potential Customs Red Alert, to name a few." Slowly, she stood up and placed her hands on the table leaning towards him. "In exchange for repairing your ship, taking care of your droid and not dropping your smuggling ass into the brig, I want you in the cockpit of an X-Wing as a member of my crew."

She stood there, waiting, eyeing him. Most likely she had medical teams on standby waiting for the smuggler to suffer a heart attack or stroke. In truth, Ati nearly had. Not from the offer, but from how in the Hells they knew all of that stuff. Outstanding Threat to Order? In essence, he was outnumbered at least a hundred to one until he chose a side. How was he a threat? Threat to his own life, sure, but what Order?

A hand, still a bit dirty from the earlier activities, reached up to scratch at the back of his head. "You get all of that from a computer, did you?"

"On the contrary. Your droid is a blabbermouth."

"Yes, he is," the smuggler deadpanned. "Well, yes...hrmmm...riiigggghhhhttt."

How it had taken even these few moments to not agree readily to this offer was beyond him. He certainly wasn't going anywhere, and the fact that the Republic had sent her only told him that she was some freak that excelled in the long drawn-out torture of captured 'guests.'

"How many times did the droid tell your people where to stick it?" he asked, with sincere curiosity in his voice. While it may have seemed like a joke, that droid had a terrible disregard for authority. Ati always wondered where the droid got it from.

"How many times are you going to tell me where to stick it?"

"If you don't know by now, honey, you need a new job."

"Come now, you know you wouldn't complain if I were to stick it to you." Now, it was her turn to wrinkle her nose and smirk.

"Is the brig pretty much like this room? Well, outside of the lavish decorating that you've done, I mean. Really, this whole two-chair and table against a black background is so warm and cozy."

"I'll put you in touch with our decorator. She may be able to get you set up with some pink roses and potpourri." The woman's deadpan didn't miss a step.

"That...won't be necessary. I'm more of a lilac kind of guy."

"Yes, I can see that about you," she interrupted, apparently very much enjoying this little banter that the two of them were having. Of course, it was easy to enjoy such things when you were holding all the cards.

"How long? I mean, how long are you planning to keep me as an indentured pilot?"

"That all depends," she shrugged indifferently. "How confident are you in your skills?"

And the ref takes a point away. How confident are you in your skills? he mocked in his head, adding the little girl voice along with a bit of a neener expression on his face. He finally did decide, though, that she must have been serious. Anyone else would have had him gutted by now.

"Well, since you put it that way, where do I sign up? Oh, do I get one of those nifty little nametag things, too? Always wanted one."

"Yes, yours will say Janitor on it." She simply smiled.

Of all the people that he ever wanted to dump into a Sarlacc, this one just won the race by a landslide. In three...two...one...*SLAM!* The chair connected with the far side wall with a force that even surprised the smuggler, though seemed to not even phase the woman at all. "Alright, who in the frak are you, anyway? You come in here, acting like you own the place, talking to me like...ok...maybe I am acting like a spoiled brat at the moment, but that's for me to say, not you."

Gabriella slowly rose from her previous position, standing up straight with her head held high. "I do own the ship. Admiral Nerys, the woman who gets to tell you what to do."

He wasn't sure what unnerved him more. Knowing who she was, or the fact that she answered his latest tirade without so much as a flinch in expression. He knew the look. That cold-hearted, 'I can have you ejected from this ship without a suit' look. That one that made his butt pucker ever so slightly.

"Well, then, that would explain it." He felt the blood slowly drain from his face, and only a shift in his step proved that he hadn't shat himself just yet. "Like I, uh, said. Where do I sign up?" he asked with the cheesiest, fakest grin he could muster.

"I'll have you sign your soul away in blood during a briefing set to take place in the war room shortly. Do you have anymore displays that you'd like to share with me? Because if you don't, I'd like to talk to you."

With one of those, 'that dug just crapped in my mouth' sort of looks, he calmly walked over and picked up the recently discarded chair, bringing it back to the table. But he didn't sit down. Not yet, at least. "No, two's usually my limit without a caf somewhere in there. I should be good."

She motioned for him to retake his seat, as she herself sat back down into her chair. He complied. "What were you doing at the supply depot and why did you engage our enemy?"

"With all due respect, Admiral, it was a supply depot."

"Yes, but with all due respect, you're a smuggler, and it isn't uncommon for a smuggler to engage in questionable activities in less populated areas. Such as the supply depot."

"Touche," he answered simply. "In truth, I wasn't carrying any cargo when I arrived at the depot and you can check the records. Well, provided you can find them after the Imperials trash the place. My ship needed a few parts and a place to be repaired. As far as engaging your enemy is concerned. I saw twelve Republic fighters sent to their apparent death against a force that at the least quadrupled their own. More once the Imperials arrived at the ball. I guess I just have a soft-spot for the underdog. And a deep hatred for pirates, which I really shouldn't have to explain."

She listened, studying his expressions and in particular, his eyes, searching for any signs of deception. After a few moments, she decided that he was telling the truth and simply nodded her head accordingly. "From what I observed, you're an excellent pilot. Please accept sincere thanks on behalf of myself, my fighter pilots and the New Republic for your assistance in our battle. And thank you for not forcing me to break your arm to get you to join the New Republic and my crew."

Gabriella stood up then and motioned for him to follow her to the war room. The smuggler exhaled softly before standing and following her to the door. Once outside the room, she spoke again, though didn't look over. "I've seen your ship before, at Bakura."

"That was a long time ago, Admiral," he answered simply, at least offering his way of agreeing with her observation and confirming any possible doubts. Before long, the two of them entered the war room where the rest of the Womprats had assembled.

[Gabriella]

The walk from the holding room to the war room was uneventful. And quiet. Admiral Nerys didn't say another word to the newly recruited smuggler. Her mind was filled with other matters. Like the battle they just jumped away from that nearly cost her the rest of her fighters. Deeper thoughts included wondering just whom was at the helm of those Destroyers. She tried to recall the names of the Commanding Officers during the time she spent serving the Imperials, but was coming up with nothing for the most part. Sure, she could recall the names of the Officers she saw or spent the most time with, but the Empire was massive and the small portion of those she knew, or knew of, were more like a few grains of sand on an entire beach.

Then there was her secret, of course. Very few in the entirety of the NRA had any knowledge that she was once part of the Imperial Empire. Very few. To those few, she was grateful. Grateful for the opportunities given to prove herself and prove to others that she was no longer the person she was years ago. She had been forced into joining the Empire, along with her older brother, Simon. To this day, she still carries the heaviest weight of all on her shoulders. The knowledge that she and Simon were the cause for the death of their adoptive parents, along with countless other innocent lives. She felt no remorse at claiming the lives of Imperial soldiers and Officers. For her, it was payback; and it slowly ebbed away the need for vengence. A vengence that wouldn't be sated until the last breath of the last remaining Imperial servant had been expelled for good.

Upon reaching the doors to the war room, the two were stopped by Captain Dervis. "Admiral, I need to speak with you." Gabriella nodded, then motioned for Ati to go inside. Once he was gone, the Admiral redirected her attention to the Captain. "Is all of the information compiled?" She asked. "Most of it. The rest will be ready in an hour or two. We suffered a heavy loss, but all was not in vain." The Captain handed Gabriella a stack of printouts, then pivoted sharply on his heel while saluting and strode away. She lifted her hand and ran her fingers through her thick hair quickly to get it out of her eyes then began looking over the papers as she entered the war room. Protocol demanded all crew to stand at sharp attention and to salute whenever an Officer was on deck. Without looking up from the papers, Gabriella motioned for all to relax and sit down while she crossed the room and dropped the papers onto the podium.

She looked up, lips gently parted, about to go right into speaking. Then she saw their faces. Haggard and worn. Defeated, angry, sad; some had a vacant look to their glassy eyes. Slowly, Gabriella let out a breath and stood there quietly for a good minute or two. One of the toughest things to being in command was finding the words to soothe and rally the troops, to boost their morale. They'd just lost four of their wingmates, fought a tough battle against an enemy they weren't prepared for, let alone expected, and it showed on their tired faces and in their slouched poses. The losses weighed heavily on her as well, but she couldn't express that the way these men and women gathered were allowed to. Freely, that is. Her own sorrow and downtrodden feelings had to be stowed away in the darkest parts of her heart until she was alone in her quarters. She never could let those under her command see just how much the losses they felt and suffered affected her as well. It would destroy any credibility she had as a Commanding Officer.

"I could start this briefing by telling you all how proud of you I am; of how well you did against an enemy that severely outnumbered us and outgunned us. But I won't. You don't deserve to be spoken down to in such a manner. All of you deserve much more than that," she said in a quiet, relaxed, and sincere tone of voice. Gabriella stepped away from the podium and clasped her hands loosely at the small of her back. She didn't have time to change out of the black attire worn into battle since ordering the retreat and returning to the ship. For a moment, it was like she wasn't in command at all. That moment was savored, even if it did last for less than half a minute. "Our losses were heavy, but the heaviest of them was the loss of four good men." Silence followed for a full minute. "However, their sacrifice was not in vain." Admiral Nerys looked to each face in the small crowd, then returned to the podium. "The quick thinking of "Bandit" just might be the saving grace to this battle." She rifled through the stack of papers and found the report she had barely skimmed over upon entering. "According to our reports, he had activated his homing beacon prior to the last run he made against the VSD. By sheer luck, that homing beacon became melded to a piece of shrapnel as his ship ..." She didn't need to say exploded. They all knew. They were there and witnessed it first hand. "Anyway, from our read-outs, that bit of shrapnel just might have imbedded itself into the hull of one of the ships at the battle. Common sense indicates that this wouldn't have been the VSD or even the Corvettes. Their shields would have killed it before it came anywhere near the hull. However, right now it is believed to have been one of the fighters piloted by one of the space pirates." Of course, this might not mean a damn thing to the men and women in the war room, but it was rather significant to the Admiral. "As long as the beacon holds out, we can track where it goes." Good point and a good strategy at this point; for as long as the beacon held out, which wouldn't be forever. Though that still might mean jack to the Rat's. Nothing further on this point needed to be said. Not until the Admiral had more information and data to use in order to formulate their next course of action.

"I'd like to introduce you to a new member," she said, changing the topic abruptly. In truth, she was at a loss for words and need to pass time until she could think of what more to say to them all. She motioned to Ati. "Ati Quai." As others turned to give the ruggedly handsome, yet scruffy smuggler, a cursory look, Gabriella motioned for Captain Tariq to approach. "He'll be joining the Rat's under your command. See to it he's assigned an X-Wing," she paused a moment, looking toward Ati. "No. Make that an E-Wing." She looked back to Captain Tariq. "Get him a flight suit, quarters, and introduce him to the others. If anyone is short a wingmate, assign him to them." Seeing he understood, she nodded once to the Captain.

"Womprats. I ...." Gabriella lowered her head and took a deep breath, held it, then let it out slowly. How could she express what she felt? "You are granted a week of downtime. A select few of you may be prepped in a couple to three days time for another mission. A memorial service for "Bandit", "Hyper", "Joker", and "Jammer" will be held in two days." To her own ears, she just sounded utterly cold and devoid of emotion. She had to assume that others thought that as well. It was times like this when she would give anything to just be a 'normal' person and not in command of anything. To 'be' part of the crew, not in command of it. To be 'attached' to something, and not 'detached'. "That is all. Unless anyone has anything to add or questions."

She stood there, watching the others as they rose and murmured to each other; well, some of them did. "Wait." She ordered as everyone began heading to the door. "The loss of a crew member, friend, and wingmate is felt and shared by all." She began. "Including me. There is nothing I can say to convey the sorrow I do feel at the lives we lost out there that will make everything okay again. I won't even try. I have an open-door policy, so if any of you need to use it, for anything at all ..." She closed her eyes and rubbed at them, cursing herself mentally. In an attempt to shrug her thoughts away, she shook her head lightly and returned to the podium to collect the reports she had been handed earlier. She waited, sticking around in the war room long enough to answer any possible questions one of them might have had. There was still work for her to do before she could retreat to her own quarters for the night.

(Let me know if anything needs to be edited.)

[Mischa Margolin]

All she had wanted after the debriefing was a shower and she wanted it now. Mischa had gotten as far stripping off half her civvies worn beneath her flightuit when the comm chirped announcing that the squadron was to report to the warroom.

“Frakkin hell. Now what? Better now than when I was already in there I suppose” Misch said with a sigh, pulling her tank back on and shutting off the shower spray. Leaving the room hurriedly she connected with the wall of humanity that was her wingmate, Jon’son Dethrider.

“I figured this would be the first place you’d head to after the briefing.” Stone said at her quizzical look. “You’re just too damn predictable, Misch.”

“Any idea what this is about?” Margolin asked as they walked along the corridor toward the meeting place where the rest of the squadron was congregating.

Stone shook his head in reply. “No idea, Vac. Although I’m hoping the Admiral’s going to tell us we’ve got a months liberty coming or something to that effect.”

“With our luck, Big Man she’s probably going to be sending us right back out. And right now I don’t know which one I’d prefer more.” Mischa said resignedly.

“Misch I know what you’re thinking and it’s not your fault damn it.” Stone said as the two of them took their seat near the back of the room.

Mischa didn’t say anything to the man she look upon as a big brother, only looked down at some invisible spot on the floor as she waited for the Admiral to arrive to tell them whatever it was she had to say.

“Look, little girl. You can’t just…” Jon’son started to say before a look from his wingmate cut him off.

“I really don’t want to talk about it right now, Stone so save it.” Vac said sharply before turning her attention toward the front of the room. She could see Leto seated next to Spice and felt an annoying twinge of jealousy at the sight of the flame haired pilot smiling at something Tariq had just said to her. As if he could sense Mischa’s gaze he turned to look toward the back of the room, but again Margolin purposely avoided those deep blue eyes and turned toward the door where Admiral Nerys had just made her entrance accompanied by an unfamiliar blonde man.

Misch stood at attention with the rest of the squadron until Gabriella told them to sit at which point most of them, other than the Captain, seemed to slump into their seats. She listened as the Admiral went through what she had to say. Not surprised with much of it other than the announcement that this smuggler whom she’d walked in with was joining the squadron. She gave the man a casual glance, wondering how long he’d last flying with them.

She listened to the usual post-mission announcement about the memorial service, which seemed to follow a majority of the Womprats’ debriefings numbly and as soon as Nerys was finished with her speech, Margolin stood up to walk out of the room and get to the interrupted shower.

“Wait” Vac heard the Admiral command the group and she turned with an impatient look on her face that reluctantly vanished as she heard the commanding officer speak with the weight of true pain and sorrow in her voice. She appreciated the fact that the Admiral seemed to genuinely care about those under her command, rather than seeing them as faceless fodder for the fight against what remained of the Empire.

Having nothing she wanted to say herself, Mischa just nodded at Gabriella when she looked her way and said, “Thank you, Admiral” before turning and walking out of the room.

[Ceryll Tana]

Ceryll felt as though she could fall asleep right there in the debriefing room. Her entire body ached and her eyes were heavy. To make matters worse, all she could seem to think about were the four men who would be forever absent. Four people she had never had the chance to know.

After Captain Tariq dismissed them, the young rookie found herself finally back in her own quarters. She fell silently into her bunk, almost ready to go to sleep the moment her auburn head hit the pillow…

"Report to the war room right away," came a monotone voice from the comm unit.

"Oh, please…" she moaned, rolling over onto her side and prying her eyes open with her fingers. "Just a few minutes…"

Despite her complaining, Ceryll had no intention of being late to the war room. Tumbling out of bed, she staggered towards the 'fresher and splashed some icy cold water on her face. Quickly donning a black jacket over her white shirt, she pelted for the door and joined the other Womprats assembling in the war room.

The Admiral's speech was short and to the point. Ceryll, unable to focus, found her mind wandering to a hot shower and a long nap. She didn't want to think about dogfighting, explosions, or space in general. Only when Admiral Nerys mentioned a week of shore leave did Ceryll perk up, along with the rest of her wingmates. The brief meeting was drawn to a solemn close. Once again, she felt her chest contract as their losses were restated. Four good pilots gone forever. And no matter how optimistic the Admiral had striven to be, no one could help but feel as though it had all been a failure. Pointless.

Ceryll kept mostly to herself as they left the war room. It was obvious that no one felt like talking, smiling, or thinking. Everyone who had known the fallen pilots were sharing memories and their own grief. All Ceryll could do was look on and feel slightly excluded.

After a long, hot shower, the ache in her formerly tense muscles had all but vanished. Wrapped in a warm, white robe, Ceryll flopped onto her bed and took out her datapad, smiling to see a new message from her brother.

Jat Tana was a precocious teenager with an over-active imagination. He had responded to her previous message with just the amount of enthusiasm she would expect from him.

"Kill a couple of Imp scum bags for me, sis!" he had entreated. Ceryll could only smile wanly, suddenly wishing she could tell Jat just what it really was like to be in the middle of a fight. Wishing she could explain that it wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

But why squelch his dreams? His mom and dad would do a good enough job of that.

She didn't particularly feel like replying. She wasn't sure of what she would say, or if she would say the right things. Her emotions were too crazy…too jumbled. She didn't want to sound depressing, especially if her mother would be reading over Jat's shoulder. Ceryll couldn't allow that.

Closing her eyes, Ceryll attempted to let the darkness give way to sleep. Oh, it would be so welcomed. Just a few minutes. But all she could see in front of her eyes were the brilliant flashes and explosions. Green and red laser fire intersecting and flying in all possible directions across space. Her heart sped up as she remembered the thundering barrage of laser fire at her aft shields and the screech of her astromech.

So, this is what it'll be like every time, Ceryll thought, opening her eyes and staring at the ceiling. Hell.

Yet, somehow, she knew it was something she would get used to. She'd become callused and confident, just like all of the other more experienced Womprats. Perhaps it was that knowledge that kept Ceryll from resigning right then and there.

"It'll get better," she murmured, feeling a tear trickle down her cheek in spite of herself.

But there was one thing she knew she could never get used to, and she hoped she never would. Hearing the scream of a pilot as his fighter fell to pieces and exploded, or seeing one of her friends die.

Her pillow soaked, Ceryll finally found the sleep she desperately needed.

[Pietur Legatus]

Pietur shifted impatiently in the seat, scuffing her heavily booted feet against the floor with a thumping monotony. She had never been particularly good at sitting still, and today everyone seemed to demand that she did a lot of it. The jump to the supply depot hadn't been so bad, but the return had left her in the silence of hyperspace with nothing but a collection of parts behind her and her thoughts for company for far too long.

Pietur hated silence almost as much as she hated sitting still. It made it harder to find distractions to brush aside unwanted thoughts. In the coldness of hyperspace every moment she had spent with the unlucky four had drifted back to revisit her -tantalizingly real snatches of the past that deflated her usually buoyant mood. No, silence was never good.

Once she had popped her top and landed with a thump on the hard floor of the docking bay with the pungent smell of grease and hot engines filling her nose, Pietur's mood had managed to bob back up to it's normal levels. She had made it back in one piece for once, and if her cursory glance was correct, so had her x-wing -a true achievement considering how she normally managed in sims. Maybe she wasn't so bad at this pilot thing after all.

The tech she had talked to before takeoff appeared from around the starboard side abruptly. "Got a nasty burn on your wing back here" he commented.

"Really? Could have been from the one I vaped" Pietur replied as casually as possible. Unfortunately, a corner of her mouth twitched up and refused to straighten again. Damn it! She really was useless at holding a sabaac face, and now she looked like some untested rookie. Which, on reflection, she was.

A shadow of a smile flitted across the other man's weary expression. "So you got one of the bastards? Good for you. I'll take care of things here. You go and make some attempt at cleaning up. The captain will be wanting all the 'Rats for a debriefing sooner rather than later if I'm not mistaken."

He hadn't been mistaken. There wasn't even time for her to reach her room before they were called together. Leto had looked awful -strained and depressed- and he wasn't the only one. All it took was a quick look around to confirm that the various pilots gathered all wore similar expressions. Exhaustion, sadness, shock -all battles for control on the faces of her crew-mates. Pietur had met the four men but hadn't the chance to get to know them. The people around her had shared their lives with them, and had seen them gunned down before their eyes.

The debriefing was short and to the point, much to Pietur's relief. It seemed she had barely begun to concentrate before the 'Rats were up and wearily heading for the door. Pietur spotted a large wookie form bobbing amongst the others and made a mental note to thank him later for keeping her alive. Pietur knew well enough that if she hadn't had someone guiding her, her ass and various other parts of her anatomy would be floating through space with the remains of the TIE mutant she had taken down. She knew she was easily distracted. Try as she might to stay focused, the woman had a one-track mind that was all too easily diverted. She would have to try and fix that one day.

But for now, food sounded good. Her stomach was sending violent messages to her brain that made eating just about the only thing on her mind. She was starting on a ration bar when her comlink cut her snack short, bluntly requesting her to head to the war room. "I feel so popular," she muttered as threw the bar on her bed and headed for the meeting. Pietur entered the war room on time for once and edged her way across to the nearest empty seat. Many of those around her were still dressed in the distinctive orange of their flight-suits or battered civvies as well. I'm not the only one who hasn't made it to a 'fresher yet then.

Craning around in her seat to take in the whole of the room, she spotted Vac and Stone entering together. Catching Mischa's eye, she sent her a soft smile. The woman certainly looked like she needed one. The Admiral entered shortly after the last of the 'rats had arrived, with a blond man trailing after her. He was, according to Admiral Nerys, going to join them. Pietur wondered how he felt about joining a squad that had just lost a third of their pilots. It probably wasn't a voluntary career change on his part at least.

It appeared that had been all they were wanted for. A few comments about memorials were added, and thankfully they were granted a weeks downtime. With a sigh, Pietur stood and headed for the door. She really did owe her family a message, and if she dashed one off now then..

"Wait"

The command startled her, and she halted her hasty exit.

"The loss of a crew member, friend, and wingmate is felt and shared by all. Including me." The Admiral offered her sympathies with real pain tainting her voice. It was obvious that she cared about the losses for more than tactical reasons, and Pietur liked her for that. However, she still was the Admiral, head honcho of the Second Chance, and there was no way Pietur was going to approach her with anything less than monumental. And besides, she had a letter to write.

[Chancbacca]

Nursing the Battered X-Wing into Hyperspace wasn't as easy as it looked. With the Shields down, The X-Wing was a sitting duck. Once the dwarfish Wookie was able to lock the course and enter Hyperspace, he began a damage assessment.

Shields - GONE
Hyperdrives - Active (warning lights in Yellow)
Torpedo launchers - Inactive
Lasers - 50%
Landing gear - Yellow warning

Voice translation program - offline
comm gear - short range only
atmosphere - leaking, slowly from lower bay

The wookie took this all in and began looking over life support. If the jump was a short one, he'd have about 1/2 hour surplus if he landed quickly. If for any reason he had to engage in combat, and the lack of shields didn't kill him, he's be on suit life support in next to no time. NOT GOOD AT ALL!

Taking his mind off that, which he had no control over, he thought back to the engagement. He had droid replay his sensor data, concentrating, for the first time really, on the entire engagement. Risks were taken, by everyone. some based only on engaging the Pirates, others seemed to be based on a desire to inflict the maximum amount of damage on the Imps as fast as possible.

Mischa had been the one to suggest the attack on the VicStar. One very dangerous, and as it turned out, very costly one. Knowing the female human like he did, she was taking the blame for the losses on her own.

But the numbers don't lie. the attack opened an escape route, not only for the Rats, but for the Station fighters. It took the Imps some time to realize that the VicStar was dead in space, even temporarily. This tactical mistake allowed the fighters and some of the surviving freighters a Chance to break the incoming Imp lines. Also, with the number of Imperial Fighters in the engagement zone, the Rats were lucky to get out with only 4 losses.

But the wookie doubted any of the humans would see it this way. To them they failed. Failed those that didn't make it.

Reverting to real space, The wookie quickly found out the hyperdrive would not engage again. As he pulled the levers back, the panel exploded into a shower of sparks. The status indicator moving to a red "INACTIVE" status.

the failures continued. as did the sparks. just as the X-Wing settled on it's landing skids the repulsors gave out completely. slamming the Fighter the last 1/2 meter onto the decking.

With a howls that echos the thoughts of most of the other Rats, Chancbacca pushed up the canopy, and then flung his helmet to the deck. The helmet cracked right down the middle. He jumped up, burned obvious all over the Orange flightsuit. Another thing that will need to be replaced.

LT Chancbacca, I think it's time to retire this thing out to parts. If anything can be spared from it that is. We'll see about getting you a new fighter, Sir."

A grunt and low growl were the pilot's response. making it obvious that the humans weren't the only ones frustrated with how the battle went, and having been rushed into combat like that.

The debriefing went as expected. And at first, so did the request to join the Admiral in the War room. That is until the Rat's first replacement. A smuggler?
"GGFREREREREFG woooff ruurrrrr" was all the wookie said, not completely trying to keep his voice low. For those present who understood the wookie's language, all heard him comment "I guess they'll put anyone into a E-Wing cockpit these days."

On the way out of the briefing room, the wookie made sure to move next to his captain, and rested a hairy paw on his shoulder, tilted his head down toward's Leto's and almost purred. a squeeze of the shoulder conveyed that the Wookie was still behind the captain no matter what. Leto smiled and placed his own hand over the wookies. a thank you that the wookie completely understood.

Moving to his next target, Chancy found Mischa. again speaking in the broken wookie, easier for most humans to understand, Chancy addressed the human redhead, "I know you blame yourself. but don't you did what needed to be done. I lead the attack on the bridge, I lost a pilot too, but we would have all been lost without bold tactics like that. You did what needed to be done, when it needed to be done."

He hoped she understood, and would believe the words. She needed to. but the Rats needed this leave more so. The wookie would enjoy his down time.

[Jon'son Dethrider]

Jon'son had absolute confidence that he was one of the best E-wing pilots ever trained in the New Republic. He was undistracted by the everyday concerns of raising a family and making a living, things that his wingmates and captain said they were lucky never to know.

But as the only E-wing pilot to survive yet <I>again</i> on this last mission, Jon'son was beginning to feel alone. Very, very alone. It was very distracting indeed. He even pondered if he was jinxing all the other E-wing pilots who had joined this squadron. Without fail, he would always return as the sole survivor who piloted the newest arsenal in the navy, while the others who were assigned the same fighter craft, perished.

He considered this for a long time in silence. Surviving when the rest of your E-wing mates had been killed was no cause for pride. It felt instead like something Orion described as <I>shame</I>. It was the same feeling when you lost a battle.

But they had won, in a sense. It was their first encounter with an actual battle-hardened Imperial fleet, and they had <I>survived</I> with eight intact.

Now he wondered if Ati, the newest pilot who was recruited into the Womprats, would survive when they are dispatched in a future mission. He pondered if he should bother to get to know him, now that he discovered this streak of luck of piloting an E-wing.

When the Admiral's last words were announced anxiously, then asked for questions, he had none. He spent all that time pondering on his latest thoughts, when Misch sat up, said her goodbyes, then left out of the briefing room.

He sighed, smoothing back his shaved head while watching the other Rats getting up to file out the doors. He heard Chanc growl something in his native tongue, which made him chuckle a bit. One day, he'll have to sit at the sims with him and find out which is the better craft to outwit and outmanuever each other. The burly pilot finally sat up from his chair and followed the rest out.

He shouldered past Misch and Chanc in the corridor as the wookiee was barking in his tongue, trying to engage a conversation with her. It would be enough to delay the redhead so that he could beat her to the showers first. He needed it more than she did...

After the long hot shower and dressing in a clean undershirt-- or what grunts called "wifebeaters"-- and boxers, Jon'son busied himself maintaining his helmet, cleaning the grime and examining the dings on it. He rinsed the visor with cleaning solvent and wiped it to a clear sheen. There was no point being idle while he was waiting for the call of 'lights out'.

"Stone?"

He looked up. The redhead who had walked in from the refresher placed her boots, helmet, and orange flightsuit on the chair opposite and stared back. He noticed her dogtags were in full view over her snug top-- usually they were tucked under. She squeezed the last drop of water from her already damp hair while she looked on.

He rose that signature eyebrow. "Yeah, Misch. I'm cleaning my helmet. Don't get a cardiac." He placed the helmet down and took a breath. "Listen, Vac, about what I said in the briefing room..."

Misch stood there with her hands on her hips and shook her head. "Don't worry about it, Stone. I know what you were trying to do."

"I was just trying to say we were lucky," Jon'son said carefully. "And with both of us coming back intact, that should count for something... that's all."

Jon'son considered her for a while, and went back to shining his boots this time. Misch put her equipment in the locker beside the bunks, then swung herself up into the top rack in one smooth motion. She folded her arms under her head very precisely and lay staring up at the bulkhead.

"It figures," she said.

"What?" Stone replied, drinking some of the shoe polish which was actually Whyren's Reserve.

"Deploying us to investigate that supply depot. It was a typical toss-the-Rats-in-the-grinder-first mission," she grumbled. "Just to see what would happen before sending the rest of the calvary like the Rogues or the frakking NR navy."

"It's what we're here for, Vac," Stone retorted. "We're the bottom of the heap. We didn't get drummed out of Blaze for nothing."

Misch didnt say anything in return. Jon'son inspected his boots and was satisfied. Then he stood up and placed his gear in the locker. When he glanced up, Misch was propped up on one elbow, looking down at him from the bunk.

"You okay, Big Man?"

"Yeah... just realized I'm the only E-wing pilot left again. I think I'm jinxed."

"You're just lucky, Stone," she replied.

"I hope Ati will feel that way too," he muttered, rolling onto his bunk. Jon'son would have traded every remaining moment of his life to rerun the day's engagement. He would have held Bandit and Hyper back; he would have sent Joker and Jammer to cover the others.

But he hadn't.

Jon'son closed his eyes. Misch was a damn good pilot and she shouldn't beat herself up everytime they lost one of theirs. It was part of the job. Everyone had to live with it, including himself.

He drifted off and began to snore <I>vociferously</I>...

Tommorrow would be a better day. Why wouldn't it? It was shoreleave.

[Leto Tariq]

Leto stretched tiredly outside of his quarters. He'd finished writing letters to the families of the pilots who died and he already felt exhausted. He hated how impersonal and 'official' the letters sounded, but it was easier to write them if he pretended they were just another report.

Reports... Leto could almost feel the stacks staring at him through the durasteel walls, boring into his back. Frak, he was supposed to be on shore leave. It was hardly even morning, yet he had so much he had to do.

Sighing, he headed for the ship's gym. His muscles were tense, and the best way he could think of to release that tension was by hitting something repeatedly. The paperwork would have to wait.

"Hello, Captain," Leto paused in the middle of gloving one hand and turned in surprise. Mischa was there behind him, already gloved and a small smirk on her face. She looked like some ancient goddess of war, and gave the impression that she was willing to fight like one.

Finally! He thought and secretly thanked Jon'son for whatever it was he had done to get Mischa out of that mood she was in.

"Hey, Mischa," Leto said and pulled on the other glove. Without a word they both took up their positions, fists in the air and circling. "I thought you were avoiding me?"

"Pfft," Mischa snorted, throwing a fist into Leto's chest, making him grunt. "As if I'd miss a chance to rough up my Captain."

Leto smiled and made a playful jab at her arm. She stepped out of the way easily. "This week of shore leave couldn't have come sooner. I hear Borleias is nice this time of year. One of the best Republic facilities in the galaxy. Beaches..."

Mischa rolled her eyes. "With our luck, they'll send us to some swamp like Dagobah."

Leto shrugged. "Dervis should feel right at home, then." Mischa laughed and grunted when Leto's jab connected with her cheek. "You're losing your touch, Lieutenant."

She turned a hot glare on him. "Oh, I'm going to get you back for that." Leto grinned in reply, doing a quick dance on the balls of his feet. She smiled and raised her fists again, but that glare was still on her face.

"Beaches would be great," she said.

Leto nodded in agreement, "Feel the sun on my face, the air. I haven't felt actual air since... since we were assigned to this frakking ship." Mischa blocked his next two jabs, responding roughly with one of her own.

"I think I might take that swimsuit with me," Mischa said. "Remember? The one I bought on Mon Cal?"

Leto's breath caught, pausing where he was. His eyes glazed over as he imagined it. "You mean the-..."

Mischa hit him, hard. Leto toppled backwards, collapsing on the deck with a clang. When his vision cleared, Mischa was standing over him, fists on her hips and smiling triumphantly.

"I told you I would get you back," she said. "One of these days, Leto, you'll have to beat me. The crew can't see the Captain losing to a lowly Lieutenant every time." Leto smirked and hooked his foot around hers, sending her crashing to the deck with a cry. Leto grinned and pulled himself to his feet, offering Mischa help with getting up. She sat up and glared, then ignored his help and stood up herself.

"I'll keep that in mind," he said. Leto paused. "Misch, in the hyperspace trip to the rendezvous, what were you trying to..."

"We'd better hurry if we're going to make it to the mess for breakfast," she interupted, taking a few steps to the door. Leto's mouth tightened for a second until he replaced it with a quick smile.

He took his gloves off and tossed them nonchalantly onto the nearest space. "There's a few plans concerning our new recruit that I want to discuss with everyone."

Mischa raised an eyebrow, "Oh? Are you thinking what I think you're thinking?"

Leto smiled, "I think our smuggler needs an initiation."

Mischa grinned evilly and covered her mouth in a mock gasp. "Captain, are you suggesting a hazing?"

Leto laughed. "I wouldn't call it that... we're just going to give him a proper 'welcome'. Besides, we could use a boost in moral."

"For everyone except Ati, you mean?"

"There's a few casualties in every plan," Leto shrugged. Mischa laughed. "Come on, we better hurry if we're going to catch the good slop."

Mischa saluted and followed Leto out. "Lead on, Captain."

Maybe it was time for Jon'son to recieve another promotion.

[Gabriella]

"Well, that could have gone better," she said as Captain Dervis met her in the lift after the briefing. She had it all planned out in her head, but alas, some things just never do go as planned. For a woman who could speak so eloquently, she stumbled over the words she truly wished to say to the pilots. Instead, it sounded so cold and calloused to her ears. One saving grace was the verbal thanks received by "Vac" a.k.a. Mischa Margolin and the appreciative looks from a few of the others as they filed out of the war room as if their pants were on fire. She couldn't blame them. They'd just been to hell and back, lost four of their friends, and received word that a few would be sent back out in a few days time.

"I'm sure it went as well as it could have, Admiral." Dervis replied once the lift doors closed and began its ascent to deliver the two to the bridge. "There's time Admiral, if you want to get a shower and some shut eye."

"No. There isn't time. The Imperials, though out of the loop for the past decade or so, are still as cunning and conniving as they come. They'll do one of two things: Figure a way to move the supply depot and take it with them or raid then destroy it completely. I know that's what I'd be doing if I were the one in command." Dervis nodded, sweeping a hand for the Admiral to exit the lift when the doors opened. He followed her out, re-clasping his hands behind his back. "Are the rest of the reports compiled yet?"

"Yes Ma'am."

"Officer on deck," came a shout from the Chief of the Watch. All hands stood at attention, saluting sharply, as Gabriella and Dervis arrived on the bridge. "Carry on," the Admiral ordered taking the newly compiled reports from Dervis as they were handed to him from a few of the tech stations. "I want to know more about the beacon." Dervis looked to her and smiled softly. "You caught that."

"Of course I noticed it! It's about the only thing that just might be the saving grace to this bungled mission," she hissed sharply. Captain Dervis knew her well. She was tired; but above that, she was pissed off. She was ticked at the lack of communication, response, and aid that never came from central command. She was ticked at losing four more pilots and the severe damages the ships had taken. She was ticked at having to be an Admiral and unable to console the survivors in a manner they deserved.

"We're still tracking it, Admiral. Currently, it's still near the depot."

She nodded. "I want to know the minute that thing moves. I want to know where its heading, every possible stop it makes, and where it finally ends up." Captain Dervis nodded, but they both knew they were working with a limited amount of time since the beacon wouldn't last forever.

“What about the Destroyers? Any sign of them?”

”No, Admiral.” Captain Dervis said with a curt shake of his head.

“I need a tech crew in the hangars now. Arrange the memorial service for the men we lost today. Oh, and we have a new man joining the Womprats. See to it his information is expedited into the system. Contact Captain Leto for whatever you need to do that.”

“Yes Admiral.”

• * * * *

In the hangar housing Ati’s freighter Gabriella spoke at length with the head technician, aptly nicknamed “Sparky”. He’d explained to her how every change was going to be done and what the end results would be. The engines were currently being removed from the freighter and new ones would be inserted, giving the ship an entirely new engine signature. Ati’s transponder codes would be changed and a brand new, albeit forged, ownership identification would be assigned to the Junkpile.

“The paint job. Let me see what you’ve come up with so far.” She said to Sparky.

The tech pulled up various images on his handheld data pad, scrolling through various paint design jobs. He’d used the blueprints to create a three-dimensional image of Ati’s freighter so Gabriella could see what the end results would look like.

“This one will fit perfectly with the cover we’ve planned for them.” Gabriella tapped the screen to indicate the freighter’s new look. Sleek shiny black with the Bin Gassi Racing Engines logo emblazoned on it. The logo colors were sharp; a white circle with a bright blue pod racer bursting forth from its center. The words “Bin Gassi” painted on the side of the pod racer being piloted by a Dug.

“You got it, Admiral.” Sparky saved the image and snapped the data pad shut.

“I need everything finished within seventy-two hours.”

The color in Sparky’s face drained and his chin nearly hit the hangar deck floor. “But Admiral,” he began to protest.

“Seventy-two hours. No more.” She said firmly.

Sparky nodded and saluted as the Admiral strode away. “All right boys! We’re working straight through. No time to stop. We’ve got a big order to fill for the Admiral so let’s kick it into overdrive.” Suddenly, the hangar rang to life with various sounds of major work.

• * * * *
After a long, hot shower, Gabriella locked herself in her quarters with a hot caf and a good book. She didn’t get more than five paragraphs into the tenth chapter before a soft chime interrupted her leisure. “Yes, what is it?”

”I apologize for disturbing you Admiral, but I thought you should know we’ll be arriving at Borelias in twelve hours. Oh. Also, I’ve received notice from Command that another pilot will be joining us.” Captain Dervis said.

Gabriella’s brows furrowed gently and she lowered her book to her lap. “Who is it?”

“IG – 100. A droid.” Captain Dervis’s voice seemed to catch in his throat. He knew how the Admiral felt about druids. To put it kindly, she hated them as much as she hated Gungans. Aside from gungans, she viewed droids as some of the most worthless pieces of scrap human-kind even conceived.

“I see.” She thought for a minute. “Any chance of sending it on a mission into a black hole?”

Dervis chuckled. “Goodnight, Admiral.”

Gabriella’s lip twitched. She dog-eared the page she was reading and turned off the lights.

[Maxwell Gandel]

"That settles it, then," Gandel sighed. "We'll have to hit another depot." He glanced at the report he held one last time to be sure, but there was no way around it. The supply depot the 105th had just hit was heavy on weapons, repair parts, and fuel, but light on two things the fleet needed most: food and water. Handing the report back to Anton, he asked "How much of the repair parts can we use?"

"According to the engineers we had sorting through it, about thirty percent can be assimilated into our systems. The rest of it is too different." The Decimation's captain shrugged. "At least we can sell the rest. That crazy pirate says he has connections from here to Tattooine."

"We'll have to ask him if those contacts happen to have drydock facilities anywhere," Gandel chuckled. It was dark humor - he knew perfectly well the only drydocks capable of repairing structural damage to a command tower would be under New Republic control or New Republic influence. The moment an Imperial Star Destroyer showed up, the NR Navy would be all over it. Sobering, the admiral scratched at his jaw in a thoughtful manner. "What do the engineers say about towing that depot?"

Aton shook his head. "It would take too much time and effort to be of any use. Hauling things that big takes ships that are more engines than anything else. We might be able to move it with all three of our star destroyers, but even then it would take a long time to get it anywhere. And the cost in fuel..."

"Understood. We'll trash it when we leave, which should be..." Gandel glanced at the bridge's chronometer. "Extremely soon." The two hour deadline that he'd given was already past. Extra time had been alotted, however, when the ship's stormtrooper commander had come up with a delightfully evil idea. Instead of destroying all of the containers emptied of cargo, some of them would be fitted with improvised explosive devices... cannibalized torpedo warheads, mostly, but a few were packing space bombs. Some of the freighters that had been hulled before they could get away were also being booby trapped - warheads set on a combination of proximity fuses and timers. The idea was to lure NR responders in by activating distress beacons. When a rescue team got close enough to dock, the proximity fuse would set off the timer. After a few minutes - enough time for rescue crews to board the ship and start looking around - the bombs would go off, hopefully taking the New Republic personell with them.

Gandel hoped, had counted on, the fact that the first responders would be military personell. They were fair game. If the rescuers turned out to be civillians... He shook his head, dismissing the thought.

Fifteen minutes later, the fleet was ready to leave. The Plague and the Decimation both flanked the now abandoned and empty space station, it's shields down and it's weak points vulnerable. For a moment, they two star destroyesr simply floated alongside the station, predators circling wounded and doomed prey. Then they opened fire, full broadsides of trurbolaser fire cutting swaths of destruction into the station. Debris and molten metal blasted away in all directions. Bursts of atmosphere ploomed into clouds of vapor that slowly dissipated in the void, or violently evaporated under the harsh scrutiny of more turbolasers. Soon the station was only so much scrap metal, only barely recognizeable as the purposeful construct it had once been.

And then the star destroyers jumped into hyperspace, gone once more into the unknown. Askaza watched them go from the bridge of his one remaining corvette. He'd taken posession of his new slaves and all manner of excess cargo from Gandel, but had decided to stick around a little while longer. The Imperial and New Republic navies might not think so, but there was good money to be had from scavenging around debris fields. Whenever a fighter was killed in combat, not all of it's parts were destroyed. Many a useful component was left behind, waiting to be picked up by a knowledgeable man such as Askaza. There was, he figured, enough spare parts out there to remake a good half dozen uglies. Heck, he might even be able to sell some TIE parts back to the 105th. At a discount, of course. They were business partners, after all.

In a flash of light, a pair of modular cargo conveyers arrived at the debris field. A little extra help Askaza had seen fit to bring in - there were going to be a lot of spare parts out there, and he wasn't going to take the time to sort through all of them right here. Those that looked good on first glance would be taken back to the Rock - Askaza's pet name for his asteroid base - and gone through more thuroughly. Of course, the pirates that owned the conveyers would want a share, but that was fine with Askaza. His take from this job was more than good enough to make him feel generous. And besides, it never hurt to spread word of how his pirates had taken out a full fledged New Republic supply depot...

[Erc Vortan]

IT seemed to be Business as usual above the planet Borleias. New Republic ships moving about, both military and civilian. Mixed in was all sorts of commercial traffic. Bulk Freighters, light Freighters, Bulk cruisers. and even the odd passenger liner.

spread among all this traffic was the customary security patrols. Pairs of fighters, Gunships, patrol shuttles, all moved around in a routine manner. Exactly how things should be.

at the outer edge of the traffic pattern, a ship reverted from Hyperspace. It's lines not memorable, other then ANOTHER Corellian light Freighter. The centerline cockpit marked it as a YT-2000. one of the more rare choices of freighter captains and smugglers. Most going for the YT-1300 or YT-2400. The YT-1300 being much more popular with all the Han Solo wannabes out there scrounging for every usable 1300 that could be found.

The new arrival slowed rapidly after reversion. it became immediately obvious that the freighter wasn't going to enter the holding pattern to be cleared for approach to the planet. The ship was quickly coming to a complete stop. Which certainly through out red flags all over approach control.

The routine was just broken. the comm system in the YT-2000 immediately lit up, indicating that approach control was trying to contact the pilot. A quick sensor sweep from the freighter indicated that a patrol shuttle was already heading out to the freighter, and not one but 2 pairs of fighters were repositioning to be able to intercept the freighter if it made a sudden run into the system.

The Freighter pilot smiled. Even their response was routine. Flipping a switch, the comm became active.

"Unidentified YT-2000, this is Borleias control. Please state your destination and status. Repeat, we need your destination and status, are you OK?"

with a bored smile, the ship captain responded. "Borleias Control, this is the Independent Freighter Raptor's Claw. All systems functioning fine. I do not need assistance. Request transfer from civilian Approach control to Military control. Transmitting signal sigma."

"Stand by Raptor's Claw. processing request." a burst of static replaced the voice. There was still some excitement in that voice. obviously still hoping that the mundane was being broken. When the voice returned, it was obvious that his fun had ended. "Raptor's claw, your transponder and transmission have been confirmed. Transferring you to Borleias Military control. Save voyage."

"Copy Borleias, Maybe next time."

"Borleias Military control. Raptor's Claw we have your signal, and it checks out, but we haven't received notification of your arrival. Care to fill us in?"

"No can do, but I can tell you I'm not here for you." The pilot waited a few seconds, checked his chrono, heard a slight variation in the static burst and then smiled. "Now that your Intel officer has reported to the comm center, confirm code lock" The red light on the comm panel went on, indicating that the New Republic comm signal was now being scrambled against being listened in on.

"we have a correct comm response. Go ahead." came a different voice. The pilot had been right about the Intel officer patching into the signal.

"I have a code, Sigma, Lexig Dark 6398. Confirm Omega. Cracken sends his regards. This is what I need. Recall your shuttle, and return your fighters to standard patrols. point out a waiting point just off the approach vectors that your big Cruisers take to approach the planet. You're about to be visited by a Mon Cal Cruiser. That is my destination. When it arrives, in about 7 hours, I'll dock with that, and that will end your end of things. All you have to do is make sure any of those big boys don't accidentally come into the approach vector and hit my little ship."

"Copy, stand by for your info. Control, park him off the main approach. right by the buoy. No chance of anyone hitting him there. May the force be with you Raptor's Claw."

The YT-2000 moved off and positioned itself at the position indicated. most of the systems were shut down, and the routine returned to Borleias.

7 hours later, the routine continued. Except, a Mon Cal cruiser exited Hyperspace almost to the second that the mysterious Freighter Captain had indicated. The longshot in the betting pool won. And there was a happy control dispatcher now a few hundred credits richer. Routine paid off.

The Second Chance entered the approach vector and moved to enter orbit of the planet. Being a ship of the line had the benefit of a priority spot in orbit. Not long after entering the vector, the bridge received a coded signal. The ship didn't respond, but a notification did go out to the Admiral.

"Copy, prepare Beta bay for a new arrival. Also, inform the Womp Rats that Shore leave is just about an hour away. The Chance will not be staying for it, we have other plans."

Without warning the YT-2000 powered up and accelerated quickly, far too quickly for a stock freighter, proving that special modifications had been made to this one. A burst transmission indicated which bay to head for. The Claw moved quickly over the top of the Ship. hugging the hull almost too close for comfort. Anyone looking out of a view port as the ship crossed over would be in for a surprise.

The freighter seemed to stop as quickly as it accelerated turned to orient itself at the landing bay and then entered the Mag con field. Into the bay. The Freighter moved laterally, and then settled on it's landing struts. The entry ramp opened almost as soon as the repulsars shut down.

The figure that walked down the Ramp was all business. dressed every part the smuggler. Black boots, Grey pants, Black shirt. A green vest with a piece of armor attached to the left shoulder. Strapped around his waist was a very large blaster. The captain didn't just walk either. he strutted. as if this was his landing bay, not a New Republic Military ship of the line. The techs watching all recognized the attitude.

"Who's in charge here?" The man asked. Not so much a request, and a bored inquiry who's answer didn't really mean anything to him.

"I am, Admiral Gabriella Nerys. You must be the Operative that Intel was going to dispatch to us."

"Captain Erc Vortan, and Nobody dispatched me anywhere. I was asked to help you out. here I am. Details were a little sketchy when I was briefed, but it seems you have an Imperial problem. I'm good at solving those problems. So, fill me in and I'll tell you the best way to get it done."

"I'll brief you as soon as the rest of your team is assembled. If you come with me in the mean time, we'll get things moving. We're about to dispatch part of one of our fighter squadrons for shore leave here," the admiral nodded over to a fleet shuttle that was prepping to launch towards the planet. now visible through the MagCon field, "If you;'d accompany me, I want to see them off. They've had a rough time lately, and they need this leave."

"Sure, whatever, let's get the flyboys and girls out of the way and get down to business." Erc was definitely bored now. From what little Intel had been able to tell her, This man's history went all the way back to before Yavin. From the way he was acting, you'd never guess he'd been formally part of the Alliance and New Republic at one time.

"Mr Vortan, what exactly is your rank?"

"Officially, I'm Captain of the Raptor's Claw there. So you can call me Captain Vortan, not Mr Vortan. Correct Ms. Nerys? Doesn't quiet have the same sound of respect does it? I have no NR Rank, so don't expect me to come to attention when you come into a room either." Vortan took a look over at the shuttle, then went back to looking at the Admiral. But quickly took a second look. "Damn, that's a short wookie! Didn't think they came that small."

"That's one of my pilots. It would seem his service record goes back to the end of the Clone Wars. He's been with the New Republic since Just before Yavin. A very good fighter pilot."

"It was the Alliance back then, not the New Republic. I guess he's one of the pilots going on Shore leave. Wonderful."

"This will just take a minute, CAPTAIN Vortan. If you would indulge me."

[IG-100]

Flight control at Borleias hadn't yet recovered from the excitment generated by the appearance of the mystery frieghter and it's capital ship rendevous when a beeping console alerted the staff to three arriving hyperspace exits well outside the civilian shipping lanes. The console operator blinked as he noted the four X-wings that had entered the system, then his comm crackled with a mettalic message - presumably the pilot was unable to speak Basic and was using a translation program of some sort,

"Borleias control, this is Flight 3365 - transfer comms to military control."

The operator was about to reply in the affirmative, but paused and stared at a side panel - two of the fighters registered as lacking life support, and one was presumably the leader, sitting at the front of the diamond,

"Affirmative Flight 3365, we aren't registering life support on your lead and tail craft, do you require an assist?"

"Negative Borleias, I repeat transfer to military control."

"Very well, transferring now."

The voice that next broke into IG-100's cockpit was clearly military - a straight-backed officer if the MagnaGuard was any judge. It also sounded suprised,

"Flight 3365, this is military control - your lead and tail appear to have lost life support, do you need aid?"

"Negative control, we do not need assist."

"Understood, please state your intended destination."

"The Second Chance."

There was a pause, then the comm burst to life again,

"Flight 3365, this is the Second Chance. Sorry we weren't ready but you're early. Clear to land."

"Affirmative, coming in."

IG-100 swung his X-wing up and onto tragectory with the floating Mon Calamari cruiser, the empty fighter slaved to his systems mimicing his every move whilst the two flanking fighters fell into position a moment later. IG-100 opened his comm,

"You guys alright out there?"

"Aye."

"Yup."

"Okay, coming in for final approach. Try not to hit anybody important."

One of his wingmen chuckled,

"So, what do you knowabout this admiral then?"

"You two are in luck - she doesn't like droids. Now kill comms and try and make this look professional."

The four X-wings swept into the hanger, reamining in their diamond formation as they settled onto their landing gear with a hiss and gout of steam. Two canopies flipped up, and two orange-jumpsuit wearing men jumped out as their astromechs were lowered beneath their craft. The tail fighter merely shut down all its systems and then the lead fighter's canopy flipped up, to allow the blue steel droid within to hop out, not followed by an astromech. IG-100 looked around the hangerbay and spotted a woman matching the image he had registered as Admiral Nerys,

"Come on, let's get this over with."

The trio of pilots strode across the hanger bay, the two organics having removed their helmets to reveal that one was human and the other zabrak. All three stopped in front of Admiral Nerys and a human IG-100 didn't recognise as a member of the Second Chance's crew. The droid and his wingmen saluted the admiral, IG-100's metallic voice seeming not to register the look of faint disbelief on Gabrielle's face,

"Reinforcements for Womprat Squadron reporting on arrival Admiral."

[Gabriella]

The morning had not started on the right foot for the Admiral. The floor in her quarters felt colder than usual against her bare feet and the hot water was non-existent, making her shower short and not so sweet. Of all the things to hate in the world – Gungans, droids, sarcastic smugglers – being cold was the worst. She hated being cold. Even worse than just being cold, though, was being cold and informed that four new recruits to replace the lost lives had arrived and among the quartet was a blasted droid! Oh, and let’s not forget a Zabrak. “I swear command sends me the throw-aways just to test my nerves.”

* * * * *

The ‘Rats were anxious to enjoy their very deserved shoreleave and there really were fewer better places in the galaxy to relax than Borleias. Its tropical climate, warm sandy beaches, and gorgeous vistas made one feel as if they were a million miles away from nowhere. Well . . . for some, they were. The last mission, if it could even be called that, cost the Republic dearly. From personal observation from the cockpit of her own X-Wing, Gabriella felt that each of the ‘Rats – and the smuggler – deserved recognition. At first light, the command that all were to assemble in their formal uniforms was issued and everyone had shown up promptly at the location specified in the order.

A white, sandy beach. Not quite the usual place an award ceremony normally takes place, but the Admiral thought it rather fitting. Besides, it would put the recipients more at ease as opposed to a dreary steel-gray room aboard The Second Chance. Even she was beginning to feel a bit claustrophobic and wide open spaces combined with tropical breezes and salty air was just what the doctor ordered. In her case; literally. The medication she has been taking for the past several years to control the effects of Bledsoe’s Disease had been doubled as of this morning. The headaches, dizziness, inability to regulate body temperature, and to keep even small meals down were getting worse over the past few weeks. The shipboard medic in charge of her case felt a change of scenery was in order. Plus, it would allow her time to do some medical research to see if she could find any theories, new medications, or potential cure.

There was nothing fancy set up on the sandy shore. No tables, no chairs. Just a flat shadowbox type of board held horizontally by Captain Dervis. Gabriella saluted the gathered pilots sharply then stood there and looked to each of them for a moment as she gathered her thoughts.

Finally, “I realize you are all very anxious to enjoy a bit of relaxation and a small vacation, so I will make this as brief as possible,” she began. “I have requested your presence for a special reason. A reason that doesn’t occur as often as it should.”

Gabriella glanced sidelong to Captain Dervis, then returned her full attentions to the Womprats. “Captain Tariq.” Captain Dervis handed her four decorated ribbons. Admiral Nerys looked to the Captain of the Womprats and nodded once, very subtlely. “Captain Tariq. It is an honor that I award to you the Award of the Mechanics Nightmare. This award is given to the pilot who returns from a major engagement, and whose starfighter suffered the most damage." Gabriella stepped forward and pinned the decoration to Captain Tariq's formal jacket to the left of his heart. "I also award you with the Alvace Star - for leading your team out of a dangerous situation." The star was pinned to the right of the former ribbon. "You have also earned the Superior Service Medal, for continuing to excel in the ongoing battle against the remaining remnants of the Empire." She looked into his eyes for only a brief second as she pinned this decorated ribbon to the left of the first award. "Finally. Captain Tariq, I cannot express my pride in having you as a member of my crew. You have shown exceptional leadership skills and it shows in the members of your squad. It is with great honor that I award you with the Alliance Medal of Honor." This decorated ribbon was pinned to the far right of the Alvace Star as she offered a small smile and stepped back, saluting the Captain sharply.

Jon'son Dethrider, Cayenne Rudal, Adok Borys, and Chancbacca were all summoned to stand before the Admiral in turn and receive their decorated ribbons. Each were awarded the Superior Service Medal and the Alliance Medal of Honor. Gabriella's heart was swelling with tremendous pride for each and every one of the brave men and women who gave themselves so selflessly for the cause. Such strong convictions and dedication was hard to find.

Ceryll Tana and Pietur Legatus were summoned forward next. Both were awarded the Alliance Medal of Honor as well as the Field Achievement Award. This medal is given to all Alliance members survived their first mission in Imperial Controlled Territory. Granted, the supply depot was originally under Republic control, but that control was usurped by the Lost Fleet of the 105th Imperial Navy; therefore, placing the supply depot under the hostile control of the Imperials.

"Ati Quai." Yes, even the smuggler who lodged himself beneath her skin like a terrible infection had earned a decorated medal. "On behalf of myself and the Republic Alliance, it is an honor to bestow upon you the Civilian Battle Award. This Medal of Honor is given to non-military citizens who performed above and beyond the call of duty in the assistance of the Alliance's war effort. Please accept this award for your selfless actions to engage the Imperials and provide assistance to the Alliance. Your actions resulted in the saving of at least one life, and for that, we are grateful." Gabriella kept cool eyes affixed to the smuggler's as she stepped forward and pinned the award to the man's chest; upper left region, then stepped back.

Gabriella looked to everyone. Mischa had not been summoned forward. However, Gabriella dismissed every one of them - except for Mischa Margolin and Leto Tariq. Leto was asked to remain for just a moment and turned her attention to Mischa. "Miss Margolin. I would like a word with you," she said, motioning with a light nod for the Womprat pilot to step a few feet away. "You remind me much of myself. I realize you might find that to be a bit of a shock, but you do. Please believe me when I say I know exactly how you feel. I was in your shoes many times in the past." Gabriella stopped walking and continued, keeping her voice low so it was heard only by Mischa. "It was not your fault. Sure, that is easy for me to say to you and in time... in many many years, in fact, you may come to realize this. The decisions we make every day affect every one around us, and what may seem like a bad decision just might truly turn out to be the right decision. Honor their lives, Miss Margolin. They made the choice to follow, they didn't have to." Gabriella held her gaze to the woman's, even when she tried to look away. "Honor their memories by accepting these." Gabriella stood close to Mischa and pinned two awards to the woman's jacket. The Superior Service Medal and the Alliance Medal of Honor. Then she stepped back and saluted the pilot. A subtle nod was all that was needed to dismiss the woman so she could try to enjoy her deserved and earned vacation.

Gabriella waited for Mischa to be a decent distance away before motioning for Captain Tariq to join her near the breaking waves. "Captain. I would like for you to send these medals to the family of Jammer, Joker, Bandit, and Hyper. They each have been awarded one of the highest honors the Republic has. The Medal of Honor. The price each of them paid with their sacrifice for the Alliance was above and beyond the call of duty." Gabriella handed over the four medals with care. Her brows furrowed gently and she nodded to the Captain. She forced a smile and jerked her head toward the slowly retreating members of his squad. "Go. Enjoy your vacation."

When Captain Tariq and the others were well out of view, Gabriella looked to Dervis. He'd seen the expression that now marred her face before. Quickly, he rushed to her side and slid his arm around behind her and drew her left arm up and over his shoulders. "To the medical bay with you, Gabriella." It was very rare that Dervis, whose first name was Darien, addressed his superior officer by her first name. Most didn't realize that the two were close friends and allowed formality to slip away when not in the presence of the rest of the crew.


AWARDS

Leto Tariq

Superior Service Medal (http://www.sharnyl.net/epmedals/ssm.jpg) | Award of the Mechanic's Nightmare (http://www.sharnyl.net/epmedals/aomechnight.jpg)

Alvace Star (http://www.sharnyl.net/epmedals/alvacestar.jpg) | Alliance Medal of Honor (http://www.sharnyl.net/epmedals/amoh.jpg)

Mischa Margolin

Superior Service Medal (http://www.sharnyl.net/epmedals/ssm.jpg) | Alliance Medal of Honor (http://www.sharnyl.net/epmedals/amoh.jpg)

Jon'son Dethrider

Superior Service Medal (http://www.sharnyl.net/epmedals/ssm.jpg) | Alliance Medal of Honor (http://www.sharnyl.net/epmedals/amoh.jpg)

Cayenne Rudal

Superior Service Medal (http://www.sharnyl.net/epmedals/ssm.jpg) | Alliance Medal of Honor (http://www.sharnyl.net/epmedals/amoh.jpg)

Ceryll Tana:
(Rookie)

Field Achievement Award (http://www.sharnyl.net/epmedals/faa.jpg) | Alliance Medal of Honor (http://www.sharnyl.net/epmedals/amoh.jpg)

Pietur Legatus:
(Rookie)

Field Achievement Award (http://www.sharnyl.net/epmedals/faa.jpg) | Alliance Medal of Honor (http://www.sharnyl.net/epmedals/amoh.jpg)

Adok Borys

Superior Service Medal (http://www.sharnyl.net/epmedals/ssm.jpg) | Alliance Medal of Honor (http://www.sharnyl.net/epmedals/amoh.jpg)

Chancbacca:

Superior Service Medal (http://www.sharnyl.net/epmedals/ssm.jpg) | Alliance Medal of Honor (http://www.sharnyl.net/epmedals/amoh.jpg)

Ati Quai

Civilian Battle Award (http://www.sharnyl.net/epmedals/cba.jpg)

Post-Mortem

Jammer, Joker, Bandit, Hyper

Medal of Honor (http://www.sharnyl.net/epmedals/moh.jpg)

[Mischa Margolin]

It took all the willpower Mischa could draw upon not to tear the medals from her jacket and throw them into the waves washing up on the shore the moment Admiral Nerys turned her attention to Captain Tariq. The only thing stopping her was the twinge of conscience at the Admiral’s words regarding accepting the medals in the memory of those lost.

She’d keep them then, but they better not expect her to wear them after today. She couldn’t get them, or the uniform they were attached to off fast enough and into something the absolute opposite of military issue.

Vac glanced over at Leto before walking toward her fellow Womprats who were dispersing to different places, but he was engaged in conversation still with the admiral, serious looks on both of their faces. Maybe she’d see Tariq around later, or maybe not at all. It’s not like he’d really shared his plans with her for how he intended to spend leave. Still it might be nice to just hang out with her CO during some off-duty activities that didn’t involve sparring gloves and a trip to medical unit for bacta patches later.

Making her way off the sand while silently cursing the feel of it in her shoes, she spotted the knot of uniformed pilots walking toward the sprawling two-story complex where they were to be housed for the next week. Well with the exception of Pietur, who would be spending her leave at her family home nearby.

A tall, broad-shouldered man straggling near the back of the group turned toward the redhead with that raised eyebrow expression that Mishca loved. “So what did Nerys have to say?” Stone asked asked she walked up to meet him. “You getting transferred again? Another demotion maybe?”

Margolin shook her head and smiled, “No, Big Man. Nothing like that. She just felt the need to have a little heart to heart for some reason while giving me my medals” Eyeing his uniform jacket she noticed he had taken his own decoration off, but she didn’t comment on it. She knew how he felt about the whole thing. “I guess she thought I needed it or something.” She said with a shrug “The only thing I really need is to change out of this thing and into something to wear to that lovely beach we just left.”

Jon’son smiled down at his petite friend and then looked out over the stretch of beachfront to their right, his grin growing wider at the sight of the scantily clad beachgoers already enjoying themselves on the sand and in the surf. “I like the way you think Misch. Race you to the barracks.” He said before taking off at a surprisingly fast speed for someone of such a muscular build.

“Hey! Not fair!” Mischa called out as she took off after him, only catching up at the main door where he waited until she and the other pilots arrived They all made their way to their respective quarters to get ready for some well deserved down time, joking lightly about how each of them planned to spend it.

Quickly, Mishca stripped off the dress uniform, wanting to just leave each piece where it was dropped, but hanging it up properly instead only because the thing she hated more than wearing the damn thing was having to press it if it needed to be worn again.

Walking over to the bed where her bags sat, still packed, she rummaged around in one until she found what she was looking for. She held up the black bikini, almost having second thoughts about wearing the rather brief garment. “Goddess, Misch. Loosen up for a change.” She told herself before taking that advice and putting the small scraps of fabric on. Undoing her hair from the neat, professional style she’d worn it in for the medal presentation, she combed through the curls with her fingers briefly before looking in the mirror and almost giggling girlishly at the sight of herself in the swimsuit.

Pulling a length of nearly sheer black cloth out of the same bag, she tied it around her waist before sliding her feet into a pair of sandals. Grabbing a small bag packed with essentials such as bottled water and some sunscreening lotion to share with Stone, because she was sure he probably forgot to bring his own for his still healing face, she left her room and made her way out to the beach to stake out a good spot to enjoy the day.

[Leto Tariq]

Leto took the medals in hand and saluted the admiral stiffly. "Admiral," he said and spun on his heel, something that wasn't very easy to do considering their surroundings. He grimaced when he almost stumbled; beaches and military boots did not mix well.

He waited until he was well out of the Admiral's sight before he visibly slackened. Leto glanced around him, ears catching the sounds of birds as they flew overhead. It certainly wasn't how he had envisioned his first trip to a beach in months. Leto's hand lingered over his chest, touching one of the medals and shaking his head.

"'Award of the Mechanic's Nightmare'. The deck chief is never going to forget this one." He eased his uniform's collar, unbuttoning so it hung carelessly over his shoulders. There had to be a more beach-appropriate uniform out there. One that didn't feel like wearing an oven.

He opened the small container that held Joker, Jammer, Bandit and Hyper's medals as if he was making sure they were actually there. Leto's jaw clenched; they were there, alright. He wondered if there was ever a time the medal was actually awarded to someone living.

In the Rogues, probably, Leto thought bitterly and clicked the container shut rather roughly. At least his pilot's families would have proof their sons died heroes. It was less than they deserved, but it was something.



By the time Leto had made it to the housing complex, all thoughts of the ceremony had been pushed away and replaced by thoughts on the shore leave that he was supposed to be enjoying. Various ideas of how he could spend that time were sorted about in his head; more than a few of them involved severe breaches in the fraternization policy. His mind began straying off in a very different direction, then, and Leto quickly forced those thoughts away.

A sudden encounter in the hall, however, solved Leto's problems. Most of them, anyway.

His breath caught and he stood there in open-mouthed surprise. A good part of him had assumed Mischa was kidding earlier in their sparring match.

Mischa looked into Leto's face and gave him a very satisfied grin. "Is there something you want, Orion?"

She crossed her arms at his stare, which only made matters worse. Leto could almost think she was doing this on purpose.

"I was just on my way to my quarters to get out of this uniform," he managed when he could find his voice again. Leto greedily took another look over her, "Wow, you really weren't... kidding, were you?"

Mischa shrugged. "It was the only one I had to pack."

Like hell it was, Leto thought. His eyes started dropping again and he quickly focused them on her face. There was still too much skin in his peripheral vision.

Mischa grinned evilly at him, and he almost glared at her for doing this to him. She put her hands on her hips and looked at him innocently. "Is something wrong, Leto?"

His eyes narrowed, and an evil thought of his own came into his skull. With a smirk, he slowly brought his eyes down, making a point of savouring every inch. "This was definitely worth a punch in the face for."

Mischa shifted under his gaze and Leto cursed himself, quickly focusing his eyes on the far wall. They both stood in uncomfortable silence, Leto staring intently on a small stain, trying to take control of his body. His blood boiled in his veins and he cursed himself for drawing himself into this.

Mischa broke the silence. "You'd better hurry if we're going to catch up with the others," she said, and Leto's eyes snapped back to her in confusion. "What? After all that talk about the beaches on Borleias, you're not going?"

Leto's mouth opened his mouth to come up with an excuse.

She raised her eyebrows. "And you owe me, now, so don't try and use 'reports' as an excuse." Leto's mouth shut and he couldn't help smiling. Shavit, if this woman didn't always frak with his control every chance she got.

"Well I'd certainly hate to disappoint you, Lieutenant."

"Damn right you won't, or I'll break your jaw again."

Leto rolled his eyes and raised his hand in conceded defeat. He brushed past her, taking a slow pace to his quarters.

By the second corrider, he was moving at a dead run.

[Adok Borys]

Adok stared at the medals that he cradled in his hand. He closed his fist around them, the metal of the decorations clinking together. He walked over to the footlocker that was against the wall of the room. He’d brought it down from the ship, and corralled one of the enlisted crewmembers into delivering it to his room, for him, for later.

He tapped in a combination on the keypad, and the lock retracted, and then he lifted the lid and rummaged around inside. His hand emerged with an old and stained box, and he opened the lid of that container, revealing inside, a picture of his father, and some other odds and ends. He dumped the medals into that box, and then closed the lid and replaced it at the bottom of his footlocker. He quietly murmured, “So much loss. Why? For politicians to feel good about themselves? Yeah. I bet some politician on Coruscant is wallowing in self congratulatory manure about now, for locating an Imperial fleet. Out at the sharp end we get killed for it.”

Adok removed his sidearm from the footlocker, and then tossed it, and its holster onto the bed. He closed the lid on the footlocker, then removed his dress uniform, continuing his muttered rant to himself, “Yeah. We’re out here defending meaningless little supply depots, then the politicians can thump their chests and say what a brave thing has been accomplished.”

He’d worked himself up into anger, but he could feel the sense of loss catching him again. The ache in his chest. He sat down on his bed, and rested his head in his hands, and took a deep breath, fighting back the sobs that threatened to wrack his body.

Adok forced himself to stand up, and removed his dress uniform’s tunic and then buckled on his slugthrower. He’d need it, were he planned to drink.

Within a few minutes, Dock had strode out of the barracks, scarcely paying heed to any of his squadron mates. He arrived at the entrance to the barracks and frowned bitterly at the beach, once again muttering to himself, “Gotta find a good dive. Need some whiskey.”

He headed into the seediest looking portion of the town that he could see, pausing to ensure that none of his fellow pilots from the Womprat squadron followed him, his thoughts wandering in an unexpected and depressing direction, I don’t even really know any of those other pilots in the squadron. They don’t know me. Hell, I don’t know if I want to know them. It makes it easier when they get themselves killed. Sure, I still feel it, but I didn’t even know what any of those pilots liked to drink. Sure, they had hopes and dreams, it’s just I didn’t know.

Adok took a deep breath, and stopped outside of a somewhat seedy looking tavern. He promised himself that he would just have one shot, just one shot to settle his nerves.

He walked through the doors and stepped up to the bar and ordered his first drink. He downed it, and then ordered another, after slapping down a ten credit coin when the bartender demanded payment.

Adok downed the third drink, and could still feel the ache, a raw wound in his conscience maybe he should have done something, something to help. He downed a fourth drink.

[Maxwell Gandel]

Gandel sat alone in the Decimation's observation lounge, glass of corellian brandy on the small table beside him. It was something that had been looted from the supply station, a luxury that he'd not had for the longest time. The fleet hadn't had access to it for a good many years - no supply shipments were sent to them in the unknown regions - and the admiral had found it too much of a temptation to pass up. So he'd absconded with a bottle of the brandy, and gone about finding himself a quiet place to sit and think.

His personal quarters had been out of the question, as had his office. It would have been too easy for Anton or another crew member to disturb him there, and right now Gandel truely wanted to be unreachable. He'd even turned off his personal commlink. His presence wasn't really needed at the moment, anyway. After finishing up at the New Republic supply depot, the 105th had jumped to another random point in deep space. Nobody would find them, not here.

Out here, it was only the 105th and the stars... and the stars were beautiful. Gandel had turned the lights in the observation lounge down to almost nothing, the better to see them. He'd sat watching them for nearly an hour now, alone with his thoughts. The silouette of the Plague was drifting into view through the lounge's large windows, though, obscuring by degrees the starfield beyond. The gaping hole in her command tower was lit by powerfull spotlights as engineers in shuttles and bright orange space suits attempted to determine how much of the damage could be repaired without the use of a drydock.

Gandel found the damaged command tower drawing his attention more than the stars. He stared at that hole, tried to imagine what it had been like for the men who died there. He imagined the roar of the initial explosions, the shaking of the deck under his boots and all around him. The feeling of a fireball blistering his skin before vaporizing him entirely. And what of those who had not died in the initial explosions? What had they gone through, as shrapnel tore through the decks above and below the impact zone? Through their flesh and bone, and that of the men around them? Had they known they would die as emergency bulkheads slammed shut to contain the loss of atmosphere? What had their final thoughts been as the heat and air was sucked from around them and out into space, dragging the breath and the life from their very chests? Could it have been anything but sheer terror?

Gandel opened his eyes, not remembering when he'd closed them. The Plague continued to float past the viewport, the damage to it's command center calling out the simultaneous death screams of dozens of men...

He took a sip of brandy from the glass. The sip turned into a long swallow, and the glass was empty. He set the glass back onto the table, covered his face with his hands and took a deep breath, and dropped his hands to his lap. He had failed those men... every death rested squarely on his shoulders. Such was the burden of command, but never had Gandel felt it as acutely as he did now. Before, back in the unknown regions, when somebody had died fighting an alien menace there had been a reason. Every man that fell did so for the Empire, to keep peace and order in the galaxy. They died so that others might live.

Now... what reason was there now? The Empire was gone, destroyed even as the 105th had fought and bled on it's behalf in the ass end of nowhere. The Emperor was dead, and chaos ran rampant throughout the galaxy. If Gandel's men died now, what cause was it for? They'd spent a decade in the unknown regions, suffered combat and separation from family and friends, only to return and find the world they'd known in ruins. Why should they die now, when they could simply surrender? Disband, find their old families, try to restart their lives...

Gandel refilled his glass from the bottle that sat beside it, but didn't drink. Instead, he stared at the liquid in the glass, stared at his own reflection. Thoughts passed behind his eyes, and something stirred in the recesses of his mind. It wormed it's way slowly forward, pushing aside doubt and darkness until only one truth remained. Slowly, almost carefully, Gandel started to laugh. "Gods," He said, setting the glass on the table and running a hand through his hair, "What am I doing?"

The galaxy was a turbulent and dangerous place, moreso now than ever. Yes, the Empire was gone. Yes, the peace and order it had provided was all but erased. But that didn't erase what it had stood for. The men and women who had died in the battle at the supply station had died for the same cause so many others had died for in the unknown regions. The Empire had to be restored. Only under Imperial rule could the galaxy once again be at peace, only then could it be made safe. To give up was to doom millions, if not billions, to the same sort of death the men on the Plague had suffered. And that was the cause the men of the 105th would fight and die for - to save those untold numbers of sentients from the chaos and terror of a galaxy devoid of Imperial stability.

Feeling glad at having worked that out, Gandel finally drank from the glass of brandy. He stared hard at the damaged command tower of the Plague, almost gone from sight as the massive warship drifted past the viewports. He saw the damage to the tower now as a challenge, a symbol of the death and destruction that would result from a universe without an Empire.

*******

Captain Mercils stood on the Decimation's command walkway, hands clasped behind his back. He wore a worried expression on his face, though he tried his best to mask it. Admiral Gandel had been missing for hours now, and nobody seemed to know where he was. The admiral's quarters were empty, as was his office. The ship's recreational rooms were also not playing host to the fleet's commander in chief, and all calls to his personal commlink had gone unanswered.

It wasn't like Gandel to dissapear. In all his years of serving with the man, he'd always told Anton where he could be found. Perhaps that was what worried Anton the most - the thought that for some reason Gandel hadn't wanted him to know what he was doing. For all intents and purposes, Anton Mercils had been the 105th fleet's second in command. To be suddenly left out of the loop...

"Captain?"

Anton sighed, but conjured a look of calm confidence as he walked to the edge of the walkway and looked down into the crew pits. "Yes, Mr. Dostrelli?"

"Sir, we've located Admiral Gandel. I know you wanted us to be discreet, and you don't have to worry, we were."

Anton felt relief flood through him, and he allowed himself a smile. "Excellent, Mr. Dostrelli. Where is the good admiral?"

"He's in the ship's dorsal observation lounge, sir. He used his personal code to block access to the lounge, almost an hour and a half ago."

"Really?" Anton raised an eyebrow in puzzlement. "Is he with anybody?" Dostrelli shook his head.

"Negative, sir. Sensor scans indicate only one life sign."

"Huh." Anton thought over that for a little while, then shrugged. "Very well. You may go about your business."

Straightening, Anton went back to his position at the center of the command walkway. Obviously, Gandel wanted to be alone. Why was another question entirely, and it was a question that Anton decided he wouldn't try to answer just yet.

Fourty five minutes later, Gandel reappeared on the Decimation's bridge.

"How are we doing, Anton?" Gandel asked as he approached the command walkway.

"Just fine, sir. The engineers report that, as expected, there isn't much we can do about the damage to the Plague. And Commander Utralin seems to be settling into his new position as captain just fine."

"Good, good." Gandel stood and stared out of the bridge's forward viewports for a few moments. "Anton?"

"Aye sir?"

"Are the men willing to carry this through?"

"Aye, sir, to the end. Though they could use some shoreleave about now."

Gandel smiled and nodded. "Then have navigation plot a jump to the Rock. We have things to finish, and things to start."

[IG-100]

The shuttle ramp descended with a hiss of hydraulics and IG-100 strde down on to the surface of Borelias, flanked by the two rookies who'd flown here on its wing. It didn't outrank them of course - no matter its experience the New Republic wasn't about to give a droid a rank - but they'd instinctivly followed its lead. The droid was carrying its electrostaff in its right hand, a standard issue DL-44 sidearm attatched to its right thigh with a magnetic strip and its issue kitbag in his left hand. It hadn't appraised the other two of it's contents and they hadn't asked.

As they walked the brief distance between the shuttle and the barraks, the human on IG's left noticed a half-naked woman wandering from the barracks to the main gate. He grinned and stuck two fingers in his mouth to whistle - but yelped in pain instead as IG's kitbag landed on his foot,

"Frakk it, what was that for?"

IG picked up the kitbag and allowed its victim to lean on it whilst he tested how injured his foot was,

"Do you know who that is?"

"No..?"

"Lieutenant Margolin, Womprats pilot. Known for her temper."

"Aww bathna poodoo. Thanks for that."

"Word of advice, don't try and hit on your squadron, don't try and hit on higher ranking officers and in the name of all that is holy do not hit on Misha Margolin."

The human raisd an eyebrow, so IG embellished,

"She'll probably tear you a new one."

Its wingman tried not look worried and walked on in silence. IG-100 pondred the two of them - the human, one Flight Officer Harris, was shunted to the dead-end squadron having hit on female COs once too many. The zabrak, Flight Officer Tessari, seemed merely to have fallen victim to one of the NR navy's biggest problems - the amount of Imperial military talent that had been adsorbed into it's ranks. Tessari had been punted to the Womprats after his chief instructor had labelled him 'a troublemaker and disruptive influence'. IG-100 knew for a fact that the chief instructor in question had been at the Battle of Hoth. And not in a Rebellion uniform.


IG-100 was genuinely amused, it'd put his electrostaff and kitbag into its locker and was staring at the bed. They'd provided it with a bed - and it wasn't that they hadn't bothered to remove it. It was reinforced, by the look of it three wookies could have had a trampoline party on top of the thing and it wouldn't have dented. It glanced across the room, Harris and Tessari were rummaging through their kitbags in search of casual clothing, so IG-100 stepped out of the room and decided to have a look around and see if it could find someone who knew where Captain Leto was. It didn't have to look far, infact it was turning a corner and had to stop sharply to avoid running into Captain Tariq himself. IG-100 waited for the Womprat Captain to regain his breath and saluted,

"Good afternoon Captain."

Leto looked slightly confused at the droid in front of him,

"Um..thanks. Mind if I ask why you just did that?"

They hadn't told him. They hadn't frakking told him! Ig-100 raised a hand for pause as it composed itself, then resumed the conversation,

"I am Flight Officer IG-100 MG:GG4, IG-100 or Eye-Gee to anyone who isn't anally retentive. I and two other pilots just arrived here we are.....we're the replacements. For the 'Rats."

Leto's eyes seemed to be a battleground between shock and anger. IG-100 decided to try and diffuse the situation,

"I take it neither Command or Admiral Nerys saw fit to notify you?"

[Leto Tariq]

Leto turned the corner and, through more luck than reflex, stopped mere seconds from crashing into someone. His face flushed with emberassment. Running through the barracks like some green recruit just moments out of Basic. He opened his mouth to apologize and shut it just as quickly.

Oh. Just a droid. Leto gave it a quick grin and was about to head towards his quarters again when the droid saluted. His looked turned into one of utter confusion.

"Good afternoon, Captain."

"Um... thanks. Mind if I ask why you just did that?"

The droid almost looked like it was surprised. It wasn't uncommon for astromechs or even a protocol droid to show human-like emotions, but this was the first time Leto had seen a droid of this... type... behaving so. It looked like the sort that was built to just stand around until someone told it to shoot something.

"I am Flight Officer IG-100 MG:GG4, IG-100 or Eye-Gee to anyone who isn't anally retentive. I and two other pilots just arrived here we are.....we're the replacements. For the 'Rats."

Eye... Gee. Replacement. Oh, it's a frakking pilot droid!

"I take it neither Command or Admiral Nerys saw fit to notify you?"

For a moment, Leto almost forgot all about certain pilots and beaches.

"You're the new pilot?"

"Yes, Captain."

"A droid?"

"Yes."

"A machine, tinhead, walking toaster?"

"Yes..."

"'We seem to be made to suffer, it's our lot in life'?"

"Yes, Captain!"

Leto pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. "I suppose it had to happen someday, didn't it?"

The droid remained silent. Leto glared at the wall and murmered, "Frakking Command."

"Isn't it the truth," the droid said. At Leto's odd look, it added, "Sir."

Leto sighed and ran a hand through his hair. A machine. One of his pilots was being replaced by a machine. "Where are the other two? Are those droids, too?"

Two figures, a zabrak and a human, raced out of the quarters dressed in civilian clothes and disappeared down the hall.

"... Oh."

"Flight Officers Harris and Tessari, sir."

Leto nodded. "I guess they've heard about the shore leave?"

The droid nodded. "Yes, Captain. I'm looking forward to a week out of the cockpit, sir."

Leto blinked. "Er... I understand completely. At ease... droid. Go back to whatever it is you do."

Leto shrugged past the droid quickly before it said anything and ducked into his own quarters. He let out a long groan and worked himself out of his uniform quickly, flinging it carelessly onto the bed.

Didn't take Command long at all to find replacements, he thought bitterly as he rummaged about the locker. Must be a line of people just waiting to get into the Womprats. We're more popular than the Rogues!

He finally found the long sought-after swimsuit and pulled it on, only to curse after a glance at the mirror. Leto grumbled, pulled the thing off and put it on in the right direction. Mischa would have loved it if he missed that one.

Frak, Mischa! Leto grabbed a towel quickly and burst out of the doorway, pushing past two marines who weren't expecting a running Captain to go flying past. Frakking droids!

[Shaye Starling]

Dealing with fans on a set is a little different from dealing with fans swarming landing pads on Borleias. At least on the set the crowds can be kept small whereas the spaceport is public domain. Security had been beefed up as soon as it was discovered that Shaye Starling would be returning home during a holiday hiatus from filming. Barricades, extra officers and even security droids were thrown into the mix. Unlike many stars in the galaxy who travel with their entire entourage, Shaye was traveling without hers. When she wanted a break, she wanted a break. From everything. From sets, from people, from make-up artists, from hair stylists, directors, producers, and yes ... even from fans. However, she has become the galaxies 'sweetheart' over the past few years and fame has shot straight up into official stardom. She's been dubbed as one of the nicest, most down-to-earth celebrities the galaxy has seen in many years. Her work is tiresome. Filming, making special appearances, endless amounts of charity work and the newest appearances added to the new year's itinerary of making special appearances at both Imperial and Republic Military bases will keep her on her toes well into the next year. Special arrangements for travel to the bases had been made well in advance to ensure that neither she, nor the pilots or anyone else accompanying her, could ever reveal the location of the bases. This was done to protect all parties: celebrity, Imperial, and Republic alike.

As Shaye Starling decended the boarding ramp the gathered crowd began to cheer. People held up signs, others waved 8 x 10 photos, and others held up datapads; all vying for an autograph as well as the chance of having a holoimage of them taken with her. The starlet put on a warm smile and waved to the crowd as she crossed the tarmac and approached one section of the barricades. Shouts of "Here she comes!" and "Shaye! Over here! I'm your number one fan!" were heard. The next two hours was spent signing autographs, taking snapshots, and meeting with some of her favorite fans: children. It didn't matter to Shaye if the child was handicapped or not. She gave each child extra time and extra attention. She'd never have children of her own - by choice - but she did adore other peoples children. Probably because she could spoil them and send them on their way. Even moreso, her affinity toward children was probably more due to the fact that they were still innocent and so unafraid to speak the truth. Truth is something that is unheard of in the world of fame, so it's the one thing Shaye has clung to ever since she could remember.

With the aid of the security officers, Shaye was whisked away from the cheering crowd and ushered into an awaiting limousine. The closing of the doors shut out the noise of the crowd and Shaye sank back into the seat and laid her head back with a long sigh. "Peace and quiet. Finally." Once the vehicle pulled away and merged into traffic, it was another hour of traveling through the city streets and upper byways until finally reaching home. Her home was situated on the bluffs overlooking the ocean and was well away from the home she grew up in. Halfway around the planet, in fact. "Welcome home, Miss Starling." Said the chauffer as he opened the door and extended his hand to the woman hidden inside. "Thank you." She slipped her hand into his and slid out, making sure the man palmed the generous tip she had secreted away in her palm.

* * * * *

Standing at the edge of the balcony overlooking the oceanic view, Shaye noticed a bunch of uniforms on the beach. From her vantage point, she could see that they were part of the New Republic. She stood there and watched the activities until everyone dispersed. She had to smile as she saw the way some of them took off in a run. Must be on shoreleave, she thought. Enjoy it, guys. Now that the beach was clear, she figured to go back inside and change. The one thing she'd missed the most during her time spent away from home was going for long swims in the cool waters of the Borleias ocean. It didn't long before she was stretched out on a beach towel with the waves splashing up against her toes, enjoying the warm sun as it bathed her body with its radiant glow. A passing thought flitted through her mind as she wondered if any of those uniforms that were on the beach moments ago happened to be the officer she had done an ad campaign with for recruiting posters and holo-adverts. She remembered he was rather shy and it was a bit endearing. The man did relax a little when there wasn't too many people rushing about. She allowed herself to chuckle out loud at the memory of the officers reaction to having make-up put on. The expression on his face was classic and she recalled the murmured words he said when the artist was out of earshot. "I sure hope the 'Rats never find out I had to wear make-up. They'd never let me live it down." That photo session was one of the most enjoyable she had.

I wonder how he is doing, she idly thought as she spread a large beach towel out on the sand. She sat down and began to slather oil on the skin left exposed by her swimsuit and then set the bottle aside. Two weeks. At least two weeks of doing absolutely nothing at all and enjoying it. She wished it were longer, but two weeks was definitely better than none. Still, she couldn't help but think of all she had to do when she did get back to Coruscant. Much of her time was and would be spent shuttling between the Column Commons District and the Holofeature Production facilities on the planet Esseles. As if the heart of the media empire on Coruscant wasn't a real rat race, the shuttling between the two locations was considered to be the real rat race. It only re-inforced the fact that she had finally made it. All those years in childhood spent doing beauty pageants, talent shows, taking acting and singing lessons, dance classes, and more finally paid off. She didn't really enjoy it as a kid but she did enjoy the priviledges and ammenities that came with her fame now. She didn't have to scrimp and save. She could buy just about anything she wanted and do it without feeling guilty. She could help those less fortunate and feel good about it. She could help set a good example to lead the youth of the galaxy in a positive and meaningful way. Sure, Shaye did have to pose for photos that are for the "more mature" eyes of the universe, but she also made sure to dress appropriately in public and to behave as a role-model should.

The first true moments of total relaxation and soaking up the sun were interrupted as the incessant signal of her personal communications unit went off. Shaye sat up and looked at the face to see whom the incoming call was from. "No. No, no no!" She stood up and prepared to toss the thing right into the ocean when second thoughts of doing that set in. "Grrr!" She hit the answer button and placed the unit next to her ear. "Before you ask, the answer is no. I'm on vacation." A voice grumbled and mumbled on the other end. "The Jungle Vault? Sure, I know of it. It's only the best club Borleias has to offer." The voice on the other end went on. "I don't have to do anything other than enjoy the show? No appearances, no autograph signings? Nothing?" A quick blurb from the voice at the other end of the communique. Shaye nodded. "Alright. But the first person who approaches asking for an autograph or makes a request for an appearance and I swear I'll hunt you down and make you wish you never called." She didn't wait for a response as she disconnected the call and threw the com unit down to the sand near the laid out beach towel. "Meh. It might be fun. Besides," she said to no one other than herself as she resumed laying down on the beach towel, "I do like the bands that will be playing there tonight."

Some big shindig was going on at the Jungle Vault tonight. Piggy and the Orbiting Nasties were scheduled to be the opening act. Sure, their music was loud and they were touted as the most obnoxious band to grace the galaxy, but there was a weird perverse enjoyment in their ecclectic style of music. Next on the venue was Mirt Alpitt and the Dust Storms. Despite their wild name, this band was well-known in the Outer Rim, and was distinguished by its soft, almost classical repetoire. Of all the kinds of music out there, Shaye enjoyed classical the most. To further the enjoyment of the unexpected evening, the Coruscant Full Symphony was scheduled to appear. Renowned as the best symphony to ever perform, Shaye was really looking forward to finally being able to enjoy their performance live and in person.

The Jungle Vault was considered to be the most happening spot on the planet. Located underground in a series of caves and hand-carved chambers the Jungle Vault forces patrons to enter through an armored, automatic door. After entering, they found themselves in a setting that resembled the lush, tropical jungles found on the surface. A wide variety of plantlife inside the caves was maintained by the employees, using specialized grow lamps and holes drilled in the rock to bring in natural sunlight. Because most of the clientele was local, there was no need to hire bouncers or guards. The locals, knowing how hard the staff worked to maintain the Jungle Vault's plantlife usually stepped in to toss out any unruly patrons. Because of the dense plantings and the constant trickling of running water, most patrons found that the Jungle Vault was a great place to do all sorts of business, without being overheard.

She would be alone tonight. No escorts, no celebrity "boy-toy" at her side and definitely no boyfriend. Shaye enjoyed being single and free to do as she pleased when she pleased without having to answer to anyone. "Dates" for film premieres, theatrical showings, etc, were a far cry different than a "real" date. She'd never had a serious relationship with anyone before and she wasn't planning on having one any time soon. For all of the sex portrayed in the films she's done, she's never experienced it in a real sense. She was raised right and had been taught to wait until her wedding night. So she was waiting. This wasn't new news to the public and her publicist said it did wonders for the star-struck teens following the woman's career. "It'll bring about a new moral-revolution!" the publicist had said; to which Shaye just looked at the woman like she was the weirdest creature ever and shrugged.

Memories faded as the sound of the ocean waves began to lull the woman into a deep state of relaxation. According to Shareese, her publicist, the real festivities wouldn't be starting until ten o'clock anyways. That would give the actress/fashion model more than enough time to soak up some rays, take a dip in the water, and enjoy a good meal at the restaurant of her choice before she'd have to return to doll herself up for a night of clubbing.

For now, though, the next several hours would be spent napping under the sun.

[Ati Quai]

While the shore leave was well-deserved and much desired as far as the rest of the 'Rats were concerned, there was a newer member of the collective that didn't share their enthusiasm towards a week-long vacation on some sand dune. Ok, beach. So it was an extended sand dune with some water. Nothing to get him too excited over. And while the scenery was better than he had anticipated, sitting there on a lounge chair beneath an umbrella was not his ideal spot to be in.

Perhaps it was the fact that he had never really taken a vacation in the literal sense of the word. He was a pilot. He flew. He had been from one end of the galaxy to the next and had seen a lot of different places in his day. Outside of being shot at on occasion, his job was a vacation. A freelance smuggler that went where he wanted when he wanted.

Now, he had been bantha-collared by some hotty-totty Admiral who thought that the way to repay him for his assistance was to take away his freedom and place him in with a bunch of pilots that were as much miscreants as upstanding citizens. At least that's what he'd heard from Kaybo after the droid managed to access a few records.

And now, they had been joined by another droid to serve as an extra pilot in the squadron. A droid. If this Eye-Gee was anything like Kaybo, they were all done like dinner. His other thought on the topic was how long it would take for the New Republic to become the Trade Federation of old, using droids for everything. So long as they kept track of history and realize what happens when one employs too many droids, they would be fine.

Besides, droids were vulnerable. They could be re-programmed. Their circuits could get sizzled which could result in a maniacal haywire droid pilot. That sounded about as appealing as a spelunking trip into a sarlacc. Just ask Boba Fett. Apparently, that was one instance where it was a moist heat, rather than the typical Tatooine dry heat. It was one area where this smuggler was perfectly happy with taking someone's word on it. No need to test it.

Now, back in his little half-cabana of ever-loving joy, the smuggler sat in front of a small console. It was portable, and fit comfortably in overhead storage bins. What the console was, however, was the best aspect of the vacation that he had managed to scrounge from his old ship. He was almost surprised that they hadn't taken it as some form of contraband as well, considering the rest he had heard about it. Another point to the droid since it was Kaybo that managed to acquire the package for him.

A muttered curse came from the smuggler before he lifted the mug of Corellian Ale to his lips. Pazaak was an addiction to some. It likely would have been for him as well if he hadn't learned at a younger age that gambling was quite hazardous to one's health. Early on in his smuggling days, when he would have chanced just about anything for a chance to win, he had seen a Zabrak take a blaster bolt to the melon when the man won. Apparently the loser didn't feel like giving up his ship, and no one else really seemed to care.

Playing Pazaak on a console against a random computer set-up was much safer, and it did help to pass the time. He'd glance up occasionally when someone passed by. Just another unfamiliar face within a sea of unfamiliar faces. Even his apparent squadmates were, for lack of a better word, alien to him. He'd seen the reaction at the briefing, and taken it as a cue to keep his distance. Perhaps, just perhaps, if there was enough dissention amongst the ranks, the Admiral would change her mind.

No, not so much.

One face that he had noticed a short while ago was still in view. Of course, it was rather hard not to be seen from a distance of a few feet. 'Red,' Kaybo had said her callsign was. A strikingly normal woman from the rest of the info that Kaybo had relayed. No time spent in the brig. No blatant disregard for authority, like many of the others in question. Then again, she was nearly as new as he was, and thus, perhaps she simply needed more time.

Still, she had been there for a while, doing pretty much the same thing he had been doing. Wasting time and avoiding the others. At least he had pazaak, but even that could only entertain for so long. Not like he could win anything like, say, a real vacation and a ticket out of here. No, the only ticket out of here seemed to be in a fireball that consumed himself and his ship. That ticket would have to wait to be punched.

Another drink from his mug and he sat back in his chair, the match apparently over. Either that or he was simply losing interest. Whichever way one looked at it, he wasn't getting any younger, and the day wasn't going by fast enough. Finally deciding that a little conversation might help, he glanced back in Ceryll's direction and spoke just loud enough for her to hear him.

"You look as thrilled to be here as I am. Pull up a chair."

[Jon'son Dethrider]

As both Misch and Jon'son entered their own quarters to change inside the barracks before hitting the beach, Stone took the medals that were given to him by the Admiral and packed them into a small case for safekeeping. The last time the dark-skinned pilot had gotten any commendation of any sort was when he was back in Blaze Squadron, during their last few missions. A small sense of pride helped his self-esteem, but it didn't help the fact that four pilots had paid the price for the pieces of metal he was given.

<I>Perhaps I would feel better if I sent these to my folks</i>, he mused, clutching the case in his hand. <I>Rubbish. Father would probably throw them away and scream that I was a traitor for not siding with the Empire. Damn him.</I>

For now, he would keep them safe. Who knows? Perhaps they would be worth something in the long run.

The refresher next to his quarters was empty, and Stone entered it to change into his beachwear. When he emerged a few minutes later, he was donned only in beach shorts with Ithorian flower designs and his worn sandals. His dogtags hung loosely around his bare chest as he exited the barracks and eyed the nearest shady beach hut that had a bar inside. As he looked about, he noticed Misch and his captain engaging in conversation and decided to let them be. It was only apparent both of them had some feelings for each other, if only they realized everyone else had noticed as well.

<I>Time not to play big brother, Misch knows what she's doing... I think.</i>

But back to business... A few drinks, some idle chatter, a light jog on the beach, and maybe some swimming would ease these thoughts away. He pondered briefly about the upcoming events aboard the <I>Second Chance</I> after shoreleave: the hazing of their new pilots, the funeral of the fellow 'Rats, and the infiltration mission with some NR agent-- someone named Vortan? Meh... Leto would have more details on it, he was sure. He eyed Adok vanishing into the seedier part of town, abandoning his wingmates on the beach. He hoped he knew what he was getting into. In the distance, he heard Chancbacca growling about sand getting on his fur. Jon'son donned on his eyewear.

He smiled as he finally found a beach hut nearby with a few empty stools by the counter, with a dark-furred Bothan with a headful of dreadlocks serving drinks. He strolled unhurried to the nearest stool and sat down. The holonet above the bar was blaring something about a celebrity making an appearance on Borleias. He ignored it.

"Whata'll be oomon?" the Bothan chimed, looking to the burly, bare-chested pilot in sunshades.

"Corellian Ale if you got it," Jon'son requested, grabbing a handful of shroomchips from a nearby bowl and listening to the lapping waves in the background. The tender promptly began to search his inventory and placed a cold bottle in front of him. He was pretty good, Stone noted.

In a matter of moments a bottle-opener was found and the Bothan popped it open. "On de tab, NR. I heard you had some medal ceremony? Big battle?" the tender said, his voice low and resonant.

Stone nodded, indicating he wasn't in the mood to talk. He took a long, slow sip. <I>Ah...</i> The first drink of the day in this heat was the best. After a few more, you wouldn't care. He decided he would have enough to blunt the harsh edges of their last battle. After hearing several footfalls in the sand behind him, Jon'son turned to see more patrons enter the hut and take their seats by the counter.

A quizzical eyebrow rose as Jon'son took in the sight. The Womprat had seen a number of odd sights in his months on interstellar assignments with Leto's unit. To the best of his memory, however, he had never seen a droid enter any tavern and having a seat by the counter, especially accompanied by other beings. He then noticed the human and Zabrak that sat with it were the new pilots assigned to the Womprats. The Zabrak ordered a mug of Fromish ale.

Now that was something you don't see everyday. First off, most droids rarely sat in taverns-- much less were allowed inside them. But there it was-- some old model of a MagnaDroid, if his memory served him well, sitting there, albeit somewhat stiffly. His photoreceptors were trained on the plasticast countertop. Even though there was no expression in the metal mask of a face, Stone got a distinct feeling of melancholy from the droid.

<I>Better get acquainted with these new pilots... I wonder if Leto and Misch met them already?</I> On impulse, he pulled up his stool, sat down next to the new pilots, and raised his trademark eyebrow in curiosity. "We don't see too many droids in here," he said to his companions.

"At these prices, I'm not surprised," the droid shot back.

Jon'son's eyebrows both went up. This <i>was</I> something unusual-- a droid with a sense of humor. The Bothan tender brought the human his drink-- Johrian whiskey. The pilot sipped it, watching Jon'son with interest.

Stone realized he forgot to introduce himself. "Sorry. Name's Jon'son. Callsign: Stone. I'm Lieutanant Commander for the Womprats. I am Captain Tariq's XO."

The Zabrak introduced himself as Flight Officer Tessari, the human as Flight Officer Harris, and the droid was named IG-100, or Eye-Gee in short, also a Flight Officer. Jon'son thought of a million callsigns to name it.

Jon'son took another sip. "Pleased to meet you all and welcome to the Rats. I take it you've introduced yourselves to Captain Tariq?"

"I have-- it was quite an experience," Eye-Gee replied.

"Oh?" Stone inquired.

At first it seemed that the droid was not going to reply. Then it said, "It seems your captain is not too fond of droids, nor do many others it seems."

Jon'son stared at him. "Well, if you don't mind my saying, you seem rather-- unusual for a droid. I'm not surprised Leto reacted that way. Don't take it personal."

"Never do," Eye-Gee responded. "My memory banks are programmed with more than enough computer simulations to counter any fighter tactic, so my skills at manning a starfighter should counter any prejudices your captain may have."

Silence for another moment; then the droid emitted something that sounded remarkably like a human sigh. "Still. I wish I retained the same amount of respect as a carbon-based being," he said.

Jon'son nodded. "You'll earn it soon enough, Eye-Gee. Just don't break down on us while in flight." It was an attempt at humor which fell flat. Stone finished his drink and signaled for another. "Well, at least you're not the only different pilot here. Chanc the wookiee is one of us, and we never had a Zabrak on board."

He looked at Eye-Gee and the other new Flight Officers. "How about we play a quick game of sabacc to break the ice, before I introduce you around to the rest of the Rats? I can hit the beach later."

Tessari's second drink was set down before him, and he lifted it thoughtfully. "Sounds like we have a game if everyone's in. Who's dealing?"

[Pietur Legatus]

Dumping her sack at the back door, Pietur tripped lightly up the stairway that lead to the kitchen of her childhood home, located above her fathers bar. Marie was standing with her back to the door, preparing steak by the smell of it. Real food! Her mouth watered, she could almost taste the meat.

"Hey Mum, I'm going to get changed and then head back to the beach alright?" Snaking a hand over her mothers shoulder, Pietur lifted one of the hot steaks off the grill and began a mental countdown as she juggled the meat in an attempt to avoid burning her fingers.

Five, four..

"You leave those be, they're for-"

Three, two...

The knife clattered to the bench top as the woman spun around and enveloped her daughter in a hug. "Piet! What are you doing home? Why didn't you tell us?! Its so good to see you!" Warding off another hug, Pietur took a mouthful of the cooling meat. It had only been seared on the outside and the hot juices slid easily down her throat. This is real food, she thought, better than that goo they feed us on the ship or that slop at the Academy. The blonde chewed slowly, enjoying the impatient look on her mothers face as well as the taste of the steak. Marie had her old coveralls on, the ones with abstract grease patterns built onto them from many years of repairs, and a smudge of grease decorated her cheek, all signs suggesting that she had worked that morning. That was good. Her mother's scattered brain didn't always remember that being a grease monkey involves showing up for work.

Pietur swallowed her mouthful and set about answering the onslaught of questions. "We were in the area and they gave us shore leave after we had a brush with the Imps that got us these." She fingered the strips still fastened to her chest, enjoying her Mum's expression as she noticed them. "I didn't tell you because I wanted it to be a surprise, and it's good to see you too. How is everyone?"

"Well," Marie began, leading her only daughter to the table, "we've been busy around here -tourist season you remember- so.."

* * * * *

The two sat and talked for hours, until the meat on the grill had cooled and the rowdy sounds of drinkers rose from the pub below. It had been a busy time. Wil'yn and his wife had had their baby, a wee boy named Jate after his grandfather, Pietur had been an Auntie for three days without even realizing it. Alyx was skipping school again, much to his parents dismay, but was still managing to bring home decent marks. Piet wished for a minute that she had his brains. Then maybe she wouldn't be flying for a squadron that had just lost four good men in one go. She dwelt on that idea for a few moments before firmly pushing the heavy thought aside and diverting her attention back to her mother.

The voices rising up through the floor were gradually becoming drink laden- Pietur could hear the subtle changes as the booze took control. It would be a good night for business. A gruff voice rose above the rumble and heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs. Jumping up, Piet raced towards the sound, meeting with a solid mass of flesh halfway down the stairs.

"Dad! It's good to see you!"

Jakob was standing behind his father and was quick to prop him up against the unexpected attack. White flashed against his dark beard as he grinned over Jatieul's broad shoulder. "Well if it isn't our little ray of sunshine back to see us. What brings you here?"

"Well, you know, we were in the area and I though I'd pop home, make sure you're not serving drinks to children again."

Jakob chuckled quietly. He loved his little sis, but she was as transparent as a bottle of sullustan gin. A smile was plastered from one cheek to the other. She was as pleased as a Bothan with a tasty bit of info about something. "Whats the secret then?"

"What? Nothing, nothing. I just came home to see you all." She saw the doubting glint in his eyes. "Honest! I'm just going to dump my stuff and head to the beach." She gave him a winning grin and edged past her father on the narrow steps to accompany it with a hug."It's just good to be home, at least for the couple of days I've got."

[Chancbacca]

Went he shuttle returned to the Second Chance, there was one unhappy Wookie aboard.

Humans and their fascination with Beaches. Sure, he'd been on more then a few, and even fought on some. but every time it took him weeks to get the sand out of his fur! and no human wanted to know where the last places clean were. Hell, Other wookies never wanted to hear it.

That and the awarding of metals. Considering the only time Chanky ever wore a uniform was when he was in the cockpit, the metals were never going to be really displayed. and pinning them to his baldric was getting old.

After 6 showers, the wookie had decided that it was time to return to the planet and drink alot. but then again, the alcohol never hit Chanky like it did the rest of the squadron. he boarded the crew shuttle and sat in a rear seat. The ride down was uneventful, most of the crewers and pilots were very excited about shore leave.

The wookie briefly thought about meeting up with the rest of the squadron, but thought against it quickly. HE loved every member of the squadron, but this shore leave was alot different then others. After all the missions they've pulled lately, and the number of pilots lost has taken it's toll.

Even on the wookie. Over the years, he'd lost count of how many fellow soldiers, warriors and pilots who've died in service with him. From his first experience with combat in the Clone Wars, before most of these pilots were born, to this moment, hundreds of friends have died. Sometimes he wondered if the humans here ever considered that. literally hundreds of deaths had been witnessed.

And they died in droves in the early days of the Alliance. Coming right out of slavery, Chanky had no fear of death, it would be better then the receiving end of a Imperial Whip. Every mission he flew was a chance to die in order for others to live free. Then it changed, some of the others gained that freedom, but there was always the next fight. the next group of beings that needed to be freed.

Now, after all these years, Imperials, The old Style Imperials were back. The old fight, and the old demons of slavery have returned. one thing was Sure, Chancbacca of Kashyyk would never be in chains again. He'd die taking alot of them with him first.

Picking a bar, not for it's decor, but despite it, Chanky settled into the darkest corner and told the serving droid to get the strongest drink in the place. Surprisingly it was a decent imitation of a Fermented Wookie berry juice. WAY too strong for humans (instant alcohol poisoning) but just what the wookie ordered.

Time to observe the locals.

[Mischa Margolin]

“What the frell is taking him so long?” Mishca thought as she waited near the gates for Leto to emerge. The sun was bright and the day was glorious and she had no intention of wasting a moment of it if Tariq had changed his mind about coming along. That water was calling to her and Vac intended to answer it with or without her CO’s company.

As she waited she watched another shuttle land near the barracks complex and an odd trio disembark and make their way in her direction. A droid, a Zabrak, and a human male all dressed in various ways that identified them as Starfighter Command personnel and her curiosity was piqued. She bit back a smirk of amusement as the droid dropped his bag on the foot of the dark haired human next to him. The machine and the man exchanged some words, apparently something to do with Mischa herself by the way the suspected pilot looked furtively in her direction before attending to his sore foot.

She watched them all walk into the barracks building, curiosity growing, but not enough to warrant running in after them to find out who they were. Although she had a feeling she may not like the answer, and Leto’s reaction would be much worse. Where the frak was he anyway. Gah! She hated waiting, unless it was for her turn to go out on some boring long-range patrol.

Peering up and down the beachfront nearby she could see there were a fair amount of people enjoying themselves on the white sands and in the blue green surf washing up against it. Not too crowded though, thank Goddess.

Mischa hated crowds and that was the one thing she had worried about when she’d hear they were going to Borleais for leave. Even though it had been utilized as a rest and recreational facility for New Republic military personnel and their families since it was relieved from Imperial control, it also had a fairly decent civilian tourist trade season as well. And this leave was taking place at the height of it.

Margolin had always questioned the wisdom of having the military personnel-housing complex in such open proximity to such a large and at times transient civilian population, but she’d been assured that the security there was more than adequate to deal with any contingency that may present itself. She hoped they were right and wouldn't have to find out the hard way.

“Dammit, Misch. Will you just relax and enjoy yourself for a little while.” Vac thought. “Forget about crowds, forget about security, forget about flying. Okay maybe not that last one.”

Looking back at the front door to the barracks, there was still no sign of Leto to be seen and Mischa sighed. “Frak it. He’s probably decided the reports were more important. Heavens forbid Captain Leto “Tightass” Tariq would even consider taking some time away from his ever present duties of running the ‘Rats.” Shrugging to hide her disappointment rather unconvincingly, Mischa started making her way to the beachfront alone, wondering if Stone was having a better time than she was so far and hoping that was indeed true.

[Leto Tariq]

Damn walking scrap! Leto thought every time he passed a droid in the halls, sending it a burning gaze for no other reason than the droid simply existed. One unfortunate machine was roughly pushed aside when it made the mistake of crossing Leto's path. It gave a sharp cry of surprise and crashed into a wall, then fell to the floor with a loud clang.

Leto ignored it and instead focused on catching up with Mischa before she decided he wasn't coming after all. Something that would have required a hyperdrive, he found out once he finally made it out of the barracks.

He struck the wall of the barracks roughly, cursing in pain when his fist contacted with durasteel. Leto rubbed at his sore knuckles, wincing. Damn Mischa.

By now, she could be at the beach enjoying it without him, or some bar with Stone or... a thousand other possibilities, knowing Mischa. Leto took off to the beach after her, hoping she was there. There was no way in hell he was going to give her another reason to try and break his jaw again.



"Didn't feel like waiting for me?" Leto asked. Mischa was sitting at the edge of the water, letting it wash over her feet. She snorted.

"It took you long enough. I was beginning to think you'd decided on those reports after all," she twisted around, giving Leto more of a view than he was prepared for. Her eyes glanced over him, taking him in. She smiled. "Not bad. Definitely worth punching you in the face for."

Leto smirked and sat down. He put his eyes on the horizon to avoid looking at her... at least long enough to get his body under control.

"I was delayed by our new recruits."

"Slagging... already?"

"Command didn't take its time with it," Leto said. He glanced at her face and used every bit of mental effort to keep it there. Frak, but that wasn't helping. "Harris, a human, and Tessari, a zabrak. From what I could see, they're going to fit in perfectly."

Mischa nodded and turned her own gaze on the horizon. "And the third recruit?"

"A droid," Leto said flatly. Mischa shot him a glance of surprise. "Droid?"

"Droid."

"Frak me sideways..." she mumbled. Leto shut his eyes and immediately put that image down. "Typical of Command to push that on us."

Leto shrugged, "I guess caskets are getting expensive."

They shared a glance and Leto regretted what he had just said. Dammit, they were supposed to be enjoying this, not dwelling on the dead.

Slowly, Mischa's mouth turned into an evil smile. One Leto had felt the brunt of on more than one occasion. "You know, you certainly took your time with getting here..."

Her hand strayed back into the water and Leto suddenly knew what she was planning. "Don't you da- aah!" His hands shot up protectively to cover his face as the splash came over him. Laughing, he sent his own spray after her. She was about to follow up with another of her own when a polite cough interrupted them.

"Lieutenant Tariq?" Leto straightened from the water and glanced at the speaker. That voice poked at his memory, and it took him a moment to match the face with a name.

"Shaye?" he said, surprised. He remembered a young woman years ago, back during on of Command's stranger assignments.

She gave him a friendly hug and quick kiss on the cheek. She stepped back from him, grinning. "Imagine seeing you here. It's been... years. What have you been up to all this time?"

"Well, it's Captain now, for one," he smiled. "I heard you've become quite the famous holofilm star."

She laughed. "I'm still not used to it. I don't think I ever will be."

Leto nodded. "But the credits are nice."

"The credits are nice," Shaye agreed. They drifted into silence.

"Well, it was good to meet you again," Leto said.

"Yes it was," she smiled again. Leto returned it while she left, and turned around with a grin on his face.

It faded when he saw the water empty behind him.



Leto changed into his clothes wearily and resolved to find a certain pilot who insisted on making his life harder. It took him a while to find her in the barrack's gymnasium, roughly pounding on the unfortunate bag hanging from the ceiling. He silently watched her for what felt like ages. Watching her fight with the bag in military fatigues and a tank top was even worse than seeing her in that bikini.

"I was wondering," he voiced finally, shifting his eyes to the ground in front of him. "I was wondering where you had gone."

She paused long enough to glance back at him, the threw herself into her attacks again. "I had other things to do."

Leto nodded, grimacing. This was how things always were, with them.

"So who was that?"

"What?" he asked, confused.

"The woman. She seemed rather friendly with you. An old girlfriend?"

Leto sighed and shook his head. "No. She was someone I met on some holo-shoot for the Republic, for some recruiting poster or something."

Mischa chuckled and glanced at him. Her grin slowly faded. "Oh my goddess, you're serious." She threw back her head and laughed, "Leto Tariq, on a poster to join the Republic. Oh this I have to see."

Leto smiled thinly at her. "I'm sure you can find one somewhere."

"Believe me, I will," she grinned.

Leto nodded; he had no doubts she would manage that, and probably give him hell about it, too. She gave him one last smile and returned to destroying the bag in front of her. For some reason, it seemed like her fists had less of a bite to them. If that was possible.

"I heard there's a club not far from here... one of the nicest on Borleias. There's supposed to be some big event today, or so I've heard."

Mischa laughed. "Is this some clumsy attempt to see me in a dress, Captain?"

Oh frak yes. "I just thought I'd offer."

She seemed to consider this for a second and nodded. "A nightclub would be nice." Leto held back a grin. "Now put your gloves on, I could use a sparring partner."

Leto laughed and pulled a pair of gloves on. As it turned out, Mischa in dress cost him two punches to the face. He had no complaints at all.

[IG-100]

Eye-Gee snatched the pack of cards out of Tessari's hands and its metal hands blurred as it shuffled - watching carefully as Harris set up the randomiser in the middle of the table. It silently passed the pack to Jon'son for the burly XO to cut, retrieving the cards and dealing out two to each of them whilst its metallic vocaliser rang out the rules,

"Corellian rules - Ace high or low, four round pot-builder, Idiot's Array is the only special array. Bombing out pays into the Sabacc pot, hundred Credit limit - the ante is five credits. Main pot is on my left, Sabacc pot on my right."

The droid extracted a handful of credit chips from a compartment that hissed open on his torso, throwing five into each of the pots,

"Ante in ladies."

Eye-Gee studied his cards - a five and a seven. Not bad but nothing special, he glanced to his left at Jon'son,

"Sir?"

The burly E-wing pilot took a moment more to study his cards, then nodded,

"Hit me."

Eye-Gee slid a card across the table and glanced up at Harris, who nodded as well,

"And me."

The Zabrak to Eye-Gee's right and the droid himself likewise got new cards - the MagnaGuard turning up an eight. A total of twenty - not bad in theory, but worrying this early in the game. He glanced at the Lt. Commander again,

"Bets?"

Stone slid twenty chips into the main pot, calling out the number as he did, the droid turned to look at the Human who threw in a handful of chips,

"Raise five."

Eye-Gee looked at him for a moment,

"Splash the pot again and I'll show the Lieutenant what happened earlier."

Harris looked at it confused for a moment, promting a metallic sigh,

"I can plug my memory into a holo you goof, these oculars are as good as any holorecorder."

Confuson was replaced by shock, and Eye-Gee let out a short laugh,

"Emporer's burning corpse! I'm not a frakking protocol droid you know. Tessari?"

"See twenty five."

"I see twenty five, Dethrider."

"I'm in."

" Okay - Sir, draw, trade or stand?"

"I'll draw - and call me Stone."

"Of course sir. Harris?"

"Trade."

"Tessari?"

"Draw."

"Okay, I'll trade."

Eye-Gee was glad its face was immobile - the annoyance at having his eight replaced with an eight would have given too much away had it been visiable. It glanced over at Jon'son,

"Stone?"

"Twenty again, and who's this mysterious lieutenant?"

Eye-Gee looked slightly ascance at Harris and there was a ring of mirth in it's voice,

"Well?"

"See twenty."

"I meant were you going to enlighten the Commander? You in Tessari?"

"I fold, everyone want a drink?"

A round of nods sent the Zabrak heading for the bar whilst Eye-Gee slid twenty credits into the pot,

"Well, she's only a junior grade lieutenant - so it's not the worst mistake of Harris' career. What'll it be?"

"Draw. What do you mean not the worst mistake?"

"Stay. And will you shut that vocaliser?"

"Heh - I'll trade again."

A five for an eight, seventeen was good, not great, but good.

"Stone?"

"Thirty. And which lieutenant?"

"Can't quite recall her name - Harris?"

"Raise to forty. And what's wrong - does that fancy heuristic processer of yours mess up your memory banks?"

Eye-Gee would have glared if it could - the idiot human had just shown up that its comment earlier about being programmed with combat simulations wasn't entirely accurate. Rather vexing really, best to draw out Harris' torture a bit longer,

"Too rich for me - and it was Margo-something wasn't it? Draw, trade or stay?"

"Trade...wait? Margolin?"

"That was it! Harris?"

"Draw dammit."

Eye-Gee cursed its inability to grin at Harris, a metallic chuckle would have to suffice,

"What, did I say something wrong?"

Stone raised an eyebrow at the droid as Tessari began ambling back from the bar with a cluster of glasses held precariously in his arms,

"Margolin? He was eyeing up Mischa?"

"Hmm? Oh, yeah - I'll show you the recording sometime, the look on his face is......well, priceless."

Harris threw his arms up in aggravation,

"Oh you son of a...."

Eye-Gee swore as Harris' arm sent the drinks flying from Tessari's arms and over the table behined, promting one rather damp and rather annoyed looking human with a burn scar on one side of his face to almost jump out of his seat,

"You spiky headed little...."

Eye-Gee shut down its social circuits as it cursed itself for not bringing its electrostaff. It glanced at Stone, who was beginning to rise to his feet and stood up itself.

[Mischa Margolin]

Badass fighter jock. A confident bordering on damn near cocky X-wing pilot in the New Republic’s Starfighter Command, albeit the squadron with the worst rep in the fleet. But a snubjocky nonetheless and a damn good one at that. Tough broad who takes no crap from anyone…man, woman, alien, droid, New Republic or Imperial affiliated, enlisted or brass. Say the wrong thing and I’m all over your ass. Drunk or sober…although admittedly faster when I’m inebriated.

So why the frak am I as nervous as a…well…a womprat in a room full of sandpanthers? It’s not like it’s really a date or anything like that. It’s just two people who’ve worked together for a long time, respect each other most of the time, beat the frell out of each other at other times, and still seem to manage to like each other’s company otherwise enjoying a night out on shoreleave together. Doesn’t mean anything other than having a good time because who the frak knows what command’s going to throw us into next.

So why am I so damn nitpicky about how I look in this dress, or that my hair just won’t behave as usual, or that my hands are a frakkin mess from all the stupid sparring I’ve been doing lately? Shavit! Get it together Margolin.

All these thoughts went through Mischa’s head as she peered into the mirror in her barracks room trying to put a little makeup on with hands that were more used to the finer points of controlling a flightstick and trigger switch then painting her face. The resulting mess she made yet again with the eyeliner brush made her spit out another curse in Old Corellian, one of the personal favorites of her adoptive father figure, as she picked up a washcloth already dotted with the evidence of previous attempts.

“Okay, forget the eyeliner crud.” She said to herself, picking up some of the other cosmetics and implements she equated with ancient instruments of torture and did the best she could with them. Actually giving herself a half smile of relief at the passable results. “That’ll do.”

She’d actually managed to get her hair to calm down a bit with more work than she wanted to expend energy on, but as she stepped back to check the overall results her smile widened. The short black form-fitting dress she’d searched her quarters for back on the Second Chance still fit her as well as it had the day she bought it and she could admit it looked better on her than she remembered.

The only sticking point were these frakkin shoes. Not used to anything with much of a heel most of the time, the high spiky heeled sandals, thin straps wrapping around her ankles and up her calves truly did feel like torture devices and Mischa wondered how long she’d be able to stand the things before taking them off and embarrassing her CO by running around at the club barefoot.

She might just do it after all for that very reason. Leto could be such a tightass at times and she loved doing little things to frak with that control he always has to display. Poor guy needed to loosen up a little. In fact Mischa wouldn’t have been surprised if he showed up in his dress uniform.

Glancing at the chrono on the wall she was shocked to see how much time had gone by since she’d first stepped in the shower to get ready for the evening. He’d be here to pick her up at any moment and Vac still wasn’t sure she was ready for this. Amazed at the slight tremor in her hand as she picked up a small flacon of perfume that had cost too much of her government paid salary Mischa dabbed a bit on her throat and several other places on her body before setting it back on the dressing table just as she heard a knock at her door.

“Maybe I can pretend to be sick or something.” The redhead thought irrationally as she walked to the door, wobbling a bit on unpracticed, high heeled wearing feet. “Damn I wonder how I’ll be able to navigate in these things after a couple of drinks.”

Opening the door after taking a deep, calming breath, Mischa took in the sight of her Captain standing on the other side with wide eyes. She’s seen Leto in a dress uniform, she’s seen him in a swimsuit, on one memorable occasion she’d seen him in only a towel that was barely big enough to do the job.

All of these paled in comparison to how Orion looked as he leaned casually against the wall next to the door of her room, dressed in a dark navy suit that seemed custom tailored to his compact, muscular frame. Stylish, yet a bit on the casual side as the season’s popular prevailing fashion tended toward. Leto Tariq looked like he’d just stepped off the fashion spread segment of one of the holozines like Galaxy Quarterly and Mischa, as a rarity, was speechless.

“Wow.” Was all she could say when she finally did regain her voice. All thoughts of calling things off were immediately dismissed. “No way in hell am I not going through with this now.” She thought, smiling at the similar reaction that slowly spread over Leto’s face as he took in the sight of her in that dress from top to bottom and back up. His grin widening by the moment as he reached her face again.

“Yeah. This was worth every bump, bruise, and broken bone.” Tariq said slowly, grin still readily apparent. “I mean. Wow. Misch. I had no idea…”

“What that I could clean up so well?” She asked teasingly ”Or that I actually really owned a dress?” the woman added with a wink.

“You just look. Just…wow.” Leto said, nearly blushing which made Mischa smile, yet didn’t stop her from the usual expected teasing comment. “Don’t we have somewhere to be Captain, or are you just going to stand there all night stuttering and blushing like a schoolboy on his first date.”

“Oh I wouldn’t miss this for the world, Lieutenant.” He held out his arm and Mischa slipped her own through it after locking the room of her quarters thinking to herself. “Neither would I, Sir. Not for all the credits on Coruscant.”

[Gabriella]

While the Womprats were enjoying the first day of shoreleave, Gabriella spent most of the morning and afternoon in the medical bay under the care and examinations of Doc Monroe. The news wasn't any less than Gabby had expected, but she had hoped it would be better than what she received. By late afternoon the blinding headache was gone so Doc Monroe let the good Admiral leave to tend to other matters.

* * * * *

Mid-Afternoon

Gabriella stood near the holoprojector in the center of the theater (a fancy name for the war room) aboard the Mon Cal cruiser, The Second Chance with Captain Dervis, Lieutenant Shaw, and several other technicians, tacticians, and odd personnel. "We have a lot of ground work to cover so let's not waste any time. I want every possible scenario constructed, along with every possible escape or secondary plan in place before sending the four I've selected for the mission into the viper's pit." Everyone knew the bare basics of the plan. Send in two teams to what may remain of the supply depot, get information, hopefully find evidence or clues that will lead them to where the Imperial ships jumped to, and return to the ship. Though, to find any traces of the jump made by the Imp ships would be like finding a single flea in the thick fur of an adult bantha.

"Admiral. Will the replacement droids be sent in on the mission? If I may be so bold as to suggest..." First Lieutenant Dar'shein closed his mouth the minute he saw the look shot in his direction from Admiral Nerys. He muttered his apology then turned on his heel and went back to work. "Captain," she began as she slowly turned her steely eyes to Dervis. His adam's apple bobbed due to the hard, dry swallow and he didn't succeed in hiding the squirm while adjusting the collar that suddenly grew tight around his neck. "Who in the emperor's black bones sent droids to replace the men I lost, hm?" Her voice was as cold as stone and her jaw was drawn tight. "Command said that was all they could spare." He replied with a nervous hitch in his voice. Gabriella made it no secret about how she felt about droids; particularly the use of them in the cockpit of a starfighter. Droids, after all, were programmed by humans and though it was not often, errors still occured. Plus, there was something very un-natural and very creepy about hunks of metal resembling sentient life and intelligence. The very thought, let alone the sight of an AI made Gabby's skin crawl. "My ass that was all they could spare," she hissed venomously. "That's a slap in the face to the squadron and we both know it." She tried to keep her tone low and calm, but she must not have been trying all that hard as the techs and tacts flicked nervous glances over their shoulders twice, then eyed each other before returning to the tasks set before them.

"Admiral. If you have a moment." Captain Dervis indicated that he wished to speak to her alone so the two retreated far enough away to be out of earshot from the other crew busy at work. "Friend to friend now, okay?" Gabby nodded, her expression softened into a look of slight worry. "We both need a break, Gabriella. I was wondering if you'd do me the honor of accompanying me to the Jungle Vault tonight?" Gabriella blinked, surprised by the Captain. "The Coruscant Full Symphony will be there this evening. I thought perhaps you and I could enjoy an expensive meal, some classical music and enjoy a bit of down time ourselves." The Admiral considered the invitation for a moment and began to shake her head, ready to reject the Captain's request for an informal 'date'. Though her mind said no, her heart said yes, and so acceptance came verbally; much to her surprise. He was right. They did need the break. It had been far too long since any of them really had one. Dervis smiled and nodded, thanked her cordially, and informed her that he would escort her from the ship at precisely eight o'clock.

Nervous that the others had overheard the conversation, Gabriella looked around. No one had heard, of course, as they were all hard at work formulating the details of the next recon mission. "I expect to be briefed within forty-eight hours," she said while taking her leave of the war room.

* * * * *

Early Evening

One minute before Captain Dervis would be activating the chime at her door found Gabriella fidgeting with an unruly tendril of hair that refused to stay put. Anyone who saw the Admiral this evening would hardly recognize her. She was dressed to kill. A floor length gown made up of a triple layer of deep emerald green chiffon hugged her slender figure like a well worn glove worn upon the hand of a tender lover. A slit in the skirt of the gown ran up the entire length of her left leg, exposing it to the thigh with each step she took. Woven within the fine threads of the sheer silk of the gown were spidery threads of gold. The light picked up and reflected off of the metallic threading just right to give proof that a slight sparkle did exist within the material. A shawl of the same material hung lazily within the crook of her elbows, leaving bare shoulders exposed by the strapless ensemble. flowing coppery-red locks were not allowed to cascade freely tonight. Great care had been taken achieve a perfect french twist yet a few strands of hair were left to frame the woman's delicate face and set off her high cheekbones.

The chime sounded and Gabriella opened the door. She didn't allow Dervis to enter as she stepped out quickly and smiled as he stepped back to take a look at her. He whistled, then smiled a little wider. "You look stunning," he said as he offered her his arm. She blushed, feeling very self-conscious. The woman slipped her arm into his and sideglanced up to the man. "Thank you. You look rather dapper yourself." Dervis folded his hand over hers and chuckled. "Just remember one thing. I out rank you and not one word will be said nor one holopic of me dressed like this will ever be taken." He laughed. "Alright."

* * * * *

Roughly 8:00 PM - Borleias Standard Time

Prior to going to the Jungle Vault to enjoy an evening symphony, Captain Darius Dervis took Gabriella out to dinner at a rather fancy restaurant. In truth, fancy places such as the one Darius took her to really weren't her style, but she accepted it anyway. It had been far too long since she had food that was so good each bite had to be slowly savored and Darius was doing all he could to put his close friend at ease; even for a few hours.

When they arrived at the Jungle Vault, they were shown through a single door entrance to the right of the main entry, sporting a plaque proclaiming it to be "Security". Once inside, they were frisked. Yes, even the Admiral and Captain of the Second Chance were frisked. Though, the weapons each of them carried were permitted as no planetary officer of civilian law had the authority to remove the weapons of enlisted and/or commissioned officers. Once inside, the pair wandered through the crowd until a waitress noticed them. Approaching, she introduced herself and showed the two to their reserved table. Gabriella looked around, hoping that none of the others from the ship were present. She also hoped that if any were, they were too busy enjoying themselves to notice she and Darius were patronizing the Jungle Vault, too.

"Gabriella. Relax!" Darius chuckled and shook his head. "Tonight you are not an Admiral and there isn't a mission to consider. Put it at the back of your mind for the next few hours. Trust me. You deserve this as much as they do." Darius draped a cloth napkin over his right thigh and signaled a waiter. "I'll have a bellorian ale and the lady will have ..." Darius glanced to Gabriella.

"Charde, please," she replied.

"And the lady will have a charde," Darius re-iterated to the waiter. When the young waiter left to fill their drink order, Darius leaned against the table a bit and eyed Gabriella sharply. "If you don't relax, I'll be forced to get you onto the dance floor with me," he threatened.

"And I'll be forced to have you thrown in the brig for using excessive force against a superior officer," she retorted while draping a cloth napkin across her lap.

"Alright, that's it!" Darius snatched the napkin from his leg and dropped it onto the table as he stood up. "Let's go." The Captain reached down and took her hand. "I'm serious, Gabby. Let's go."

Gabriella eyed the man, then stood, reluctantly. She set the napkin that had just been strewn across her lap onto the table and allowed the man to escort her to the dance floor. "I promise to make your life a living hell when tonight is over with, Captain." She promised as the music slowed and the two assumed the position for a formal dance.

[Erc Vortan]

Erc Sat in a Café, ate a Nerf Tenderloin and drank a fairly decent imitation of an Alderaanian Ale. That Biotics center was producing a wide range of products from the former Alderaan. The Ale wasn't quiet the same, but with supplies of the real thing getting pretty rare, it was a good substitute. And at Premium prices. Definitely worth drinking with a meal like this.

The problem was, so far, on this "Mission" nothing had gone right since arriving in system. He had fun giving ground control the Run around. It's always great causing trouble like that for the REMFs. He landing on the Cruiser, met the Admiral, not a bad looking woman, but more behind her eyes then she's letting known to her command. Nothing new there, but Erc wouldn't mind finding out what the secret was the next time her was really bored.

But then the delays came in. The Plan was to use the Fighter Squadron from the initial attack on the mission. This includes the former (Was he a former) smuggler who happened to be insystem when the Imps attacked. Fine, whatever. Problem They were on Shore leave now. Delaying departure for a week.

Problem 2, the recruits Erc was going to have to fly with were mostly rookies. The Newbs were selected. With the Rep the Womprats had, he'd prefer someone more seasoned.

Erc pulled out his personal pad and looked over the squadron roster. This included most of the Classified Files on all the squadron members. Intel wasn't happy about having to turn these over, but it's how Erc operates. No exceptions.

His first choice would have been the wookie, The Wookie has been with the New republic since it was a fledgling Rebel Alliance. His experience with the Imperials goes back even further. A Slave to the Newly declared Empire. A good pilot, but a bad temper.

Speaking of Tempers, There was the Margolin. I real looker as long as she didn't know you were looking. According to her record, she was racking up enough time in Military brigs to qualify for parole. Time served equaled some sentenced terms he'd come across. A good person to have at your side in a fight too. Leadership potential, but would never be given a chance to prove it, too quick tempered.

"Wonder if she'd ever go private? I know a few people who could use the beating she'd give them when they looked and commented on her. Hell, I wouldn't mind the beating, depending on the outcome."

Jon'son Dethrider, a friend of Margolin, and interestingly enough, her bunkmate. Pretty much a muscle head, but surprisingly one with a head on his shoulders. Ego to spare (we are talking about fighter pilots) but it seems he was a calming factor for Margolin. Probably why she was still in the service. A good shot, As a team, those two should do well here. Thoughtful, and had the experience to stay calm under fire.

Captain Tariq, The leader of these misfits. Another native of Coruscant. Erc wasn't sure if this was a good thing or a bad thing. HE never had much use for his homeworld, personally, and rarely ever visited it. No fond memories of home. Wonder how Tariq feels about it. The man took every death in his squadron personally. a sign of a good leader. One who cared. But also a sigh he was too close to his people. it might explain why the discipline level of the members were so high, and why the disciplinary committee knew almost all of them personally. A leader does need to have some distance from his command. Had to have that command edge. How many dead pilots might have lived if that edge was there.

Adok Borys, Bespin. Other then the Tibanna Gas, does anything good come from that Planet? Who knew. Nothing special in his record, except maybe the missing Squadron of Z-95's. Pilots all accounted for, but no fighters. "I could respect that, the fighters were gonna be surplussed anyway, probably melted down."

Reading over it, nothing special here on the face of it. But put together, it turned into a decently effective, if not costly in replacements. All this potential and I get the Rookies. Nice turn of events.

Erc put the pad away. Nothing he could do about the selection of the operatives. Just make sure they all knew he was in charge! and that wasn't negotiable. He wasn't going to risk his life and ship on some amateur hour mission.

Not that he expects much to come from the mission. All said and done, there is going to be about a week and a half between the mission and the actual attack. Plenty of time for the Empire, and Pirates fromt he initial attack, then every savanger from here to the core to show up and get rid of the evidence. Or hide it. We'll see what we get.

Signalling the waitress, Erc ordered another Ale and sat back, thinking about what to do with himself here.

[Shaye Starling]

The Jungle Vault

The line of people waiting to get into the hottest nightspot on Borleias stretched for a few city blocks. Most of the people standing in line wouldn't get anywhere near the front door. The bouncers and security detail had the names of each individual whom would be allowed in this evening. As soon as those "V.I.P's" arrived, they would be ushered toward another entrance, one most didn't know existed. The heightened security and extra precautions came as a result of the biggest names in the music industry appearing on stage this evening to give a rare performance.

A sleek, black limosine pulled up. Two armed guards flanked the rear passenger side door, providing protection as the driver rounded the front of the vehicle and opened the door for the occupant inside. A slender, silky smooth leg emerged first, followed by a delicate hand with long, slender fingers; followed by the rest. "Miss Starling, if you would permit me," the driver said with a bashful smile as he gave a slight tip to his hat. "You look radiant." Shaye lowered her eyes and thanked the man just before the twin security guards escorted the woman around the front of the waiting crowd and through a door marked "Security" to the right.

Shaye wore an alluring, attention-getting halter-style dress that was layered in two tones, with keyhole neckline and asymmetrical double ruffle; the back dipped to her tailbone. Red provided the perfect accent along the edge of the ruffle against the velvety black attire; complimented by flirty heels that only made her legs look that much better. "Wait right here please, Miss Starling," the first security guard instructed. A moment later, a female guard stepped out of a small office and asked the star to spread her arms away from her sides. Even celebrities were getting frisked this evening. "Thank you, Ma'am. Enjoy the evening," the female guard said to Shaye as she motioned for her to continue inside.

The music was so loud that the beat could be felt through the vibrations in the floors. The leaves on the trees and bushes, the petals of the rare and exotic flowers shook. The lighting above the tables was set very low to provide a sexy atmosphere while the lighting highlighting the stage, currently featuring local acts that were about to get recording contracts, were bright and flashy. Of course, this was only to get the crowd into "the mood" for the rest of the evening. When the two orchestras performed, the lighting would be much more subtle. The people already inside were dressed to the nines. Women were dressed to kill and the men were dressed to entice the women that they were on the prowl for.

Shaye moved through the crowd, trying to avoid bumping into or getting knocked into by those who had already worked up a good buzz and were dancing. It was evident that everyone was having a great time and the main shows hadn't even begun yet. Shaye was shown to a table that had been set aside for her and three others. She looked to the waiter curiously, but he failed to understand the question in her eyes. For now, the other three whom would be sharing her table would remain a mystery. A drink had already been placed near her plate setting so she picked it up and decided to have a seat at the bar for a little while. She'd frequented the nightclub often enough in the past that the owners and staff knew she wouldn't take her meal until the second performance began. Also, her manager had made all the arrangements before he had even called her to get her to be here.

A new local talent was introduced and as the others did, Shaye paused in seating herself on a barstool to applaud. "Miss Starling! Lovely to see you again." The head bartender, Warren, said with an award-winning smile as he set a small drink napkin on the counter and helped her to set her own glass down. "It's insane in here tonight, Warren. How have you been?" She had to raise her voice a bit to be heard over the noise. Warren engaged the lady in idle chit-chat for a bit then excused himself as a couple approached the bar to place an order. Shaye glanced over and noticed it was the Alliance Officer she had done a photoshoot with a while back. She didn't approach him or try to draw his attention, figuring if he happened to glance in her direction she'd smile and nod a greeting then. After all, he was on shore leave and the last thing he probably wanted was to take part in a little small talk with a woman he barely knew. As Leto and Mischa awaited their drinks, Shaye stood and lifted hers. "I'll be back, Warren." The head bartender looked up and smiled, nodded, then went back to serving the patrons. Shaye moved past Leto and Mischa to return to the table.

[Maxwell Gandel]

The Rock

The Desperate Gamble's tactical officer stared curiously at her instrument panel, delicate fingers tapping out a rythm on the console beside it. There was something there, in that deluge of raw data... something that had been bothering her ever since the end of the battle at the supply station. She cycled through sensor readings again, pale blue eyes narrowed in concentration.

"Annika?"

She looked up at the sound of her name, cursing aloud as her train of thought was broken. She'd been close to finding whatever was bothering her, she was sure of it. "What?" She demanded, fixing her icy gaze on the person who had just spoken. That person turned out to be Kalin, the Gamble's commander when Askaza wasn't aboard. He was leaning against the back of a nearby chair, head tilted to one side.

"Your shift is over, Annika. Has been for hours. Go get some rest." Kalin tossed his head at the hatch that led away from the bridge. Despite the tone of annoyance that tinged his voice, his face bore a look of curiosity. He knew better than anyone that Annika had a gift. She could look at screens full of data incomprehensible to everybody else, and come up with a pattern - somehow make it all make sense. It was why she was the tactical officer on the command ship of Askaza's meager fleet. So when she sat for hours just staring at her display screens, Kalin figured there was a good reason. He also figured she would sit there until she fell asleep from exhaustion unless he made her move... which was what he planned to do.

"I'm fine," Annika replied, turning so she could look at her display screens again. Kalin sighed, a rough noise that was both exhasperated and defiant. Shaking his head, he walked up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders, leaning in so he could see what she saw.

"We're home, Annika. This is the Rock, not a raid. There's nothin' here that we need to be worried about."

Annika twisted her shoulders, dislodging the commander's hands. Her own right hand flew back, smacking Kalin's shoulder with a loud noise. "Don't you patronize me," She growled.

"Allright, allright," Kalin said with a laugh. He rubbed his stinging shoulder for a moment, then shrugged. "At least get something to eat, though, allright? The last thing I need is my tactical officer starving herself to death."

"I'm fine," Annika repeated. Kalin shook his head, this time in defeat. Risking another smack, he put a hand back on her shoulder and gave it a light squeeze.

"You'd waste away in front of that screen if I didn't take care of you," he muttered as he walked away. Annika gave no indication she'd heard.

************

"Bloody hell, I've seen unshielded target drones come back in better condition than this!" Deckmaster Jontz threw his arms wide before planting them on his hips. "I swear, it's a miracle any of you lads come back alive. What'd you do, fly it into another ship? Fancied a game of space chicken, did you?"

"Hey, it's not my fault!" The pilot of the ship in question protested. Deckmaster Jontz was notoriously protective of what he considered to be "his" starfighters. He was the man on the Rock who knew the most about the uglies the pirates flew. In his day, he'd helped build most of them. And he oversaw repairs whenever they came back damaged... which was just about always. "That NR ship blew up right next to me, threw debris all over my flight path. No way I could get out of the way. And my shields were down... damn lucky the frackin' X-wing got toasted before it toasted me, I'm tellin' you."

"Save it flyboy, I've heard 'em all." Jontz dismissed the pilot with a wave of his hand, and turned his attention to getting the ship before him combat worthy again. "Allright boys, looks like we've got some work to do." With the usual compliants about the condition of his starfighter out of the way, the burly deckmaster began a detailed look at what he had to work with. Countless dents, dings, and carbon scores marred the hull. Worse than that, though, dozens of hunks of deformed metal had bonded with the uglie's hull, fusing metal to metal. It was truely amazing that none of them had torn right through something vital. Getting them off was gonna be a helluva job. "Start with the engines," Jontz directed his men, "Looks like they took a pretty good hit... and get some of that spare sheet metal over here, we've got some weak points to shore up."


************

Askaza sat in what passed for his inner sanctum, rolling two stress balls in his right hand while his chin rested in his left. The take from the supply depot job had been much more than what he was used to, and finding a way to sell off all of the stuff discretely was proving to be a hell of a headache. With small takes he could get away with selling it all off in two or three batches to different people, sometimes he'd get lucky and find somebody willing to take the whole pile off of his hands at once. Not this time.... no way no how. And to make matters worse, a lot of it was weaponry. Medical supplies, food, mechanical parts, those were all easy to get rid of. They were common things that everybody needed. Military issue blaster rifles, warheads, shield generators, body armor...

Those were specialty items. On the upside, they were incredibly expensive. Which meant Askaza was going soon to be richer than he'd ever been, even when he dispersed the wealth to his men. It was the boost he'd needed, the moment he'd always waited for... the day when he could move from small time pirate to something else. Something bigger. Something more powerful, more respected...

Something, perhaps, like Admiral Gandel. Not that Askaza had every been one to like Imperials, let alone aspire to be like one. But there was something different about Gandel. Perhaps it was that these days, doing what he was doing, the man was nothing more than a pirate himself, stealing what he needed to survive. And hell, the man was likeable enough.

But there was no way in hell he was going to resurrect the Empire, not him and his fleet alone. On that point, at least, Askaza thought the man was crazy. Even so, he might be able to carve himself a nice little kingdom... a mini Empire, maybe, out where the New Republic wasn't watching too closely.

"Aye," Askaza said aloud, "That's just possible."

And if it did happen, anybody who'd helped in the effort might be rewarded with a part of that little shadow Empire. Suddenly thoughtful, Askaza lowered his stress balls to the top of his ill gotten Mon Calamari Coral desk. He sat a little bit straighter, eyes glazed over with possibility. He wasn't too ambitious a man, he told himself. Dominion over just one planet would be enough to satisfy him. If Gandel did things right, he and his fleet might be able to get a lot more than that...

He sat there at his desk, thoughts running through his head, for what seemed like hours. Finally, he brought the communications console near his desk to life, and sent a message to somebody he hadn't talked to in quite some time. "Hello Chareze, it's Lauren. Been awhile since we last talked, but I've got somethin' what might peak yer interest..."

************

Annika rubbed at her face, pressing the palms of her hands into her eyes in an attempt to banish the tiredness she felt. Kalin had brought her food and something to drink, just as he'd said. Half of it still sat uneaten on a nearby console, forgotten as she'd been drawn once again into her search. Perhaps, she finally admitted, it might be time to rest. She switched off her sensor display, glanced around the dimly lit bridge. It was night shift now, and only a few people were actually present. They looked bored but attentive, always worried that some NR patrol would somehow find their little base in the middle of nowhere.

Before she could get up and leave, however, the woman in command of the night watch called for her attention. "Before you leave, could you do one more thing? A comm package just arrived from one of our buyers, and Kalin left orders to have all of 'em scanned for any hidden tracers before we passed 'em on to the Rock. Just in case, you know?"

Annika's blue eyes widened as something snapped on in her mind, like a physical switch being thrown. Suddenly, things were making sense... comm signals, hidden tracers...

Ignoring whatever the CO had just said, Annika turned around and switched her sensor display back on. She tuned it to moniter comm frequencies, and eleminated all obvious comm traffic. For a moment, the universe's background noise was all she saw... then it resolved into focus, a pattern amongst the chaos. She focussed in on it, tuned everything else out. It was a tracking beacon, tightbeamed and encrypted, designed specifically to be detected only if somebody knew what to look for.

It was New Republic.

And it was coming from inside the Rock.

*****************

Askaza had finished his message to Chareze, and was getting caught up on happenings in and around the Rock. As a pirate's den, something was always happening, and it wasn't always good. People would need to be disciplined, certainly, and -

Askaza's comm beeped at him urgently, a signal that was only supposed to be used in emergency situations. Askaza blanched. Had the NR somehow traced Gandels fleet back to the Rock? Or had Gandel decided to backstab them after all?The pirate leader shook his head, violently dismissing the second notion. The Imperials could have turned on them much earlier, they wouldn't randomly do so now. Striding across his office, Askaza activated his commlink. "Tell me what's goin' on," He demanded of whoever was on the other end.

"Generalissimo, pardon the interruption, but we have urgent news. The Gamble has detected a covert New Republic homing beacon coming from within the the base."

Askaza was silent for a second. Inside the Rock? How was that even possible? It wasn't... it couldn't be... unless... but a traitor?

"Where?" Askaza demanded. The sooner he knew where it was coming from, the sooner he could take direct action against whatever traitor or traightors there might be.

"It's the hangar bay. We've got men on the way, and we've sealed the hangar doors."

Askaza growled deep in his throat. If the Rock was attacked now, it's fighter defenses would be trapped... all that would stand in defense of the base would be the lone Gamble and it's small fighter compliment. "I'm on my way down," he said. He was about to click off his commlink, when a thought struck him. "Who discovered the beacon?"

There was a pause on the other end of the commlink, presumably as whoever was on the other end got an answer. "Annika Solen, Generalissimo. She's the tactical officer on the Gamble." Askaza filed that away for future reference, already remembering the woman's face. Without another word, he switched the commlink's frequency. "Bakkar! We have trouble. Gather your men and meet me in the hangar."

[Leto Tariq]

Nothing in his imagination could have possibly prepared him for what he saw when Mischa's door hissed open. His eyes widened and he stood gaping like a fool. He'd seen more battles than he would like, the fall of the Empire, the entire galaxy spanning out before him glittering like infinity. Frell, he's seen Mischa in a bikini.

But all of that paled in comparison in seeing Lieutenant Mischa Margolin, callsign "Vacuum", in a dress. His eyes followed the close-fitting black dress down her form and his mouth widened into a shameless grin.

What was almost surprising, however, was the effect Leto's suit had on the redheaded pilot. Maybe she was expecting him to show up in his uniform. Force knew she had enough reason to. He almost did, but then his wandering hands had come upon the old, navy suit instead.

Leto had no idea where he had bought the damn thing, not even the planet he had been on at the time. There was a very good chance that the suit had been with him almost his entire career in the 'Rats. At least as long as he's been a Captain, anyway. It was a surprise that it even still fit him.

Eventually they managed to speak again. Leto thought Mischa was the first to, but he had a hard time remembering as his eyes went over her form again. Mischa coughed and Leto realized he was just standing there.

"Nightclub, Captain?"

He nodded, tearing his eyes from her so he could focus. "Right. That."



Leto blinked at the large crowd outside the club. He'd known that it was hard to get into, but he hadn't realized it was that bad. Frak, but that orchestra was popular.

"Frak me," Mischa said. Leto bit back his tongue. "I'm looking forward to a night of standing in line with you, Leto."

"We don't have to," he said. At Mischa's gaze, he added, "I'm a Captain, remember? I pulled a few strings."

"Benefits of command, sir?"

"Between being shot at and dealing with hothead pilots like you all day, there has to be some upside to it."

The music inside was loud; for a moment, it sounded like they were being attacked by an army of underpaid and poorly armed musicians. Leto wished he had brought his helmet along, if only to have something to muffle some of the noise. Mischa laughed at his reaction and dragged him along to the bar.

He almost had his drink to his lips when Mischa interrupted him. "Is that the Admiral?"

Leto blinked and glanced behind him. "What? Where?" His eyes found his superior officer, dancing with another familiar face. "She's dancing? With Captain Dervis?"

"Captain Dervis can dance?"

Leto laughed and shook his head. "Well, that's it. I've seen everything. I'm done."

There was a cocky grin on Mischa's face as she grabbed his arm and began pulling him along, making him spill his drink over the counter. When he saw where she was taking him, he suddenly didn't care. "Like hell you are."

"If you wanted to dance, you can just ask."

"And miss seeing the look on your face?" She turned to face him and Leto lost his thoughts as they fell into step with the crowd.

The moved across the floor to the slow beat of the music. In some ways, it felt like he was flying. It took much of the same control and focus as it did to pull off a hard maneuver. As he held her to him, it felt like he had his hands on the flightstick again. He wondered if he closed his eyes, he would see the infinite black sparkling in front of him as he stared out the cockpit window. Leto cherished the feeling.

Stone may have her as a wingman when they were in the black, flashing through vacuum hard on the tail of an unlucky imp. But here, right now, she was flying with him.

When the dance ended they both pulled back from each other, trying to gain control of themselves. Leto shut his eyes, doing his best to calm his pulse.

"I think," he mumbled and tried again. "I think I could use a drink." He didn't give her much time to answer and instead took off for the bar at a quick pace.

He swallowed the drink down fast and hard. How Leto could have expected himself to keep control around her, especially in a situation like this he didn't know. Frak him, but he had come very close to breaking a few fraternization regs right in front of the Admiral and her XO.

"Captain Tariq?" a male voice asked behind him.

Oh, frak, he thought and turned around, but the man behind him wasn't who Leto had been expecting. This definitely wasn't the XO of the Second Chance. "Er... yes?"

"I knew it was you," the man proclaimed proudly, grabbing ahold of Tariq's arm before he could argue and thrusting him next to someone rather roughly. He blinked confusedly and his eyes widened in surprise when he saw the person next to him, a look that turned to fear when turned back just in time to look into a camera as it went off. The man nodded in satisfaction and stalked off, leaving Leto staring open-mouthed as he tried to make sense of what just happened.

"Frak me..." he said. Shaye laughed. "What the frell was that all about?"

"I think he remembered those recruitment posters," she said, amused at the Captain's expression. Leto groaned. Damn that holoshoot!

He looked at Shaye. "And what the frell are you doing here?"

She laughed. "What do you think it is I do all day? Pose for photos and make holofilms?" At Leto's expression, she laughed even more. "The owner thinks 'Ms. Starling' making an appearance at his club will be good for business."

Leto nodded as he began to understand. "So where's that woman you were with?" Shaye inquired.

Frak, Mischa! Leto's head shot up as he realized he had just left her standing there. He let out a long sigh when he saw the spot she was in empty. A glance around the room revealed a distinct absence of a hot-headed redhaired pilot.

"Frak..." he cursed and rubbed at his eyes. Every time they took one step forward, one of them had to frak it up and take two steps back.

"It was nice seeing you again," he told Shaye.

"Likewise. Sorry about the photographer," she said. Leto nodded and left. Shaye shook her head.



Back at the barracks Leto went to the nearest sabacc game and flung himself at it. Part of him wanted to go out in search of a certain pilot for the second time that day but he pushed those thoughts away. He'd managed to frak it up twice already. He wasn't going to give himself a third try.

Within a few minutes - and two drinks of the local mechanic's brew - Captain Dervis fell into an open chair. From the looks of him, he seemed to be having just as bad a day as he was.

A few hands and even more drinks passed. Soon Leto didn't care so much that he was losing. But finally luck shined down on him for once and dealt him a good hand. Soon the credits piled to the point that most of the Borleias pilots groaned and threw down their hands, leaving the two officers from the Second Chance to face each other alone.

"So did you manage to break a few regs with your Lieutenant, Captain? You were trying hard enough," Dervis growled over his hand.

Leto shrugged, "I don't think it's any of your concern. It looked like you were pretty cozy with the Admiral. Trying to break a few yourself?"

He smiled and put his cards on the table, too eagerly reaching for the credits in the middle. His hand froze and face fell as Dervis put down a hand that easily beat his and took the credits right from his grasp. Leto slumped back and watched the next round be passed out.

"You know, I've always wondered why you were her XO," Leto said and inwardly groaned. He may not like Dervis, but he didn't need to take his own frustrations out on the Captain.

Dervis stared coldly over his cards at Leto and shrugged back another drink. "You could probably use a few lessons from yours. Is that why that hothead is still in the service? Because she's frakking your XO?"

Leto shut his eyes. They both had had far too many drinks, and both of them were just trying to take their anger out on something. Leto should have known that, should have known neither of them really meant what they were saying. But right now, that didn't matter to him.

In an instant he pushed over the table, surprising the pilots around him. Dervis stood up in time to meet Leto's blow, matching it with his own. Leto threw a fist into Dervis's gut and leapt forward, knocking them both to the ground. He was beginning to continue his attack when firm hands looped around his shoulders and pulled him off of Dervis. The man straightened from the floor and wiped a smear of blood from his mouth, shaking his head at Leto.

"Take him to the brig," Dervis ordered. His jaw clenched and ground itself as he seemed to be making a decision before he added, "Let him sleep it off."

"Yes, sir," the man saluted and both soldiers, possibly MPs, pulled Leto away. He let them; right about now, a place to sleep sounded terribly good. Even if it was the brig.

[Jon'son Dethrider]

<I>Ah, shavit... not again...</I> Stone sighed audibly as he rose from his seat to face a nice bunch of rugged, hardened thugs, who suddenly rose from their seats with the scarred human. By the identical leather jackets all of them were wearing, it seemed they all belonged to a local swoop gang of some sort. There were several of them and they seemed plenty mad: mad at what the new Womprat pilot had done to their colleague, mad that it was instigated by some wiry horned alien, and particularly mad that they had their sabacc game interrupted. There were going to make sure that wouldn't happen again.

The burly pilot spoke and spread his hands out in apology. "Hey. It was an accident. We can pay a round of drinks if you like. We just don't want any trouble." Raising its head slightly, Eye-Gee sat there, not getting up. Not wanting to irritate the situation any futher unless called for. The rest of the swoop gang formed a small semicircle facing the Womprat pilots. They were not happy at having their fun interrupted.

The scarred human sneered at the large, muscled pilot. "This jacket costed me many credits, Tiny. A round of drinks isn't even going to cover it." He gestured to the Zabrak. "He should have known better than to start trouble with us." His friends snickered, appreciating their colleague's remark. For his part, Jon'son comtemplated the opportunity to show all of them what he's made of, as he sized them all up.

"Trouble? Is that so? With that piss-poor excuse of an army you got?" he murmured.

The scarred swooper frowned, uncertain he'd heard correctly. "Whazzat?"

"I think you should sit yourselves down and forget this happened," Stone suggested sternly. Eye-Gee and the other Womprats took the hint and rose from their seats. Jon'son picked up an empty beer bottle.

Unnerved, but not unduly so, the swooper's eyes flicked between Stone and the Womprats, Womprats and Stone. A part of him insisted that he couldn't take them. Another part insisted that it didn't matter. The latter won. He looked over at the swoop gang leader, a Falleen with a white topknot.

The leader of the gang shrugged indifferentely. "I think we won't, ooman. I think we should all teach you a lesson."

The scarred human nodded, then seemed to lapse into introspection. What he was actually doing was slipping the vibroblade from its sewn-in scabbard in the back of his pants. Once the point cleared his ass, he charged.

As the swooper reached him, Jon'son blocked the slicing knife strike. Instead of retreating, he lunged ahead, right into his attacker. His right hand brought down the beer bottle down with tremendous velocity. The bottle smashed over his head and the gang member stumbled onto the floor, his head filled with blood and bits of shattered glass. Stunned, the swooper grabbed at his head and moaned, dropping the blade.

It was not good. The Womprats had found themselves in a pickle and a fight was sure to ensue. IG-100, Tessari, and Harris readied themselves, the droid figuring the odds in its head. Jon'son stood alongside them. If they all charged together, they might catch a swooper or two mentally napping. Stone licked his lips. Not because they were dry, but in anticipation. If there was anything he hated, it was sitting and waiting. Once you let the other guy take the initiative, you've lost half the battle already.

"We gonna do this or not?" Stone egged.

Someone let out a shout and one of the swoopers moved, unlimbering his own weapons as he did so.

"Shavit!" Tessari shouted. "They're armed!" The bartender began to shout for no blasters.

None of which mattered to Jon'son, who advanced as methodically as a tank on rails; punching and kicking, knocking down anyone who got in his way as he made a straight line for the leader. Photoreceptors blazing in red at being granted an opportunity to hit out at something, anything, Eye-Gee buzzed around him like a frigate around a Dreadnaught, putting down anything that threatened the big man's progress. Those goons who did not go down immediately before that relentless double assault were picked off by the Zabrak and his buddy, bringing up the rear. Given the lethal efficiency being displayed by the big man and the fast droid, their workload was relatively light.

In such close quarters, the blaster rifles carried by the swoop gang were of little use. By the time they realized it and started going for sidearms and vibroblades, it was inevitably too late. A body flew here, a kick was thrown there, and Stone moved with efficiency.

Floating around the perimeter of the intense hand-to-hand fight, the Falleen leader bided his time. Ignoring everything else, focusing his attention, he kept his gaze trained on the big human in the center of the clash. Take out the command and control center of the enemy, he knew, and opposition would collapse. Sighting in carefully on Jon'son, he fired his blaster.

In the split second between the time the Falleen's finger tightened on the trigger of his blaster and the burst he let loose crossed the intervening space, Jon'son moved. Just missing, the bolt from the blaster pistol slammed into Harris and knocked him off his feet, sending him tumbling to the ground. Seeing one of the Womprats go down, Jon'son shouted in distress and raced to his side.

"Harris! NO! Get up!" Jon'son shook him and slapped his face.

His frantic cursing was suddenly drowned out by a loud shrill of a wookiee battle cry from across the way of the bar as Chanc suddenly lifted the Falleen off his feet and held him in the air. Furball had joined in the fray! Harried by the ferocious howl, the swoop gang were forced to pospone their efforts to put down the big man to deal with the charging wookiee. In the meantime, Eye-Gee and Tessari continued to fend more off, leading some of the thugs in the opposite direction, away from the two men lying on the ground-- one dead, the other trying to shake him awake to no avail.

[Chancbacca]

Thew wookie was in the middle of his third drink, This one a human one. Still enough to knock the human on his ass, but just enough to keep the edge The wookie had worked up.

That's when the Noise in the bar seemed to start up. From the looks of it, the other Womprats that had seemed to make it to this place had found themselves in a fight, or what could turn into a fight. A scarred Human at the front, confronting the Replacements.

Not looking good. Humans, always looking to prove themselves. Eying up the opponents, things seemed to go down from there, A gang of some sort. Violent Tribes. What was the point?

Then the Falleen made his move, giving Scar permission to move.

The wookie was already standing, but making sure if he had to step in, he'd have the biggest impact. But then the weapons were shown. "Unhonorable! SCUM! No better then those pirates!"

The fight broke out, The wookie not chargin in, The Rats were holding their own. But what was the Falleen waiting for. IT wasn't till he took aim that the wookie figured it out and charged. Unfortunately, it wasn't till after the being had fired and struck one of the Newbs That Chanc had reached his target. Ripping the being from the floor, The mighty wookie let out a roar. all restraint lost.

He let himself go into a rage. the only thing that mattered right now was saving the lives of the rest of the Rats. To hell with the others!

Holding the Being above his head, The wookie threw the Falleen across the room, the man flew a good 6 feet off the ground, and didn't stop until it's body reached the central support of the room's ceiling. a inhuman snap was heard after the sound of impact, the being's back broken. No mistaking that.

Still in this rage, the wookie began to swing the massive arms left and right, lifting gang members off the ground, and throwing them back. some not instantly getting up, but one, a human almost the same size as the dawrf wookie, didn't fly as far as the Pilot had wanted. HE slammed into one of the other smaller fights that had broken out, only suffering a slight impact. he recovered fast, and drew a Vibro shiv from his boot. moving in behind the wookie, he stuck it into the wookie's side and twisted. An Evil Smile on his face.

Bllod started pouring out of the wookie's side. but this only served to make the wookie even madder. Grabbing the human's hand, while the shiv was still in his side, he twisted to face the now scared human. growling an inhuman growl, Chanky ripped the arm from the shoulder of the gangmember. pushing back on the body. the sound of the arm ripping off and the scream of the human stopped some of the others from fighting. holding the arm above his head, waving his arms, the wookie circled where he stood, looking for the next oponent.

Not immediately seeing one, he turned back to the now onearmed man and threw the arm into him. knocking him outscold with it. Gripping the shiv, the wookie pulled it out of his side switched it off and threw it into the same central support that had killed the Falleen.

The adrenillan rush was failing the wookie, and the blood ouring out of his wound helped drain some of the wookie's strength.

Fortunately the fight was winding down, so the danger to the wookie was becoming more in line withthe wound then dangers from others.

a final growl and the wookie fell, face down onto the bar floor, breathign, but that breath becoming more shallow. Blood still pouring fromt he shiv wound.

[Mischa Margolin]

Few things in Vac’s mind were better than flying, but dancing slow and up close with Leto Tariq had just taken the top spot on that short list. The feeling of his arms around her as they swayed together in time to the music, her cheek resting below the hollow of his shoulder was something she could have enjoyed for hours in spite of the lightheaded, pulse-quickening sensation it was causing. But as soon as the long set ended, reluctantly their bodies parted and Leto abruptly turned away.

All Mischa could do at first was just stand there, shaken by what she was feeling as Leto walked toward the bar, leaving her there alone on the dance floor. It was the same feeling she had after making it back from an intense furball in one piece. After the adrenaline surge running through her veins required for the multiple tasks of concentrating on keeping her squadron mates and herself alive while vaping as many targets as possible, the comedown from that natural chemical and emotional high always left her trembling inside.

Add to that the feeling of being hit in the gut by someone of say, Chanc’s strength and it would pretty well describe exactly what she felt at watching Leto retreat mumbling something to himself as he did. She stood there with her eyes closed, trying to regain some control as the other dancers on the floor bumped into her before excusing themselves. She muttered “Sorry” a couple of times before realizing that she looked foolish just standing there, but she didn’t know what the frell to do. Should she follow him? Sit down somewhere in a far corner and hide? Get away from this damn club full of too many people she did not know and more noise than she cared to handle at one time?

Damn she hated feeling this loss of control. Deep down she knew she was just as bad as Leto when it came to such things. It was probably one of the reasons they fought so frakking much. She’d hoped though that just for one frelling night out of how many years they could just forget he was her CO and she his subordinate and just have a nice time together regulations be damned.

“Right, Misch.” She sighed. “Both of you are just too frakked up to do anything beside just keep pushing the other away by any means necessary. Get yourself together, go find him and just try to enjoy the rest of the night as best you can.” Vac told herself as she put on her usual façade of cocky disregard and made her way toward the area of the bar where she’d last seen Tariq’s retreating back.

As she got closer the sight of bright lights from a holocamera’s flash going off drew her attention, but the photographer’s subject, or subjects rather, made Mischa stop in her tracks abruptly. This caused the person following behind her, obviously distracted himself by Leto’s companion in the photoshoot, to nearly knock her down as he plowed into the petite pilot. Mischa spat a curse in Old Corellian at the obviously drunk and star struck culprit before making her way through the partying crowd and toward the exit of the Jungle Vault growing angrier by the moment.

“Stupid.” Margolin growled as she leaned against the outer wall of the natural formation the Vault was constructed inside of and yanked at the intricate laces of her shoes before taking them off and nearly hurling them into the foliage nearby. Some unfortunate passerby trying to show concern was rewarded with a string of epithets that made him hurry along toward the club’s entrance. “That’s it. Men are stupid. I’m finished with him. Just not worth it. Shavit!” She muttered to herself as she walked away from the nightclub in search of a speeder taxi to take her back to the barracks.




Once she’d returned to the complex, Mischa changed out of the dress, kicking it into the nearest corner in disgust. She rummaged through the drawers of the small dresser, pulling out a pair of baggy black fatigue pants and an oversized, comfy black tank top and dressing in them before washing the makeup off her face and deconstructing her hairstyle for the evening. “Frak sitting around this place and moping.” She thought as she pulled on her broken-in combat boots and laced them up. “I need to find a cruddy little hole in the wall cantina and good game of sabacc, hell better yet a round of shot glass dejarik and if they don’t know how to play I’ll be happy to demonstrate. To the nine hells with Leto frakkin Tariq and his holostar.”

Pulling on an old Coronet City Sandpanthers shockball jersey as she headed to the door, Mischa thought for a moment about removing her dogtags, but figured she better leave them on just in case something happened during her outing to wherever she’d end up.


The seedier part of the nearby residential area seemed like the best bet to find the kind of place she preferred much better than the nightclub she’d begun her disastrous evening in. Mostly likely less crowded, less noise, fewer squadron captains and their glamour girl “friends” to worry about ruining things. The kind of place she and Stone searched out as their hide away of choice during leaves on other occasions. Hell she might even run into the Big Man at whatever dive she stumbled into tonight. But she was hoping he was actually out enjoying his leave and not holed up somewhere drinking the time away as she planned to.

Finally she came upon the type of place she was looking for. No bright flashing holoadverts for the galaxy’s favorite inebriating concoctions, no announcements that the latest, greatest musical act in the system was appearing there for one night only. Just a flickering, barely functioning sign in Basic over the front door reading Morn’s Cantina.

As soon as Mischa walked through the doors the sharp pang of nostalgia confirmed her right choice. The place had the look, feel, and definitely the smell of just the type of place she’d usually had to hunt her mother down in and help her home from as a child. Perfect.

The mixed humanoid and alien clientele of the place gave Margolin a cursory glance as she walked over to the bar, although some gave her a more thorough going over. A withering look in the individual’s direction did wonders for making them look away and return their attention to whatever they’d been doing before she came in.

Ordering a double shot of whatever they passed off as Corellian whisky along with a chaser of lum from the ‘tender, Mischa picked up her drinks and carried them to an unoccupied small corner booth near the back where she could drink in peace and observed the goings on in the place.

After knocking back the liquor in one straight swallow she sipped on the mug of spicy brew, which like the whisky turned out to be surprisingly adequate, and let her eyes wander around the room until they stopped on the broad shouldered form of a taller than average human male dressed in black.

“Well, frak me.” Mischa thought upon seeing Dock. “Can’t I get away from anyone who isn’t associated with the ‘Rats for just a little while tonight.” Finishing off the lum she waved the server droid over and placed an order for another round of the same, thought “Ah, what the frell” then told the droid, “And get that wall in the shape of a man over there another round of whatever he’s drinking” as she nodded toward Adok.

[IG-100]

Eye-Gee's steadily glowing oculars belied the frenetic processing of information going on in the droid's name, satistics were reeled through at lighting speed - the effects of the droid moving half a yard to the left or right were computed in the minutest detail. The droid saw the Falleen raise his arm and calculated a trajectory before the organic's finger had even begun to squeeze the firing stud. The blaster bolt would in all probability hit Stone's shoulder causing a painful but ultimately non-lethal injury. Against probability, it didn't. Even before Harris hit the floor, Eye-Gee knew he was dead - it moved out to flank Stone's crouching body as a remarkably small Wookie it recognised as Chancbacca stormed int othe fight and killed the leader. Good. Organics said droids could only imitate emotion - Eye-Gee held that droids were fully capable of emotion, but that it was droid emotion. And there's nothing a bodyguard droid hates more than being unable to prevent the death of a collegue. Mere seconds later and the Wookie slumped to the ground, blood pouring from a stab wound to the side - as Eye-Gee calculated more probabilities part of it's brain found itself amused - at least the Wookie would be in the infirmary not the brig. But he would be in neither without immediate help - help a war droid wasn't qualified to give. Relying on Tessari or Stone - or even perhaps some innocent bystander - to help Cancbacca, the droid switched routines.

To onlookers, it seemed that the droid had shifted several gears in less than a second - it tore a metal pole from the bar next to it and almost flung itself at the gang, the pole held like a staff and rapidly becoming a blur that spun around the droid. Eye-Gee narrowed it's focus - only it, it's targets and where it's targets were absolutely not getting remained, everywhere the droid went swoopers crumpled to the floor - broken limbs, crushed skulls and shattered limbs marked it's passage as the confused and shocked gangers fell back. Then they rallied somewhat - sidearms spitting blaster bolts at the metal dervish heading for them. They slowed it down, some damaged systems Eye-Gee would have to repair itself later, its armour rapidly grew new and interesting scorch marks and glancing hits sliced off into the roof and walls of the beach hut. Unfortuonatly, Tessari knew less about how to stop a Wookie bleeding to death than Eye-Gee did - perhaps he was taken in by their reputation and thought that Cancbacca would recover on his own. Whatever the reason, he moved in after Eye-Gee with a broken bottle in each hand, lashing out at any who tried to get past the storm of metal descending on them. And a blaster bolt richoceted off the droid's carapace, just like many others. And it hit flesh, like some of the others. Tessari never knew what hit him. But Eye-Gee didn't notice - all that existed was it, it's targets and where he didn't want them going. The droid noted with it's customerily dark sense of humour that it had quite a few splatters of blood on it's carapace - and it was pretty damn sure none of it was its.

[Adok Borys]

At the approach of the server droid, Dock looked up from the mug of ale that he’d been staring morosely into. He still had half a bottle of the cheap whiskey, but he’d switched to ale, because he could drink longer which gave him an excuse to lurk in the bar.

“What the frak, I didn’t order anything,” Dock thought. “What does this droid want?”

The droid looked down and placed another mug of the local brand of ale on the table. “Sir, that female over there,” the droid paused to gesture, “purchased a drink for you.”

Adok smiled and downed the remainder of the mug of ale he’d been staring at, and picked up the fresh mug that the droid had left him. “I’d better go thank the lady then.” He stood up and then strode over to the table, forgetting about his bottle of whiskey.

The noisily thumped the mug on the table, ale sloshing out onto the scarred synthetic surface and then slid into the unoccupied seat of the booth.

At the sound of his ale sloshing onto the table, Mischa looked up, and favored Dock with one of her withering looks. He shrugged and smiled, then took a hefty swallow from his mug of ale, placing the mug back on the table, and then making a comment, “Don’t look at me like that. I’m just thanking you for my drink, and buying the next round.”

He took another large swallow of the ale and belched, feeling the effects of some of the fumes from the high proof whiskey that he’d been drinking.

He gestured toward one of the unoccupied Dejarik boards. “How about a game? Gotta do something to liven this up.”

He took a swallow of ale as Vac nodded. “Yeah, lets play some Dejarik.”

Adok stood up, following Mischa over to one of the empty tables. The pair assumed positions on either side of the table, and then powered it up, the pieces randomly appearing on either side.

Adok reached into his pocket and extracted a five credit coin and then thunked it onto the rim of the board. “A wager. Makes the game interesting.”

Mischa favored Dock with a baleful glance. “I’ll enjoy spending your credits.”

Dock shrugged and then slapped another coin onto the rim. “Ten. Lets make it interesting.”

Mischa matched his wager of ten credits.

Adok powered up the board, and the Dejarik pieces began to appear in the spots assigned to each player. He caught the photoreceptor of one of the server droids, and held up two fingers and then made a pouring motion. The droid hurried over with a bottle and a pair of glasses. He pushed one over toward Margolin, and then poured several fingers of the whiskey into each of them. He raised his glass to the woman sitting across from him, in a silent toast and then drained it in two swallows.

Margolin reached for her glass of whiskey that Adok had poured and then drained it in a single long swallow. Adok poured another pair of shots from the bottle of whiskey and the silent ritual was repeated and then a third time.

Dock stared at the Dejarik board and tried to remember whose move it was. He shrugged and pointed toward Margolin. “You’re move, beautiful.”

Mischa’s nostrils flared in anger, and she punched controls on the board, moving one of the pieces around the outside of the circle. Adok repressed a snicker and moved one of the defensive pieces into the center of the circle. He also caught Mischa’s muttered, “Damn him.”

Adok took a deep breath and poured another shot of the whiskey into each of the glasses. He raised his, and then downed it. Margolin matched him gesture for gesture, it was becoming a ritual. Dock moved one of his pieces to intercept Mischa’s creature that was trying to sneak around the flank of his line.

In an attempt to make polite conversation, Adok asked who Mischa wished to damn. That turned out to be a mistake, because he didn’t even see the first punch that left him staring up at the ceiling from the floor. He shook his head, and then forced him to his feet, in the process, staggering into the Dejarik table and scattering the wagers onto the floor of the bar.

He rubbed his jaw under his mouth, and his fingers came away bloody from a split lip. He noticed that Mischa was moving toward him and concluded that she had thrown the punch that had knocked him to the floor. He launched himself into a clumsy lunge toward Margolin, managing to shove her into the nearby Dejarik table in spite of her clumsy dodge. He blocked the punch that the launched at him and then found himself shoved up against the wall. He heard something splinter, and then the pressure that was holding him against the wall released, and he turned around, noticing Mischa brandishing a stool that at a Gamorrean. He launched himself into a tackle, ducked the next swing of the stool, and then knocked the woman to the floor.

That was when he saw the distinctive emblems of the naval troopers that had been assigned to shore patrol, on the uniforms of several brawny humans, that were marching in through the front door. They carried truncheons and they began to zealously apply them to the beings that inhabited the bar, several of their number also seemed to be occupied dragging unconscious beings of various types out, presumably to some type of transport speeder.

Dock decided that he didn’t want to be one of those beings being dragged out of the bar for fighting, and so he rolled to his feet and beat a hasty retreat through the press of bodies toward the rear of the bar, where there was a door marked “Employees Only.”

He crashed against it, feeling it open under his weight, and gazed around at a storeroom. He quickly located the exit, and found himself in a trashy street behind the bar. He shrugged, and thought to himself, Hope Margolin makes it out. Didn’t want to leave her, but didn’t want to face the shore patrol either.

[Ceryll Tana]

Surrounded by all of this beauty, and all I can do is sit around, Ceryll bemoaned to herself, gazing forlornly at the cold beverage (non-alcoholic, of course) that she had ordered. She had no idea what it was, but so far she was rather fond of it.

After the ceremony on the Borleias beach, Ceryll had wandered back to the barracks, uncomfortable in her uniform…and with the medals she had been awarded. She felt that she didn't deserve them. She hadn't done anything deserving of medals…or commendations. Frak, all she had done was to fly around like a maniac, trying her hardest not to get vaped on her first mission.

Ceryll had tucked the medals safely away in a box. That was the end of that.

Fiddling with the tiny umbrella sticking out amid the ice in her drink, Ceryll glanced around the lonely grouping of tables. There were very few customers at the particular spot, but she had already spotted a familiar face.

Ati Quai. The smuggler who had been fortunate enough - or perhaps unfortunate enough - to catch the Admiral's eye. She had to admit that she had been surprised when the scruffy looking pilot had been initiated so abruptly into the squadron. And yet, she also knew that Admiral Nerys was not easily impressed.

Not that Ceryll would even try to argue. Quai had come just in time to help her out of a tight spot. She had no complaints regarding his skills as a pilot.

She debated upon whether she should introduce herself. Most of the 'Rats had been fairly aloof regarding Ati, leaving him relatively alone. Ceryll couldn't help but sympathize, since she was still trying to find a place to fit in with her squadron mates.

Ati, however, seemed to have beat her to the punch.

"You look as thrilled to be here as I am. Pull up a chair."

Ceryll turned to look at him, tucking a piece of her auburn hair behind her ear. It wasn't necessarily the most enthusiastic of invitations, but she couldn't say she had expected anything more. With a somewhat wary smile, Ceryll pushed her chair back, abandoning her drink, and joined the smuggler at his table.

"Hello," she said in casual greeting, scooting forward so that she was directly across from him.

"Ati Quai," he introduced himself, extending a hand for her to shake. Likely not the most appropriate thing to do, considering that many females would find such a gesture rude. Then again, considering the reputation of the rest of the squadron, the offered hand was probably an improvement. That and the fact that Ati rarely did things that were considered 'appropriate.'

Ceryll nodded. "I'm Ceryll. Nice to finally meet you."

"Didn't mean to interrupt your thoughts over there, just thought it might help pass the time a bit better."

She shrugged and gave a half-hearted chuckle. "I had nothing better to do. Not much of a swimmer, to be honest. Everyone else seems to be enjoying themselves, though." Glancing around, Ceryll spotted Chancbacca heading into a bar. "And I can't seem to gather up the courage to try out any of the local saloons," she added, creasing her brow in amusement.

"Saloons are over-rated. Generally, they become a public display of pent-up aggression. In other words, they aren't anything but a bunch of trouble just waiting to be found."

Spoken like one who had experienced enough of it. There were many other ways to taunt death and walking into a typical nightclub was not one of them, at least not for him. To each their own though.

The smuggler's eyes followed the wookiee as he entered the bar, one eyebrow lofting slightly. A wookiee could take care of himself with relative ease. Somehow, Ati didn't figure anyone else in the bar would be able to rip someone's arms out of their sockets - or off completely. Advantage Chancbacca in that regard. And most people weren't stupid enough to try goading a wookiee into a fight.

"But don't let me dissuade you or keep you tied up if you want to go in."

She shook her head quickly. "Not really interested. Anyway, my mom would probably throw a fit if she found out I even set a toe in a place like that." Ceryll laughed slightly, flushed and feeling rather idiotic in acting like such a child, and quickly changed the subject. "So, do you have a lot of experience piloting a fighter or do you stick to the big ships?"

"Some. I imagine at some point in time I've managed to pilot just about anything, though the Junkpile has had the most galaxy clicks logged into her systems. Sorta comes with the territory, I guess. I did actually pilot an Interceptor once. Those are...fun, just stay clear of asteroids."

A small grin was added there, as if either a joke or a remembrance of that time. While he wouldn't state it, especially after what had just happened to members of their crew, he found the appearance of starfighters - at least Republic starfighters - to look a lot like coffins with wings. Just enough room for one person in a long rectangular area. "From what I hear around the ship, they baptized you with fire on that last mission. Your first time?"

"My first time in actual combat, yes," Ceryll admitted. "I was scared to death." She paused, glancing down at her clenched fists. Just the memory of the four men who had been lost was making her stomach churn. "Everyone tells me I'll eventually get used to it."

"Used to it? Perhaps. I imagine what they mean is that you'll learn to forget what you're doing, but I don't know if you ever really get used to it. Casualties of war, you might say."

A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "I suppose that is what they mean." Ceryll laughed slightly. "I have to admit that I feel more comfortable in an X-wing than on the ground. All of this beautiful place at my disposal and I feel like I've just been wasting my time."

"I doubt that. You wound up doing what you wanted to, right? That's not a waste. The waste is the guy who does nothing but sit around at a saloon like this and drink. You're doing something with your life."

Leaning back in her seat, Ceryll shrugged reflectively. "Makes sense, I suppose." She felt as though she had opened up a bit more than she had planned with this practical stranger, but also didn't seem to mind too much. It had been nice to have a talk…to have somebody take even the slightest interest in having a conversation with her.

The blue sky was streaked with orange clouds, indicating the close of another day. Shoreleave wasn't so bad, she decided.

"It was nice meeting you, Ati," Ceryll commented, deciding that it was about time for her to head back to the barracks and try to salvage some of the evening. Maybe she'd take a late swim. She had never been much of a swimmer…but the lovely waters on Borleias were most definitely beckoning. Anyway, she had to have something to tell her family in her next communication.

"Nice talking to you, Ceryll," Ati replied, saluting casually as she stood. "Or should I start calling you 'Red'?"

She laughed. "That'll do. See you around."

Leaving the table, Ceryll headed back in the direction of the barracks. Though she noticed some kind of excitement ensuing around the saloon Chanc had formerly entered, she decided against checking it out. After all, Ati was probably right when he had said that saloons were "a bunch of trouble just waiting to be found."

* * * * *

[Cayenne Rudal]

Cay sighed as she stared out at the ocean, the activities of the 'Rats fifty-plus meters away long forgotten - they may have even left by then, but her mind was too busy to notice. That award ceremony had felt so incredibly empty... the whole debacle had made her want to scream. From the looks on her fellow pilots' faces, they felt similarly. They had lost four men they had hardly known. This current streak wasn't going to do anything for the way the whole Navy saw them. The antithesis of the Rogues, the place only the worst pilots go to. The place to go if you have an urgent desire to die.

They had four newbies already to replace those who had died before their bodies were even cold. Cay ignored the absurdity of the metaphor - since they had died in space their bodies would have been chilled almost instantly. At this point she didn't care what her tutor back home would have said. Did the New Republic even care that they had lost lives? There was just no time any more. The appearance of this mysterious Imperial force didn't help matters. She snorted. That was the understatement of the millennium.

Her mind flicked back to the newbies. Three were living, sentient beings, as far as she knew. She hadn't personally met two of them, just had them pointed out to her. One, Ati Quai, was some smuggler who got himself stuck in the middle of the fiasco at the supply depot and in the process had been recruited by their wonderful Admiral to be a Womprat pilot. Cay had a bad feeling about that one. The other was a Zabrak named Tessari. She didn't know much about the species and had no idea what to expect from him.

Then there was the latest. Some wise guy named Harris who had been stupid enough to sidle up to her before he knew who she was. Idiot. Didn't the color of her hair serve as a large enough warning sign? Thankfully for him, it had been on the beach - Cay had had no idea her simple halter top and shorts were so attractive and alluring, like he'd claimed - and her pounding him into the ground with one casual blow to the back of his legs hadn't left much damage. When he'd come up coughing up sand, he learned that she was not one to be messed with. Then he had walked off muttering something about Womprat redheads and droids.

Cay mulled it over for a moment once again and laughed. She figured that he had had a run-in with Mischa somehow. How he'd gotten out of that without getting a scratch, she had no idea. He had been favoring that left foot. Maybe she'd stomped on it or something.

But a droid? Harris's mumbling had reminded her of the rumor she'd heard about some droid joining up with the squad. A droid. Guess the higher-ups had finally realized what a death trap the Womprats could be and were sick of dealing with grieving families. Or maybe they just didn't care and sent some half-rate hunk of junk because of that. Cay didn't know which to believe.

A gentle breeze came up onto the beach from the sea, its soothing coolness brushing its fingers through her red hair and easing the worries she had faced over the last few days. Cay sighed again. It was nice to be alone for a while, to think out under a real sun on real ground in a beautiful environment, but the vastness of the horizon made her feel lonely at some point, and that point had come.

Slowly standing, the redheaded Womprat picked up her light jacket, dusted the sand off her shorts, and made her way toward a small, rustic-looking building a few hundred meters from the water. She figured she could find some of her fellow pilots there. Cay wasn't terribly fond of heavy drink, but she fully understood why those in their line of work could find it appealing. After Bounder had died she would have downed a full bottle of Whyren's Reserve herself.

It didn't take long for her to find some other Womprats. Stone and three of the newbies - including a droid; so it wasn't a rumor - were seated at a table a little ways from the entrance playing what looked like sabacc. She'd never learned how to play, since no one had bothered to teach her and she hadn't had a reason to care yet, so she wasn't completely positive of the game type. Then they began playing and spoke enough for her to catch a few of the gameplay rules. Sneaking into a booth where shadows obscured her from their view, Cay listened intently. She had no idea why she wanted to hide, though. She just didn't want to break anything up or, well, garner any attention at all. Cay was like that. Unless there was a need for it, or unless she was really comfortable with all those present, she hated being anywhere near the center of attention.

"'Choo want somethin'?" a Bothan asked her.

"Uh, yeah, glass of Alderaanian ale if you have it."

"It'll cost ya."

"That's fine."

"'Choo one of those Womprats?"

She shrugged. "Could be. Could I just get my drink, please?"

"Sure." He ambled away, appearing for all the world that he had been partaking of that which he served multiple times that evening. Cay returned to her covert observation of the sabacc game and barely noticed a minute later that her drink had arrived. After a moment, she realized it was there and took a sip. Damn, that's good. Cay smiled more than slightly for the first time in days. A girl could get used to this.

After a little while, when she was halfway through her drink, the subject of Vac came up in the players' conversation. Was that ever a wrong move. The ensuing mishap seemed to aggravate a nearby tough and his gang, none of whom looked at all happy to have been disturbed. Unconsciously she scooted further into her small booth. She had definitely caught a strong whiff of trouble.

Sure enough, after a nasty exchange of words - well, on the tough's part; Stone held himself quite well, making Cay proud to be his squadmate - violence started up. She couldn't tell what exactly was going on from her vantage point, but a moment later a cry made it quite clear that Harris was down. Cay felt a momentary wrench of guilt. She hadn't known the guy very well, had even mistreated him, and now he could be gone. She shook her head violently and downed the rest of her ale in two large gulps.

And then Furball entered. Damn, could that Wookiee fight. His intensity almost frightened her. She was glad he was on her side when it came to a dogfight.

It felt like hours - but couldn't have been more than a minute or two - later when the Wookiee fell. Cay couldn't stand back any longer. Jumping in, she rushed to his side and pressed her jacket against the deep and gushing wound. He grunted something that sounded like thanks to her, but his usually understandable speech was garbled with pain. "Just lie still, Furball - you move and you'll make it that much harder for me to help out."

"Like I'm gonna let you do that, little missy," one of the thugs said as he roughly pulled her to her feet away from the wounded pilot.

"Get your frakking hands off me!" Cay exclaimed, sending her right elbow into the man's nose. He roared in pain and anger and wildly started shooting at her. Startled, she immediately tried to knock off his aim by forcefully sending her left hand into his wrist, but another shot managed to escape right as she made contact.

The bolt made a distinctive sound as it banged off metal and almost immediately was followed by a cry of pain. Cay quickly knocked the man unconscious in anger with an obliging bottle of whiskey that had been sitting nearby and felt as if she had been shot when she realized that the errant blaster bolt fired from the man she had been fighting with had neatly shot the Zabrak full on in the face. He must have died instantly, though the thought did little to console her. With moisture welling up in her eyes Cay returned to the difficult task of stopping the blood flow from Chanc's wound while the droid, in eerie silence devoid of the grunts and cries of a sentient being, fought off the rest of the gang alongside Stone.

Not two minutes later a group of police - shore patrol or MPs; Cay was too distracted to care - flooded the small cantina. Firing off a few shots, along with rather official-sounding cries along the lines of "Stand down immediately!" they quickly cut into the fight. Their captain immediately called for a medical squad while the rest of the group arrested the survivors of the skirmish. The droid seemed to be giving them a little bit of trouble, though. Not physical; it appeared that he was arguing for their case. Then one of the burlier MPs told him he could give his statement at the station. Another knelt next to Cay. "Ma'am, I'm sorry, but I'm going to need you to come with us too. I'll need at least a statement from you."

She nodded before adding defiantly, "I'm not leaving until this Wookiee is escorted out by medics."

"Understood, ma'am. We'll wait for them to arrive as well, then we'll escort the rest of you to the station."

Cay merely nodded. He seemed to have a compulsive need to overstate things. The interim pause between the end of the fight and the medics' arrival gave her plenty of time to mull over the events in her mind, even the most painful one of all... the fact that she herself was responsible for the death of one of their newest members, Tessari.

[Mischa Margolin]

Mischa groaned as the morning light from the window across the room invaded the minute space between her upper and lower eyelids and drive a spike of dull agony into the center of her brain.

“Frak” she said to no one in particular as she sat up and looked around the small unfamiliar room. Grey painted ferrocrete floor and walls, wide durasteel benches topped with the thinnest of padded synthide bolted to said walls, bulbs in the ceiling whose recessed fittings were covered with fine metal grating similar to that over the offending window, solid durasteel door with a tiny sliding panel-covered opening. All these features gave Misch an immediate, nearly comforting sense of place and she leaned back against the wall behind the bench she’d been lying on, legs curled up close to her body. A holding cell in a New Republic brig, typical of the others she’d spent many a night in. “Margolin, you idiot.” She said, holding her head in her hands as it to ward off the inevitable headache to come after a night of drinking and Goddess only knows what else.

After that first game of playing a form of dejarik, only using shot glasses filled with a locally distilled spirit with a lethally high alcohol content in addition to the traditional game pieces, things got a little fuzzy. She vaguely remembered someone saying something stupid (and she was pretty sure that someone was Adok) and her reacting badly to whatever it was that he’d said. Her bruised knuckles and various new aches and pains in places she didn’t feel them yesterday morning told her she’d gotten into it with someone…if she could only remember who and why. But again she was almost positive it was Dock.

As her eyes adjusted to the first light of morning she peered around the room again, this time noticing a vaguely human shape, possibly male and snoring nearly as loud as Stone did lying with his back to her on the wide sleeping bench across the way. Too short to be her first suspect, she wondered if had been wrong about the whole thing and this was a whole other idiot from the night before that she was sharing a holding cell with. Maybe that lantern-jawed commando grunt who wouldn’t take frell no for an answer.

“Frak.” She uttered yet again as she stood on less than confident legs and stretched, wincing at a particularly annoying little ache in her left shoulder. Most likely that came from sleeping on the woefully inadequate thing that passed for a mattress. As petite as she may be, her legs weren’t quite ready to bear the weight of a hungover fighter pilot who’d spent much of the night passed out on a brig bench and she settled back onto that bench in a graceless heap, awakening the man across the room with a start.

“What the frell?” Leto Tariq rolled over with a startled jump, overbalanced off his own bench and landed on the unforgiving ferrocrete floor beneath him. Recovering with less than the usual athletic agility due to his current condition and state of confusion as to exact time and place, he got to his feet and directed a puzzled glare toward the source of the noise that awoke him. That source threw back her head and laughed at the sight of Leto’s disheveled appearance and befuddled look, which was replaced by a frown as he recognized the woman.

“What is so flarging funny, Vac?” Orion growled at his fellow detainee as he put a hand to his aching head, dark brown hair sticking up in spikes of diverging directions.

Mischa’s snorted out another giggle, “Nothing, Sir. Just can’t get over the idea of the great Leto Tariq in the brig. Usually you’re on the other side of the bars giving me that “what the frell is wrong with you?” speech This time you’re right in the hole with me.” Her giggles subsided to a hiccupping little hitch. “So what did you do to end up in here anyway, flyboy? Did Miss Galaxy or whatever the frell she is call the MPs on you for molesting her or something?” She asked her CO with a smirk.

Leto frowned then a fought back a stunned grin at the realization that confirmed what he’d been suspecting dawned on him. “She’s jealous. Mischa is frakkin jealous.”

“Actually, Shaye and I had a very nice time.” Tariq replied casually, smiling as if fondly remembering something from the evening before. “Maybe if you had stuck around you’d have seen that for yourself how much fun she can be. Where did you run off to anyway?” He asked just as casually.

“Pffft. Surprised you even missed me. That place just wasn’t my scene.” Mischa replied with convincing scorn. “Too damn many people, awful music, lousy booze. I had much more fun where I ended up after leaving your friend’s little party, trust me.” She finished with a wink. “You can ask Dock, he was there. Although somehow he managed to get out of there before the damn Shore Patrol showed up. Hell I need to ask him what happened myself actually.”

“Oh?” Leto asked, eyebrows going up as his grin disappeared.

“Yeah.” Mischa smiled wickedly. “We were sitting around drinking and I remember talking to some ground pounder who was cute and sorta obnoxious, but I was having a great time anyway. Then a little later I think I recall arguing with Dock over something. I think he might have made some disparaging remark questioning my gender or something like that and I may have challenged him to a fight…or maybe it was the other way around. Hell I don’t really remember anything either of us said at all to be honest. But anyway, we started brawling and the owner of that hole in the wall didn’t take too kindly to the New Republic’s less than finest causing problems in his establishment. I may have called his parentage into question or something and he called in the SP…and here I am.

I do recall that I was having a lot more fun there than I was having at that…what’s its name…Jungle place. But I’ll be frakked if I can remember exactly all the details of what that fun consisted of…maybe I was frakked.” She grinned at the deliberate choice of words as she nonchalantly shrugged. “All I know is I have this oddly satisfied feeling that whatever it was made the lock up that followed more than worth it.” She said with a cocky grin. “But the best part is, you must have done something just as stupid to end up in here yourself. And don’t think I’ll let you live this down anytime soon.”

“What the frell did you do anyway?” Misch asked with a gleam in her eye. “Not pay your bar tab? Say poo doo in polite company?

Oh I know, Miss Galaxy found you so unbelievably boring she had you arrested on some trumped up complaint just to relieve herself of your company.” She added with a smirk.

Leto hung his head down for a moment before looking up at Mischa with that rarely seen cocky go to hell grin she hated and loved at the same time. “You’re jealous.”

Rolling her eyes Vac replied, “You’re frakkin dreaming Tariq. Trust me, I had much more fun than you had last night. You can bet on that. Although knowing your gambling skills that may not be such a great idea after all.”

“Admit it, Mischa. It’s why you left last night and it’s why you keep bringing Shaye up now.” He deliberately smiled and changed the inflection of his voice as he said the actress’ name. No need to let Mischa know that he had no interest in the woman other than as a friend, and Shaye Starling felt likewise of that he was quite sure. Still, it was nice to push the little red-haired pilot’s buttons since she’d enjoyed pushing his so often in the past.

“I had a great time with her last night. She’s funny and sweet and not hard on the eyes at all. That dress she had on was…” he trailed off, a grin on his handsome face as if remembering the outfit and the woman inside it.

Margolin didn’t say anything as Leto finished speaking, instead she held her tongue and her annoyance, grasped the hem of the long sleeved, slightly baggy jersey she was wearing and pulled it over her head. Deliberately stretching with slow, feline grace as she revealed the loosely fitted black tank top she’d made from one of Stone’s cut down tee shirts underneath it.

“What would I have to be jealous about? Some of us don’t have to advertise how good of a catch we are.” she said nonchalantly, but inwardly smiling at the look on Leto’s face as he watched her. “While others hold out vacancy signs.”

“So what kind of sign were you holding out at that cantina you and Dock ended up in?” Tariq spit out once he could tear his eyes away from the skimpy cut-down tee shirt. “Seems to me like your doing some advertising of your own right now.” He eyed her choice of clothing more closely, thinking that even in the makeshift garment she outshone Shaye, or any woman he’d seen at the club the night before.

The obviously too large fit of the shirt gave Leto an idea of where it had come from. It also gave him his own flash of jealousy and a wicked thought that he just had to go and let his big mouth put into words before his brain could stop him.

“So does Dock have your bra on right now? “ He said with a grin. “Oh wait that looks too big to be his shirt. Were you and Stone so frakkin drunk that you didn’t even notice you’d put each other’s clothes back on afterwards?”

She should have realized Leto was speaking out of jealousy and frustration of his own. That yes, he’d said one of stupidest things he could have possibly ever said to her for those reasons and was only doing it to get to her on the same level she always got to him. Instead she only let her temper take control as she had so many times in the past when the two of them ever got anywhere near to being close to actually giving in to what they had felt for each other for far too long.

“Frak…you.” She growled lowly, green eyes blazing as she got off the bench and stalked toward him, burning into his own bright blue-eyed gaze as Tariq got to his feet. “Here we go again.” he thought. “Fighting instead of doing what we should be doing.” Channeling both the raw attraction and the mutual admiration they were both too stubborn to admit feeling into something punishing and hurtful instead. “Oh no, not this time.” Leto thought as Mischa launched herself at him in a rage.

Sidestepping slightly he caught her around the waist as her own momentum carried her face first toward the wall and that movement continued, carrying them both forward and a furious Mischa Margolin found herself trapped suddenly between the brig wall and the nearly as solid body of her captain.

“Get off me damn it.” She told Leto between clenched teeth. But he held his ground and dipped his head slightly to brush his lips across the juncture where her left shoulder and neck came together. “What are you afraid of Mi-Mi?” he asked in a husky voice before moving his lips up to the spot right below her ear.

Hitting her over the head with a club couldn’t have stunned Mischa more as he called her by the name she’d only allowed him and one other person to use and she fought to keep her knees from buckling at the sound of his voice speaking to her in a way she’d never heard from him before.

“I’m not afraid of anything.” She replied, nearly gasping at the heat of Leto’s body through their clothes as she struggled to free herself from his grasp. And suddenly she was free, but only for a moment as Leto’s hands slid down to her hips and he spun her around to face him, want and irritation fighting for control of his features. She was sure that if she looked in a mirror, the same look would be reflected back at her.

“Damn it. I think you are, Mischa.” Leto replied huskily, searching her face for some sign that she agreed with him. “I think you’re afraid to let anyone get close to you, other than the occasional flyboy or soldier you pick up for a casual frak. It’s why you always keep Stone around? So you can have him scare off anyone who might get through that damn wall you’ve built.”

Mischa’s breath caught under that intense gaze and her reply was controlled, yet barely audible. “Let…me…go. I don’t want to fight with you right now, Leto.”

“That’s funny. You were ready to kick my ass a minute ago” Tariq replied, unwilling and unable to let go what had started. “I must have hit a sore spot talking about Jon’son like that, huh. Is that why he’s always hanging around, always has to fly your wing and share your quarters? What, are you two frak buddies as…”

Leto never got the last word out as Mischa’s palm connected with the right side of his face. That small act snapped the remaining control Leto had barely reigned in up to that point and he grabbed Mischa, pulling her closer as she fought off his hands, which seemed to be everywhere.

“Stop fighting me Mischa.” Leto growled at her, his lips thinning, jaw clenched. “Stop pushing me away damn it.” He wasn’t talking only about what was happening at the moment, but what she’d been doing for years. Never letting him into that little circle of herself as she had allowed Stone. But this was it, now or never. And Leto didn’t intend to let it be the latter.

Struggling frantically Mischa was near terrified to let Leto see the effect he was having on her body. Terrified to let herself go and admit to the man she’d been in love with for so long just what she felt. It was a side of Leto she’d only imagined seeing before this and Goddess help her, but her pulse was racing at his touch, his voice, just the damn sight of him even more than ever.

“Stop it, Leto.” Margolin cried in a voice that surprised her with its venom.

“Stop telling me to stop,” he ground out between his teeth. “You know damn well this is what you want”

Tariq was halfway right. She just hadn’t wanted it to be this way– in anger – but realized that for them, there was no other way. As if every sparring match, every argument, every out of turn word between them had only been extended foreplay leading up to this moment. She’d wanted, needed to tell him she loved him. But she never could. Closest she’d come had been on the jump back from the furball with the Imps and pirates right before leave. But as every time before, she couldn’t do it. Big bad fighter pilot couldn’t face her hardest challenge of all. In anger they could both forget the realities of who they were and let it burn away all the excuses they’d ever used within themselves.

He had managed to get her normally lethal hands under control and had them pinned behind her back with one hand as the other went to her hair and grasped a handful of bright copper waves as he forced her to look up at him.

“Nothing to say for once?” Leto said as Mischa’s lips tried to form words of raging denial, but nothing came out except unintelligible monosyllables, which Leto silenced by crushing his mouth against hers and forcing her head back.
Mischa resisted for the barest of seconds before relenting and kissing him back just as fiercely. She continued fighting to get her hands free only this time because she needed to touch him, feel his body beneath her own fingertips, not to push him away.

Leto’s hand left her wrists not a moment after the thought came to her head. He broke the kiss and backed away slightly, other hand still in her hair,” “Going to break my jaw again, Lieutenant?” Tariq asked smugly Mischa used her own freed hands to grab the front of his shirt. “Only if you stop now, Leto I swear.” She managed to say breathlessly between lips made almost numb by that kiss.

“Gods, she really does want me.” Tariq thought with a shaky half smile when Vac pulled him toward her as he claimed her mouth again and his hands went everywhere. Sliding down her back to pull her closer, he smiled inwardly at the groan she gave against his lips.

Mischa’s hands were at his back, his shoulders, in his hair, down his arms and Leto trapped her against the wall as he felt her legs tremble. Tariq knew there was no turning back now. No frelling way and he knew with full certainty Mischa felt the same.

What followed next wasn’t much different in its near brutal intensity from all the things that had passed between the two of them for years now. This was just the inevitable culmination of the build up of so many different emotions between the two. In this situation Leto absolutely took the upper hand and Mischa, for once, didn’t even try to fight it. And near the end, when he’d practically forced the confession of what she’d held back from telling him after the last battle it had sent Tariq flying over the edge of any control that remained in him at the sound of “I frakking love you Leto Tariq” coming from Mischa’s lips.

Once he’d regained the ability to speak as well as breath he smilingly murmured in her ear, “If I had known this is what it would have taken to get you to admit it you loved me, I would have forced the situation long ago.”
Mischa was quiet at first, something unusual for her to say the least and the first hint of doubt began creeping into Leto’s mind. “Frak. What were you thinking Leto, your supposed to be the superior officer here, the one who can control himself in the situation…not Captain Tears His Lieutenant’s Pants Off.” Tariq berated himself internally. “Just say something Mischa, anything.”

Instead she turned around in his arms to face him, tears spilling down her cheeks and his heart just dropped into the pit of his stomach. He’s never seen her cry before. Seen possible evidence on rare occasion of the aftermath of such a thing, but never the tears themselves. Not realizing they were just part of the cathartic release of so many things she’d been holding within herself for far too long. Only that Mischa Margolin didn’t cry unless something terrible had happened. She’d rather put on that damn “I eat TIE fighters and their pilots for breakfast” attitude every waking hour of the day.

“Hey...Misch…I…I’m sor.” Is all he gets out before she puts two fingers to his lips and that familiar frown was back and wrinkling her brow. “Don’t you dare say you’re sorry Leto. Don’t even think it.” She said in a voice barely above a hoarse whisper, but weighted with annoyance at him. This he could deal with, the familiar Vac he was comfortable with.

“What’s wrong, did I hurt you?” Leto asked gently. “Don’t flatter yourself too much Tariq.” She answered with a smirk, eyes downcast. Leto placed his fingers gently under her chin, the one he’d jabbed at more than a few times over the years in their “fight instead of frak” sessions, and raised her face toward his. “What is it Mischa? Are you regretting that we did this?”
“No, but I have a feeling you are.” She answered as Leto opened his mouth to protest. Mischa also couldn’t help thinking to herself that he’d never even said how he felt in return, but Goddess she didn’t think he had to. It was in the way he looked at her.

But she also knew how he could be about breaking the rules, never mind that he was in command of a squadron full of rule breakers. Responsible…in control…the frakkin Captain. Right now he was probably having some inner mental self-flagellating argument with himself about losing that control and committing a sin against the almighty law of fraternization and doing it with a bang,

Mischa laughed at the unintentionally thought pun and that sound broke the tension between them. Leto kissing her on her laughing mouth did even more to break it and she smiled at him when they finally came up for air. “So what do we do now, Captain?” Vac asked, trailing her fingers lightly across Leto’s chest. “Honestly, Misch I hadn’t ever thought I’d find myself in this…position. I mean, it’s not that I hadn’t thought about this it’s...” He trailed off awkwardly

“You’re worried about others on the carrier finding out, about Command finding out. I understand.” Mischa replied, knowing just what he was thinking. “Would it make you feel any better if I told you that half the damn carrier, and most of the ‘Rats, think we’ve already had something going on?” She added with a sly wink, laughing at the look that crossed Leto’s face. “Really?” Tariq replied. “They think?…all of them?”

”No not all of them. The rookies don’t.” Mischa told him with a smile, “Although with the way rumors fly around the Fleet, it won’t be long. Come on, the all-seeing, all-knowing Captain Tariq was oblivious to the gossip in his own squadron?”

A frown came over Leto’s face at her words, as if confirming the worst fears he had about the line they had just crossed, but it vanished as another thought came to mind. “Well what the frak?” He said grinning, “If they’re already thinking it, then why the frell not? We can still act like nothing’s going on. Still continue with the verbal and physical dancing around the issue like we’ve been doing. And whenever the need arises we can go find a nice supply closet and…”

Mischa gave him a radiant grin that told Leto he’d said just the thing she wanted to hear and the way she pushed him back against the bench and kissed him before he could finish only confirmed it. “We just better make sure not go be around the Wookie afterwards without showering first. With that damn hunter’s nose of his we’d be found out right away” She said a laugh which Leto join her in as they heard the sound of heavy metal doors being opened outside the holding cell.

The reality of their current state of exposure hit them and they both jumped up and hastily got themselves in some semblance of order, laughing the entire time as each watched the other try to dress with panicky, rushed clumsiness. Leto got to the bench on his side of the room and Mischa on hers, hiding the now torn and unwearable tank top behind her, just as the door to the room slid open and a tall, armed and uniformed man walked in.

“Glad to see you two are behaving yourselves in here after the problems you caused last night.” He said to them in a gruff voice and with a shake of his head as he looked around the room, suspiciously eying his detainees. It was at that point Mischa realized Leto never had told her exactly what he’s done to end up in the brig for the night, but grinning at him behind the guard’s back she knew she’d find an interesting way to get it out of him later.

[Gabriella]

24 Hours Ago

The dance floor cleared out a bit as the slower music began to play, leaving it open enough for the two handfuls of couples to enjoy a dance without getting knocked around. Gabriella was surprised by the fact that Darius Dervis, Captain of the Second Chance , was so light on his feet. She even commented on this to him and the pair enjoyed a chuckle over that. Other than that, and a few feeble attempts to get Gabby's mind off of the upcoming mission, the rest of the dance was spent in silence. Truth be told, she was thinking over many things and not just the mission. She had given Captain Tariq the Medals of Honor post-mortem for the four pilots who lost their lives recently, but held off on the memorial service for a week or two. Thoughts of the eulogy she'd have to give, whether or not that homing beacon was still active, if onboard intelligence was able to track it and much more busied her head.

When the music ended, Darius escorted Gabriella back to the table and pointed out Leto and Mischa ordering drinks from the bar. Darius also noted the holo-star seated at the bar. "Stop drooling, Darius. It's unbecoming of an officer," Gabriella noted with a dry tone as she rolled her eyes. The Admiral may be about the only one aboard who had ever been to Darius' personal quarters - his bedroom had a few autographed photos of the star framed and hung on the walls and there was a rather provocative poster hanging from the back of his refresher's door of the woman. To say the starlet was scantily clad would have been an understatement.

As the waiter serving the two for the evening approached to take their order, Gabriella's personal com went off. She answered the call, noting it had come through on her private and secure channel. "Right, I'm on my way." The communication was cut off and she rose from the table. "I'm sorry, Darius. I need to get back to the ship. Enjoy the rest of the evening but don't drink too much. It's going to be an early morning." Dervis' expression soured and he thrust back his chair a little rougher than intended while rising. "To hell with this," he said, then whirled on his heels and made a bee line for the exit as he loosened then jerked free the tie around his neck. Gabriella looked to the retreating XO and arched a brow, wondering what in the name of the force that display was all about.

* * * * *

The Second Chance

Gabriella changed out of the evening dress and into something comfortable. There was no need for her to wear her formal uniform since it was the night shift, so her baggy sweatpants and a loose t-shirt sufficed. Way in the back of her mind, she was hoping to get at least a few hours of sleep before jumping into things in the morning. "Tezack? You said you found something. What is it?" She asked as she entered the bridge.

"That homing beacon, Admiral."

"What about it? Where is it?" Gabriella approached Tezack's station and leaned over his shoulder, viewing the screen. Tezack was among the more new members of the crew. He arrived a little over three months ago, fresh from the academy. He still had much to learn about the things they weren’t taught at the academy.

He pulled up a star map to serve as a background image, then brought into view another image; this one showing the asteroids, debris and other various objects. "Here. I'm guessing that the ship it was embedded in couldn't maneuver away from this asteroid. That's where the signal is coming from, albeit a very weak signal. I doubt we'll have it much past the hour.

Gabriella nodded slowly then stood up and crossed her arms, still studying the map and images on the screen. "Good work. Make sure all of the information you have is included in my folder for the mission briefing."

"Yes, Sir." He started to turn back to his work, and then paused. "Admiral?"

She nodded, knowing already what he was going to ask. "It's not unheard of to use asteroids for bases of operation. Keep an eye on that asteroid. We're going to need to know its location at all times." The young man nodded and went back to work.

The Admiral stopped at a few other stations and spent time talking with each member of the night crew, gathering the information they'd discovered and other pieces of data that was pertinent to the next operation. Gabby was nervous about the upcoming covert op. There were a number of lives at stake and she was basically throwing them into the frying pan.


* * * * *

Darius stopped when he saw Gabriella coming down the corridor from the lifts. The man worked his jaw and ran the tip of his tongue over the split on his lower lip, toward the left corner. She had a headache and was rubbing her brows stiffly when she finally looked up and saw Captain Dervis looking a little worse for the wear. "What happened to you?" Gabby lowered her arm and sighed softly, thinking it was going to be a long night.

"Eh. It's nothing. I'm fine, I will be fine." He replied.

"Who cold-cocked you, Captain?" Gabriella was not going to sweep this under rug, no matter how badly the captain wanted to.

"I took care of it. There's no need for you to..."

"Now, Captain!" She was getting ticked off and her temper was rather short this evening any way so it didn't take much to get her blood boiling.

"After I left the club, I joined a sabacc game already in progress. Captain ... Tariq ... and I let the drinks we had do the talking for us."

Gabriella's expression didn't change from the stone-cold look it carried since she left the bridge. "You were gambling? No, wait!" She held up a hand, immediately stopping Dervis from responding in any way, shape, or form. "You were betting against a member of my crew?" She closed the distance between the two and looked Dervis square in the eyes. " Never . And I mean never put yourself into a position that will allow you to take from any member of my crew. Are we clear on that, Captain?"

Dervis swallowed hard and tugged at the starched collar of his dress shirt, trying to loosen it up as the material suddenly felt chokingly tight. "Yes, Sir," he murmured.
Darius finished reporting to the Admiral the events that transpired when he left the club and had a short drunken brawl with the Captain of the Womprat Squadron. "And where is Captain Tariq now," she asked.

"In the brig. I figured he deserved it and could sleep it off. He'll be released in the morning," Dervis said.

Gabriella eyed her XO for a time, and then motioned to the two MP's standing guard near one of the turbolifts. They approached and saluted sharply. "Escort Captain Dervis to the brig."

"Admiral? What? I don’t," Dervis stammered.

"You're just as guilty as Captain Tariq in disrespecting an Officer, goading Captain Tariq into attacking you in the first place, and for gambling with crew members beneath your rank. I hereby order you to serve two days in the brig."

"But, Admiral! This is preposterous!" The MP's grabbed the Captain of the Second Chance and led him away to the brig.

Just as they faded from view, another officer on duty approached the Admiral. Private Porter saluted sharply, and then took a few breaths. He’d been searching the ship for Gabriella at a quick pace. “Admiral Nerys.” He said.

”Private. What is it?” She growled.

“Well. I’m. Not sure how to tell you this, but …” Private Porter tugged nervously at the stiff collar of his uniform and shifted from side to side on his feet.

“I don’t have time for this, Private. Say it and get it over with.” Gabriella’s headache was worsening by the minute and her mood became even sourer.

“Yes sir. I think you need to come to the brig, sir.”

Gabriella arched a brow inquisitively and canted her head gently to the left. “Just say it!”

Private Porter swallowed, though there was no moisture in his mouth. It had gone bone dry the moment she raised her voice. “The most of the Womprat Squadron is in the brig. Ma’am. Er, sir, including that new droid pilot.” he squeaked.

“How in the hell does a droid get tossed into the brig!?” It was a rhetorical question and the private was smart to catch on to that fact before he managed to infuriate the woman even more.

The Admiral’s shoulders slumped as she shook her head and rolled her eyes. She raised her arms and cast her eyes to the ceiling. “What did I do to deserve this? Is it seriously asking too much to have the crew behave for one blasted night during shore leave?” Private Porter cowered where he stood as the Admiral vented her frustrations to an unseen higher power. “Uh, sir? I don’t mean to rain on your parade any further, but …” Porter swallowed hard again. “It gets worse.”

“Worse! How in the hell could it get any worse!?”

“One of them is in medbay. Uh. The furry one. That wookie. Furball I think is his callsign.”

“You are dismissed Private. Inform the MP’s that no member in the squadron is to be released in the morning. None of them are to be given breakfast, either.” Gabriella’s cold eyes bore deeply into those of the Private. “Dismissed.” Private Porter saluted quickly then ran back to his station as if his heels were on fire.

“That is the last shore leave any of them will see for a very, very long time. By the gods! I swear on all that is holy that the entire squadron just might find themselves sent to the slave mines of Kessel and replaced by those lifeless droids! I think a demotion is in the works for a few of them and I think a transfer may be in the very near future for another select few!” The Admiral continued to rant and rave, ignoring any other member of the crew she happened to cross paths with in the corridors and lifts of the Second Chance . She didn’t care who heard, either. Most aboard knew it was far wiser to never get on the Admiral’s bad side; then there were those who had a penchant for doing it consistently. She vowed to make their lives a living hell from this day forward until she decided they earned their redemptions.

Though she denied the prisoners of showers, food, clean clothes and much needed sleep, she enjoyed all that and more.

She would be about the only one who wouldn’t be suffering when the morning came.

* * * * *

1100 Hours

The Admiral spoke at length with Private Bridges who pulled MP duty last night. The Private updated the Admiral on any information she wasn’t given last night. The expression on her face clearly showed she was not at all pleased with the updated news as the Private handed over a small round cd-type disk. Private Bridges saluted the Admiral sharply then twisted sharply on his heels and left to get some sleep, leaving Gabriella looking at the newly acquired item in her hand. Admiral Nerys motioned for two of the guards on duty to follow her into the detainment center where all of the cells were located.

Methodically she strolled to the center of the corridor with her hands behind her back as the guards clanged their batons against the cell bars, shouting the command for the prisoners to get up. She nodded to the closer of the two-armed guards as she said, “Are the transfer papers ready for my final signature?” Gabriella’s voice was raised enough to allow every Womprat sitting in the brig to hear her clearly.

“Yes Sir!” The guard answered sharply, promptly.

Gabriella nodded curtly to the guard whom then approached the cell holding Captain Tariq and Lieutenant Margolin. The guard indicated that Mischa was to approach the bars and turn out with her hands behind her back so he could place stuncuffs around her wrists.

“Move her to cell block A2344. Once I sign her transfer papers she is to be escorted to the shuttle and removed from my ship and my sight.”

“YOU FRAKKIN’ BITCH!” Margolin spat out venomously, leaving out the respect of ‘Sir’. In the military, one is allowed to say exactly as they wish so long as respect was shown. A lowly private could tell an Admiral to frack off, so long as ‘Sir’ was included in the curse. She continued with a tirade – more like a tantrum that could out do any tantrum thrown by a spoiled three year old child (or a cocky smuggler) – all of which Gabriella smiled inwardly at. She wanted to piss them off. All of them. “Perhaps you’d like to spend the rest of your imprisonment at Kessel,” she said coldy, finally turning her icy eyes to the Lieutenant. “I assure you I will arrange it should you continue with your childish antics and insubordination. Sergeant Margolin.” No, the Admiral also did not demote the Lieutenant. But, let the woman – and everyone else – think that she did. It would only fuel the fire raging through their veins and give them true reasons to hate her, other than the obvious rebellious attitudes toward authority that they all seem to harbor.

Not one of the persons present would ever suspect that Admiral Nerys was not seriously going to transfer the young woman off of the ship. The Admiral wanted to put the fear of all that is holy into the woman – and the CO of the Womprat Squadron – that neither would be seeing each other again.

Her full attention turned to Captain Tariq, whom was wringing the cell bars and gripping them tightly enough to force his knuckles to burn white as he said, "Frak you sir," Leto growled. "I'm the Captain of the Womprats, which puts me in their command, and while we may take orders from you I'll be frakked if I'm going to let you start transferring my pilots on a whim. Command can keep throwing whatever wash up, frak-up or rookie they have at us, but I'm not going to let you take them away because you don't like their behavior."

Gabriella slowly approached the cell containing Captain Tariq and eyed him squarely. “Perhaps you should rethink your words, Captain.” Slowly, she pulled one hand out from behind her back and held up the disk she had be given, making sure the Captain saw it. “When you are the Admiral, you can dictate what one beneath you in rank can and cannot do to the ship and with the crew. Until then, Captain, I will decide what is best for my ship and my crew. And with this bit of evidence, you may never be in command of anything again.” She kept her voice low and firm, making sure Leto knew that she meant business and was tired of the squadron’s bullshit. “And because you are – or should I say were – their Captain, you never should have allowed any of this to happen!”

She was right. As the CO, Tariq was expected to uphold the rules, regulations, and policies. He was expected to lead by example and he was expected to make sure anyone under his command lived up to the Admiral’s – as well as the Republic’s – expectations.

“Oh. And Lieutenant Tariq?” She said as she turned from the cell and glanced to the prisoner from over her shoulder casually. “You and your entire squadron have just been replaced with all new recruits command just transferred in.” She turned to fully face him. “Congratulations. You have all gotten exactly what you wanted. AI’s will now be behind the cockpits of the starfighters every one of you consider to be your own.”

No, she also did not demote the CO of the Womprats nor did she replace them with AI’s. Again, tactics used to enrage them, particularly Captain Tariq. It was high time she got them as angry at her as they could possibly get. And with the emotionless cold-heartedness of her visit to the brig?

She felt assured she succeeded.

As Gabriella took her leave, a Cybot Galactica LE series droid walked up to greet the Admiral with a cheerful, yet still robotic tone as he mentioned how it was about time Command saw the endless uses for his kind and have finally begun to replace the humans. “Excited to have the chance at a dogfight, Kaybo?”

The two carried on the conversation, making sure their voices echoed down the corridor so the prisoners could hear every word until the two were out of the brig area.

[Adok Borys]

Adok jogged down the dark alley where he’d temporarily found sanctuary from the shore patrol that were hot on the tail of anyone breaking the peace, this time of night.

The adrenalin coursing through his veins helped him think through the liquor, and he realized that he had to come up with a plan, other than ‘skulk down the dark alley.’ He tried to review the incident in the bar, only to realize that his mind hadn’t been quite functioning at that level during the incident.

He staggered up to a cross street in the alley, and turned to the right, simply because that was in the opposite direction of the relentless shore patrol and ended up in front of a cantina that was somewhat seedier than the one that he’d left.

He his unsteady gait took him up to the bar, where he began a somewhat drunken conversation with the bartender. He gestured toward a table holding two unscrupulous looking men, involved in a game of Sabacc and then glanced at the chrono on his wrist.

“They been here more than an hour or so,” Adok slurred.

The bartender nodded knowingly. “Reckon so.”

Adok smiled. “Shore patrol shows up, twenty credits says I been drinking with them since they got here.”

It was an old ploy, one that he’d picked up on Cloud City, but it could work.

He flipped the bartender a coin, and hurried toward the table.

One of the men looked up at his approach.

Adok smiled broadly at him. “I have a proposition. Deal me into your Sabacc game, and I’ll try to lose some credits to you guys. Oh, and twenty credits each says I’ve been losing badly, since the three of us got here.”

The one of the men smiled at him. “Throw in a bottle of whiskey, and you’ve got a deal.”

Adok nodded, made a pouring gesture to the bartender, and slid into the booth, so that he was facing both of the men. One of the men picked up the deck of Sabacc cards and began to shuffle. Each of the players tossed a five credit coin into the pot, and then received the opening hand of cards.

Adok looked up as the bartender brought over a fresh bottle of whiskey and a glass. He grabbed the bartend by the collar and whispered in his ear, and the bartender scurried off, collecting empty ale bottles, he hurried over the bar and grabbed a full bottle of ale as well, depositing them all on the table around where Adok was sitting.

Adok nodded his thanks and turned to the game of Sabacc. One of the players tossed in another five credit coin, then Adok and the other man matched the bet.

The dealer tossed out another card to each player, and Dock raised an eyebrow. He had eleven. He laid down is cards and smiled. “I...erm, it, err, well, it looks like I lose.”

He tossed back a shot of the whiskey, and then several healthy swallows of his ale. “This is going to be a good night for you guys.”

Several hands later, when Adok was more than a few credits poorer, a soldier in uniform walked into the bar and glanced in Adok’s direction. Adok’s heart sank as he recognized the distinctive emblem of the shore patrol.

The officer engaged the bartender in an animated conversation with several glances at the table. He shrugged and began to walk over. Adok tossed back a shot of whiskey, and with unsteady hands, poured himself another glass.

The patrolmen arrived at the table and scrutinized the trio intently, singling out Adok with his gaze.

The officer addressed a comment to the group around the table. “Seems there was a fight down the street, and a man matching his,” he paused to gesture toward Adok, “general description was seen leaving there.”

Adok stared up at the officer and blinked several times trying to clear his gaze. “Well, my friends and I here, have been talking some business, private of course. I’ve also lost a fair number of credits to them.”

The patrolman hooked his hands in his belt. “Well, mister, let me see some identification.”

Adok smiled and reached into his pocket producing a New Republic military identification. “Here you are sir.”

The patrolman scrutinized the identification. “If your friends vouch for you, you’ve probably weren’t involved in that brawl.”

From experience, Adok knew some questions to ask the officer. “Aren’t you interested in witnesses, so that you can put this in an official report?”

The patrolman shrugged. “Well, I suppose. Lemme guess, you all came in at the same time, and started drinking. You,” he gestured at Adok, “were probably going to sell military hardware or some such to these two nice fellows.”

“Course I probably can’t even get reasonable suspicion,” the patrolman muttered.

The two men introduced themselves, one giving his name as Moizon, the other as Naghant. The officer scribbled the names down on a pad of flimsiplast that he’d produced from a pocket. They told him that they were crewmembers from the freighter Bespin Dawn.

Adok asked for a stylus courteously as is possible, when one is intoxicated, asked the officer for his name and officer number.

When he learned that it was Ruben Schmidt, Adok scribbled that information on a cocktail napkin, along with the officer’s number, and the time. He smiled up at the patrolmen, and shrugged. “I’m going to take this down, so that I can remember it in the morning.”

Adok scribbled down the name of the cantina, Besotted Bantha, the time, 2235, bartender, Moizon, and Naghant, freighter, Bespin Dawn. He returned the patrolman’s stylus, and accepted his identification card.

The officer closed his pad of flimsiplast and put it back in his pocket. He favored Adok another baleful glance, and then turned on his heel and stalked off, glowering at the patrons in the bar.

Adok shoved the napkin in his pocket, and then took another long swallow of ale. He watched the patrolman leave the bar, and smiled crookedly at his two friends. “That went well.”

As the officer was leaving the bar, Adok overheard him speaking into a commlink at his wrist, “No one from the fight here.”

He four twenty credit coins on the table, and stood, then staggered toward the door, pausing to drop a fifty credit coin on the bar. He nodded to the bartender as he scooped it up, and then made his way into the street, shoving the napkin that he clutched in his hand, into a pocket.

Several hours later

Adok awoke in his quarters, back at the barracks, and blinking at the bright light that filled the room. He closed his eyes and rubbed his head, trying to clear the hangover from the booze. He stood up, bumping into the nightstand which knocked several things off, and sent his slugthrower careening across the floor.

He rubbed his eyes and glanced down at the napkin that had been weighted down by the pistol. As he glanced at his drunkenly scrawled writing, the memories returned in a rush, he remembered the fight, and the aftermath, and his two friends. Frak! Vacuum!, he thought. Shore patrol musta picked her up!

At that memory, his stomach cramped, and he staggered toward the ‘fresher, wishing only to wash the bad taste from his mouth.

[Jon'son Dethrider]

This was bad. Really bad. Jon'son's realization in this dire predicament had set in when he stopped slapping Harris's face. He was dead. There was no sense in hoping anymore. His useless death had given Jon'son's anger one last jolt of adrenaline through the Womprat's system. He was going to make everyone in that swoop gang pay. All of them.

Looking back over his shoulder, he glared at one of the thugs with burning eyes then leapt to his feet and charged. Now they took him to a place he didn't want to go. <I>Thwack!</I> Jon'son took out the thug with a ridge-handed blow to the neck. The Nikto dropped like a sack of meat onto the floor. He wouldn't be getting up again anytime soon.

<I>One down, the whole room to go</i>, he thought. Despite Harris's death, he wasn't about to employ lethal force against these hoodlums. The last thing he needed was to be charged with murder in a court-martial then sentenced to some penal planet. He'll let the authorities handle those matters. For now, he'll just hurt them. A lot.

Jon'son found another one in the fray and dealt with him up close and personal, inflicting a punishing combination of jabs before spinning him to the floor with a noisy crunch. The Rodian was out cold before his head even hit the tiling.

<I>Two down</I>. His gaze then drifted to see the wookiee, Chanc, on the floor bleeding. He cursed inwardly. <i>Not Chanc!</I> Would he lose another pilot? It was then he noticed Cayenne enter his field of vision and began to assist the fallen wookiee. Where did she come from? No matter, he was grateful!

By now, the remaining thugs were aware that something was amiss, but Stone barely gave the swoopers a second to react before attacking them again. He moved with speed and efficiency, striking at his foes like the veteran fighter he was. He noticed Eye-Gee was keeping up the pace as well. Impressive, that droid was.

Three deafening blasts from a blaster pistol sounded nearby. Stone noticed the Zabrak take a tumble to the floor, his face completely burned off. <I>NO! Tessari!!</I> Another life was claimed in the fight. He glared around to see the culprit and took action.

Jon'son was right beside him. He punched him so hard that his feet left the floor and he went hurtling onto a nearby table. His unconscious body slid off from it onto a set of chairs, then hit the tile floor. It was lights out for him, too. The sound of shouting from the MP's distracted Stone to realize the calvary had arrived.

As he turned, one of the MP's spun around with his blaster rifle and Jon'son's eyes widened. Before he could say anything, the rifle went off, blasting Stone in the ribs with a stun bolt.

<I>Frak!</I> he thought, wincing at the sudden explosion of pain in his midsection. The stun bolt hurt like hell, just as they always did. He closed his eyes as he went down, feeling unconsciousness claiming him.

<I>Stupid!</I> he thought angrily, castigating himself for his carelessness. <I>I was sloppy...</I>

<B>Hours later...</b>

Jon'son woke up on the floor of the <I>Second Chance</i>'s brig. Unable to speak, he groaned loudly. He risked opening one eye and realized the light in the brig was very bright. He groaned again, hastily shut the eye, and wrapped both arms around his head for good measure.

"I see you're finally up?" came a tinny voice from above. It sounded like a droid.

A wave of dizziness came over him. Stone clutched at his head like a drunk teenager with a humongous case of the bed-spins. "What the frell happened?" he managed to utter out. He felt like a herd of rancors had stampeded over his head.

Eye-Gee gave a remarkably humanlike sigh. "Don't you remember? The big fight? We lost two pilots, the wookiee was sent to the hospital, and the rest of us was drummed in here."

"Including me." He recogized Cayenne's voice from behind.

<I>Frell. We're all in here?</I> Jon'son's eyes blinked blurrily in their sockets as he gradually shook off the narcosis clouding his mind, becoming more and more aware of the brig's surroundings. The events of last night were now taking shape as he began to remember one piece at a time.

"Help me up, Toaster," he finally asked from the floor. "That's an order."

"Of course. I live to serve." Eye-Gee paused for a moment; then pulled the big man up to a sitting position on the floor, leaning his back against the bulkhead. Stone looked up to see the droid, then Cayenne sitting on a thin mattress in the bunk.

"Feeling better?" Cayenne inquired with mock solicitousness.

"Let's just say I won't be getting into any fights today." Stone answered, rubbing his temples, feeling as if his head might topple off his neck if he moved too quickly. "How long are we in here this time?"

"Two days," she sighed, "but I don't think we'll be doing much of anything after that."

"Huh?" Stone turned his head slowly and raised his trademark eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

"While you were snoring on the floor, we heard news from rumour central," Eye-Gee interjected. "Seems like our little stunt has sent the Admiral over the edge. She's threatening to disband the Rats and replace us. She's also cancelled shoreleave."

Jon'son shook his head. "What? With who?" He could understand losing two pilots and sending one to the infirmary would piss her off, but replacing the Rats??

"Me." Eye-Gee replied. "Well, actually, droids."

"Bantha poodoo."

"It's true," Cay reassured. "At least, that's the rumour."

"Frell that." Stone growled, standing up carefully to his feet. "I want to see Orion and find out for sure."

Stone stumbled across the room, took hold of the bars, then started to shout, despite the throbbing in his head. "Guard! Guard! I want to see Captain Tariq!"

[IG-100]

IG-100 glanced at stone, slumped against the bulkhead, and sta himself against a side wall, processing a compilation of data for the umpteenth time. Then he laughed, a dry mechanical sound that drew a glare from Stone,

"What's so frakking funny?"

Eye-Gee turned his glowing red oculars on the pilot,

"The admiral is either bluffing, has very powerful freinds or has the brainpower of a retarded bantha. I'd place even odds on any of them. The legislation set up by the Galactic Republic following the Trade Fedration wars prohibiting droid armies is still technically in effect. And NR command is still shy of using us - to the point where I am assigned rations, uniforms a bunk and suchlike to make it less obvious if someone looks at the books that I am a droid. I technically get the option of 'compassionate leave' every time any unit built by Holowan Mechanicals bites it for frak's sake."

The droid paused, letting the information settle in his cellmate's slower organic brains,

"And if she does want to courtmatial us, she's frakked. I can hook up to a holoprojector and play the whole fight over for the pleasure of the court - those swoopers were alive and well until they fatally shot Harris. We can bring up pages and pages of 'martial law' clauses to defend our actions. Hell, I almost hope she does to see her embaressed in front of a military court. She'll be off the promotion roster for the rest of her life."

He looked at the somewhat suprised looks on Stone and Cay's faces,

"Never try to outsmart a droid. Unless it's a frakking mouse droid or something."

[Maxwell Gandel]

Deckmaster Jontz wiped sweat from his eyes with one grime covered forearm. He and his greasemonkeys were working overtime today, trying to repair all the damage that had been done during the fight at the New Republic supply base. Later on, Jontz and a group of his best men would start looking through some of the salvage that had been brought back - perhaps they'd be able to make a few new uglies out of it all.

"Allright," Jontz shouted, making lifting motions with his empty hands, "Take her up!" Slowly, in short and halting jerks, a damaged ugly was lifted from the deck by a magnetic grapple. One of it's landing gear had been damaged during the fight and had refused to deply during landing. The entire underside of the ship would have to be looked over, to make sure there was no major structural damage.

Through the hisses of exhaust, the sputter of welding torches, and the clatter of metal, shouts of surprise reached the deckmaster's ears. He frowned, turning to see what was going on. For a moment, he couldn't see anything amiss. Then there it was - a group of armed men spilling in through the hangar's main entrance, shouting orders and brandishing their weapons. Bakkar, the one eyed ogre of a man in charge of Askaza's personal police force, led the way. Technicians and pilots who had been milling about shouted in anger and confusion, but threw their hands up nonetheless. Jontz threw his gaze around the hangar, saw armed men entering through every secondary entrance. "What the hell?" He demanded of nobody in particular. Feeling helpless, and getting angry because of it, Jontz simply stood and watched as his hangar was taken over by Bakkar's men.

A grizzled looking Bothan, DL-44 in each hand, approached Jontz and gestured for him to put his hands in the air. The deckmaster bared his teeth in a snarl that could easily have come from a wild predator. "I don't bloody well think so," He growled at the Bothan. Turning on his heel, Jontz glared across the hangar. He'd been looking for Bakkar, but he found something better. Askaza had entered the hangar now, flanked on either side by E-11 toting thugs. "Generalissimo!" He shouted, starting towards the pirate leader with a purpose. The Bothan behind him said something - probably ordering him to stop - but Jontz ignored him. "Hey! Just what the hell is going on here?" He demanded when he saw Askaza looking at him.

The pirate leader didn't shout back, closing to normal talking distance first. "Well?" Jontz demanded, Askaza and his bodyguards only a few feet away. Askaza, visibily annoyed, looked around the hangar before letting his gaze settle back on the deckmaster.

"What's goin' on," he said calmly, "Is someone's got themselves a homin' beacon. The kind what broadcasts on a New Republic frequency." Jontz remained silent as he took in that new information. He shook his head violently.

"Never! No one of my technicians would turn us in like that, you know they wouldn't."

"I'd like ta believe that's true," Askaza replied. "But facts be facts. There's a homin' beacon comin' from this base... and it's comin' from this here hangar." He gestured back the way he'd come, and Jontz saw men with portable scanning equipment entering the hangar. "We'll soon see where it's at... then we'll know fer sure." Jontz straightened his spine in indignation. Putting the entire hangar on lockdown like this was overkill, an insult - even if there was a homing beacon to be found. Askaza could have gone about the entire thing far more discretely. "I understand yer upset," Askaza told Jontz, "Ye don't have t' like it. Ye just have to live with it."

The scanning crews slowly made their way through the hangar. It was a big one, made to hold several squadrons plus transports and shuttles without any problems. Even so, it was only a matter of time before the scanning crews zeroed in on their target. Jontz watched closely, eager despite himself to see where the homing beacon was hidden. At last, the scanning crews came to rest around one of the fighters in the repair bay. Askaza looked to the deckmaster for an explanation, but all he could do was shake his head and shrug. Together, they crossed the hangar and approached the ugly in question. "Tell me about it," Askaza ordered as he stood before the ship.

"The homing signal is definately coming from this ship, sir."

"That's not possible," Jontz argued. "We shut down all power before we started repairs, her reactor's cold. No way she could be sending a signal."

"It's incredibly weak," One of the scanning techs explained. "So weak, in fact, that it could be working off of battery power."

"Can ye give us an exact position of the damned beacon?" Askaza demanded, impatient to get to the thing and shut it down. The tech nodded, pulling out a scanning device small enough to fit in his hand. Circling the ship, he stopped at the port engine.

"There," He said, pointing at the armored hull plating, "There's a power signature coming from right there. That's your beacon."

"I'll be dipped in Bantha poodoo," Jontz muttered. The tech was pointing right at a glob of metal that had fuzed itself with the hull.

"What?" Askaza asked, turning to the deckmaster. "What is it?"

"Generalissimo," Jontz said, pointing at the metal globule, "That's battle damage. This particular fighter was too damned close to an X-wing when it blew, and flew through the debris field. See all those irregular, miscolored bumps? Those are part of the X-wing. Some went clean through, but some splatted against the hull and stayed."

"Yer tellin' me," Askaza said skeptically, "That a homin' beacon from an X-wing, battery intact, melted itself against one of my fighters an' kept on transmitting?"

Jontz spread his arms wide in a 'you've got me' gesture. "It's possible," Was all he could think to say. "Bloody flippin' unlikely, but possible. Transmitters like that, they're used to call for help when a pilot has to ditch his ship, or gets stuck behind enemy lines without hyperdrive. If that X-wing pilot activated his for some reason..." He shrugged. Askaza looked from Jontz to the fighter, then back again.

"Get it off. Get it off an' shut it down. Now."

"Just as soon as you get those trigger happy thugs out of my hangar.... Sir." Askaza held the deckmaster's gaze for a few seconds. When neither blinked or looked away, Askaza turned and walked away without another word.

"Bakkar!" He shouted, voice echoing through the hangar. "Get yer men an' get gone."

****************

105th Fleet

The ISD Decimation arrived at the Rock alone, as was procedure. The rest of the 105th was close, only a short jump out, but far enough away that they could make a break for it if a sizeable New Republic fleet showed up. Despite his victory at the supply depot, Gandel was still committed to being careful. And he wasn't the only one, it seemed. As the star destroyer came out of hyperspace, the tactical officer immediately shouted out a warning form the crew pits. "Admiral... the pirate base has weapons emplacements armed and sheilds raised... I'm reading twice as many fighters in the air as there were last time, and the corvette is also battle ready."

"Looks like success has made them a little jumpy, sir," Anton commented. Gandel nodded absently, but thinking that the pirates would likely have a better reason to be on high alert.

"Any signs of recent combat?" he asked, eyeing the asteroid through the viewports. There didn't seem to be any signs of damage... and being pirates, Askaza's group would likely evacuate and run in the face of a New Republic naval patrol. Still, cornered animals were known to fight quite ferociously.

"None, sir."

"What are you thinking, Admiral?" Anton inquired.

"I'm thinking that the New Republic cruiser and those New Republic starfighters at the depot saw pirates attack first. If they knew about local pirate's nests, but left them alone because they weren't a threat..."

"They'll be cracking down on any known pirate hideouts," Anton finished, nodding in comprehension. "And they'll likely be scouting for others in the vicinity."

"Exactly. So either the Republic has already been here and gone, or the pirates are expecting them soon."

Another call from the crew pits, this one from a communications officer. "Sir, the Rock is hailing us. They say they urgently need to speak with you."

"Put them through," Gandel ordered. When he got the nod that indicated he was connected, he said, "Hello Lauren... quite the welcome you've prepared for us. Is there something I need to know?"

"Aye, damn right there is. One of me fighters got tagged with a New Republic homin' beacon... didn't see the damn thing 'til an hour or so ago. Never woulda seen it at all if it hadn't been fer a pair of sharp young eyes at a sensor console."

"A homing beacon?" Gandel repeated in alarm. That wasn't good news... not at all. "Sensors, scan the area for probes or ships operating on silent running." The last thing he needed was to have sailed his command ship into a trap...

"You won't find 'em, not yet," Askaza assured Gandel. "We checked already. Just in case. There's naught out there but a lot of small rocks. But we got ourselves a situation, and fer sure."

"It's only a matter of time," Gandel agreed. "The question now is: what do we do about it?"

[Leto Tariq]

Leto gripped the bars white-knuckled and red-faced as he stared at the hatchway the Admiral had just left through. It was a long time before he pushed the shock and anger down and let go of the bars. He sat defeated on his bunk and looked up into the camera hanging from the ceiling, staring like a slap to the face. Leto groaned and put his face in his hands.

"What did I do to you, Mischa..." They really could have picked a better place for that. At least waited until they were out of the frakking brig.

Force, Leto, you're such a romantic, he thought and rubbed at his face.

But if they had waited, they would probably still be in the same situation they always were in... dancing around each other, fighting, working out the tension between them with fists to avoid the real source of it. Right now, that was almost preferrable. Almost. Even now, he felt little regret over what they had done. Only over the damage it had caused.

Lieutenant Tariq. And the 'Rats were ruined, now... back to being the doomed squadron it was so many years ago when he'd first taken the controls of a X-wing. All because he didn't have enough control to keep his pants on in front of a camera.

Yet it was a relatively light punishment, compared to Mischa's. Out of the squadron, out of the ship and out of a fighter. Admiral Nerys had demoted her to Sergeant and practically thrown her to the deck crew. Maybe she'd wind up pushing papers on some back-end planet somewhere. Leto's hands turned to fists at the thought; it wasn't a discharge from the service, but Gabriella might as well have done so or just shoot her and make it merciful. She'd sliced the wings off his bird and told her to run from now on.

Well, she was wrong if he was going to take all of this lying down.

Before he did anything, he had to see his men.

"Private?" Leto stood and addressed the marine standing guard over his cell.

"Yes, sir?"

"I want to see my pilots."

The marine paused. "I don't think I can do that, sir..."

Leto put his hands on the bars and stared coldly in the soldier's face. "Private, why do you call me sir?"

His face wrinkled in confusion, taken aback by the question. "Because you're a Captain. You outrank me, sir."

"That's right," Leto said and put his face close to the bars, only a short distance from the Private's face. "That means if you don't let me out right frakking now and take me to my pilots' cell, then from now until the moment the Admiral signs the papers, I am going to use every bit of my power to make your life hell!"

He glared into the guard's eyes and the moment stretched on. The private blinked and broke first and began to open the cell. Leto gave him a quick thin smile while the man slapped on a pair of handcuffs and began leading Tariq to the other cells.



"... I want to see Captain Tariq!" Leto smiled in the hatchway, a smile that didn't last very long as the marine began prodding him to step forward. "I'm right here, Stone."

"What the frell is going on, Captain?" Stone asked while the guards uncuffed him and let him into the cell.

"First off, it's Lieutenant now," he replied grimly and looked around at which of his pilots had managed to wind up in the brig. Cayenne, Stone... and the droid. He blinked and stared at it.

"What are you talking about, Leto?" Cay asked, breaking Leto's study of the machinery. He shrugged. "I've been demoted. Apparently, the Admiral didn't like the show the 'Rats put on last night."

"Frak... we've heard rumours about the Admiral replacing the 'Rats," Stone half-offered. Leto nodded in confirmation.

"We, at least most of us, have been kicked out of the squadron and replaced by droids."

"She's going to have to put up a frell of fight to pull that off," the droid said. And it was right; Command might be willing to put one droid in the Womprats, but almost an entire squadron of them was going to take some work.

"It gets worse," Leto said and grimaced. "Mischa's been transferred."

"... What?" Stone's usually expressionless face transformed into one of shock and rage.

"The Admiral's going to strip her rank down to sergeant and transfer her off the ship."

Stone's face hardened to one similar to his namesake, and the way his eyes burned it hinted that this stone was jagged. "That means..." his voice trailed off.

Leto's jaw clenched and finished what Jon'son started. "She's taking Mischa off flight status. From now on she's going to be hammering dents out of a fighter or sitting behind a desk."

[Gabriella]

"Admiral?" The young man's voice cracked as he interrupted Gabriella's brief bit of downtime she allowed herself to take. Just fifteen minutes or so to get her mind off of everything else that had happened since she was first informed that most of the elite Womprat Squadron had wound up in the brig a little more than twenty-four hours ago. Of course, she wasn't given much in the way of information at first. She figured they'd had a bit too much to drink, punches were thrown, and that a night in the brig would serve everyone well by allowing them to sleep it off uninterrupted.

Of course, when she woke up this morning, the last thing she expected to find out about was that two of the squad mate’s violated fraternization rules and went at it like rabbits in their cell. She was given the security disk of the incident, and of course, since round the clock security was done in real time, there were no other recordings of the incident, no backups made or anything stored in the system. The disk given to the Admiral was the only evidence in existence and that was locked away securely in her own quarters. In fact, Gabriella planned to destroy that lone recording just before the memorial services taking place this afternoon.

"Enter. What is it, Private Hansson?" Gabriella sat back in her chair and looked up to the Private, taking her attention from the schematics of a ship turning slowly on the monitor of her data pad.

"The full incident reports from last night. As you wanted, Sir." Private Hansson cautiously approached the Admiral's desk and placed the folder atop of it. He stepped back and saluted sharply, holding the statuesque pose until the Admiral said otherwise.

"Dismissed," she finally said after a full minute passed. The folder looked to be a little thick for what she surmised to be nothing more than flared tempers getting the best of Dervis and the 'Rats, aided and fueled by their inebriation, of course. She leaned forward and lifted the folder, then sank back with the folder in her lap. Bracing herself, she flipped open the folder and began to read over the numerous sheets of flimsiplast that detailed a sordid list of events. Far more than she had ever expected.

It took her the better part of an hour to read everything over. When she finished, she closed the folder and tossed it onto her desk; then closed her eyes and rubbed at the bridge of her nose with her forefinger and thumb. "Murder. Great," she muttered, shaking her head. Clearly, she was very disappointed. "I'll have to see what sort of fancy footwork and quick thinking I can do to get the pilot out of a military court-martial for murder and keep his fuzzy ass in the cockpit," she noted somberly to no one other than herself. Her arm flopped down against the armrest of her chair and she rolled her head from side to side a few times until the stiffness ebbed. "Good thing this wasn't ready earlier. I'm not sure if I would have been able to keep this information from Admiral Yanesh or the High Admiral." Yanesh had been the Fleet Admiral of the NR for the past decade, and he was only one of two whom she ever answered to.

Word of the bar fight - well, one of them - had already been shared with the two higher ups. Hence why they woke her at a little before four a.m. and held a conference right there in her personal quarters. She was convincing enough and downplayed the entire thing as just a bunch of tired fighter pilots letting go of their frustrations and aggressions. She also reassured them both that their actions were not going to go unpunished. When asked how she was going to deal with it, she informed them of the hollowed threats of a transfer and demotions, and replacement by droids in the cockpits. Admiral Yanesh just quirked a brow, then glanced nervously to the High Admiral to await his own reaction before displaying his own. High Admiral Borstel eyed Gabriella coldly. She never flinched or looked away from the man's image hovering mere centimeters from her desktop. Borstel couldn't keep his poker face any longer and allowed a smile to creep across his face that had been tugging at the corner of his thin lips from the moment she mentioned the threat of droids as replacements.

"Very good, Admiral Nerys. I see you have everything in order. Report with anything new." Her years of dedicated service to the NR, her exemplary record, commendations and recommendations from her superiors left no room for doubt in either of the higher-ranking gentlemen's minds. The transmission ended and Gabriella let out the breath she had held for longer than she thought was humanly possible.

"Ensign Carter," she summoned the ensign who served as her personal secretary more often than not into her office. When she arrived, Gabriella handed her a print out detailing the amount of the damages caused by the brawling 'Rats and at which locations. "See to it these are paid in full immediately." The Ensign nodded. "Oh. And find me all information and records on these names. Definitely search for criminal backgrounds and such. They're reportedly members of a notorious swoop gang." Again, the Ensign nodded then left to carry out the orders right away. The legal experts would find a way to get the wookie out of a court-martial and keep him from being grounded. If they couldn't find a way, Gabriella would pull out old dirty tricks she learned while serving the Imperial Empire and make sure the Wookie never served any time behind bars for the murder. "One less thug in the world if you ask me," she muttered.

For now, there wasn't much else she could do. Gabriella rose from the chair and went about getting ready for the memorial service. "Ensign Carter," she called out again. "Inform Master Chief Petty Officer Brockman that the 'Rats are to be released. They are to don their BDU's and attend the memorial. They will have one hour after the service to shower, get changed, eat, and get to the briefing room."

[Erc Vortan]

Erc was the one who called the MP's about the fight in the bar across the street. He had no idea what was going on, just that there had been blaster fire and the screams of the patrons who tried to get out of the way. Erc had taken up position at the front door, but knew better then to walk into a fight like this, especially alone. Poking his head inside, he witnessed the Wookie being shanked and the response. Saw the IG-100 droid in action and a man he identified as Stone. He also saw one of the swoopers they were battling bring up a very large carbine, ready to sweep the room with fire. He might have known not to get involved in the fight, but he did know how to keep things even. a stunblast put the swooper on his back. That's when the MP's arrived and pushed him against a wall, disarming him.

Hours later, still at the scene, Erc wasn't a prisoner. His position with NR Intel ensured that one. Instead he was looking things over, discussing what happened with the investigators. "I wasn't here when it started, but you heard the other witnesses give their stories. Of course no one agreed with each other on everything, but there are enough consistencies to piece this together Sgt Ryder. One, the Swoopers are the ones who started the argument. The barfight started bare knuckled, with the Wookie staying out of things pretty much a fair fight. Then it was the swoopers who fired first. Escalating things."

"Yes, but military personnel should have avoided the fight. They deserve to be in the brig. That's where we took them, and at last report, that's where their commanding Admiral wants them kept."

"The brig was the correct choice. They needed cooling off, and the Wookie needed medical care, but they won't be court marshaled. This was clearly self defense."

"Self defense? you said yourself they might have been able to avoid the fight."

"I'm not talking about the fight. It's the frellin murder charge people are talking about. It's dren. Pure dren. Self defense. The weapons were introduced by the opposition. They drew first blood. They killed a Womprat. Shot him. The Rats weren't even armed. The Wookie then moved to defend the rest of his squadron. When faced with a opponent who is willing to kill, and in this case has killed, you have the option to kill him before another friendly goes down." Erc looked at the bloodstain on the central support of the room. It was at head height. and the body was still there, not yet cleared. "And to think, this is a dwarf wookie. The impact was 6 feet above the ground. Anyway, when that threat was handled, the Wookie was in enough control to not kill anyone else. And reports are he did stay in the fight."

"Actually the Wookie did kill again. The armless one there bled out and received a severe trauma to the head, the weapon was his own arm."

Yes, he did kill again, but as also confirmed, that body belongs to the Swooper who shanked him in the back with a vibro weapon. The wound was deep enough to cause the Wookie to almost bleed out and to pass out quickly. I bet when you examine the weapon, you'll find the power cell has been tampered with. a small charge was released when the weapon was used, acting like a stun weapon. If it was anything but a Wookie, the victim would have dropped immediately. I've seen the mods before. Not pretty."

The conversation went on for another hour, and then the bodies were removed. It was almost morning now. More MPs had relieved the original group, and a staff officer was now walking the scene with Erc. Vortan repeated his observations, but this time, the officer didn't ask so many questions, it seems while the Sgt was talking to Erc, the officers were running down Erc's record, or as much of it as they could access. A lot of it was classified, Intel usually did that to most missions and operatives. but there was enough of an Intel stamp on everything to make the response from Coruscant on the access code he used not too surprising. It was accompanied with a "cooperate completely" message from Military Police high command.

"So, Major, while I've been here, what's the status of the Rats?"

"Well, seems that there are more of them in the brig then reported here. Some other incidents last night. but overall, I just heard that the Admiral of their ship intends to break them up and demote them all. That’s the last word I received."

"Well, it's a bad threat then."

"What makes you think it's a threat and not a real intention of the
Admiral?"

"She simply doesn't have the authority to disband a Fighter Squadron. She's a flag officer in NR Fleet Command. They are an active Squadron in Starfighter Command. Some lines can't be crossed. That's why we have separate commands. She can request they are transferred off her ship, but the squadron would stay together, for the most part. As for demoting them, she'd need a full general court martial to do that. Again, she can't just strip rank without due process. It's one of the things we fought for in the Alliance all those years ago."

"Excuse me Sir, but I was just at the brig. I distinctly heard the Admiral refer to one of the pilots as Sgt Margolin. I do think she intends to demote them, and this one all the way down to enlisted." The Major's assistant in the field today was a Private from the MPs. It now seemed that the Private had been the source of most of the Major's Information.

"Even if she could demote them on the spot, ignoring that they are commissioned through Starfighter Command, she sure as dren couldn't make a commissioned officer a non-com without said court martial. NEVER going to happen any other way. Now, Major, I need to get back to the Second Chance myself, make some secure transmissions, from my own ship. My final suggestion to you would be to let the Rats who were involved here cool down, and thn release them, outside of conduct unbecoming an officer, no other charge will hold here. But as I said, that's just an suggestion."

"Captain, thank you for staying so long and helping us here at the scene. I've already reduced the guard on the Wookie, in the infirmary, but I can't make the decision on the rest of the Womprats without talking to their CO, and that's the Admiral. Good Day Captain."

Erc returned to where the shuttles were ferrying crew to and from the Second Chance. He rode up with those that had decided not to sleep in their quarters or found better bunkmates down on the planet. Some were smiling, some were tired, and others were still drunk. Erc got some strange looks, obviously not being recognized as a member of the crew, and not wearing a uniform. To smooth some things over, he took out the Fleet Captain Rank he had in a pocket and added it to the collar of his vest. Since this Rank wasn't just handed out, most of those looking at him sat up at attention and looked away. Sometimes it paided to be the captain of your own ship. Even if it was a freighter.

The Shuttle landed in the main Hanger, it took a bit for Erc to walk over to the Hanger that the Claw was birthed in, but once there he accessed the ship fast enough. He moved to the comm station in the rear of the ship and made contact with NR Intel. the transmission was coded, and self deleting. no transfer station would be able to keep a copy of the code unless they had the lasted tech that NR Intel R&D was trying out. He didn't wait for a response, if there was one, the ship would store the message, since he had the receiver installed just before this mission. Now all he was thinking about was getting some sleep, and then getting the mission started. If they were going to accomplish anything, they needed to do something soon. Real soon.

[Pietur Legatus]

Pietur sighed despondently as she lugged her bags on board the shuttle headed for the Second Chance. If she had known their shore leave was going to be that short, she wouldn't have packed anything at all. It would have been easier to sleep in her dress uniform. They had been promised a decent shore leave and the blonde pilot had plans for most of it, or rather, the plans seemed to have made themselves for most of it. At least being called back got her out of most of them, even if only until her next return home.

Piet had asked the man who delivered her orders exactly why they, or she, was being called back. He hadn't known, or been inclined to tell. He had just filled a space in their kitchen as she packed, his eyes fixed on a spot of mould in the corner, and then all but frog-marched her to the transport. She had spent most of the short trip trying to crack his facade, pulling out her best (and worst) jokes in quick succession, and when they failed, reverted to impersonations. The large man had just stared at her, his brows bunching slightly, and then had returned to watching the passing traffic. She wasn't sure where he had got to now. Probably gone to remove whatever he had got stuck up his-

A familiar shock of red hair caught her attention. "Ceryll!" The bags forgotten, she bounded over to her fellow rat.

"Hey there Piet. Enjoy your one day of leave?"

Pietur screwed up her features. "What little of it there was, yeah. I didn't even get time for a decent swim." The Smugglers Cut, her father's cantina, had had a steady night, nothing spectacular, but she spent most of it catching up with everyone whom she had ever set eyes on, or at least it had felt that way. Her throat was tender from an evenings continuous talk, and she could have sworn she was reciting the story of the past few years of her life in her sleep last night. The steady stream of drinks the regulars had kept by her hand had helped with the many times she had to repeat her life history, even if they meant she had to deal with the inconsistant throbbing behind her eyes today.

She scrubbed at them with the back of her hand and blew out a lungful of air. Normally she just rolled with any ounches thrown her way, but today not knowing what was up was making her jittery. "Any idea why we're getting dragged back so early?"

Red shrugged half-heartedly. "Not sure. When I woke up everyone else was gone."

They both watched as the Second Chance swelled up in front of the shuttle. "We'll soon find out I think." Piet muttered under her breath, casting a silent wish that there wasn't another mission waiting. Staying chirpy might be a lot harder if any more rats died.

[Gabriella]

Hangar Bay – Level: II Section: D Bay: 121

The YT-2400 owned and operated by one smuggler turned NR fighter pilot known as the Junkpile no longer looked like it had when it was first tractor-beamed aboard the Second Chance. Many areas of the interior had been gutted or modified heavily and the exterior gleamed with a brand new paint job. What once was one of the ugliest hunks of junk ever to grace the stars had been transformed into a machine worthy of making the front page of the Pod Racer Quarterly; complete with some hot, sexy space babe sprawled on top of the hull in some seductive pose.

The hull, once a dull greenish-grey, was now silvery-white and sported crimson red artistic lettering denoting the ship as part of the Bin Gassi Racing Engines Swoop and Pod racing team. A fancy logo (http://www.sharnyl.net/web/logobin.jpg) was included to add one of the final visual effects. The interior was altered as well, though most of the illegal goodies Ati had added or modified to the ships systems remained intact.

Engine signatures had been changed in every engine housed in the hull’s interior of the ship; a few modifications were made to those as well. The techs did an outstanding job of expertly masking these engines in order to fit with what a professional race team would have on board that were used in the larger, bulkier racing pods. Spare parts, food rations, water, and other amenities were stockpiled in the cargo hold. Many of the professional racing teams never remained in one place for long before or after a race. When one event was completed, the team and crew would pack up and ship out to the next race event elsewhere in the galaxy.

“Final check of the engines complete. The systems are all in the green. Let’s make a final check of the hold to make sure nothing looks out of the ordinary,” said Tazer, the chief mechanic. He and the man he considered the boss in the unlikely case that Tazer wasn’t around chatted back and forth as they made the final checks of every nook and cranny on the ship.

Tazer entered the hold area first and stood inside the entry, letting his eyes search everything from that particular vantage point. As Moses stepped in behind him, he snapped a light rod to life and turned out the lights in the hold, mimicking a raid or boarding party’s action prior to illuminating the cargo bay for a more thorough examination.

A glint caught Tazer’s eye. “Hey, move it back this way a little,” he said. “Too far, a little to the left. Hold it right there.”

Tazer advanced slowly toward the glint reflected by the glow of the light rod. “Hey Moses, hit the lights, would’ya’?”

“A’ight,” he said, and felt the wall until he located the activation palm-pad and lit up the cargo hold.

“What the flarg?” Tazer bent low and slid his arm under a pallet holding the cases of rations. His calloused fingers curled around something that felt rather soft and squishy. He pulled his hand back and crouched on one knee, studying the stuffed animal he’d just found. It was a child’s toy. An Endorian Pony to be specific. Cute rounded muzzle, big button eyes and a smile only a child could love and not get creeped out over. Tazer turned the stuffed animal over in his hands, wondering what in the frell it was doing aboard a smuggler’s ship.

“Hey, there’s somethin’ else under there, boss.” Moses pointed out.

Tazer looked over at the man confused, as if he hadn’t even heard what he had said.

“Look under the pallet to the right of ya’,” Moses encouraged, pointing with a greasy finger as he nodded to Tazer’s right.

The boss turned and looked at the pallet then bent on one knee again. With the stuffed animal crushed in his hand still, Tazer bent forward until his cheek brushed against the cold metallic floor of the hold. “Bring that light rod over, ‘ere.”

Moses strolled over and slapped the light rod into his bosses open, extended hand. Tazer lowered the glow stick and adjusted its angle a couple of times, trying to get a better view of the items lying beneath the pallet. “’Ere, hold this,” he said as he handed the glow rod back to Moses and reached under the pallet for the mysterious item.

As he pulled his arm back out, both men heard the sound of metal scraping against metal. This piqued their curiosity further. Slowly, Tazer removed the items from their hiding place and held them up for both to fully see. “Shackles?” Both questioned simultaneously.

“Better show those to the Admiral.” Moses suggested.

“I can tell ya’ right now. She ain’t gonna’ be happy to find out that the smuggler was involved in slavin’.”

Moses nodded then took a bite of a shiny piece of fruit he’d been holding onto for the past half an hour. “Better wait ‘til af’er the funeral. S’about to start.”

Tazer nodded, looking over the stuffed animal one more time. “Yeah. I s’pose yer right.”


Memorial – The Theater

Gabriella stood just inside the double doors of the circular “Theater” and stared down the gently sloped aisle that led to the “stage and sighed softly. Normally the chamber was used for briefings on large-scale battles, requiring the presence of nearly every available body aboard the ship. Today, however, “The Theater” served another purpose, a more somber purpose.

The small crew assigned to funeral detail had completed the finishing touches on the “theater” as Gabriella looked the chamber over with scrutiny. The lighting had been reduced from its normally bright glare to a subtle, gentle glow. Aisle runners, black in color, had been rolled down each aisle that allowed the pilots and crew to take a rowed seat.

Along the outer perimeter of the circular “stage” – the area reserved for holographical maps, tactical read-outs, and other vital information – was lined with beautiful blooming potted bouquets of some of the galaxies most rare and most exotic flowers and greenery.

The “stage” itself held twin closed caskets, each draped with the New Republics flag. One was set off to the right and the other sat off to the left. Standing behind the caskets, respectively, were four easels; each displaying enlarged formal military photographs of the four Womprat pilots killed in action. The upper left corner of each photograph was draped in black ribbon and a small, engraved plaque pinned in the center that held the names of the pilots. Each ribbon also sported a duplicate set of the medals each of the pilots had earned during their service within the New Republic. Unfortunately, the highest honor earned was (almost always) awarded post-mortem.

The Admiral stood quietly as the small crew took a moment to pay their respects to the departed. The six-man crew each lowered their heads and stood in silence for the next few minutes. After each had said their prayers and bid their comrades farewell, they took their leave in silence to resume their normal duties.

The “theater” was quiet, a little too quiet. It unnerved the Admiral, so she slowly stepped down the aisle and stood at the foot of the “stage” in a formal military at-ease pose with her hands clasped behind her back. The others would begin filling in soon, so she paid her respects to the fallen while she was still alone with them. Fifteen minutes later, Gabriella moved aside, taking a seat way off to the side of the chamber next to a curtain that had been drawn to conceal the high-tech computers and database equipment normally used for detailed information given prior to entering battle. So she sat, quietly, reflecting on the eulogy she would be giving; as well as the mission briefing scheduled to take place within an hour after the services.

[IG-100]

The three pilots and their captain had been silent for a little while now, Leto and Stone both holding onto the prison bars, slumping ever so slightly, Cay sitting against a bulkhead wall and IG-100 still standing where it'd risen to greet its CO. Silent, didn't seem like there was much to say - the Admiral's threats might be overblown and unrealistic, but there was still plenty she could do. Then the door to the cell block hissed open, admitting the duty officer who stepped up to the cell door and tapped in a security code - probably taking some pleasure in keeping the pilots hanging before he explained,

"You're to clean up and report for the memorial service, full BDUs."

The four Womprats trudged in the direction of their bunks, none of them breaking the morose silence that persisted - somehow it wouldn't have been right. Besides, there wasn't anything to say really. So they just trudged, each lost in whatever thoughts the impending ceremony conjured up in their own minds.

------------------------------------

Eye-Gee was only in its cabin for a moment or two - to switch into a less battered cloak, in New Republic colours of course, and to spend a moment staring at the empy bunk above its. The bunk that should have been Tessari's. Then it retrieved something from a locker and left, it'd get there well before time of course - but then it didn't need to wash or shower like the organics did. Or try and struggle into those ridiculous dress uniforms. Besides, it had something personal to do.

The droid walked into the theatre, heading up the aisle and reaching a halfway point before the seated Admiral entered its field of vision. It didn't slow, but turned it's head to train it's glowing red oculars on her. She looked almost....pensive? Sad even? Either the Admiral was a very good actor or bi-polar - Eye-Gee hadn't seen her taking a shiv to the back to try and save the two pilots who's bodies lay in their coffins on the podium. No, on Admiral Nerys' ship it was a crime to protect your own. So what, we just let them die and then write lovely sorrowful eulogies?

The droid saluted, but carried on to the podium where it paused for a moment. Then it took the battered electrostaff it'd carried from it's cabin and snapped it across one knee with a resounding crack. Carefully laying one half on each of the two coffins, Eye-Gee turned around, glancing at the Admiral again as it headed for the seats reserved for the Womprats,

"Never got to meet them did you Admiral."

The toneless droid voice. Not a reprimand, not an accusation, not even a question. A simple statement of fact. Frack knew how the Admiral would take it, but then again - it couldn't have been meant in anger could it? Because droids don't feel, do they Admiral? Just mimic. Perhaps we're not the only ones.

[Mischa Margolin]

The light from the corridor wasn’t all that much brighter than the light inside holding cell block A2344, but it was enough to make Mischa squint at the two marines that entered the cell, neither of them the two frakkin idiots from the other day Mischa noted. The squint became a glare as she looked them up and down before dropping the antagonistic stance and getting to her feet with a sigh. “Shuttle here finally?” she asked, turning her back to offer her wrists for one of them to apply the stuncuffs to them once again.

“Uh, Sir. That won’t be necessary. You’re to be released per order of Admiral Nerys to attend the memorial services.” One of the marines said with a smirk. “We will be escorting you to your quarters to change into more appropriate attire then to the service before you’re returned here to await your shuttle, but the restraints won’t be necessary unless you force the issue.” He added, keeping up the pretense with the Womprat pilot as instructed by the carrier’s commanding officer.

Too worn physically and mentally to even consider the idea of an appropriately sarcastic reply, Margolin just said, “That won’t be necessary, Corporal. I just want out of this hole to say goodbye to my people.”

Walking through the corridors, a tall, wide shouldered man on each side of her, Mischa avoided making eye contact with any of the carrier personnel they passed until she reached the bunkroom she’d shared with Stone while aboard the Second Chance.
“You going to come in and watch me shower and change too?” She asked the two burly marines as she punched in the key code. The younger one, Pryce, blushed while Eisel the older of the two answered blandly. “No, Sir. But if you take too long we will be in to retrieve you, ready or not.” Making his younger partner’s face redden even more.

Smirking at the two marines until the door shut behind her, Mischa was relieved to see that Stone had already been there and gone on to the memorial service before she got there, judging by the absence of his spare dress uniform from the locker. And the damp towels in the ‘fresher confirmed it. “I hope he left a little hot water.” She thought, stripping out of the clothes she’d been wearing since the night of the bar fight and tossing them in the hamper, before turning on the water and stepping beneath it. A sigh of contentment escaped at the feel of the water washing away a little of the stress of the last couple of days.

In her clean spare dress uniform, towel dried hair twisted up neatly, Mischa felt almost human again as she pinned the various bits of insignia, including the medals she’d been recently awarded to the uniform jacket before checking the shine on her boots once again. She took a lingering glance around the bunkroom, knowing it may be the last time she’d see the room she’d shared with her best friend. Where they’d laughed, talked, and shared illicit booze and memories of their shared time in the service of the New Republic. “Knock it off, Vac.” She told herself moving towards the door, twinges of despair threatening to move in again.

The two marines were still bookends of attention outside the door as she walked back out of the bunkroom, head held high as the three of them made their way to the theater.



Most of the surviving ‘Rats were already present, lined up in parade rest with members of the various other squadrons and units of the New Republic military in similar formation behind them as Mischa and her escorts walked into the large room. Halfway down the aisle the two marines with her dropped back, but remained in the room ostensibly for security in case Margolin decided to try harming the woman standing off to one side of the stage. As if she would dishonor the ceremony in honor of the dead. She had a well-earned reputation for her temper, but she had her principles as well that overruled it at times like this.

Reaching the foot of the aisle Mischa stopped and look at the display of the pilots’ portraits and her heart sank at the memory of each and every one of them, of the dream she’d had that night, and at the knowledge that she was responsible for the deaths of most of them. The two caskets were a puzzle though since she hadn’t heard anything since being sent to solitary about the fate of two of the newest members of the squadron. Finally her gaze rested on Gabriella and Margolin hoped she maintained the neutral expression she was hoping for as she turned and made her way over to her squadron.

Mischa took the empty spot left fom her between Stone and Spice, avoiding Leto’s eyes as she passed the Captain, knowing she’d lose what little control she still had over her emotions if she looked at him. Instead she stood eyes focused on some invisible spot on the far wall between Bandit and Hyper’s portraits and waited for the ceremony to commence.

[Chancbacca]

The Last Pilot brought into the Room for the services didn't actually walk in. he was pushed in on a repulsar chair, having made an argument against the floater bed.

The wookie didn't look like his usual self, alot of the strength of character and the intimidating presence was gone. bled out of his side. left in a bar.

He was left at the rear of the remaining Rats. since no one know how he'd attend the service, or even if he would be able to, there was no room left for the chair in the squadron formation. Although he would have liked to be shoulder to shoulder with the Squadron, he knew better then push his luck, he was bound to end up back in the Infirmary. as it was 4 pilots in one of the other squadrons all moved their chairs and allowed the medics to place Chancy behind the rest of the rats. A clear sign of respect in a fellow pilot.

Because of the injuries, The wookie hadn't heard anything of the Admiral's wrath, the threatened demotions, breaking up the squadron, none of it. He could tell that no one was happy, but failed to notice anything of the security escorts.

saluting at the end of the ceremony, the medic had to restrain the wookie from trying to standing in sign of respect.

Shaking hands, the wookie was finally able to catch up on a few stories. and put some more of the details of the fight together. But it didn't last long. The Medic, joined now by a 2-1B medical droid insisted that the Wookie be returned to the Infirmary, to continue treatment. Saying his farewells, the wookie resolved himself to return to the isolation of the infirmary. although he'd never admit it, he was weak, so weak now he doubted he'd be awake much longer. It pained the warrior and hunter to be this weak.

On the way out, Chancky saw the new Spacer, supposedly here for some mission, standing by the door, wearing a formal outfit of some kind, military in cut, but not standard issue. He nodded to the wookie as a sign of respect and deference to his losses.

Chanc never remembered returning to his room, he had passed out along the way.

[Adok Borys]

Adok frowned and stared at his dress uniform in the mirror, on the wall of his quarters aboard the cruiser. A pair of new medals glistened on it, and he studied his reflection in the mirror checking for any imperfections in his appearance.

His boots were polished to a bright sheen, there was a knifelike crease in his trousers, and the uniform jacket crinkled from the effects of the starch. In addition, two new medals glistened on the row of decorations. He brushed an imaginary piece of lint off of his the jacket, and grabbed the report, courtesy of the shore patrol, that he’d acquired. He glanced at a chrono on his wrist, and spared an instant to skim the report. He nodded. All of the details were present, so as far as he could tell, according to the official record, he’d never even seen Margolin that night.

At least he was covered, officially anyway. Dock rubbed his head, wishing he could rid himself of the headache from the fighting and bad booze. No scratch that, he though, I need a stiff drink. I’d better not though.

He sighed and tossed the flimsiplast copy of the report on the bunk, and turned on his heel and then walked down the corridor.

Adok arrived, walking down the corridor just in time to notice a woman, that he recognized as Margolin, entering the room. He paused, immediately inside the entrance, staring at the six caskets, in his surprise, stopping abruptly. He’d only expected to see four caskets.

I wonder if that’s an omen, Adok thought. I wasn’t expecting six. Oh, and look. It’s that Admiral Bitch that took away my frakking shore leave, damn it!

He frowned, though he was trying to not let the anger show on his face, and stepped down the aisled and into the line with the rest of the ‘Rats, trying to stay as far away from Margolin as he could.

[Leto Tariq]

Leto stretched back from the cell bars when the guards came to let them out. He was a little surprised by that. Leto had expected the Admiral to let them stew in the brig for a while longer before she tried to go through with her threats. Maybe she just liked being punctual about things.

The duty officer casually tapped in his security code, taking his time with opening the cell door. A muscle in Leto's jaw tightened at the display. Things were bad enough without idiot guards taking turns twisting the knife.

"You're to clean up and report for the memorial service, full BDUs," the officer explained. Leto's face fell and he nodded, understanding now. So they weren't on the headsman's block yet.

He stepped out of the cell with the other Womprats, letting one of the guards escort him to his quarters.

"Corporal Niles," Leto said in greeting, leading the way.

"Captain Tariq," The guard snapped off a quick salute and followed behind. Out of the brig, the four Womprats broke off into the direction of their respective bunks with few words shared between them.



The first thing Leto did when he got back to his quarters was pull off the suit he'd been wearing since the nightclub. He put it aside and went straight for the refresher. There was a long, satisfied groan as the hot water hit his tired body. He relaxed and let the water wash away the last couple of days. Leto let himself stop worrying about admirals, dead pilots, memorials, punishments, and instead let himself enjoy his brief respite. He had plenty of time for everything else later.

Content, he shut off the spray and grabbed the nearby towel.



'Harris'.

'Tessari'.

He looked at the list of names and the last two additions to the names of the dead. The two were out of place in the likes of "Sticks," ''Bandit," "Slush." But with a lack of a callsign, their names would just have to do. Two rooks not long out of Basic, chasing each other out of their quarters and racing like two idiots through the barracks. It wasn't much of a memory, but it was all Leto had of the two. His mouth tightened and he put the list back into the locker to await the next additions.

Leto finished pulling on his uniform and looked himself over in the small mirror on the inside of the locker. Satisfied, he shut the locker door and opened the hatch, returning the guard's salute.

"So," the guard said as they walked to the briefing room known as "the Theatre."

"Yes, Corporal?" Leto asked.

"Do you take all your dates here?" Leto stopped, stared at the guard. The man smiled.

"You were..."

"On duty that morning," the Corporal finished for him. He looked rather happy with himself. Leto groaned and rubbed at his eyes.

"How long have you been waiting to use that?"

"Since that morning, sir." He grinned. Leto resisted punching that grin, instead turning away from the smiling idiot and heading for the funeral.

Frakking cameras... brigs... guards.

"Let's get this over with."

[Ati Quai]

By the time that Ati returned to the Second Chance, the word was already buzzing about what was going on during his absence. Or more aptly put, what happened where he decided to stay away from. He had told Ceryll that saloons were nothing but trouble waiting to be found, and well, seems as if it was found. Oddly enough, it didn't remain on the planet but also on the capital ship, as well. Anything that he hadn't already heard via rumor, his trusty droid with a penchant for rumormongering was certain to fill him in. Needless to say, it had made the smuggler laugh. No doubt it was expected that he would have been the one to get his butt tossed into the brig, not to be one of the few that wasn't.

Another thing that Kaybo had relayed to him, which he wasn't too pleased about, was the complete overhaul of his ship which had produced a few items of questionable origin. He could almost hear the Admiral questioning him about it, provided she was able to keep from just tossing him into the brig with everyone else. He did have to admit that if he were her, he likely would choose the brig first and then ask questions.

And it wasn't so much the fact that those two items had been discovered, but rather what that could lead to. He was a smuggler. He'd never pawned himself off as anything else, and for good reason. He couldn't afford to. If people didn't like him due to his profession, all the better. It kept them from asking questions, especially questions that would only be answered in lies. A refreshing point from speaking with Ceryll. She hadn't asked anything personal.

It was also decided, grudgingly, that he should attend this memorial for a bunch of people that he didn't know. Hadn't met a one of them, but perhaps such a gesture would keep him from being looked upon as the man with a Hutt growing out of his neck. Not that he cared to get all buddy-buddy with people, but there had to be some measure of trust grown between them if they expected to survive in combat. For all he knew, they'd ghost him to save their own skin.

Luckily for him, he had managed to get those BDUs sent to his quarters during the shoreleave, all twenty-four hours of it. He wasn't fond of uniforms, but such was the way of things at this point. Not much about this situation really tickled him in that sort of way, so he simply had to make due and hope for the best.

Fingers gently ruffled his hair, keeping it in that whole uncombed, unkept look that suited him best. A glance in the mirror caused his eyes to lower just slightly, to the bulge in his shirt just below the neckline. A pair of chains hung from his neck, one with standard issue dogtags for being part of the squadron, and the other was a bit more personal. The Corellian Cross.

The story behind it, hopefully, would never really be told. He had his own story, and it was much the same as how he ended up where he was. There was little difference, in his eyes, considering that before the battle he had been doing primarily the same thing. Smuggling. Wrong place, wrong time, and the rest was history.

There was a file somewhere that told the true events as they were recorded, but for Ati, he had simply helped out the underdog on both accounts. That way, it didn't sound like anything special. Nothing to warrant attention. Nothing to make him seem like anything other than his smuggler persona.

Without knowing it, he had grasped the Cross, rubbing his thumb over the front of it and then the back. Even he couldn't make out anything on the back of it, none of the inscriptions. Better that way.

Letting the Cross fall once again, he tucked it beneath the simple white tank-top that he wore, reaching for the top of his BDU and slipping that on. He felt about as comfortable as a Gamorrean in a rancor pit, but orders were orders.


With having been on the ship and out of the brig, he didn't need as long to get ready and as such, arrived at the memorial a bit before the others. He did, also, manage to overhear the droid's comment directed at the Admiral. There was something to be said for ionized weaponry and this was likely a time for it.

Another day, perhaps. For now, he silently stood near the back of the 'theater,' out of everyone else's way and far away from the droid. He stood at relative attention, hands clasped behind his back. Not exactly the typical stance for a rough-and-tumble smuggler, but then again, a memorial service wasn't exactly the first place that such a person would be found at. It was somewhat akin to a Hutt at a dance hall. Some things just didn't work.

[Jon'son Dethrider]

Jon'son held a straw to his lips, and he sipped, sloshing the water around his mouth to wash away the cottonmouth. "How long before I leave? I have a funeral to attend." She withdrew the cup away.

The nurse looked at him. The Womprat was a mess-- a large purple bruise on his left cheek, the bridge of his nose taped, and a half-healed cut on his lower lip. His eyes still looked red and irritated-- the nurse couldn't tell-- and the big man occasionally emitted a deep liquid cough. Jon'son wondered how bad he looked, then decided he didn't want to know.

"Just until the doc looks you over," she smiled, then left to attend another patient.

A medic in a red-and-white jacket checked his pulse. Jon'son glanced up at the man's chiseled profile and cleft chin, and decided that he must be a doctor.

The pilot was startled when the doctor turned to shine a penlight into his eyes, and he saw the man's full face for the first time. A jagged pink scar extended up from the right corner of his mouth to his forehead, crossing his right eye socket. The eye on that side was a silvery artificial orb with a black lens in the middle. He could see something moving beneath the glass as the eye changed focus.

The doctor's eyebrow rose as he saw Jon'son's reaction. "Battle of Endor. I was one of the lucky ones. When our frigate began to break up, I jumped into the nearest escape pod. Unfortunately, a corridor explosion caught me before I boarded. Piece of shrapnel almost did me in. Frelling Ewoks nursed me until I was rescued."

He shut off the light. "You're a lucky man, Stone. There are a lot of ways you could have been dead in that bar. Unfortunate for those two lads I did an autopsy on a few hours ago."

<I>You don't know the half of it...</i> Jon'son looked past the doctor to see the wookiee, Chanc, in the far corner of the infirmary being hoisted onto a repulsor chair, protesting with sharp growls.

A bearded officer stepped forward, studied the Womprat pilot for a moment, then looked to the medic. "Is he well enough for release?"

The doctor didn't flinch. He looked up into the officer's eyes. "Well, if he's not going to get into another fight, I'll say he is." Then he looked back at Stone and shrugged. "Then again, he probably wouldn't take my advice. Get him out of here."

Stone grinned. He pulled off the bench and let himself be escorted to his quarters for a long, hot shower and change of clothes.

Eventually, he finally emerged into the 'theatre' of the <I>Second Chance's</I> war chamber, dressed in his sharpest, neatly-creased BDU's, despite the haggard look on his face. He noticed the droid, IG-100, was already here and taking his position among the squadron, who were lined up in parade rest. Most of them were there, including Spice, Chanc, and Leto. He also noticed in the back, one of the new pilots to fly for the 'Rats, named Ati. He wondered if he would get to know him before he got ghosted.

Jon'son saw Spice's mouth curl into a sneer as he took his position near her. <I>I guess she noticed the battlescars...</i> From the corner of his eye, he spotted Misch arriving with Adok close behind, and his wingman took her position between him and Spice. He noticed her eyes clouding briefly when she passed Leto, and the muscles of her jaw clenched.

Misch glanced toward the far wall, her practiced eyes neither avoiding the big man's scarred face, nor staring at it. "You look like hell, Stone," she whispered.

Jon'son just looked at her and cocked that eyebrow. "And you're wearing the wrong uniform."

"You think I give a frak?" she replied, leaning in close to look at his face, "<I>frell</i>... who did you fight? A Gundark?"

"Not this time," he whispered back, a wry smile playing at his lips.

The officer up front called for attention and gestured to the podium, which sat behind the six caskets of the fallen pilots. Admiral Nerys stepped toward it...

[Gabriella]

The Admiral knew well in advance that she would be the brunt of the anger and guilt each of the 'Rats harbored since spending the night in the brig. It was just the way they were. No matter what they'd say to her in whispered tones, it wouldn't bother her in the least. After all, she isn't guilty of anything, outside of taking immediate disciplinary action for at least the minimum infraction of conduct unbecoming of an officer. The full, complete reports - including eyewitness statements - wasn't even available at the time. In fact, she was still waiting on the final reports as she prepared for the service this morning. Ensign Carter had reported, as Gabriella walked out of her office, that the remaining reports would be ready soon.

"Admiral?" Sub-Lieutenant Kirkwood said softly, approaching the seated Admiral from behind as she watched the droid pay his respects to the dearly departed. "I'm terribly sorry for disturbing you. Ensign Carter wanted you to get these right away," Kirkwood said as she handed Gabriella a thick folder. The Admiral glanced up to the Sub-Lieutentant and nodded once, silently dismissing the woman. She waited until the Sub-Lieutenant left the theater before opening the folder to read the files inside. As she read through the files thoroughly, it became apparent right away that Harris was, in fact, responsible for starting one of the bar brawls gone awry when he accidentally threw his drink over his shoulder, dumping the contents on someone seated behind him at another table. Members of a local swoop gang, or so the reports all confirm, for the incident at the beach hut. The report went on to state that Stone had been the first (and only one) to attempt to quell the escalating situation by offering to buy the swoop gang a round of drinks. Apparently that wasn't good enough. One of the swoop gang members pulled a vibroblade and attacked Stone, who deflected the strike and after a minutes pause, the fight ensued.

'And it was all easily avoidable. Why didn't they just leave?' She wondered, then continued to read. The fighting continued and one of the swoop gang members pulled a blaster and fired. Harris lept at the shooter and took the shot intended for Stone, killing him instantly. The report went on to state that the wookie, Chancbacca, joined the melee at this point and broke the back of the swoop gang member who had pulled the blaster. The wookie then proceeded to swing violently, as if in an uncontrollable rage. Chancbacca had been stabbed in the back by yet another swoop gang member. The wookie responded by jerking the man's arm right out of its socket. The result of his action caused the swoop member to bleed to death. 'And there is the murder charge', she thought. 'Clearly this is self-defense. Why are they going for murder on this one?'

The droid, one IG 100, killed a few as well when it crushed their skulls with a long, metal pole it had ripped free from the bar and wielded it as a weapon. 'And there's at least three additional murder charges. Though it was defending it's squad mates, it doesn't say if IG-100 was in any real danger. Though, what possible dangers are there to a droid in a bar fight? Weapons or not, the droid clearly has the capabilities and skills of rendering attackers unconscious and not killing them without any real danger to itself.'

Gabriella looked up from the files and stared off distantly. 'These charges just might stick. I'll have to see what I can do and if my fast talking can drop these charges and clear the droids name.' The Admiral inhaled a breath, slow and deep, then resumed reading the rest of the detailed reports. Tessari was killed when a blaster shot ricocheted off of IG-100. A side note interrupts the report here to indicate that one Cayenne Rudal came to the aid of the bleeding wookie, applying immediate emergency (albeit rudimentary) first aid that ultimately contributed to saving the wookie's life. Though members of the opposing swoop gang did attempt to prevent her from administering first aid, she defended herself to the point of rendering one swoop member unconscious; doing only what was necessary for the immediate situation.

'Why the others couldn't have followed her lead and done the same thing from the very beginning...They should have left! Why didn't they just leave?' That concluded one of the three reports. The other two were pretty much just as she had been told about upon learning that most of the Womprat Squadron had landed themselves in the brig. Lieutenant Margolin let drink and emotions cloud her best judgment and she beat the crap out of one of her squad mates, whose name was not included in the report. ’Borys’, she thought. Everyone on board knew the hot-headed pilot got her kicks from beating the living hell out of him. If it wasn’t him, then it was Captain Tariq. The other just detailed the fight that occurred between Captain Dervis and Captain Tariq. Finally, the details of the inappropriate conduct between Margolin and Tariq in the brig.

She closed the folder and set it aside, praying to the forces above that Command had not yet received any of the incident reports. She noticed the rest of the squadron and other members of the crew had filled the theater to capacity, leaving the doorways for the few who were still arriving as the only available place to attend the memorial from. The Womprats took their places and stood at relaxed attention, making way for the wookie to join them on the stage.

Gabriella stood and took her place at the podium. After looking to the faces of those gathered, she cast a glance down at the note cards that had been placed on the podium for her to read from. Slowly, she lifted the small stack and thumbed through them, then tossed them aside and let the 3 x 5 cards float to the floor. She hated reading what someone else had written. It wasn’t her and it didn’t come from her heart. Sure, it all sounded poetic, formal, and all that other crap; but it wasn’t personal. All that poetry couldn’t make up for the lack of emotion or for the coldness eulogy’s seemed to emanate, no matter how hard one tried to generate warmth from them.

“I didn’t have the pleasure of getting even a small chance to know Flight Officer Bensen J. Harris and Flight Officer Zardur Tessari. Like many of you, they were enjoying shore leave and getting to know their new squad mates when their lives were taken.” She paused. “Though these two fine men barely knew the men and women of the Womprat Squadron, and vice-versa, they gave their lives selflessly to protect the lives of their fellow pilots,” she glanced toward Stone and IG-100 briefly, then faced the rest of the theater again. Behind them, the holoscreen began slowly scrolling the faces, names, history, and military records of each of the men depicted in the four photographs.

“Flight Officer Bensen J. Harris would have made a fine addition to the crew. He was a promising pilot, as his record shows, and I have no doubt that he would have made each and every one of us proud to have him with us.”

“Flight Officer Zardur Tessari was considered a rarity and labeled as a troublemaker by his flight instructor. However, his flight record was impeccable. Some consider it a dishonor to be sent to serve amongst the Womprat Squadron. I consider it an honor and one of the highest honors a fighter pilot could receive.”

Gabriella took the time to look at each and every member of the Womprat Squadron standing behind her as she spoke, at least a little bit, of how she personally viewed the men and women Command considered castaways.

“In fact, Officer Tessari’s flight instructor hoped that Tessari would learn a thing or two on becoming a respectable soldier of the New Republic,” she continued as she returned her attention to the rest of the room. “He gave his life to save the life of another without hesitation or thought. Flight Officer Zardur Tessari was a respectable soldier, indicated by his brave actions, and he shall be remembered as such.”

“Flight Officer Zachary “Bandit” Koal served for two years with the New Republic. His induction to the Womprat Squadron involved a foolish prank that resulted in spending his first two days in the brig. Hence, the earning of his call sign. “Bandit” immediately ingratiated himself into the bond of his squad mates and his piloting skills led to at least three victories for our cause. The respect he held for his comrades was revealed every time he was at the controls of his ship; which also allowed him to save the lives of his squad mates more times than can be recounted.”

“Flight Officer Jackson “Joker “ White served for three years with the New Republic. His call sign was earned on the first day he was aboard the Second Chance. His practical jokes, one-liners that have become classic, and the laughter he brought to all will be sorely missed. The inner-child within his soul shone bright in his eyes; his smile contagious. His skills in the cockpit were immeasurable as he proved himself time and time again.”

It was at this point when Gabriella looked up the center aisle and noticed two additional Officers entered. High Marshals. They stood there, keeping their eyes on IG-100. The Admiral knew immediately why there were here and what they were waiting for. She swallowed a hard, dry swallow and her face paled a bit. Realizing she had stopped abruptly during the service, she cleared her throat and took another sip of the water. ’There is no God’, she thought, then resumed the eulogy.

“Flight Officer Wilhelm “Hyper” Ziel served for three years with the New Republic. “Hyper”. His call sign certainly fit him to a tee. His exuberance and never-ending energy broke through the weary and lifted their spirits to renewed vigor when the darkness appeared to be so inviting. In the cockpit, some might have considered him to be a bit … insane. But, his ‘insanity’ proved to be the vital turning point of many suicidal missions.”

“Flight Officer Jeremiah “Jammer” Johanssen served for two and a half years with the New Republic. There are two stories floating around as to how Jeremiah Johanssen earned the call sign of “Jammer”. One story claims that the control stick of his ship was known to jam at the most inopportune times. Another claims that he was an expert at jamming the electronics of enemy craft. Whichever story is true, if either is, the nickname seemed to suit him perfectly. It didn’t take long for him, or any of the others, to become an integral part of the squad as well as the overall crew.

“Each of these men is a hero, even if they never would accept the fact themselves. For their dedication, their skills and selflessness, camaraderie and friendship. You will be missed, but never forgotten.”

The Admiral took a few minutes to collect her thoughts, as well as a sip or two of water to moisten her dry throat, then she continued.

“A poem by *Shane Gibson, titled I’m Free.”

At the reading of the title, the twin caskets were turned and guided to the back of the stage.

“Ice is forming on my new found wings,
As I soar through the night sky
Looking back at lots of things
Where am I going?

“I want to know why
Everything around me getting lighter.
Where has all the darkness gone?
I think it’s getting brighter & brighter
Where am I going?

“I want to know
There are blues & grays, lots of whites
As I fly higher & higher
I’m leaving now, I have no gripes
I know where I’m going, I’ll be alright

“Looking down I can see all of you
As I float towards my release
Knowing how you feel right now,
Makes it even harder to leave

“But I know where I’m going now
So you don’t have to grieve,
Because I know where I am now,
Higher than I’ve ever been

“Because I know where I’m going now
Looking back at what I’ve seen
Means more then ever to me now
I wish you knew where I am

“Because I’m free now.

“I’m free.”

As the poem was read, the caskets were eased into the ejection tubes and slowly released into space. The back wall of the theater faded to reveal the midnight backdrop of space. Stars sparked like diamonds and colorful gases swirled, providing a very fitting setting for the burial of two fighter pilots who never had a chance to show the others just what they were truly worth.

The attention of every pilot, crewmember, and those on the stage were all on the caskets and the back of the theater. Gabriella took this opportunity to approach the newly arrived Marshals sent by High Command. The three spoke, keeping their voices to hushed whispers so they wouldn’t interrupt the funeral any more than it already had been.

Admiral Nerys and the Marshal’s stepped into the hall when their voices began to rise above a whisper. Though the others wouldn’t have heard any more than a word or two here and there, Gabriella was fighting with the High Marshal’s and pulling anything she could think of off the top of her head to prevent the court martial and arrests of the wookie and the droid. Or, at the very least, delay them until after the mission.

Whatever it was that she pulled off the top of her head finally seemed to work. At least to the point where the court martial wouldn’t be served against the wookie and the droid. They served her instead. Out of respect for her rank, the funeral service, and the crew present, they avoided placing her in cuffs. Instead, they flanked her and escorted her from the theater to the briefing room. “When the briefing is over, Admiral, we insist that you will have to come with us,” one of the High Marshal’s stated.

She nodded, then entered the briefing room.

-----

*Shane Gibson wrote the poem I’m Free about a child who battled with cancer and didn’t win.

In Memory of Christopher Michael Konieczki

[Maxwell Gandel]

The plan came together more quickly than Gandel would have expected. Askaza, despite being a pirate, had a mind like a vibroblade. Then again the man seemed full of surprises, and the Imperial admiral found himself having to constantly reevaluate his personal views on pirates.

"Allright then," Gandel was saying, "Let's go over it again." He stood at the same table he'd stood at when planning the attack on the supply depot, only this time the holoprojector displayed an image of the Rock and it's surrounding asteroid field. Askaza stood across the table from Gandel, Anton to Gandel's right. A man dressed in blue black scout trooper armor stood across from Anton, at Gandel's left. The man's helmet sat on the edge of the holotable, leaving his strawberry blond hair free to fall across his steel grey eyes. The man was Commander Roschak, and he was one of the 105th fleet's few blackops troopers.

Why he'd worn armor to the briefing was a mystery to Gandel, but he suspected that it was to impress and intimidate Askaza. If that had been the aim, then Roschak had partially failed. Askaza looked envious, even covetous of the commander and his armor... but not intimidated.

"We're agreed that it's only a matter of time before the New Republic sends a probe or manned scout craft to gather intel on the pirate base," Anton said, indicating the hologram of the Rock with a gesture. "We keep the ship on alert until it arives, and as soon as it's in system we jam communications and sensors." When Anton finished speaking, he nodded mutely to Askaza. The pirate leader rolled his tongue around the inside of his mouth before speaking.

"What ships I've left'll be on constant an' rotatin' patrols," Askaza said, seeming to thoughtfully chew on the words even as he spoke them. "That probe shows up, we hit it hard an' fast with ion cannons. Disable an' capture afore it can run or blow itself ta pieces."

"With any luck," Gandel picked up the thread of conversation, "The Decimation's engineers and intel people can extract it's nav logs. We'll be able to determine it's point of origin. That's where you come in," he looked to the armored Commander Roschak.

"Once we have the location of the enemy fleet," Roschak placed one blue black armored hand and leaned forward, almost into the holoprojection, "My squad mounts up in a civillian transport provided by the pirates. We take weapons, armor, and lots of explosives. With sensor profiles to guide us, we find the cruiser that appeared at the battle of the depot and determine the strength of the fleet it's attached to. If possible, we damage or destroy said cruiser and/or it's escorts before returning to the Rock."

"I still think it sounds too risky," Anton shook his head. He'd voiced reservations about the plan, ever since Askaza came up with the idea of capturing whatever probe the NR sent and using it to find the enemy fleet.

"You let me worry about that," Roschak said stoicly. Though the commander's face remained neutral, Anton could clearly see a desire for action burning behind the man's cold grey eyes. The blackops section of the 105th fleet's stormtroopers had seen precious little action in the unknown region. Now they were needed again, and Roschak didn't intend to waste the opportunity to blow things up.

"If the commander thinks he can handle the mission," Gandel replied to Anton's concerns, "Then he goes. We need to make the enemy think twice about coming after us in force, make them hesitate. If we hit them on their own turf, we'll force them into a defensive posture and put ourselves on the offensive. In this sort or fight, initiative is key." Across the table, Askaza nodded in mute agreement. He'd first volunteered a contingent of his own pirates for the sabotage mission. Gandel had convinced him that Roschak and his men were better trained for this sort of thing, and in the end Askaza had relented. But not without a concession - the ship that Roschak's men would use was to be crewed by pirates. If needed, they were also to act as backup commandos and follow Roschak's orders.

Anton looked from Gandel to Askaza and back again, then nodded. "Aye, sir," was all he said.

"Dun worry," Askaza said with a smile. "The commander there probably has a better chance of survival than we do if the Republic shows up with a fleet to give us a nice warm 'hello'." He laughed so hard Gandel thought he might fall over.

"Then let's do this," Gandel said as the pirate's laughter died down. "We don't have long before that recon effort arrives."

**********

Gandel had begun to wonder whether or not the recon effort was going to come at all. Pirates and Imperials alike had been on high alert since the briefing, and nothing had shown up. "Maybe they'll just show up in force, and not worry about a recon mission," Anton suggested at one point, just as the night shift had started to man the bridge. Gandel didn't prefer to think of that possibility.

"Or maybe we're wrong," Gandel replied. "Maybe the tracking beacon didn't reach them... there's enough space dust, rock, and metal around here that a weakened signal might not reach through it." Even so, he told himself, it was far better to be prepared.

A short time later, the Decimation's communications officer called from the crewpits, "Admiral... sir, there's an incoming message from the Desparate Gamble. Their tactical officer says she needs to speak with you."

Gandel arched an eyebrow in curiosity, exchanged a glance with Anton. "Their sensor officer, not their captain?"

"Yes sir, their tactical officer. Annika, apparently."

"I knew the chain of command on pirate ships was somewhat lax, but I didn't think it was entirely optional. Put it on," Gandel ordered at last. When he got the nod that he was connected, he cleared his throat. "This is Admiral Gandel."

Admiral, a pleasant, young voice came over the speakers, this is the tactical officer aboard the Desparate Gamble. I have something I think you should know about.

"Go on," Gandel said, willing to humor the woman.

I'm transmitting coordinates and sensor profiles of a small meteor near the edge of the asteroid field. A quick glance into the crew pits, and Anton nodded. The sensor profiles had been recieved.

"And what's so significant about this meteor?" Gandel inquired, curious despite himself.

It's the recon probe you've been waiting for. It wasn't there an hour ago, and there are some... anomolies. If you have your sensor stations take a close look at it, they should see what I'm talking about. Gandel gave the nod of approval, and Anton relayed the orders. Moments later, one of the officers manning a sensor station gave his report.

"Sir... it's warm. And it looks like it might have a metal core, except... our sensors can't penetrate the outer layer of rock."

Either it's made of some really exotic stuff, the young woman interjected through the comm system, Or that's a camoflauged probe.

"Is it transmitting?" Gandel demanded, willing to believe it was a probe rather than be wrong and lose his only chance at backtracking the enemy's position.

"Not that we can detect... it might just be cruising through the system, gathering data before it reaches the other side and jumps to hyperspace again."

Gandel only paused for a second. "Take it," He ordered. "Jam comms and sensors."

"Pirate patrols responding," Anton said, now in the crew pits themselves, "Opening fire with ion cannons... woah! That thing can move, sir. The probe is attempting evasive maneuvers. There's a hit... we've got it, sir. Probe disabled."

"Bring it in."

[Gabriella]

The 'Rats had an hour after the services to get to the briefing room. This gave Tazer and Moses a chance to speak with Admiral Nerys privately. Of course, they had to be cleared by the Marshals before they were allowed to enter the briefing room.

"Admiral," Tazer said and both he and Moses snapped off a salute.

Gabriella looked to both of the techs, a brow arched in question.

"We uh," Tazer began. He lifted a fist to cover his mouth as he cleared a frog from his throat then lifted the shackles and stuffed animal they had found on Ati's ship. "We found these in the cargo hold of that smuggler's ship."

The arch in her brow rose even higher. Gabriella reached out and took the items from Tazer and shifted her eyes back and forth between the things. "Well," she began after a full minute passed. "Either he has one kinky sex fetish or he was involved in slaving," she finished. Tazer and Moses tried really hard not to chuckle at the sex fetish comment and to hide it they both cleared their throats a few times and shifted uncomfortably on their feet.

"Thank you, boys. You are dismissed." Tazer and Moses snapped off another quick, sharp salute then left the briefing room. "I bet she wishes it were a freaky fetish and not slavin'," said Moses to Tazer. Neither laughed though, for both knew exactly how strongly the Admiral felt against slaving. "Let's get sumpin' ta' eat." Tazer suggested and the two veered around the corner at the end of the corridor to take a lift to the mess hall.

Gabriella slowly sat down in one of the chairs, placing the stuffed animal on the seat of the one to her right. With her elbows propped against her knees, she gave the shackles closer study. The cuffs were thick and heavy, well-used, and rusting from use and exposure. Oxidation was apparent where the cuffs rubbed against flesh, turning the iron an ugly shade of dull, dark gray and mildewy green. 'These have seen much use.' She also noted the size of the cuffs. Gabriella is not a huge woman by any means. She has a small frame and a small bone-structure. She gingerly laid one of the cuffs around her left wrist and tried to close it. They wouldn't fit. In fact, there was about an inch or two of space between the two halves draped around her wrist. 'These were for a child'/. The very thought disgusted her and made her stomach knot. She removed the cuff from her wrist and gave the inside a closer look. Old, very old, dried blood was still visible as were small chaffings of skin that had been embedded within the blood stains. Gabriella closed her eyes and lowered her head. The images that filled her head brought tears to her eyes. She rubbed at her brows with the tips of her fingers.

Gabriella finally lifted her head and continue the examination of the shackles. She let her mind go blank and ran her thumbs over the smooth, uneven edges of the cuffs. This struck her as odd. She sat up and finally saw the obvious. "They've been cut," she noted to the empty room. "No key was used to open these." The Admiral set the shackles down on the chair to her left and grabbed the pony, turning it over slowly in her hands while she chewed thoughtfully on her lower lip.

'Just what did you smuggle, Ati Quai? And for whom did you smuggle?' She wondered. The stuffed animal was filthy, but obviously it had been well-loved. One eye was missing, the other hung by a thread. The fur was matted and worn, as soft as velvet, and the tails had nothing more than three or four strands of yarn left to them. 'Did you smuggle them from one slave owner to another?' Gabriella felt her blood beginning to boil at the very thought of that. 'Or did you free them? Maybe take them some Alliance-safe world or some unknown safehouse where someone else cut their bonds?' She wanted nothing more than to believe this was the case. In fact, she hoped and prayed this would turn out to be the case. She'd have to have intelligence run a more thorough high-clearance background check on him while he was away on the mission.

The sounds of approaching crew nearing the briefing chamber pulled her from her thoughts. Gabriella rose from the chair, taking the shackles and the pony with her back to the podium. Instead of hiding these two items, she left them sitting out in plain view on one of the chairs lined up to her right slightly behind her. Maybe not so subtle a tactic, but she wanted to see the reaction on Ati's face if and when he noticed the items for himself.

-----

As everyone filed into the room and settled themselves into the chairs or along the walls to stand, Gabriella set her eyes on a select few, mainly those who had wound up in the brig, and waited for them to quiet down before beginning to speak.

"Before I begin, I'd like to introduce the four new members joining our illustrious crew. Belle Fibuna and Taliba Maquire who have been assigned to the Womprat Squadron." Gabriella motioned toward Belle Fibuna and Taliba Maquire, then cast a glance to the two new medics. " Jola'Edana Kahlid and Dr. Wess Jodo, medical staff."

Now that the short, curt introduction was out of the way and everyone cast their scrutinous stares at the new faces, the Admiral clasped her hands behind her back and methodically walked back and forth at the front of the room.

"For those of you who have never heard the saying "shit rolls down hill", let me define it as simply as possible for you." She began. Her voice was low and controlled, cold and devoid of emotion. "Basically, for every frack up you commit - as an individual or as a group - I am the one who has to answer for it. I realize that not a single one of you truly gives a crap that the brunt of your screw ups falls upon my shoulders, and to be honest with you I could care less that none of you care.

"However, that shit begins to roll down the hill throughout the chain of command, until it finally reaches your squad Captains. Obviously there is a deep bond amongst many of you and I hope that you will finally begin to question yourselves the next time you decide to destroy public or private property, or to lash out and kill while in an uncontrollable rage, that your actions will eventually fall upon the shoulders of your Captains. So the next time you decide to screw everyone over with your inexcusable behavior, maybe you'll stop and think before screwing over Captain Tariq, at the very least."

She paused, casting a glance to the crowd gathered as she moved to stand near Ati Quai.

"Of all the people gathered in this room, I'd expect the smuggler," Gabriella glanced down to Ati as she added, "no offense," then looked to the rest as she carried on. "...to be the one who would have wound up in the brig. Not the rest of you!"

At this point, she stopped and turned her eyes on each and every member of the 'Rats who were thrown into the brig last night. It was apparent by the look in her eyes that their latest shore leave antics had hit her like a knife stabbed into the center of her chest.

"I cannot tell you how very disappointed I am in almost every single one of you."

Yes, she was speaking to them as if they were her children. Children whom had hurt and disappointed their mother. But, if they wanted to behave like children, they would be treated as such.

"For a bunch of people who claim to not care what others have said about them - as far as being hopeless cases, washouts, and on their last legs within the Republic - you sure do your damnedest to prove those people right time and time again. Maybe I was a fool to believe that you weren't washouts. Maybe I was a fool to believe that you, particularly the Womprat Squadron, are in fact the best of the best."

Gabriella stopped stalking the front of the room and looked away, as if considering a thought that had just come to mind.

"Yes. Yes I was a fool. Shame on me."

She tsked lightly under her breath and shrugged her shoulders while turning her palms toward the ceiling as if to say, 'I don't know' or 'I give up. You win'.

"Do you honestly believe - or even care - what others think of you?" She paused here and flicked her glance over a few. "Who cares if Command thinks you're all a bunch of troublemakers and washouts? Who cares if they think you're hopeless cases and aren't worth the spit on their shoes? Command isn't here. They don't see the hell that each and every one of you goes through on every mission you're sent out on. They don't know the turmoil that you live through each time you lose a member of your squad. They don't know how many times you have all cheated death or broke free from its grasp. The only people who know any of this are those whom you serve with aboard this ship."

Gabriella made her way to the front of the briefing room and lowered her voice, fully aware that the High Marshalls were standing guard on either side of the door, she thought on what she wanted to say next. She really wanted to just say frak it all and let them court martial the droid and put the wookie on trial as well, but she couldn't. They were only doing what they felt was right in defending their new squad mates. Did they have to kill? According to the reports, no, they did not. They could have just rendered their opponents unconscious and left. She'd take the fall for this one and no one in the room would ever realize just to what lengths she'd gone to for them this time, and other times in the past. She also really wanted to be a real high bitch and thank them for the shitstorm that was about to hit her. Not one of them realized that they just may have cost her not only her rank, but her job as well, and more than likely just ruined the career she worked so hard for.

"Keep in mind that I have decided not to strip ranks. However, I do have the authority to do as such and I do have the support of the two men I must answer to if I should ever decide to demote, strip rank, or transfer anyone at any time. I will not hesitate to act on that authority if any of you should ever behave as poorly as you did last night. Because of your actions, shore leave has been revoked until further notice. Oh. And say your good-byes to Miss Margolin. She will be transferring off my ship in a little less than forty-eight hours."

She stood there and waited for them all to get their groans, gripes, and deadly glares out of the way. She had to maintain the ruse that their poor behavior just cost them one helluva pilot and nearly destroyed several careers, and what better way than to continue letting them believe that Mischa was truly transferred.

"Oh. One more thing." She turned to look at IG-100. "That little remark you made in the theater? I'd like to just point out that you are the only thing in this room who knew Harris and Tessari. No one else got the chance to meet them or get to know them either. Believe me when I tell you that there is absolutely nothing any of you could ever say to me that would hurt my feelings. I've survived far worse than anything your darkest imaginations could ever conjure up and much worse than anything anyone in this room has lived through. You might consider that the next time you want to make a comment that is neither warranted or deserved." How she hated droids! All droids, not just that one. And though she hated AI's with vehement passion, she wasn't going to let Command serve this particular one with a court martial that would definitely stick and get the droid broken down and turned into scrap.

"Anyone who is not going on this mission is dismissed," she stated rather coldly. "As further punishment for your shore leave actions, the grounded Womprats will be returning to Borleias and the scenes of their crimes to clean up the mess left in their wake. The beach hut and the bar are expecting each of you." Certain she had just wasted her breath, she didn't bother to look at any of the Womprats' as they filtered out of the room. At this point, she seriously didn't want to see any of their faces. It was time to get on to the mission briefing. The faster she got that over with and sent the members who had been chosen for the assignment on their way, the faster she could get to work on dealing with the messy details of the court marshal and find out if her career had come to an end or not.

The lighting in the room dimmed and a projection screen revealed itself against the long wall off to the left of the room. The supply depot appeared in the center of the screen. Or what was left of it did. Various pieces of junk floating around the area drifted in an out of view as if it were a live holofeed. The next images to appear on the screen were those of Ati's newly modified and painted YT-2400 freighter, Erc's ship, and one additional cargo ship that had not originally been a part of the plan. This cargo ship, named Furtive IV, wouldn't come into use until toward the end of the mission, when those sent to infiltrate the Imperial destroyer slip away and return to the Second Chance in a tactic known to the Alliance as a 'Baked Imperial Surprise.'

"Two six-member teams have been choosen to conduct recon and infilitration. The members of those teams are Ati Quai, who will be in charge of team one, and Erc Vortan is in charge of team two. Team One consists of Ati, Ceryll, Medical Officer Jola'Edana, Pietur, *'Jockster', and *'Hawkeye'. Team Two is Erc, Adok, Dr. Wess, *'Jones', *'Whisker' and *'Bogey'.

"As you can see by the visual modifications made to the YT-2400, your cover is as a racing team; one of the many owned and managed by Bin Gassi Racing. Aboard the ship are several pieces of very expensive racing engines, parts, components, and other miscellaneous items. Do not destroy these and do not lose these. They are to be used as trade." She stressed this last part, pausing to take a breath and make sure everyone understood that they were going into a situation that would require them to bargain; possibly for their very lives.

"Ati's ship has been modified internally as well. Each engines' signature has been changed. New ownership papers, new identities, etc, have all been drawn up in order to protect each of you; as well as everyone else. Each of you will assume a new identity for this mission, as indicated in the paperwork sitting on the table in front of you. Several other items have been implemented as well, such as; emergency homing beacons that have been hidden within various pieces of every day attire and jewelry, weapons designed to look like nothing more than common items - hair brushes, combs, shampoo bottles." She ticked off the items that hid weapons or had been designed to be the weapon itself while looking like nothing more than harmless items used every day. "Everything is detailed in your briefing packets. Commit it to memory. Those packets will not be going with you and they will be destroyed the minute you leave this ship."

"Shortly before Ati's ship arrives at the supply depot, a failure will occur in the hyperdrives. Yes, it is just a ruse, but one that will be very believable. Obviously, there isn't a whole hell of a lot left of the depot, as you can see on the schematic holo. You will land here," a blinking yellow dot lit up on the projection to indicate where the ships were to make berth with the depot.

"Investigate the depot, search for survivors. We are detecting a few lifesigns, but they are very weak and may expire by the time you get there. If you find anyone alive and they ask what you're doing there, you use the hyperdrive failure as your excuse and state that you were in need of repairs. If questioned as to why you hadn't heard of the depot getting hit. Radio and com failures is the reason, and this was the closest depot you could get to since you couldn't make a jump to find another.

"Erc's ship will rendezvous with the depot shortly after, posing as scavangers. We want the fact that both of your ships being at the depot is simply coincidental. Both teams will act as if neither knows each other.

"Before any of you leaves this ship, you are to put a shadowsuit on beneath your clothing. For those who have never heard of or ever used a shadowsuit before, it's a specialized form of lightweight, armored bodysuit that was produced by Ayelixe/Krongbing for use by the Alliance's Infiltrators. The shadowsuit provides a variety of passive stealth and anti-sensor benefits, mainly derived from the use of the specialized fabric it is made out of. Shadowsilk."

Gabriella waited until she saw that each understood the mission thus far before continuing.

"During the last mission, luck was on our side, believe it or not. A homing beacon from one of our fallen pilots embedded itself within the side of another smaller ship. We were able to track that beacon to this asteroid." A blue dot appeared on the projector to indicate the asteroid the Imperials have referred to as 'The Rock'. "While the majority of you were on shoreleave, a probe was sent. We believe this asteroid is a hidden stronghold for the space pirates you engaged during the previous mission. This asteroid is where both teams need to end up. Carry out recon and intelligence of the place and memorize everything you can about it. The people, who is in charge, if they were employed by the Imperials. If possible, try to get confirmation or denial as to whether or not those Destroyers were in fact from the 'Lost Fleet'.

"If the pirates mention the Imperials at all, you are to claim to be Imperial sympathizers. If you do this well enough and the pirates believe you, then the first part of the mission will be a success. From that point on, it should only be a matter of short time before you find yourselves face to face with our enemy. Going on the presumption that you are in fact successful and are able to get aboard one of the Imperial flagships, you are to maintain cover and conduct your recon and intelligence. You will have all necessary items and equipment in your suitcases that are already aboard the ships. Get what you can and get out.

"We will be using our most secret operation called Shadowcast to communicate with you. I realize that our new members have not heard of this and don't know it exists, so let me explain to you what Shadowcast is. This is one of the most secret operations ever undertaken by the Alliance. It's a communications network developed to encrypt messages to deep-cover Alliance agents in Imperial propaganda advertising on the HoloNet. This allows the leaders of the Alliance to reach those agents and spies who have infiltrated the deepest confidences of the Empire, without raising suspicions. Previously, in order to maintain the integrity of the Shadowcast codes when this operation was first developed, Leia Organa suggested that they be hidden in the Alderaanian moss-painting, Killik Twilight. Although the moss-painting was lost shortly after the destruction of Alderaan, the Alliance - and now later, the New Republic Alliance- continue to use Shadowcast to communicate with its agents. What the codes used by Shadowcast offer in security, they take away in speed. Each transmission has to be encrypted by hand, then dispatched over a ghost wave. This ghostwave attaches itself to a commercial transmission, allowing it to be broadcast on the HoloNet.

"I understand that most of you are not familiar with hand-encryption. That will be Mr. Vortan's department. Since you are going in as a racing team, there is no reason to think you will be separated. If you find that you are, however, each of you already knows through your training how to keep in contact with each other and how to send out distress signals and messages."

Gabriella excused herself for a moment and turned her head to cough into her fist and clear her throat.

"When you are close - as in three or four days - of completing your mission, use the Shadowcast to let us know. Cover will be provided to help insure both teams make it out of there safely. Your rendezvous point will be transmitted once you have completed the first two hyperjumps. Do not return to Borleias. Any questions?"


----

*'s - NPC's. Kill 'em, make stuff for 'em, do what you want with 'em.

[Belle Fibuna]

Belle Fibuna sat up in her bunk, nearly bumping her head on the low metallic ceiling. The thin bed sheet fell from her torso and slipped between the bars of the. Blue hands tried to grab the sad excuse for a blanket but the attempts were all in vain as the cloth fell to the floor below. “Frang!” The young Twi’lek rubbed the top of her head and looked up at the ceiling that had attacked her. Belle rolled her eyes and threw her lean legs over the metal bars that were supposed to keep her from plummeting to the ground 6 feet away. After taking a deep yawn and stretching out her arms, the Twi’lek sprung from the bunk and landing in a crouch on the hard floor.

Belle looked behind her to grab the blanket that had fallen from her bed. Keba, her Chandra-Fan bunk-buddy, was still sound a sleep and making soft squeaking noises. Belle smiled at the female, who was only one year older than her, and slapped the thin mattress on which she lay. The Chandra-Fan was startled and her eyes shot open in horror. Belle buried a giggle as she threw her cover back on top of the bunk.

“It’s time to get up, Keba,” she said turning around and grabbing her jumpsuit from the small wardrobe. As she did so, Keba groaned, dropping her head back into her pillow. “You know what I should do? I should let you sleep in every once in awhile,” Belle said with humor as she stepped into the purple boiler suit. When her roommate nodded drowsily, the Twi’lek continued. “However, how would I feel when you get fired, for being tardy at roll-call. There may be a tad bit of guilt, but…eh…I think I’d get over it soon eno…” before Belle could finish, the Chandra-Fan’s pillow hit her in the face.

Belle laughed and tied the arms of the jumpsuit around her waist while the Chandra-Fan stood up and got into her own dark green suit. The two females continued to get dressed, Belle pulling on a small white undershirt, mostly worn by the male pilots. She tied the bottom of the thin top on the top left side of her abdomen. After placing her hand on a small pad that opened the door to their bunk, Belle grabbed a long strip of leather from her dresser. As she walked down the corridor alongside Keba, she wrapped the leather around her two headtails. By tying the lekku together, it would decrease the probability of injury.

The two waved to others they knew and gave their greetings to others that they were more friendly with. When a Mirialan woman approached them giggling Belle raised her eyebrow, suspicious as to what could make the (normally solemn) crew member laugh. “What’s so funny, Fis?” she asked as the woman turned around and started walking next to the two.

“You haven’t heard?” she said mustering another laugh. “The Admiral is pissed. The whole Womprat’s squadron is in the brig, including Captain Leto, and Captain Darius is in the brig as well. Plus, it has been rumored that demotions and transfers are being handed out to the pilots. That means more promotions for us. Of course that’s only if the rumors are true.”

Belle let out a short pitying laugh and looked at Keba who seemed to be shocked at all the punishment that the Womprats were receiving. “Wait, the brig is on the opposite side of the ship…and it’s a pretty big ship, Fisba,” she said using the Mirialan’s whole name.

“That whole ship knows about it. Rumors are flying around everywhere. I even heard that LC Stone killed a guy down on the shore. Although, I doubt it. I’m not saying that I don’t think he is capable of it, I mean the man is huge, but I heard he wasn’t as mean as he looks…”

Before the low-grade officer could continue Belle interrupted. “Since when are you one to gossip? I’ve never known you to be into anything but your job.” It was true. The Twi’lek had tried to get this woman loosened up since they met. Now she was all giddy and excited over nothing.

“Belle,” she said loudly, drawing some attention from others who were trying to fulfill their own duties aboard the Second Chance. “Do you know what this means?” The Twi’lek shook her head, even though she knew what was coming. It was the ‘this is your chance’ speech. Belle had been lectured about the subject almost as long as she had been friends with both Keba and Fis. Every single time a pilot was killed, fired or demoted, Belle got an earful from both her pals. “This is your chance. This is your time to move out of those gunner stations and actually do something for the Republic! You said so yourself! You said that the reason you left your commanding rank in the Hapes Defense Fleet was because you wanted to help the New Republic. Frak, Belle, why don’t you ever take any of these chances!”

“Why don’t you?” Belle retorted, getting bored of where the conversation was going.

Fris acted as though she didn’t even hear her friend. “I’m a navigator, nothing else. I don’t shoot Imps I direct the ship toward them. Keba here, she’s been behind the trigger of a gun since before you got here. You, however, you want to fly. In your whole carrier as a New Republic pilot you’ve flown like enough time to count on your fingers and toes! And out of those, how many times have you been in a battle? Once! You were born to be a hero! Frak, I want you to walk into the Admiral’s office and demand her to put you on a squadron…”

“What do you want me to do…” Belle asked nearly shouting. Her small annoyance had turned into a bitter anger as Fris had expanded upon the lecture. “Waltz up to the Admiral and be like ‘Excuse me, but I think you need to put me on the Womprat’s squadron. Otherwise I might have to slit your throat open’? Is that what you want me to do?”

“Yes! Well, I don’t mean threaten her, but you could at least let her know that you’re interested in the new jobs. Let her know that you think you could be a positive tool of the New Republic to bring down the Empire. Is that to much to ask?”

“It very well could be! What if she takes offense? I’ve heard the Admiral ranting before, and it isn’t pretty. What if she thinks that I don’t appreciate the way she is running her fleet? She could transfer me, to Kessel or someplace! What then? I bet you’d feel really bad then wouldn’t you?”

“She isn’t going to send you to Kessel! Sure, she might not make you a ‘Rat, but at least she’ll know that your interested! What’s the worst that could happen?”

“I could be transferred!”

“That is not a reasonable excuse. Now, I’m not going to hold a blaster to your head and make you do this, but I strongly suggest it. Just think about it… please.” The voice of the Mirialian was soft and she cupped the Twi’lek’s blue face in her hand. “I’m going to go get some sleep before my next shift,” she said, patting the Chandra-Fan on the head and giving Belle another reassuring smile.

The light green humanoid walked sternly in her previous course, her black bun bouncing with every step. Belle watched her go until she rounded the corner. “Oh, I don’t know what to do…” she said. Her words were drawn out and the pouty tone in her voice was accented with the pressing out of her lower lip. She rested on the short Chandra-Fan’s shoulder and pressed against as if she was using her friend for support. “What should I do?” she asked in the same sulky voice.

“Since when do you care what I think? I don’t mean it to sound rude. You’ve never cared what anyone thought you should do. Your parents for instance. They told you that it would be wiser and safer to stay on Hapes and they strongly advised you to do so (at least that’s what you told me.) But did you listen to them? No. You came here to support the New Republic anyway. You thought that would be best. Now, you do what you think would be best again, only think about yourself this time.” With that, Keba patted her friend on the back and walked to her station to report in for the day.

---

“Admiral, sir,” she said approaching the older woman who was rummaging through folders behind the large desk. It was intimidating to the young Twi’lek. She hadn’t been alone with the Admiral, ever. She was a strong presence and Belle could see why most didn’t challenge her when the occasions arose. “May I have a word with you?” Belle tried the best she could not to let the shakiness in her voice show.

What’s wrong with you? You’ve never been this nervous in your life. In fact your never nervous. Snap out of it!

Belle’s posture straighten as the woman nodded. “Well, sir, I was wondering if there are any new openings in the Womprat Squadron. I’ve heard rumors, sir, about what happened on the shore and it seemed as though you would be needing some new pilots. Sir, I think I could be a good asset to the New Republic and to this squadron. I do not wish to offend you, sir, or tell you how to do your job it is just that… Well, sir, I don’t think you are taking full advantage of my skills by assigning me to a squadron that does nothing but escort….sir.”

Although her voice was it’s normal soothing tone, Belle could tell by the number of times she said ‘sir’, was a dead give away that she wasn’t in the most comfortable position. The blue Twi’lek was about to hand her head in surrender but the small noise coming from the Admiral, clearing her throat, kept her hope alive. Here it comes…

“Let’s see,” she responded sharply picking up one of the datapads on her desk and scrolling through it ruffly. “What’s your name?”

“Fibuna, sir. Belle Fibuna,” she responded, angry that she hadn’t even introduced herself properly to the commanding officer.

"Great. Another in a hurry to die." Gabriella lifted her head from the papers and folders strewn across her desk to glance at the Twi'lek briefly. "If you're in hurry to become fodder, be my guest. You're transferred."

It was all Belle could do not to jump up and down from joy. Then she thought about how stupid she looked with a huge grin on her face, not saying anything. Finally she mustered up a sentence. “Thank you, Admiral,” she said before snapping her heels together as a salute and dismissing herself. Once she was out of the office she ran down the hallway leaping and jumping for joy. “Holy Frang, I’ve got to find Keba and Fis,” she said to herself softly. With that she darted down the corridor.

---
Two hours later, the blue Twi’lek woman stood at the back of the theatre, hearing the words of the Admiral in the distance but not really listening to them. However cruel it may have sounded, she didn’t know the pilots, and therefore she didn’t feel any grief. She wasn’t at the funeral service to pay her respects. She was standing in the back to catch a glimpse of her new infamous squadron. Down in front she could see the Captain. The fiery red-headed woman, who had earned a reputation of random anger among the ship’s crew, was seated between another woman, much shorter than the rest of them, and the big man called Stone. A droid was among the group as well. Belle had heard some alternate pilots complaining about being knocked down on the list by a droid and she figured this was the one they were talking about. There was another man on the end, one she hadn’t recognized, as well as two other girls both of which names escaped her mind.

With her finger, Belle started to count out the pilots. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. There were only eight seated and Belle lifted her eyebrows in curiosity. There should have been ten. Belle and the other replacement, whom she hadn’t met yet, weren’t introduced to the squadron so she subtracted the two from the standard number of twelve pilots in a squadron. One of the members that she knew was missing was the Wookie. Truly it was a diverse group and with herself as a new addition it would grow even more varied.

Belle moved to the left, trying to get a better view of the pilots’ faces. Suddenly she ran into something and heard it let out a small groan. She turned around to see her obstacle. A man with unkept hair but dressed in full battle dress uniform was up against her. “I’m sorry,” she said softly not wishing to disturb any of those around who had known the six pilots. The man wasn’t mean looking, but he definitely wasn’t a person that she would have picked to start a fight with. She shot another apologetic look and stayed put next to him, not wanting to ram into somebody else.

As the Admiral was finishing up her poem, Belle quietly back away from the theater and headed to her room to get ready for her first meeting with the Womprats.

---
The Twi’lek entered the briefing room twenty minutes later, no longer wearing her comfortable pilot’s tank and jumpsuit. Instead she wore her red, white and black uniform. As she walked to one of the far walls, she tugged at the collar, revealing her discomfort. She stood easily to hide her nervousness, and averted her eyes from all those entering the room. The squadron pilots should have realized that she was their new recruit and by they all looked at her and turned away, she figured that they did.

Once everyone was seated and had grew quiet from the Admiral’s stares, the woman began. Belle was first to be introduced and she felt somewhat embarrassed as everyone looked her way. It was then that she realized she may have made herself a little to comfortable and quickly dropped her foot that had been leaning against the wall with. She gave them all a nod, and then nodded to the other three who were introduced. It was when she acknowledged one of the doctors that she noticed the man she had ran into during the service. She flashed him a smile, hoping that she didn’t seem too unprofessional.

Belle listened to the reprimand that was given to the Womprats and imagined herself sitting among them in the near future receiving a similar lecture. It wasn’t until the Admiral addressed the man that she had bumped into and her thoughts snapped back to the present. A smuggler huh? Belle thought to herself as the lecture continued. Cleans up nice for a smuggler.

With all attention on the Admiral once again, Belle repositioned her foot against the wall with her bent knee in front of her. She listened to what the Admiral was saying and it made her think. Just how much trouble do the ‘Rats get in? How much time do they spend in the brig?

“Anyone who is not going on this mission is dismissed,” the Admiral said. Belle eagerly pushed off the wall and headed toward the door as did most of the other pilots. The Twi’lek beat them out the door, as she hoped she would. She was hoping that the smuggler would come out of the room, but when he didn’t follow the others, she assumed that he was going on the mission. She knew that everyone on the squadron would have a unique story, but usually those involving smuggling turned out to be much more interesting.

Still, as the Captain past by she stepped in front of him. “Belle Fibuna, sir, I’m looking forward to working with you.” Belle turned to the others who were grouped behind him, including the other new pilot. “All of you.”

[Mischa Margolin]

She couldn’t figure out why the Admiral had ordered her to attend the briefing. It wasn’t like Mischa was going on the mission, and hells in a few hours she wouldn’t even be a part of the squadron or aboard this ship. Maybe the Admiral was trying to punish her further. As if stripping her of her rank and therefore her flight status and tearing her away from the people…the man…she loved wasn’t enough, having to see those who’d be replacing her cut even deeper.

Yet she still listened to Nerys’ words as she stood before them. Maybe it was the almost motherly way she was talking, unlike her own who’d have screamed and berated the group histrionically. Maybe it was the things she had to say, or the timing. But for once, after giving Jon’son that “here she goes again” look a couple of times, Margolin actually listened.

In spite of the losses, in spite of the frak-ups she, like Tariq, believed in this bunch of rejects. Hells Mischa herself almost did too. Not that it mattered now. She only could hope that the others, especially those poor damned rookies were paying attention and believe it…believing in themselves…as well. One of the hardest damn parts about this entire day though had to be shutting Leto out again, but she had to. For his sake, and her own. If she looked at him her heart would just break. So she treated him as she had after they’d returned from that spectacular frak-up she’d lost four friends in due to her own recklessness. Ignoring him purposely, even as she felt those bright blue eyes seeking out her own. It was selfish she knew, but frak so had acting stupidly without regard for how it would effect him and his standing with Starfighter Command.

When the Admiral introduced the two new pilots and the two new medics, Mischa gave them a curious once-over. She wouldn’t be working with them, but she thought to check them over anyway. The docs looked competent enough, Goddess knows they need good med staff with this bunch. The male pilot, Taliba, looked young and a tad nervous but still had the look of a flyboy about him. The other new addition, a blue-skinned Twi’lek had a less disciplined look to her and Mischa wondered briefly if she was recruited from the civilian ranks rather than military. None of her COs nor the DIs in basic would have tolerated that casual posture in the presence of the Admiral.

As long as they could fly though, that was the thing that mattered to Margolin the most. She may have been leaving, but these people would always be the closest damn thing she had to family and she wanted the best people flying their six out there when it counted.

The moment they were dismissed by Nerys, Mischa broke off from the others and headed toward the two Marine guards waiting near the left doorway at the back of the briefing room to take her back to the brig. Held head high and a neutral expression on her face, she forced herself with every bit of willpower not to look back at the others as she heard Stone and then Spice calling “Vac, wait” from the corridor behind her.

[Leto Tariq]

Leto was actually glad when he was finally escorted to the briefing room. It had been a wearing hour after the funeral, sitting in his own cell while listening to the infuriating Corporal Niles chatter on. Leto suspected if it had been any longer, he would have started plotting escape attempts.

He took his seat and only moments later the rest of the squadron began to file into their own seats. Mischa walked past him and Leto visibly winced when she avoided looking at him. It felt like they were just returning from encountering the 105th again.

Frak, Mischa. Please don't shut me out. But as his eyes followed her to her seat, she never glanced at him. Leto shut his eyes and mentally groaned in frustration. Don't shut me out.

Sighing, Leto focused his gaze on the Admiral as she began making her speech. First she introduced the two new pilots, as well as two medics who were being assigned to the ship. Leto gave both the two rookies who would be under his command a glance-over, sizing them up. He grimaced at Belle's slackened and lax form; apparently Basic wasn't nearly hard enough on the new recruits as it used to be. He suspected he would have plenty of opportunities to chew her out over that.

Maguire shuffled nervously under the squadron's gaze, rubbing his hands together and looking like he was expecting the Admiral to leap from the podium and start beating him with a chair. That was going to be a problem if he was that way during the briefing. Leto hoped to whatever gods out there that he drastically improved during a combat situation.

And then the Admiral moved on to the other reasons for the briefing.

She berated them, all of them, for their actions during shore leave. It only sharpened the sting of her words as he realized the truth woven into each of them. But the most important part was when he realized that she really did, genuinely, believe in this squadron of frak-ups, for better or worse. That was a contrast to the other commanders of the ships they had been assigned to.

For once, Leto felt he had actually found some common ground between himself and his commanding officer.

His spirits rose a little when he found out that they weren't going to be demoted for their actions, only to have them sent crashing down again when he learned Mischa was still being transferred.

Maguire needn't worry about the Admiral and her chair, because she was far too busy using it on him. Leto gripped the arm of his chair in both anger and the sickly feeling like the Admiral Nerys had drawn her pistol, pointed it at his chest and fired.

He almost checked to see if she had.

Nerys dismissed them and Mischa moved past him. Leto could only follow slowly, mentally willing her to just turn around and glance at him. He was so focused on her back that he almost walked into Belle.

"Belle Fibuna, sir, I’m looking forward to working with you. All of you.”

He blinked in surprise before his brain conjured up the response. "Welcome to the 'Rats," he mumbled and Leto shrugged past her into the corrider.

Leto stared at her back, Mischa walking solemnly with her head held high by more strength than he knew he had. Please, Misch, don't turn your back on me. Don't shut me out.

Don't leave me.

She did.

[Ati Quai]

The memorial went about as was expected. Nice things said about those who had given the ultimate sacrifice for the cause. From the looks on some of the 'Rats faces, they were particularly close to those that were lost at the supply depot battle. That added a bit of perspective as to the reasoning behind the rather cold reception that he had gotten. He was a replacement, after all, and to a great many of them, an unproven one. Nevermind the number of TIEs and uglies that he had managed to shoot down during the process, or the simple fact that he had bothered to get involved in the first place. That decision seemed to keep having worse and worse ramifications with every passing hour.

Of course, the fact that he was a smuggler likely didn't help things with regards to how he was received either. Smugglers and scoundrels were, after all, not highly looked upon by those in organized systems. They were thought to be unreliable, selfish, and greedy. So he was greedy. But not to the extent that many were. As many years as he had been smuggling, a truly greedy man would likely have had enough credits to keep his ship from looking like a pile of poodoo. A very greedy man could have retired by now, so long as they played their cards right.

The newest replacements had come and gone before he could even speak with them, not that he would have rushed for the opportunity had it been there. There was a small sense of satisfaction that he had survived within the 'Rats for this long. It was also the reason why he stayed away from bars, taverns, and clubs. Nothing but trouble. Not that he blamed them for what had happened. Not entirely, at least.

His thoughts were interrupted briefly by someone bumping into him, which did provoke a soft groan from the man. Not necessarily an angry sound, but perhaps just something that reminded him that he was really there. Glancing to the side with a lofted brow, his other brow winked in silent response and acceptance of her apology.

A Twi'lek. First one he'd seen outside of a Hutt cantina in about four years. Not that he frequented those places very often, but there were certain times when his work dictated that those locales were to be visited. He had survived those times and had successfully avoided them for those past 4 years.

* * * * * *


The wondrous abilities of his droid had alerted him to the 'surprise' that the Admiral had left at the front of the briefing room. Inwardly, he groaned knowing that eventually there would be some sort of discussion regarding the questionable items. She was, at least, tactful enough not to broach the topic in the middle of the briefing and really ruffle his proverbial feathers. The simple idea that he would need to answer for the toy and the shackles was enough. Of course, the fact that she hadn't jumped down his throat about it made him wonder what exactly she would do with this new information. Perhaps she'd try and do a little research. He smirked at that thought.

To his marginal relief, none of the others seemed to take any notice of the items. Their eyes were intent on the Admiral and on the introductions of the new members. Two new pilots and two doctors. And then it dawned on him. It wouldn't be the Admiral talking to him about the items, it would be one of the doctors. No doubt, with the reputation of the Womprats, one of them had to be a head doctor. Oh, that would be fun. He could almost hear the suggestive ideas that the doctor would try to play with in order to get to the truth.

No, no, no. That would not do at all. And the Admiral didn't seem the type to have someone else do her dirty work for her. No, she would look into this on her own and find out as much as she could. Wouldn't be much, of course, for reasons that only he was aware of at this time. If all things went well, it would remain that way. Couldn't have a secret like that slipping out into the rumor-mongering populous of a fleet ship.

Turning his attention back to the Admiral, he listened intently as she first berated the 'Rats for their behavior, and then turned the tables to bring them back up. And when she called him out on the behavior that she had expected from him, and not from them, it didn't really phase him. Her words likely reflected the thoughts of the majority of the squadron. It was a common tactic used by many people in many different areas. But this one, he could tell, wasn't the usual BS that superiors used on those that worked beneath them. Her words were genuine. He hoped that they would have the desired effect on the men and women in the squadron. Ati, for one, was already growing tired of the whiny attitude that he had picked up on from the start. After all, if the Republic truly thought they were worthless, they woulda been shipped off a long time ago.

As her words continued, Ati's eyes scanned over each of the men and women within the briefing room, getting a better look at the new pilots and doctors and committing the faces to memory. The Twi'lek received a return smile for her efforts and he wondered briefly how long each of the new members would last. At least the doctors likely wouldn't be tossed right into the fire from the get-go. And if so, they were trained to take care of injuries and thus, could take care of themselves.

The other pilot was a different story. He looked...spooked. The smuggler wondered briefly if the kid's heart could be heard pounding as far as Nar Shaddaa. If not the heart, perhaps the knees knocking would carry that far. Sure, he wasn't physically making any noise, but it didn't take a genius to see that the kid was nervous. Of course, who wouldn't be? Not to easy to come into a squadron that just finished a memorial for the equivalent of half their members. That wasn't a big morale boost when it came to the odds of survival. Just get him in a fighter and get his feet wet and the green would go away.

As the Admiral dismissed those that were exempt from the mission, he watched them each as they filed out. One, apparently, would not be returning to the fold which would make only eleven members, rather than twelve. Even when he had first arrived, they were quick to fill the roster back to twelve. His head tilted slightly to the side as he pondered on that one for a few.

The briefing began once the rest of the 'Rats were dismissed. Listening to the words, his face visibly fell when the image of the Junkpile came into view on the holovid. "My ship..." he muttered softly, in a nearly helpless tone. And it wasn't the outer shell that he was so concerned about. It was the internal workings that he was worried about. For two reasons. One, he had put a lot of work into tweaking the engines and modifying other aspects of the flight systems. Two, with a change in engine signature, it made his ship unrecognizable. Normally, a smuggler would welcome such a thing. He, however, was not quite as pleased. So long as it could be reversed when this was finished, everything would be fine. That was provided he survived this particular mission.

At least the cover story was fair enough. Ati had, after all, been heavily involved with swoop racing during his younger years. If push came to shove, he could play the role of the racer once again. So long as he wasn't expected to race flawlessly during the process. The doctor was also believable since if he crashed, medical attention would be needed and someone supported by Bin Gassi would easily have their own medic along. As for the other two. Perhaps they were going as mechanics, or better yet, racing groupies. A euphamism for dancing girls. He'd keep that idea to himself in order to keep his face from being slapped a few dozen times.

Regardless, their particular cover seemed pretty solid. As did the cover for the secondary ship in the group. Salvaging was a very lucrative business, after all, especially if one could find the right buyer. Many a spacer made a decent living by salvaging parts and unloading them to those in great need.

The next bit of info was somewhat old-hat to him, though he had to keep up the appearance that he was clueless when it came to the covert ideas behind the mission. Namely, the shadowsuit and shadowcast. He was familiar with both, for similar reasons, though no one except him was aware of that fact. If all went well, it would remain that way until things were explained enough that it was feasible for him to simply be a fast learner. If that didn't seem to be working, the role of dumb smuggler always worked wonders.

He was silent when the call for questions was made. He had none. No, he was keeping his mouth shut on this one and hoping that he would get sent off before the Admiral had questions for him. Those, no doubt, would wait until his return to the Second Chance, after she hit a duracrete wall when trying to get at his past. Then the questions would truly begin.

[Erc Vortan]

Erc Stood in the back of the memorial service. He'd been to far too many of them, and standing close to the door seemed to reassure him. He'd buried too many friends, seen too many good people die. They never seemed to sum up the whole of a person's existence. It seemed so.....empty. To Erc at least.

When it had ended, The Medics began to wheel out the wookie. He looked bad, not the powerful creature most would imagine when brought up. More of a shadow of what he should be. A Nod of respect and approval of what he'd been forced to do in that bar was exchanged. One Warrior to another.

The time between the memorial to the briefing was spent looking over the specs for the Claw. He made note of what mods he wanted to make to her, and chose from the multiple Transponder signals he'd had installed. For this mission, His Ship would be called The Skifter. It had a spotty history that would hold up to scrutiny. It should. It was another YT-2000. One that died on Smuggler's Run. Along with it's pilot. Stripped down for parts. Erc was lucky to have gotten the Transponder. And for cheap. Anara was on top of things that day.

The Briefing when as he'd expected. not surprising and not overly inspiring. It's been Years since anyone in Fleet Command really impressed him. Hell, the same could be said for the Provisional Council. But Politics were never anything that impressed him.

There were elements of the Mission that Erc approved of, but it would be dangerous, especially with rookies. Having the Doctors along could be helpful.

One thing he did notice was NO ONE in the room paid any attention to him. Of course he was in the back of the room. He looked around. Things were now reduced to the actual people going on the mission. Erc didn't change his position. HE kept leaning on the back wall of the briefing room. definitely an outsider. He wondered how this would effect those going with him.

While the Admiral continued with the mission, Erc lifted his Data Pad and went over his projected hyperspace course to the depot. it was going to be a tricky one. One that would test the speed of his Hyperdrive to keep the Admiral's timetable. But it would make tracking him back to this ship very difficult, almost impossible. 6 Jumps in total. Leapfrogging to several dead systems ad finally to deep space outside the target system. a sharp turn insystem, and The Skifter should appear to be coming from the opposite side of the galaxy.

Heading to the Rock would be more difficult. Not sure how the Admiral expected them to pull that off. But Erc had ideas for monitoring things. And this third ship? who was the crew? what was their mission? Keeping elements of the mission in the dark wasn't very productive. As the Intel officer here, Erc was the one person who should have been consulted on this aspect of things. THIS is why he was here.

With the End of the briefing, Erc made his way to the Hanger where his ship was. He walked into it and up to the Cockpit. He began reprogramming the transponder. it didn't take long, just a switch of some chips. Really very easy.

He sat back, in the cockpit and watched the goings on in the hanger. One thing he never got tired of seeing was the everyday soldiers and crewmen going about doing their duty. It always seemed so peaceful, yet chaotic. a simple dance, with lives on the line, Actually, simple was a disservice to them. But they made it look that way.

Well, time to get ready, there will be passengers on this mission. make sure they know who's boss on this mission and make sure they all had a role in this.

[Gabriella]

A few things were left unsaid in the briefing room. Things best said in privacy and only to two individuals. It was time to end the ruse. Gabriella was the last to leave the briefing room, thick folders in hand. The two High Marshals stepped in line, keeping pace with the woman.

"There is one matter of important business I must tend to immediately. You're both welcome to escort me, but I would appreciate it if you'd both just keep quiet and not say one word until I'm finished in the brig."

The High Marshals nodded and again insisted that she would have to go with them as soon as she finished. Their persistance made her jaw tense, but they were only doing their job.

"Captain Tariq," she said as she saw the man in the corridor staring at the retreating back of Lieutenant Margolin being escorted back to the brig. "Come with me," she ordered as she kept her pace and didn't even cast a glance in his direction. She'd issued an order and had no reason to doubt that he wouldn't comply. In fact, she could feel the glowering scowls piercing the heart of her soul as the Captain stepped into line behind her.

-----

As the cell door opened, Gabriella glanced at the two High Marshals. Without a word, the two took up a guard position on either side of the door and stood at attention while Gabriella and Leto entered the cell. The look on Mischa's face made Gabriella's heart ache, convinced that this was the final drive of the proverbial dagger into Mischa's heart. To see Captain Tariq in the final moments she still had aboard the ship. A subtle side-glance to Leto proved to Gabriella that their one-night stand in the brig was much more than a momentary, heat of passion twenty-four hour fling.

"Captain Tariq, I would appreciate it if you would take a seat next to Lieutenant Margolin." His jaw clenched, but he complied. Both did their best not to grab each other in a breath-taking final embrace and pour their hearts out to each other.

"Young lady. Your rank has not been stripped nor are you going to be transferred off of my ship. You're also not being transferred into another squadron." She began. "You happen to be one of the best pilots on this ship, and in the squadron. I'd be a fool to let you go so easily."

In all honesty, this was not easy for Gabriella. It wasn't often that someone in her position ever laid their emotions out on the table and when it did happen, it was considered to be rare. "I realize that the both of you, and perhaps the rest of the squadron, do not care as to what happens to me or what I may possibly feel when a life is lost or when the shitstorm comes sweeping in like a gale force hurricane to knock on my door. I did what I did to punish the inexcusable and intolerable actions and behaviors for a reason. I do hope that one day you will realize that."

"I'd like to set some contradictions straight. I care very much about the life and happiness of each and every person aboard my ship. I'm not as lucky as most of you in the fact that I do not get to spend twenty-four hours of each day with the majority of the crew. My job dictates that I keep a distance from just about everyone aboard this ship in order for me to carry on and continue with my job when tragedy or emergency strikes.

"This leads many to think that I am oblivious to the feelings and actions of those aboard my ship. I'm not."

A small smile tugged at the right corner of her mouth as she looked to the two seated on the cot. "Honestly? When I was shown the recording of the night you two spent together in the brig, I was relieved." The expressions that marched across both of their faces almost made the Admiral chuckle. "It's true. I'm guessing the two of you were hoping beyond hope that no one else knew how you two felt for each other. I hate to burst your bubbles, but the entire ship knew it long before either of you finally broke down and let the other in. I'm sure I'm not the only one who harbored secret prayers nightly that the two of you would just let yourselves go and finally cave-in."

Mischa's cheeks flushed and Leto cleared his throat, flicking his eyes away from the Admiral and over to the side of the room.

"I may be the cast iron bitch aboard this ship, but I'm not that heartless. Though I cannot give you blessings or permission to carry on with your relationship, " she took to a squatting position, resting her elbows against her knees and lacing her fingers loosely together. Then she lowered her voice. "I can turn a blind eye to it and secretively support it." She winked. "However, I must stress to both of you the importance of being able to keep those emotions in check when it comes to duty time. You must tell me right now if you feel that you won't be able to set aside your feelings for the other in order to carry out a mission without putting the lives of your comrades at greater risk. I also need you both to remember that when it comes down to even the simplest of every day things, the others look up to you for guidance, assurance, support; and to set the tone and example of any given situation."

Thoughtfully, she chewed on her lower lip and had to take a few minutes to herself. Though the two seated in front of her probably wanted nothing more than to leap forward and rip her apart limb from limb, Gabriella relished the moment. She knew all too well from past experience what it was like to be convinced that you were going to be losing the very people you had come to consider family. She was experiencing the deep feeling of loss again. She figured if this was to be the last that she got to spend even just a few minutes of time with some of her crew, she might as well make the best of it and leave a lasting impression.

Gabriella lifted her head and shook the hair from her eyes. "I want you to know," she started as she rose. "I believe in you." She held their gazes for a full minute then exited the brig. "Please let the rest of the squadron know that I strongly believe in all of them, too."

The cell door was left open as the Admiral was escorted to one of the private interrogation chambers aboard the ship by the two high marshals, where she would spend the next several hours answering the same questions over and over. Now it was time for her to fight for her career and for the existance of an AI unit that she didn't particularly like.

[Jola'Edana Kahlid]

Dr. Jola'Edana Kahlid's ass hurt.

She'd been sitting in the back half of the New Republic shuttle on its way to the "Second Chance" for what felt like hours. There was only a small bank of seats in a row for passengers, the rest of the space had been reserved for what were apparently office supplies and odds and ends. Jola was sprawled across three of them, their arms pushed up. Her bags occupied the fourth seat. She was so drowsy that her duffles were starting to look like another passenger out of the corner of her eye.

Bloody travel. Scientists figured out how to go greater distances faster, and to spite them the universe only got larger. The eternal quest for instantaneous gratification.

Speaking of...
The medic pushed to her feet, and stretched out to her full five foot two. With a yawn, she made a half hearted attempt to pull her fingers through her dark auburn hair, and padded her way towards the front compartment of the shuttle.

The doors to the cockpit area hissed open to reveal the pilot and copilot. It was a small shuttle, and she was their only real cargo today. The pilot looked to be dozing with his head against a control panel, he didn't move when she entered. It was fairly dim, the only light the streaking from hyperspace and the console lighting.

"How long till we come out of hyperspace?" Jola asked. She was really only here to be a pain in someone else's rear end. She was bored.

The copilot leaned over to glance at a panel. "Eh, about two hours or so." He leaned back in his chair and swiveled to face her.

The pilot looked up at their conversation, and winced from the light filtering in from the more brightly lit hold. "You're a Medic, right?" he finally grumbled.

Jola sniffed. "So they tell me."

"Doc, I've got one frell of a headache."

Jola chewed on a lip for a moment and studied the man. The light dimly caught the sheen of sweat on his forehead. "Got any light in here?" She asked the copilot. He obliged her by moving up a slider on the wall.

The pilot cringed and placed a hand to shade his eyes. Jola could see he was pale as well. She walked towards him, and lifted his chin towards her. Before he could react, she had a small glow lamp out and shining in each eye in turn. Bloodshot. He swore and clamped his eyes shut.

Jola hid her amusement by clearing her throat. "You have fun last night?"

"It's just a headache," the pilot muttered defensively.

Jola lifted the flap of a pocket on her black flight suit and tucked away the glow lamp. "Obviously." She cast an appraising eye over him and kept her tone conversational. "Let me guess. Whisky man? You've got to be careful with some of those non-human brews. Nasty." She tsked.

"I don't cure hangovers," she said flatly.

"Aw, com'on," the pilot protested. "You're a Medic. It's just one dose."

"I don't have anything in my medpack that can cure what's wrong with you," she said shortly. She thought she'd head back to her seats. They were cushy for an old class shuttle like this. She could nap.

"Sure you do," he persisted. "Some of that- what's it called-- peredin?"

Jola narrowed her brown eyes. "Tell me," she said coldly, "Do you always go out and get plastered when you're on call? Pain killer won't grow you any more brain cells."

"Great, a prissy purist medic," the man muttered, turning back to his console and wincing some more.

Jola chuckled. "Drinking isn't my issue. Any of my interns would tell you that I could drink you under the table in an hour." She gave him a thin smile. "Stupidity is my issue."

The man looked like he wanted to hit her. Good.

"Just out of curiosity, are we or are we not headed towards the "Second Chance", a New Republic ship on active duty?"

The pilot shot her a resentful look. "I know where-

Jola plowed on. "Do you happen to have any magical intelligence on what we'll be seeing when we come out of hyperspace? Imperial remnant? Pirates? Asteroid field?"

No response.

"And of course, you're at 100 percent, right?"

The man looked away, possibly abashed.

"It's nice to know I have a clairvoyant pilot who has complete control of the universe and doesn't mind risking the lives of his passengers and thousands of New Republic credits because he wants to have a good time," Jola smiled sweetly. "Call me 5 minutes before we drop out of hyperspace."

"Why should I?" the pilot growled.

"I'll have something for you then. I enjoy witnessing the skill involved in the feather light docking of a shuttle. I'll need a positive point for my glowing report to your superior. Until then, try not to throw up on your console." The door slid shut behind the redhead.

The copilot stifled a grin. He felt much better.

"What are you grinning at?" The pilot snapped. He leaned back in his chair and covered his face with his hands.

"I feel bad for the 'Rats, if they're anything close to their rep."

-------------------

After an uneventful but entertaining docking, the Medic boarded the "Second Chance" Jola shouldered her duffles and juggled her medpack and a datapad on her other arm. According to her orders, she was supposed to be in a bunk somewhere on the third level. And she already had an outing planned for her- the expedition she had a briefing for in less than an hour.

Oh the joys of being transferred.

She walked and read and dodged people in the crowded corridors all at once. This was not going to be a fun assignment. She had heard about the ship's Admiral and her mysterious illness from various colleagues. As interesting as the illness was, rumors of her no nonsense attitude hadn't been left out. And it seemed that just about everyone in the fleet had heard about the Womprats by now. Jola had the grim feeling she would have her work more than cut out for her. The notes she'd been given on her first mission assigned to the ship were vague, she guessed for good reason.

Oh well, she'd find out plenty soon. She'd retrieved the key-code for her room from the housing desk on the way up, but had to try it a few times before the door slid open. It looked like her roommate hadn't arrived yet. By the time she'd deposited her meager belongings into the spare drawers under her bunk, the Medic felt like collapsing into her bunk and not moving for a few hours.

Unfortunately, that wasn't an option.

Five minutes for the 'fresher and a comb. Then Womprats, here I come.

---------------

Jola sat in the back row, where she could have a decent view of the room and its occupants. She was admittedly interested in what she was going to be doing in the coming days, but the medic found herself studying the people she would be with instead. In her 13 years with the New Republic, she'd found briefings could all be sorted out later. Mostly. As long as alarms weren't going off.

Part of her had hoped her short stature would kind of let her blend into the scenery, but the Admiral introduced her. Jola did her duty and gave the group a small wave before going back to letting her dark eyes drift in study across the room.

Speaking of the group, most of them looked to be in need of a medic. Nearly all of them had been patched up somehow. From the sounds of the beginning of their "briefing"- which was actually a dressing down- Jola wondered if she'd be doing more baby-sitting than healing.

That brought her attention to Admiral Gabriella. The woman was fascinating, Jola decided. She was straightforward- the medic liked that. Blunt. Honest. The only thing keeping this group in tow. And she had a fascinating incurable disease to boot. Yes, she thought she might get along with her new commanding officer.

The woman sighed internally. The mission sounded fairly straightforward as well, but just complicated enough to get messy at the wrong moment. And under cover to boot. Jola wasn't sure she would have the ability to keep a straight face around Imperial scum, if it came to that. And she wasn't looking forward to handling what could potentially be a number of survivors practically on her own.

Except I'm not on my own. Jola squared her jaw as she studied the other Medic, Dr. Wess Jodo. Hopefully they got along. And hopefully he knows what he's doing. He looked young. Too young. And he didn't have near enough worry lines to be very experienced with combat medicine.

When all was said and done, Jola had a very bad feeling about all this.

She was going to need that nap. But first, she had formalities to take care of. As the group filtered out of the briefing, she made her way to the front of the room where the Admiral stood, collecting her notes.

"Admiral," The Medic made a smart salute. "Medical Officer Jola'Edana Kahlid reporting for duty. I hope I can be of service."

[Adok Borys]

Adok frowned, paying little attention to the briefing. So far, he’d been lucky enough to avoid the Admiral’s wrath. Well, some of it was luck, but some of it was his skill at being a conniving liar. He yawned and tried to sit up in his chair, the pounding headache not making things any easier.

He was trying to stay awake during the speech, but couldn’t muster up interest in the lecture being given by the Admiral about staying out of trouble. He allowed a small smile to briefly flit across his face. Oh believe me, Admiral. I did stay out of trouble. And you’re getting rid of the only witness too.

At the mention of his name in combination with a mission to the Rock, Adok sat up and took more interest. I’m a not a spy. Why did she send me? It’s got to be better than clean up detail though.

He sat back in his chair, paying more attention to the briefing. Who gives a flying frak about exploding shampoo bottles?

He stood up and walked out of the room when the admiral had completed the briefing, heading for his quarters to pack some real shampoo...and other items.

***

Adok walked into the hangar bay of the cruiser, searching out the freighter that he was to depart on. The Admiral had shown a picture of it in the briefing, but Dock wasn’t sure whether or not to report on board right away. He also was looking for his fighter, because he wanted to talk to the crew chief.

He spotted Cassull, and began to walk in his direction. The two men met in the middle of the hangar, and Adok set the duffle that he was carrying down with a clunk. “How are you my man?”

Cassull shrugged. “Could be worse. What’s up?”

Adok pointed toward one of the freighters that he’d spotted in the hangar. “Gotta run with some guy, on an errant for her Admiralness. On that ship, as a matter of fact.”

Cassull gaped. “She has you playing errand boy on a cargo hauler?”

Adok nodded. “Yep. Her Admiralness has sent several members of the squadron on some errand. I didn’t really pay much attention to all the details during the briefing though.”

“Why not, Dock?”

“Because it was boring. When the admiral got to the part about exploding shampoo, I kina lost interest. Although it does get me out of clean up duty, so it can’t be that bad.

“Dock, rumor says that you got in a brawl.”

Adok shook his head and winked at the crew chief. “I wasn’t in a frakking brawl. I lost a couple hundred creds in a game of Sabacc.”

Casull shook his head and raised a mocking finger. “That was a slick one, Dock. You in two places at once now?”

“Cass,” Adok sighed, “You are exasperating. I was nowhere near any of the rest of the squadron that night. If just hope her Admiralness doesn’t take a dislike to me. Anyhow, catch ya later, bud.”

Adok picked up his duffle and walked toward the freighter that had been pictured in the briefing. He walked over toward the freighter, threading his way through the activity on the flight deck, in once instant, almost getting run down by an anti-gravity pallet of proton torpedoes.

He reached the ship, and walked over to the boarding ramp and knocked on the hull with his knuckles. “Hello, anyone home,” he called into the freighter.

[Maguire Taliba]

Four Days Ago, on a small training station not far from Coruscant…


“Come around, Maguire and Kalin, I want you to run some target practice. Both of you form up behind me; we’re going to take an easy loop through that big metal ring off to starboard and then vape a couple of those old cargo boxes—can you see it?”

“Rodger that,” Maguire commed in reply, waiting for his wing-mate, Kalin, to click his com in agreement before sliding into place behind his squadron’s CO. The grouchy old man’s call sign was ‘Sir’, so he claimed, but behind his back everyone called him ‘Blob’ because ever since retiring from active duty to start training rookies, he’d developed something of a sweet tooth.

Maguire took a deep breath and wiggled his fingers, taking a firmer grip on his flight stick. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the other members of the squadron starting to veer off so they could angle themselves for a good view.

“C’mon, Blob, give them something else to do, don’t let them watch us,” Maguire thought, a trickle of sweat sliding uncomfortably down the back of his neck. “Frelling hell, haven’t they got anything else to do but watch?”

“Alright, now, I want everyone else to keep a close eye on us. I’m going to drop back while we’re passing through the ring, come back in over Maguire, and then settle in between and slightly in front of him and Kalin—take note of how they’ll be able to see me coming and adjust their flight pattern and firing trajectory,” the Blob announced.

“Uh oh…” Maguire whispered, swallowing hard and feeling his hand begin to shake. They’d never tried this before. What if he messed this up in front of everyone? It wouldn’t be pretty, that was for sure. The Blob seemed to have a personal vendetta against Maguire, ever since the first day when Maguire had forgotten to salute during role call.

Things started out well. The three X-Wings took a smooth loop around the metal ring, and the Blob put his X-Wing into a lazy spin as he dropped back behind the other two pilots. He was just showing off for the rookies, of course, and they let him know they appreciated it by clicking their coms—a habit they’d gotten into to take the place of distracting applause or vocal congratulations.

“I can do this,” Maguire reassured himself, “Just easy on the lasers, and keep an eye ready for when he comes over me…”

“Take aim… Let ‘er rip, boys,” the Blob commanded, several laser bolts from his own X-Wing blasting cleanly through a discarded cargo-box far ahead of Maguire and Kalin. The two rookies opened fire, and began clearing the boxes. Maguire nailed two straight on, and was drawing up his aim on the third one when everything went wrong.

“I can do it!” Maguire encouraged himself, taking aim and focusing on the box. “This isn’t going to be a problem after all, I guess… Maybe I just need to loosen up some…Just don’t mess up now…”

He fired. Right as his instructor sailed over the top of his X-Wing and pulled down.

Startled, Maguire veered slightly and his hand went into a spasm and tightened around the control stick, firing off two blasts right into the Blob’s engines. Both of the X-Wing’s top engines exploded, sending the small ship into a wild spin that made it clip Kalin’s X-wing, taking off the entire lower-right foil and sending Maguire’s wing-mate into a spin as well.

“No!” Maguire yelled, staring in horror at what he’d done.

The Blob stabilized after only a few moments, and was quickly looping around. The com went crazy as everyone started trying to figure out if Kalin was alright. It took him longer, but the young pilot finally managed to bring his ruined X-Wing back under control and tried to stabilize back into a normal flight pattern.

Then the com when suddenly, and horribly dead. The only noise Maguire heard was his own, heavy breathing and the sound of his heart beating double-time.

“Not happening…” Maguire whispered as the Blob’s X-Wing pulled around behind his.

“Everyone form up, we’re headed back in. Maguire, take point. Maybe we can get back without further incident if you’re in front.”

“Y-y-es sir,” Maguire commed back, his voice cracking and trembling. He wanted to apologize—say he was sorry, swear he’d never screw up like that again… anything. But he couldn’t. He could barely keep breathing.

The flight back was uneventful and unremarkable, except for the complete lack of com chatter and critique from the Blob.

They pulled into the docking bay, and Maguire just sat for a moment, his face white, and his whole body shaking. He was in for it now.

As he got out of his X-Wing, Maguire saw several of his fellow rookies shoot him sympathetic looks, and a few glared at him. Kalin had a nasty looking bruise forming on his right temple, and the Blob was helping keep him on his feet till the medics arrived. Maguire stood next to his ship, just watching and unable to make himself go and apologize. A simple apology wouldn’t be nearly enough.

“Maguire, why are you still standing there? I want you in my office—now.” The Blob’s voice carried across the hanger as he handed Kalin over to the medics, who immediately sat the young man down and began running checks.

Maguire tried to reply, but found his throat had closed itself off completely and he couldn’t even say, “Yes sir.”

Feeling dazed and frightened, Maguire somehow made it into his CO’s office and sat down, putting his head in his hands. He could hardly believe what he’d just done, and the memory of it made him start shaking again. He was screwed—very, very screwed.

“Why me?,” Maguire whispered, still looking down at his feet.

“Good question.”

Maguire jerked and sat up, the Blob striding around to the front of the desk and sitting down. Maguire hadn’t even heard him coming in. Then there was silence. The Blob simply watching Maguire sit and sweat. Maguire rubbed his palms together, then licked his lips, opening his mouth to spit out something—anything—that might help.

“No, don’t say anything,” the Blob said, his voice sharp. “You’ve done enough damage to yourself without adding more of your ridiculous babbling on top of it—I don’t have time for excuses.”

Standing abruptly, the officer kicked his chair back so hard it slammed against the wall and fell over. Maguire gave another jerk at the sound, but was unable to tear his eyes away from his CO, a horrible, sick feeling building in his stomach.

“Excellent work, Maguire. Excellent. Did you know that if you’d fired just a little higher up it might’ve hit the cockpit, and I would be a limp body in space right now? Or that Kalin has a serious concussion? Never in my years as a pilot, or as a teacher, have I seen an idiotic move like that. You’re not even fit for training runs, and I have no doubt the first Imperial you meet will vape you out of the sky like you were standing still.”

Maguire swallowed, feeling as if he’d just been simultaneously slapped across the face and punched in the stomach.

“You are absolutely worthless as a pilot. I suggest you quit now before you kill yourself or anyone else. Well? What’ll it be, Maguire?”

“I can’t quit,” Maguire managed in a horse whisper, his throat so tight he could barely speak. “This… is the only thing I’m… good at.”

The Blob stared at him. There was a long, tense silence, and Maguire finally managed to lower his eyes. He could still feel the Blob watching him, though, his gaze incredulous.

“Get out. Get out of my office—I don’t want to see you in here again, Maguire. Ever. You have leave to go see your parents if you want. Now get out.”

Maguire got out. No one spoke to him as he swiftly cleaned up in the ‘fresher and then tugged on a clean uniform. He signed on for the next transport and took time only to send his parents a brief message, saying he was coming home for a visit.

While sending the message, Maguire received another one. It was from his CO, and Maguire hesitated before opening it. The message was short:

The Womprats have an opening for several new pilots. You’re going to be one of them. You leave for their squadron in 30 hours. Be there on time, or I’ll see to it that you never set foot on New Republic property ever again.


The Womprats.

Maguire signed off and hurried to catch his transport home, knowing that this was going to be all over the squadron regardless of whether he told anyone or not.


The Womprats. Everyone had heard of them before.



~*~



Stepping out of the air-taxi, Maguire rummaged through his pockets, found the credits he was looking for, and paid the driver. Offering half-hearted thanks, he slung his duffle bag across his shoulder and sighed, mentally rehearsing the lines he planned to feed his parents.


“I’m just off for 24 hours leave, like I said in the message I sent, and tomorrow I’m supposed to be assigned to a new squadron. I don’t know which one yet… no I can’t say that.”


Maguire shook his head and turned to look at the entrance of his home. Licking his lips, he plastered on a smile and said, “I’m going to be assigned to a squadron soon. I’m hoping it’ll be a good one and that I’ll have some more vacation time soon.”


That was an even worse lie than the first one had been.


“I shot my Commanding Officer’s X-wing and nearly killed him, mom and dad. Aren’t you proud of me? No one else in my entire squadron even came close to hitting him!” Maguire couldn’t even laugh at himself any more. Trying to keep his shoulders from slumping in defeat, he trudged up to the door and hit the buzzer.


The door opened.


“Maguire, darling! This is so wonderful and unexpected! Your father and I didn’t have any idea you’d be able to get time off to see us before you were assigned to a new squadron.”


Maguire hugged his mother, shook hands with his father, and nodded to the Door Droid as he walked through.


“I’m just off for today,” Maguire began to explain, “tomorrow I have to shoot my commanding officer.”


No! He’d gotten them mixed up!


“…A message!” Maguire filled in quickly, blushing bright red, “I… I have to… er… shoot him a report about what I did with my off time. It’s… slang we use for sending messages.”


His parents exchanged a look, and Maguire had a sinking feeling they hadn’t believed him.


“Well your mother and I are so proud of you for finishing up your training,” Maguire’s father said, and Maguire breathed a silent sigh of relief. “Even if you do have to shoot your commanding officer… a message.” Winking and nudging Maguire, his father laughed at the bad joke.


Maguire tried to laugh, but the sound died quickly and he licked his lips nervously, feeling a tension between himself and his parents that hadn’t been there when he left for training. Maybe he was just imagining things. It really had been a while since he had seen them.


“I’m just going to go toss my stuff in my room and relax for a bit, if that’s okay with you guys,” Maguire said, licking his lips again. “I’m pretty tired.”


“Of course, don’t let us wear you down during your vacation!” His mother’s laugh also died quickly, and Maguire shifted his feet uncomfortably. She never acted like this when his sisters came home on a break. Something was definitely wrong.


Offering a lopsided smile, Maguire shouldered his bag again and stepped into the hallway, passing by his parents’ and sisters’ rooms before reaching his.


Maguire entered his room and gave a genuine smile. It was good to be back in his own room. Even if everything else had changed, this was his place, and it would be there waiting for him whenever he was allowed to go home.


His room looked much the same as it had when he left. It was clean, orderly, and still had a faint smell in the air from when he’d spilled oil on the floor trying to fix one of his hover boards. It was the most friendly room Maguire had seen in his entire life, and he was more grateful to see it now than he’d ever been before. It was something familiar and welcoming, even if nothing else was.


Maguire tossed the duffle bag onto his bed, and then jumped as a hand clapped his shoulder and a voice spoke behind him.


“Maguire, your mother and I are just going to step into our room to talk for a minute about some work-related things… If you get hungry, you know where the food is. Just be sure that you don’t eat too much of the Chandad like you always do—it’s not very healthy,” Maguire’s father said, not seeming to notice that he had startled his son. Maguire nodded and licked his lips, opening his mouth to say something about how good it was to be home, but his father had already turned and stepped out into the hallway again.


There was definitely something wrong.


Rubbing his shoulder, Maguire looked around his room. He didn’t feel like taking a nap, and he didn’t feel like reading a book or watching a holo-vid. He was hungry, though.


Finding the Chandad wasn’t too hard, and Maguire dug into the snack with gusto. It was still the same box he’d been working on before he left for training, so the snack was a little stale, but it was still good. Finishing off the box, Maguire put it back, empty, into the pantry and made a mental note to buy more himself before coming back home. His parents probably wouldn’t even notice that the box was empty since they never touched the stuff themselves.


Walking down the hallway back towards his room, Maguire was just wiping the last of the crumbs off his fingers with a clean napkin when his father’s raised voice carried out through the closed doors of the main bedroom.


“He shot his commanding officer’s X-Wing, dear! It doesn’t get much worse than that! Our son… assigned to the Womprats. What a joke! How could I have let this happen? I should’ve set that boy straight when I had the chance—I didn’t raise him and invest my time in him for him to become a failure, Elliana!”


Maguire leaned back against the wall and stared at the closed door. They knew.


“David, calm down,” Maguire’s mother said, her voice equally loud, “remember we have to act as if we don’t know.”


“As if we don’t know? We would have guessed it the second he walked in anyways! Did you see that look on his face? And the way he kept licking his lips—you know he only does that when he’s trying to lie! Just like when he was little and kept saying he was getting bruised and scraped up when he fell off his hover board. He must think we’re complete idiots, Elliana!”


“David this is more serious than his old school problems! Our son is about to be shipped off to join the bottom of the bottom. If Esandra’s friend hadn’t been keeping in touch with her about what was going on in the squadron, we never would have learned in time, either!”


Maguire closed his eyes and put his head in his hands. He had completely forgotten about Esandra’s friend, who was in the same rooky squadron as he was. Of course she would tell Esandra, and then Esandra would tell his parents. His big sisters had always felt it was their duty to tell his parents when he did something wrong.


“In time?!” Maguire’s father shouted, “You aren’t being reasonable Elliana! Maguire blew all his other options off to go be a pilot, and now he’s about to be in the worse squadron of the entire New Republic! I’m not going to let my son continue to be a failure!”


Maguire put a hand over his chest as he felt an almost physical lance of pain strike him. Clapping his other hand over his mouth to stifle a sob, Maguire slowly sank down to the floor and listened to his parents argue, tears of disbelief streaming down his face.


“Don’t raise your voice at me!” Maguire’s mother shouted right back, “I have no intention of letting our son be shipped off to the middle of nowhere and killed in combat!”

“We’re probably too late for that, Elliana! We signed his death warrant when we let him go to that training school!”


“What could we have done differently, David? We couldn’t tell him he’s a bad pilot. You know how sensitive he is—that would’ve crushed him, and then we’d have had to fight uphill for every little thing we wanted him to do!”


“No, you’re right… But how can we salvage this? How?”


“I just… I can’t think of anything! What if we have him leave the New Republic Fleet and go back to school? Or have him work as a secretary for a while, maybe? Just until something better comes along.”


“A secretary? Going back to school? Elliana, be serious! You were just talking about not humiliating him a minute ago. No… there’s got to be something else.”


“Oh God,” Maguire whispered, biting his lip and shaking with the effort of not sobbing out loud.


“I can’t even think any more!” Maguire’s mother finally said, “I’ve got to have a glass of something… I’ll be back in a minute.”


Maguire looked up as the door opened, and his mother stepped out right in front of him. She froze with her hand still on the handle of the door, staring at him.


“Maguire…” she breathed, then stopped, swallowing audibly.


“Elliana? What’s wrong. Did something…” Maguire’s father stepped up behind her and also froze, looking down at his son.


“So,” Maguire choked through his tears, “I guess now I know what you really think about me.”


“We never… I don’t think that… Maguire,” his mother tripped over her words, still looking down at him. “We don’t… think any less of you…”


“No,” Maguire gritted, wiping a hand across his face and lurching almost drunkenly to his feet. “I guess you couldn’t possibly have thought less about me because I was already… the ‘bottom of the bottom’.”


“Maguire, we need to talk,” his father tried to begin, moving around Maguire’s mother with a hand stretched out as if to take his son’s arm.



“Don’t you dare touch me!” Maguire yelled, startling both of his parents into taking a step back. “I hate you! I hate both of you! How could you lie to me like that? How could you possibly betray me like this?”


“Maguire Taliba, don’t raise your voice at your mother and me!” Maguire’s father commanded, regaining his bluster. “We have nothing but your best interest at heart, and-“


“Don’t lie to me!” Maguire screamed at him. “I heard you! I heard everything you said, and you think I’m a failure!”


Maguire’s parents simply watched him, unsure of what to say. They had never seen Maguire like this, and had never expected to. Maguire wasn’t even sure what to do himself, now that he was in this situation.


“I’m leaving,” Maguire finally managed, his voice breaking and fresh tears trickling down his face. “I’m leaving, and I’m never coming back, and I hate you both, and I don’t need any help from either of you, and you can go to hell!” he sobbed the last words out, nearly incoherent.


After that, Maguire went to his room, grabbed his duffle bag, and was out the front door before his parents could think of anything else to say. He could barely remember wandering through the city, lost and hurt, unable to think of anywhere to go or anything to do until it was time for his transport to take him back to base.

~*~

It was a long shuttle ride. A long time of just sitting and staring straight ahead. He didn’t see anything worthwhile.


Maguire’s data pad sat on his lap with a half-written message on it. It was an apology—Maguire just wasn’t sure who he should address it to. His old wing-mate, Kalin? His CO? His parents?

Maybe himself.

“Excuse me, is anyone else sitting here?”

Maguire jumped, stifling a yelp and dropping his data pad with a loud clatter. Flushing, he snatched it up and then looked up at the man who had startled him out of his gloomy meditations.

A couple of inches taller than Maguire, the man was wearing loose, khaki pants and a thick sweater under a light leather jacket. He was carrying a data pad of his own, and an amused smile was twitching at the corners of his mouth.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I was just looking for someplace that wasn’t quite so crowded, and this is the only set of seats that doesn’t have three or four people in them already,” the man was definitely trying to hide a smile, now.

“Yeah, sure,” Maguire mumbled, sitting back down on his own seat and angling his data pad so that only he could see it.

“I’m Jodo, Wess Jodo,” the man introduced himself, “I’ve been assigned to the Second Chance. I didn’t realize so many other people were headed out that way too,” the man, Wess, said by way of greeting as he settled down. Maguire noticed that the taller man, for his still half-hidden smile, was pale, and seemed to be sweating a little.

“I’m Maguire,” the pilot mumbled, “I… was assigned to the Second Chance too.”

“Oh,” Wess commented, “Medical division? You look a little familiar.”

“Uhh… pilot.”

There was a momentary silence, during which Maguire blushed a darker shade of red and wondered why Wess was so nosy. Maybe he was back here now because all the other people had kicked him out after he asked too many questions.

“I guess you and I will be seeing a bit of each other, then,” Wess finally broke the silence. “I’m not a pilot myself, although I do have some Y-Wing training, but I’m probably going to be working with the squadrons onboard the Second Chance.”

Maguire was somewhat intrigued, and forgot his embarrassment momentarily. “Y-Wing training? Are you going to be one of the repairmen?” he’d heard something about there being a Y-Wing squadron on the ship. Or maybe it was an A-Wing…

A grin finally broke across Wess’ face. “You could say that,” he chuckled, “I guess that’s as good a way of describing me as any I’ve ever heard before.”

“Oh,” Maguire offered a tentative smile back, feeling awkward. What was so funny about fixing ships?

Maguire looked back down at the apology he had started. He still didn’t know where to go. So he stared at it. Across from him, he saw the taller man settle in and start reading from his own data pad. That lasted all of ten minutes, and then he began looking up and down, and fidgeting slightly. Maguire noticed Wess seemed to be even a shade paler than before.

“Well this isn’t going to work,” Wess said under his breath before standing up.

“Got to run, sorry to bother you,” Wess smiled again, but this time it didn’t look genuine, and Maguire wondered if he’d somehow insulted the man by not talking to him. Maguire hung his head and went back to his letter as Wess hurried away.

He’d probably insulted the man—it would be right on par with how his life was working out right now.

~*~

Maguire stepped off the transport, looking around the large docking bay and wondering what he was getting himself into. Trouble, probably. Death, more likely.

“Ah, ‘scuse me,” someone said, a moment before they jostled Maguire from behind, stepping around him and then going to lean against the side of the shuttle. It was Wess Jodo, the mechanic. He looked a little less pale than he had before, and Davin noticed he wasn’t sweating any more, although the neck of his sweater looked damp. Maguire wondered why he hadn’t at least taken off his jacket when he got hot.

Great. First day, and he was already getting pushed around by sweaty mechanics who were too stupid to take their own coats off.

His shoulders slumped, Maguire crossed the hanger and went looking for his assigned room. He’d gotten a transmission half-way through the trip with information on where he was going to bunk, and Maguire reread the directions as he walked. It also said he was to attend a briefing with the Admiral.

Entering the room, after double checking to be sure he had the right one, Maguire tossed his bag off to the side and went into the ‘fresher unit with a change of clothes. The briefing was in an hour, and he wanted to make sure he didn’t embarrass himself.

“Don’t mess this up, Maguire,” the pilot told himself as the stream of water hit him forcefully, drenching him quickly. It would be just his luck to make some crazy screw up right in front of the woman who commanded the entire ship.

Maguire took almost the entire hour getting ready, and made sure his hair was neatly combed and his uniform looked at least mildly neat. It was a little wrinkled from being in his bag for so long.

The briefing was just a short walk from Maguire’s room, although it involved some lift-rides to go up a deck or two, and Maguire arrived precisely on time, entering with the people he could only assume were the other pilots. Wess was there too, and Maguire briefly wondered why the mechanic would be there. Maybe he was going to be some kind of head mechanic or something.

They sat down, and the briefing began. The chew-out was more like it.

However before that began, the Admiral introduced them. A Twi’lek girl who almost seemed as if she would be more comfortable in a bar. On a table. Dancing for someone. Shaking his head a little, Maguire managed to clear that image out of his mind and winced slightly when the Admiral introduced him. He half expected her to make some snarky comment. Something like:

“And I apologize for bringing in such an armature, but I felt he would fit in.”

Or “And of course he’ll be a perfect match for such a squadron.”


Then she introduced the two doctors, and Maguire felt a slight flush touching his cheeks. He hoped he hadn’t accidentally called Dr. Wes a mechanic to his face. The man was looking significantly better now, and gave everyone a friendly smile and a nod as his name was announced. He looked quite normal now, and his face seemed to have returned to a normal coloring. That made him more intimidating, somehow.

The female doctor, Jola, unnerved Maguire, and he wasn’t quite sure why. There was something about her posture that made him think: Dangerous. Avoid at all costs.

Then the chew out began.

Maguire sank down in his chair ever so slightly and tried to keep from wincing as the Admiral spoke. He wished she would yell—why was everyone always so calm when they were angry? Maguire almost thought he could’ve handled being yelled at, but no one ever seemed to yell at him; they just used that cold, angry tone that cut right through him.

And he wasn’t even the one who was being yelled at.

When they were dismissed, Maguire was up and out of his chair as quickly as he could be without seeming undisciplined. Then he was out the door, and was unsurprised to notice that he was sweating. His palms were dry though—Maguire realized he must have been rubbing them together again while he listened. It was one of his nervous habits, and he hated it when he did that.

As the other pilots came out behind him, Maguire pondered making a break for his bunk, and briefly wondered if he was going to be sharing it with anyone. He hoped not. He probably would be, though.

So Maguire hesitated, and looked at the other pilots who stood around him. They seemed to be focused on one of the female pilots, who was now walking away even as several of them called after her.

[Maxwell Gandel]

"Borleias."

Admiral Gandel turned the name over in his mind, dredging up what he could remember of the world. It wasn't much... a nice vacation spot, he recalled, though he'd never been there himself. Not that it would have mattered much either way. Between now and the last time he'd been in the galaxy proper, many things would have changed. The New Republic could have turned Borleias into a fortress world for all he knew... or it could have been blasted to a barren wasteland during the war, and been abandoned.

He'd have to rely on Askaza for operational intelligence. Anton had suggested sending a probe, but the admiral had rejected that idea. If the probe was detected, it would put the enemy on alert. Gandel wanted them nice and snug, secure of their safe harbor. Nothing like a false sense of security to give your enemy an advantage.

Gandel certainly wasn't feeling secure. Ever since the discovery of the probe disguised as a comet, the Decimation had been running constant sensor sweeps of the area, comparing what was there now to what had been there during the last scan. Any incongruity was immediately checked out by a flight of TIEs and pirate uglies. So far, there had only been a handful of anomolies. None of them had been enemy probes, disguised or otherwise. Even so, Gandel expected a New Republic attack force to show up on the Rock's doorstep at any moment. The last few hours had seen him pacing up and down the command walkway, hands clasped loosely behind his back.

Commander Roschak hadn't been much better. Rumor had it he'd had his men plant listening devices in the maintenance bay where the probe was being dissected, so he would be the first to know when there was news of it's origin. Luckily for the both of them, word had finally come, and that word was Borleias.

"I've already sent word to Askaza," Anton informed Gandel. "He's putting together an info packet for us regarding the world. The freighter we'll be using for the operation is already in our hangar, prepped and ready. Roschak and his men are already loading up, they can be outbound as soon as you give the word."

"They leave as soon as they get the info packet," Gandel decided. It wasn't so important that he know about the current state of Borleias... he could take all the time he wanted to read up on it. It was the commandos that would need to know, and they could study up while in hyperspace.

"I'm sure the commander will be happy to hear that," Anton said with a smile. Whether or not the rumors were true, Roschak had ordered his men aboard the freighter only minutes after the name Borleias had reached the bridge.

"I'm sure he will be. Let's just hope his eagerness to get into this war doesn't make him reckless."

[Dr. Wess Jodo]

Grinning to himself, Dr. Wess Jodo of the New Dawn straightened the collar of his shirt, resettled his jacket on his shoulders, and reached out to hit the buzzer of his family’s small apartment on Coruscant. It was a beautiful day, and he was finally coming home after seven months away on active duty.

No one answered the door.

Puzzled, Wess rang the buzzer again and waited, looking up and down the street to see if anyone he knew was around. There was no one there, so Wess shrugged and reached forward, punching in a key-code. He almost thought that he’d forgotten it for a moment—it had been a while since he used it, but doors slid open, and he stepped inside.

“Hey, guys. I’m home! Is anyone here?”

There was dead silence.

“That’s odd,” Wess said, his voice seeming to echo weirdly in the empty building. “The kids should be home from school by now… maybe they’re asleep.”

Wess stepped further into the house, looking around cautiously. Nothing felt out of place, and he could usually pick up on the feelings of his immediate surroundings very quickly. It was something he’d been able to do ever since he was a boy. But now that seemed to be fooling him.

From behind a corner, though, someone was watching him intently, and drawing a bead on him. A small blaster raised cautiously and leveled towards Wess’ head, even as the young doctor set his travel bag down. Next to it, he gently lowered a small cage that had two white mice in it and then stood, scratching his head in puzzlement. He had a sudden, itchy feeling on the back of his neck like something was about to happen.

“BANG BANG! Gotcha!”

Wess yelled in surprise, spinning and groping blinding for the blaster he had tucked away inside his coat. He missed kicking the cage his mice were in by an inch, but set the little creatures scrambling around madly anyways.

“Hah! That was great! You jumped about twenty feet!” a small boy giggled, falling down on the floor with laughter and pointing at Wess. Another little boy was already rolling around on the ground, helpless with laughter, and a third, taller boy stepped out as well, looking both embarrassed and amused all at once.

Wess stopped trying to get to his blaster and crossed his arms over his chest. “That wasn’t funny, you know,” he breathed, trying to calm his rapidly beating heart. “You’d better hope I don’t tell mom about this, or you’re going to be in deep trouble.”

It was impossible to keep a straight face for long, though, and soon Wess was trying to hide his own laughter.

“Hey, isn’t anyone going to come say hello to me, or am I going to have to settle for getting shot?” Wess finally laughed, spreading his arms wide. Immediately, the two younger boys bounded up off the floor and tackle-hugged Wess, knocking him down to the floor. “Hey, hey! Two against one, no fair!” Wess grinned, tickling his brothers mercilessly.

When he’d exhausted his little, twin brothers, Wess pushed them off of him and accepted the hand his second youngest brother offered, standing up and brushing himself down.

“Sorry, Wess,” the boy apologized somewhat awkwardly as Wess gave him a brief hug and tousled his hair. “They made me promise not to say anything.”

“You little cretins scared the life out of me,” Wess laughed, clapping his brother on the shoulder. “Where’s Brianna?”

“Next door. We’ve got some new neighbors, and Bri-bri really likes the oldest girl. She’s been spending a lot of time over there,” Wess’ brother flushed slightly.

“I guess she’s not the only one,” Wess smirked, “don’t tell me you’ve got a crush on another girl, Michael?”

Michael flushed a darker shade of red and mumbled something about needing to get back to his homework.

“Alright munchkins, time to get serious,” Wess announced as he took off his coat and nudged the twins with a foot. They were wrestling on the floor, and it took several pokes before they would stop and pay attention to him again. “Do you know if mom heard anything else from Dad about whether or not he’ll be coming home for shore leave today? She told me he might be delayed, but wouldn’t say why.”

“Dad came home early, and then went out with mom,” one of the twins replied, disentangling himself and jumping up. “And he brought us stuff! I got another Y-Wing model!”

“I got a B-Wing!” the other boy piped up, a grin spread wide across his face.

“Hey, that’s great,” Wess smiled, but couldn’t help feeling a faint pang of jealousy. Both of the twins were showing an early aptitude for flying, and so his father spent a lot of his off time teaching them tricks he knew. He’d been that way with Wess, once, but Wess just didn’t have a knack for piloting. He was also claustrophobic, and had gotten sick to his stomach last time he tried to fly one of those cramped little fighters.

Anyways, he was an adult, now, so it was natural that he would be a little distant from his father, since he had graduated and wasn’t living at home, or even near home, any more. Still--Wess missed some of the fun they’d had together.

“I guess that means mom took the day off. When will they be back?” Wess asked, turning and walking into the kitchen for a glass of water. He would have preferred a bottle of beer, but always felt slightly uncomfortable drinking at home.

“Dunno!” The twins chorused in unison, entering the kitchen.

“Hey, are there any leftovers in the ‘box? I’m starving,” Wess muttered, bending over to peer inside the cooling unit at a bowl full of something green. Wess poked it, and it suck to his finger slightly, coming away with a wet, sucking noise. “Ugh, what –is- this?”

“Hey! What’s this?” Wess felt a finger poke him in the back just above the waistline of his pants.

“Nothing,” Wess flushed slightly, straightening quickly and tugging his shirt back into place. It had ridden up when he bent over. “Just a… thing.”

The twins gaped at him. “You got a tattoo? Boy mom’s gonna be mad at yoooou Wesley.”

“Don’t call me that. And mom’s already seen it,” Wess muttered, now more irritated than embarrassed. His mother had indeed been upset with him when he came home with a tattoo, and had insisted that if he wanted to disfigure his own body that was his choice, but if he ever let the younger children see the tattoo and gave them ideas he would catch it. That had been five years ago and, until now, he’d succeeded at hiding his inking.

“Why’d you get a tattoo on your butt?” One of the twins asked, head tilted to the side slightly. “Was it for a girl?”

“It’s not on my butt!” Wess snapped, “It’s on my lower back! Don’t you two have another brother to go harass for a while?”

“Geee! Sensitive,” the twins giggled together, but turned and hurried away as Wess shot them another glare.

“Those two are entirely too immature for twelve year-olds,” Wess commented at his brother, Michael, entered the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water.

“They’re not always this bad, you know,” Michael commented. Then paused, looking curiously at Wess. “Do you really have a tattoo on your… you know…?”

Wess sighed, running a hand through his hair. “No, it’s just on my back—I got it five years ago when I was in the Academy.”

“Oh,” Michael commented. “For a girl? You can tell me, Wess—I promise I wont tell anyone else. Not even mom.”

“Maybe later,” Wess muttered, hearing the front door open again and his parents calling out their greetings. It was just a frakking tattoo…

“Hey Mom, hey Dad. It feels like it’s been ages,” Wess grinned, entering the living room and giving his mother a hug and his father a handshake. A little shorter than his father, but much taller than his petite mother, Wess still looked up to his father figuratively and literally. His mother was more feared and respected than anything else, although she was extremely affectionate as well.

“It has been ages, Wess,” his father grinned, clapping him on the back. “You’ve lost some more babyfat—I knew getting into combat situations would help shape you up. You look good, Wess.”

“Thanks,” Wess grinned, “You look good too, Dad. How’s the squadron?”

“Great! They said to tell their favorite little medic hello.”

“I guess they haven’t seen Wess since he had those growth spurts,” Wess’ mother commented. She’d never liked it when people called Wess little, for some reason.

“Mom! Dad! You’re back!” The twins barreled into their parents from around the corner. “Guess what! Did you know Wess has a tattoo on his butt?!”

Wess flushed a bright shade of red. “I do not have a tattoo on my butt!” he yelled, for what seemed the thousandth time. His mother was sighing and looking somewhat disappointed, and his father was clearly trying to hide a huge grin.

“Yes, I already know about that, honey,” Wess’ mother said, shooting Wess a look that made him feel as if he were back in the Academy all over again and was about to be dressed down for what he’d done.

“Busted,” the twins giggled.

“Well, I’m starving,” Wess’ father announced loudly, changing the subject. His grin was still trying to break free, and his voice nearly cracked from the strain of not bursting into laughter at the indignant, guilty look on Wess’ face.

“Me toooo!” the twins piped up together instantly forgetting about Wess, and then getting into an argument about who was “more hungrier.”

“Right, I’ll throw something together… want to help me, Wesley?” Wess’ mother used his nickname, raising her eyebrows to indicate she wasn’t actually asking if he wanted to help or not. Wess was his real name, but she always called him Wesley when he was in trouble.

“Uh, sure,” Wess coughed, shooting the twins a glare that promised retribution. He was an adult, frakk it! They shouldn’t be getting him in trouble like this.


~*~

“So I’m being transferred to the Second Chance,” Wess concluded, taking a sip from his water. “I’m serving as a flight surgeon, but I’m mainly supposed to be doing psychiatric work—supposedly whoever was doing the recruiting was impressed with a couple of those papers I wrote on Battle-Stress Disorders last year.”

“That’s wonderful, Wess,” his mother smiled. She had one of the twins on her lap, and he had already fallen fast asleep.

“Yes, congratulations, son,” his father was holding the other twin, who had also fallen asleep, and was leaning back comfortably now that dinner was over. “From what I hear down the grapevine, those pilots on the Second Chance could certainly use a good shrin—ah… psychiatrist, I mean...”

Wess grinned at the twins, ignoring his father’s comment. “I guess I’m not as interesting as I thought I was.”

“I think it’s interesting!” Michael enthused.

Wess laughed and smiled at his younger brother, then stroked the hair of the little girl sleeping in his lap, one hand clutching his shirt, and the other wrapped around his left arm. “Bri-bri’s sure grown,” he commented, changing the subject. “I’m sorry I couldn’t spend more time here before leaving… I hope she doesn’t cry too much like last time.”

“She kept asking all of this morning just when you were supposed to get home today,” Michael grinned, “so mom asked Zaria if she would keep an eye on Brianna and distract her for a while.”

“She was driving me out of my mind,” Wess’ mother sighed, “I didn’t get a moment’s peace till I sent her over. And Zaria is such a nice girl, she’s a good influence on Brianna… Right around Michael’s age, too.”

“Okay, spill the beans kiddo,” Wess grinned, reaching across the table to give his brother a playful shove. “Who exactly is this Zaria I keep hearing about, and how cute is she?”

They all stayed up late talking, and it was nearly therein the morning when Wess’ mother insisted that they all go to bed because Wess had to leave early, and Michael needed his rest. She was the only one who was ready for bed, though.

Wess had always shared a room with Michael, and as they settled in for the night, they continued to talk in whispers for a while. Soon, though, they were both drowsy, and there was a lull in the conversation.

“Wess?...” Michael whispered suddenly, rousing Wess from his state of near-sleep.

“Unh… yeah?”

“Why’d you get a tattoo? I thought you hated people with lots of tattoos.”

“I was drunk, and I don’t hate people with lots of tattoos—I just think they’re fake and using the tattoos to hide something deeper.”

“Hypocrite,” Michael whispered, a grin apparent in his voice.

“Go to sleep,” Wess yawned, rolling over.

“Wess?”

“Mmm?”

“Do you think I would look good with a tattoo? And why didn’t I ever see it before if you’ve had it for five years?”

Wess tried to sigh, but ended up yawning again. “Mom made me cover it up with one of those skin patch things when I was at home. If you want a tattoo that’s fine with me, but you’d better not let mom see it or tell her I said so. Now go to sleep. I have to get up in just a few hours.”

There was a brief pause.

“Wess?”

“…what?”

“Were you really drunk? I can’t imagine you being… you know… crazy like that.”

Wess ignored his brother and pretended to already be asleep.

~*~

It was a long space flight.

Wess had started feeling uncomfortable the instant he stepped on board the cramped shuttle, and kept moving from seat to seat trying to find a place that wasn’t crowded. He would’ve loved to get to know some of the other passengers, but he was already starting to feel faintly queasy, and even though he was cold, he was still sweating with his discomfort.

For the first two hours, Wess tried everything from standing up, to sitting on his legs, to laying down in the space between the seats, but nothing seemed to help. The low ceiling was pressing down on him, and the narrow issle between the seats was making him feel nauseous. It would’ve been alright—he didn’t mind feeling a little cramped, but there was no where to go; not an open space in sight that he could look at besides the blue-white lines of hyperspace outside the windows.

To get his mind off his problems, Wess tried loading up a book on mental disorders that he was trying to get through, but found he couldn’t read for very long. Fifteen minutes, stand up, move to a new seat, fifteen more minutes, stand up, move to a new seat… the pattern continued.

Finally, driven by desperation, Wess ended up going to nearly the last set of seats on the shuttle, where he noticed only one other person was sitting. It was a short boy, who hardly looked to be out of his teens.

Wess caught a glimpse of something on the data pad the younger man had in his lap. “I’m sorry, I truly never meant to…” Wess forced himself to stop reading and cleared his throat. He had no desire to be caught reading something personal over someone else’s shoulder.

“Excuse me, is anyone sitting here?” Wess asked.


The other man jumped, giving a strangled yelp and dropping his data pad with a loud clatter. Flushing, he snatched it up and then looked up at Wess, his eyes huge and staring.


“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I was just looking for someplace that wasn’t quite so crowded, and this is the only set of seats that doesn’t have three or four people in them already,” Wess said, trying to hide his amusement.


“Yeah, sure,” the shorter man mumbled, sitting back down on his own seat and angling his data pad so that Wess couldn’t see it.



“I’m Jodo, Wess Jodo,” Wess introduced himself, “I’ve been assigned to the Second Chance. I didn’t realize so many other people were headed out that way too”

“I’m Maguire,” the pilot mumbled, “I… was assigned to the Second Chance too.”


“Oh,” Wess commented. There was something about Maguire’s face that reminded him of an orderly he’d worked with for a time. “Medical division? You look a little familiar.”


“Uhh… pilot.”


There was a momentary silence, during which Maguire blushed a darker shade of red and Wess pondered this new information. Well, Wess wouldn’t doubt that someone like this could use some psychological reinforcement, if nothing else. Jumpy little thing… To Wess he seemed to radiate nervousness… and he seemed… hurt? Wess couldn’t place it, but there was something in his eyes that made the doctor think Maguire had been emotionally wounded recently.


“I guess you and I will be seeing a bit of each other, then,” Wess finally broke the silence. “I’m not a pilot myself, although I do have some Y-Wing training, but I’m probably going to be working with the squadrons onboard the Second Chance.”


Maguire seemed interested for a moment. “Y-Wing training? Are you going to be one of the repairmen?”


A grin finally broke across Wess’ face. He just couldn’t help it. A repairman? “You could say that,” he chuckled, “I guess it’s as good a way of describing me as any I’ve ever heard before.”


“Oh,” Maguire offered a tentative smile back, clearly feeling awkward and not understanding what Wess was laughing about.


Maguire looked back down at his data pad, and Wess went back to his reading. Ten minutes had hardly passed before he began to feel uncomfortable again, and his stomach gave a faint, warning rumble. Not a good sign.


“Well this isn’t going to work,” Wess said under his breath before standing up and turning off his data pad. Standing up wasn’t a good idea either, and he felt his stomach give a lurch at the sudden movement.


“Got to run, sorry to bother you,” Wess plastered on a smile and clamped his mouth shut. He was definitely going to throw up.

Fortunately, Wess made it to the ‘fresher in time, but that only made him feel slightly better. He wanted off the shuttle, and he wanted off now.

“Frakking claustrophobia,” Wess thought to himself, leaning back against the wall and shivering. “I can’t believe I’m on this ship… worse frakking idea of my life.”

Some time later, exactly how long Wess was never quite sure, the shuttle landed. Wess staggered to his feet and began pushing his way past the other passengers, desperate to get out of the cramped shuttle.

“Ah, ‘scuse me. Pardon me, coming through. Sorry, sorry, just coming through. ‘scuse me,” Wess mumbled, bumping against several people in his attempt to escape.

Finally he was out, and Wess leaned against the side of the shuttle, taking deep breaths and trying to calm himself.

Worst shuttle ride of his entire life. Besides the other ones that had also been bad, anyways. At least he had an hour to freshen up slightly and acclimate himself to his new environment… and get something to eat. His stomach was already reminding him that it was empty, now that he wasn’t caught in a tight space any more.

Firming his resolve, Wess pushed away from the shuttle and hurried towards the nearest lift. He needed to get cleaned up and changed pretty badly—he knew he had to look like a complete mess.

From the front pocket of Wess’ coat, a tiny white head popped out, ears and whiskers twitching as it surveyed the surrounding area.

“Oops… I forgot about you guys,” Wess muttered to himself, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out his two pet mice, who regularly napped in his pocket when he was off duty. “You guys okay? I’m sorry if I crushed you any—I just forgot you were there.”

The mice seemed fine, and so Wess smiled at them and kept them both carefully cupped in his right hand as he walked, feeling their little feet grip his fingers for support as they enjoyed their ride through the Second Chance.

Wess found his quarters and looked around, finding a small table to deposit the mice on in the hope that they wouldn’t hop off and go exploring around the room. He knew he should’ve grabbed his luggage, which had their cage in it, but Wess had been too distracted to remember. It would probably be delivered within an hour or two anyways.

“Now stay, and don’t you dare go wondering around and find some way out of the room, or I’m never going to find you again,” Wess commanded, taking off his coat and then literally pealing away his soaked sweater. Frakking public transport system.

Stepping into the ‘fresher, Wess only spent a little time cleaning up, occasionally glancing out into the room to make sure his mice weren’t escaping. Last time they got away, he’d spent two days looking for them before nearly stepping on them as he got out of bed the next morning.

His bag arrived while he was still in the refresher unit, and when Wess stepped out he found it waiting for him, which was a good thing since his uniform was in the bag, and he didn’t particularly feel like putting back on his sweat-dampened clothes now that he was clean.

Wess put on his uniform, unfolded the mice’s cage, and then deposited them in it before combing his hair and shaving. Then he was out the door, and striding swiftly along the corridor towards what was supposed to be a welcome and mission briefing rolled into one. It occurred to Wess that he would probably see some of the other people who had been on the shuttle.

Wess arrived just as everyone else was taking their seats, and so he joined them, recognizing only the short pilot, Maguire, from the hyperspace trip. If anything, the young man looked more nervous than the first time Wess had seen him.

When his name was introduced, Wess smiled and nodded at the company in general, trying to get a few of the faces in his memory even if there was no name to attach to them.

Then the proverbial bantha-slap came and Wess felt his eyebrows raise slightly as the Admiral let the various pilots know how she felt about some fight or other they had gotten themselves into. Wess was mildly amused, and struggled to keep a straight face—it sounded sort of like something his mother would have said to him, using much more graphic terms of course, had he gotten into that kind of trouble when he was at the Academy.

Looking around as the Admiral spoke, Wess kept an eye out for how each of the pilots reacted. Some looked indifferent, some looked embarrassed, and some looked annoyed—one looked downright terrified. Wess could sense the shifting emotion levels in the room, and felt some of the pilots change their attitudes as the Admiral spoke. Nothing about their faces changed, but there was something… different about them when she had finished speaking.

Then the majority of the group was dismissed, and the Admiral went into her briefing. Wess leaned back in his chair and frowned slightly in concentration, steepling his hands and looking over them at the petite, stern woman. This mission was certainly going to be dangerous, and had a definite possibility of turning entirely ugly in a very short period of time.

Well, he was up for it.

[Pietur Legatus]

Legs stared at the duffel slung on her bunk and the holo she was trying to stuff into its already crammed capacity. As she looked from the holo in her hand, to the bag and then back at the holo she suddenly realized that she wouldn't be allowed to take it anyway. Tossing it onto the wrinkled sheets, she abandoned her packing and picked up the file they had been given. It was thick and as she thumbed through the cramped pages of type she began to realise just how much effort had gone into their mission. Piet hoped like anything she wouldn't be the one to screw it up.

She flicked back to the front and stared at the ID card she had been issued with. It was her all right, the same picture as the the NR database had, her own eyes and shock of cropped hair looking at her with a cheesy smile that made Piet grimace. Most definitely her. She turned the card over, admiring the workmanship. It looked as real as any other ID she had, even if it did list her as 'repair crew'. Tucking it into her back pocket, she set to reading the rest of fat file.

Her eyes flickered over the first paragraph, and made it a fair way into the second before they started to glaze over. She started wondering about the new-comers. She hadn't even met the pair who joined the memorial ceremony, hadn't even known they were coming before they had to be farewelled so there were no memories to dwell on there. It prompted her to wonder just how soon it would be before she was in one of those coffins. Or rather, her picture was on one. Hopefully her remains would be drifting in the freedom of space somewhere surrounded by destroyed imperial ships. Piet grinned. That was the way to go.

Those other new pilots though, did they know what they were in for? They'll soon find out..Starting your time with a memorial for your predeccesors wasn't the most encouraging welcoming party ever given, not by a long shot. Hopefully their initiation would make up for it. Piet grinned, remembering her own not so long ago. Most of the night was still made up of blank gaps that she couldn't convince anyone to fill her in on.

Piet recalled seeing a droid of one model or another at the service. It must be IG-100, she had concluded at the time. If the rumours spreading around the ship were anything to go by, the droid and Stone had formed a lethal partnership in the brawl that got them all dragged back here. The fight had already entered the ranks of the legendary amongst those who followed that sort of thing. Piet thought mournfully of her own tame evening and wished she had been there to see the two in action. At least then she would have deserved the lashing the Admiral had dealt out.

With a sigh, she turned back to the mission. All the words could have been written for a hutt for all she could understand them. The one part she did get was 'hyperdrive failure'. Her mouth twisted with doubt. Being stranded anywhere without a hyperdrive was no fun. Being stranded near the uglies that had taken out so many of their squad was just plain stupid. Hopefully they weren't going to depend on her status as repair crew for anything major. The only thing she would ever be good for around broken down ships was holding the hydrospanner, and even then she had to guess at what a hydrospanner was. The blonde perked up when the file swung from details to their covers -particularly the mention of exploding combs. Exploding anything was always fun, but secret weapons brought to mind the spy holo's. Suddenly she couldn't wait to get going.

[Ati Quai]

Hyperdrive failure. That was something that he could fake off quite well, considering the fact that the Junkpile, now known throughout the galaxy databases as Circuit One, had more than its share of hyperdrive failures in the past. Right up until about a week ago, in fact. Or roughly that length of time. In truth, since Ati had been 'welcomed' onto the ship, he really had no concept of time.

It had been a hard decision to make, but when faced with the alternative, it was a no-brainer. He had given the tech crews the go-ahead to wipe his droid's memory of any measure of information that would tie the droid to the New Republic. Ati simply hoped that it didn't wipe too much information. Despite all the quirks of the droid's persona, it was something that the smuggler, now Womprat was used to.

The other thing that Ati would need to get used to was his new persona. Something else that was easily workable since he grew up on the Swoop Circuit so this was really no stretch at all. The name, however, was going to take a bit of living up to. Blizz Pinnix. Junior.

There was little truly known about the elder Pinnix. He had retired and taken up ownership of some cantina known as the Pits. Beyond that, there were only rumors that made their way across the galaxy. It was that heir of mysterio that this little group was playing their cards with. With no concrete evidence and a very private life, there was nothing that said Blizz Pinnix didn't have a son. Ati certainly could have filled the role years ago when he was an active racer. Still, there wasn't anywhere nearby that could even pose a test of his skills. He hoped.

And if it came to be that he didn't quite have the edge that he once did, there was always the ploy of using a legend's name to further his own career. It wouldn't be looked upon as highly credible, but it wouldn't be much of a stretch. If anything, in some locales it would have earned him more bonus points for having the balls to take on such a moniker.

Of course, sponsorship by Bin Gassi Racing would be enough to quell any questions about his abilities, since such a high-profile business wouldn't be placing their support upon an unproven racer. So, problem solved.

A metallic clink ascending the ramp broke his thoughts for a moment, and Ati set aside the packet that he was going over. The familiar sight of his droid was the next thing to come into view. "Kaybo, good to see you moving around. How are you feeling?"

-Wiped, Sir.-

The smuggler simply smirked at that. He only hoped that a little of the droid's humor would remain. "You and me both. Prep the ship for take-off. We're still awaiting our crew so there's no real rush. And I need to take care of a couple things before we leave."

The droid walked off as Ati had requested, though without the usual quip or retort and Ati wondered exactly how much of the droid's personality was now lost. The thought of having a normal droid that did nothing but follow orders almost frightened the pilot. Still, it was a necessary course of action. One thing that wouldn't have been wiped was the droid's understanding of mechanics. While Ati knew the ship inside and out, so did the droid, and whether it was right or not, Ati didn't trust anyone else to work on the ship.

And since he was still awaiting the rest of his crew, he had plenty of time to dispose of the packet of information that he had been given. It also gave him one last chance to hit the 'fresher before the trip. The shadowsilk suit was already beginning to get a little uncomfortable. Never did like the stuff. There were belts, gloves, and other items available that offered the same benefits.

The other aspect that was nice, though, was having a known Intel officer to take care of all the covert mumbo-jumbo stuff. It left Ati the ability to just go along for the ride and concentrate on keeping up his ruse. Otherwise there was always the scoundrel's luck angle if he was put in the position to do some of that stuff himself. After all, smugglers like him were somewhat notorious for having good luck. And his had held up well, until about a week ago. Since then, it had been just one thing after another stacking up like a steaming pile of poodoo.

The information packet was discarded as per the order, and after a few moments in the 'fresher, Ati was again returning to his newly modified ship. He paused at the edge of the hangar and took a few moments to actually look over the exterior. It was a far sight better looking than when it had first docked on the Second Chance. In fact, it almost looked new. Oh, how wrong that was.

Returning to the ship found the droid inspecting much of the internal aspects of the ship, one hand raised to his head in an almost quizzical look. -Oh, Sir. It is good to have you aboard. I think...they frakked with my engines.-

To that, the smuggler laughed. At least not everything was cleared from the droid's memory. Perhaps it was part of the original design to have the droid with a couple of quirks, including an extreme feeling of ownership when it came to the ship's mechanics. "Yes, they most certainly did."

-At least they gave us some toys to play with.-

The droid started to head in the direction of the cargo hold where the spare parts for the swoops were contained.

"Don't even think about it, Kaybo. Look, but don't touch."

Knowing that the droid would listen to a direct order such as that, Ati turned and made his way to the cockpit to make sure everything was in order, and to begin the work of priming the engines for the eventual departure from the New Republic ship. One thing was certain, the ship sounded better.

With the cockpit door left open, it allowed most sound in the ship to carry through. Of course, even if they had been closed the droid's next exclamation would certainly have been heard. In truth, a nearby tech just down the ramp of the ship would have been hard-pressed not to hear the excitement in the droid's voice as Kaybo was apparently looking at everything.

-Ooooooohhh, shiny!-

[Ceryll Tana]

Ceryll tried to ignore the shooting pain behind her eyes as she left the briefing and headed towards the room to pack up some of her belongings. She cursed. The painkillers she had taken earlier refused to control what felt like a thousand wampas pounding the insides of her skull. "Blast," she grumbled, sending her fingers up through her bangs and clutching at her red hair in frustration. Of all the times to be totally miserable, this was definitely not it.

The briefing had gone about as she had imagined it would, considering all of the events that had led up to it. Admiral Nerys' righteous anger had indeed been warranted, if all of what Ceryll had heard about the first night of shoreleave was true. And even though she had not been at all involved in anything very interesting during her night on Borleias, the scathing reprimand had touched her possibly as hard as it had those who might have deserved it. The consequences certainly had befallen the entire squadron and had left most with blatant animosity for the Admiral. Ceryll wasn't particularly malicious, but she did feel very frustrated and helpless.

Two new members of the Womprats had also been quickly introduced: a pretty, light blue Twi'lek and an anxiety-stricken young man whom Ceryll had felt rather sorry for. After all, one could only imagine what it was like to come into the lowest of squadrons, attend the memorial for the pilots you were to replace, and sit down to listen to the harangue of a very angry Admiral.

A small, cheerfully wicked smile flitted across Ceryll's face. At least they would be getting the proper initiation…to make them feel more "at home."

The first thing she did upon entering her quarters was to step into the 'fresher and swallow another dose of the white pills. If anything, she needed something to take the edge off of her headache so that she could concentrate. Gulping down some cold water, Ceryll studied the folder of papers she had received that detailed their mission. The first few sheets compiled a brief but thorough description of her new identity, along with a surprisingly realistic ID. Skimming the pages devoted to describing exploding shampoo bottles and hairbrushes with a raised brow, she dragged a backpack from beneath her bunk and started to throw in some necessities.

The rest of the paperwork, though more detailed and thorough than the briefing had been, was mostly a dizzying amount of information that was very similar to some of the spy holo-flicks Ceryll had seen as a kid. She chuckled in spite of herself. Jat would die to have the opportunity to play at "undercover."

After Ceryll had skimmed over most of the information in the folder and felt as ready as she ever really could be, she got rid of it as had been directed. Turning to her footlocker, she grabbed some new clothes and went to take a quick shower. Luckily, the headache had disappeared along with any of her former nervousness.

Glancing at her chrono, she was proud to see that for once in her life, she wasn't going to be late. She had at least five minutes to get to where she needed to be. Then they would be off on another mad-cap adventure that only the Womprats would be crazy enough to take on. As she walked towards the hangar where she would meet up with the rest of her team, she grinned. "I think I've officially lost it," Ceryll muttered in amusement. "I'm actually excited."

[Mischa Margolin]

Morn's Cantina, Borleais. Early evening.


The sounds of low, mingled laughter and the voices of men, women, and strangely enough, droid drifted out of the doorway of Morn’s Cantina. The
mood of those voices in sharp contrast to the one they had all been in just a few hours ago aboard the shuttle from the Second Chance to Borleias.

Earlier that day.


The first thing Misch had done once she’d been released from the brig, after giving Leto a long hug in relief at not being sent away from him and cameras be damned, was to head to her quarters to give Stone the news and change for the trip planetside. When the door to the bunkroom she shared with her wingman hissed open and she walked in, Jon’son let out a great whoop of joy and picked up the petite pilot in an embrace that rivaled a Wookie’s in strength before she could even finish telling him the news that she wasn’t being transferred after all.

“Nerys wised up, huh?” The tall pilot said with his raised-brow, crooked smile that Misch had thought she’d never get to see again and she nearly lost it for the first time since the Admiral had given her the news that she wasn’t going anywhere. Looking at the floor quickly to hide the tears that she didn’t even want her closest friend to see, Mischa just replied.

”Yep, looks that way Big Man,” before looking back up at him again and giving her wingman a smile that of course didn’t fool him in the least. “Well whatever her reason for it, Vac I’m glad she did. Who else is going to keep me in line around this place?” he replied with a smile.

“Right,” Misch answered. “More like the other way around, Dethrider. Now let me get changed and I’ll meet you in the hangar.”

“Seriously, Mischa.” Jon’son said as he gave her another hug, this one much gentler on her bruised ribcage. “I’m glad you’re still with us. And not just because you’re one of the best damn pilots we’ve got around here. I’m headed to maintenance to find Eye-Gee. Wait till you get a load of him. I’ve never met a droid quite like him before. See you in the hangar, little sis”

After he’d left Mischa changed into attire appropriate to the cleaning up of two damaged cantinas and headed to the hangar to meet up with Stone, Cay, Eye-Gee, and of course Leto, the thought of him causing a smile to cross her face near subconsciously.

The hangar was, as usual, bustling with activity as nearly a fourth of the squadron along with the two new members of the medical staff were preparing for the mission they’d been briefed on following the funeral.

Techs were busily finishing up last minute prep details on the ships, and several of the pilots were milling around the deck engaged in conversation with each other. Glancing at the two transports that would be carrying them into enemy territory, Mischa gave a silent prayer to the Corellian Goddess Eliantra for their protection and safe return.

Turning to head toward the shuttle waiting to take the “sentenced ones” to Borleias, Mischa collided with a young, dark-haired man she recognized as the new doctor whom Admiral Nerys had introduced during the briefing causing him to nearly drop the object at the top of the pile of things he was carrying in his hands. Mischa apologized and made a grab for the small container before it fell, nearly drawing back at the last second as she saw something move behind the durasteel mesh sides.

“Thank you and there’s no need to apologize, really. I was distracted there for a moment, Miss…” Dr. Wess Jodo said as he rebalanced the stack of duraplast medical supply cases he was carrying.

“ Mischa Margolin, Lieutenant actually. You’re the new doc right?” Misch asked, peering into the container with uncontained curiosity.

Between the two of them they tried to figure a way to shake hands in greeting as he introduced himself properly before they gave up with a laugh. “Yes, Dr. Wess Jodo. And you’ve already met my pets Slash and Nibbles.”

“Good to meet you, Doc and welcome aboard. You’ve got your work cut out for you around here with my squadron alone.” Mischa said as she watch the small furry creatures run around the inside of their cage. “Are you sure it’s a good idea to be taking them along on the mission with you?”

“Oh. I hadn’t really thought about it.” Wess replied. “But it’s not like I have much choice. I really don’t know anyone aboard the ship yet that I could ask to keep an eye on them for me. Say Lieutenant, you wouldn’t consider maybe…” he started hopefully with that type of big eyed, pleading look Misch tended to be a sucker for.

“He couldn’t have stumbled across a member of the flight crew…someone…anyone else” Mischa thought to herself, trying to keep a “what the hell?” expression from her face as she looked again at the rodents scurrying about. “I’m not sure I’m the best person to ask Doc. I mean I’m barely good at taking care of myself, never mind two other living breathing creatures. I don…” Before she could finish they heard the voice of one of the deck flight control officers advising those taking the shuttle to Borleias that it was ready for departure and this was the last chance to board.

“Okay. I’ll do it.” Margolin said reluctantly, unable to say no to the pleading look the Doc gave her that turned into a grateful grin at her hasty answer. “Thank you Lieutenant. Thank you so very much. They aren’t hard to care for. They just need food and water. But not too much, Nibbles tends to make a glutton of herself if you let her get away with it” He grinned again.

“Oh!” he said, handing her one of the containers he was carrying and looking at his pets for what he hoped wasn’t the last time. “Their food.”

“That’ll be good to have” Mischa smiled as she took it from him. “I’ve got to get aboard that shuttle or the Admiral may change her mind about shipping me out of here after all. Don’t worry, Doc. I promise I’ll take care of them until you get back. Good luck on the mission and be careful out there.” Vac added over her shoulder as she hurried toward the shuttle then up the ramp, thinking the whole time, What the frak did I just get myself into?


The mood amongst those already aboard the transport was rather subdued as was to be expected. They greeted each other in a friendly enough way, but Misch knew that all thoughts were on the events of the other night. They all had feelings of guilt. Maybe at still being alive, at not being able to do more to save their comrades, at the fight happening in the first place. Or in she and probably even Leto's case, being somewhere else and having somewhat of an enjoyable time while the whole incident was taking place. And that going back to the scene of the incident was going to drag those painful memories right back up again. If there was a stronger punishment by the Admiral and a lesson to be taught to all of those going, she couldn’t think of it at the moment. Perhaps Nerys was a more effective commander than Margolin and some of the others had given her credit for.

For much of the flight they all sat in silence, but it wasn’t a too uncomfortable one. Well considering the fact that Leto’s dislike of droids was still rather apparent in the way he ignored Toaster and seemed to be content to just stare out of the window of the shuttle, his mind on something other then the other occupants of the cabin.

Misch had given up on trying to engage him in conversation and spent her own time between watching the two mice run about the container and staring out of the viewport herself at the approaching jewel-like world. She couldn’t help but think about poor Chanc as well. She knew Furball would rather be here with them on this clean up detail any day rather than laid up in the infirmary recovering from his horrific wounds.

Cay sat next to Stone and looked preoccupied with thoughts of her own, as did Mischa’s wingman. Although he did give her a curious look when he saw the contents of the container perched on her lap. “Don’t ask. I’ll explain it later.” Was all Mischa would say in return.


When they disembarked, the first stop was to the beach hut where Harris and Tessari had met their unfortunate and premature ends. The Bothan owner of the establishment had already started clean up work and for that they all were rather grateful, especially the three pilots who had been present that night, since it meant having to spend less time in the place. Spice had seemed especially morose and Vac had tried to get the other woman to talk as they worked to let her know that in spite of whatever happened that night she had also likely saved the life of their Wookie squadron mate, but she didn’t have much luck so Mischa let her be.

Once they were done there, the owner thanked them and expressed his condolences for the loss of their fellow squadron members, even acknowledging the fact that the swoop gang members themselves had been at fault for the most part and that he fully intended to let anyone involved in investigating the incident know just that.

Piling into a speeder taxi, the five of them then headed to Morn’s for the next phase of their imposed clean up detail. At the first sight of Margolin, Morn Mattz, the cantina’s owner grimaced at the memory of the fight she’d sparked and the still apparent damage it had caused. “You, young lady, caused me to lose a whole two days business and replace few pieces of furniture as well. But it was almost worth it seeing a little thing like you go up against that Gammorean and those big Shore Patrol boys.” He finished with a chuckle as the others looked on.

“I apologize for that Mr. Mattz, and I wish I could remember it myself actually.” Misch said, hiding a smile. “But I’m a little fuzzy on most of what occurred here that night. Now if you please tell us where to find the cleaning equipment we'll get started on doing what we can to get your business back in order.”

And with that they went to work straightening up overturned furniture, sweeping up broken glass and whatever else needed to be done to put the shabby little cantina back in good enough shape to open again for business. All the while Morn supervised with some good-natured ribbing and colorful stories that made the task easier and the time pass quicker. At one point he asked where the other tall friend of Mischa’s was who had taken part in brawl and why he wasn’t there helping to clean up as well, describing Adok to a T. At this Vac gave Leto a pointed “I told you so” look at the cantina owner’s eyewitness verification of Dock having indeed being present there that night.

When they had finally finished, Mattz offered them dinner. So he cooked up some grilled nerfburgers along with crispy tuberchips and Mischa offered to put up the first round of drinks and they spent the first half hour after they’d completed the job just eating and enjoying the meal and the rather good ale accompanying it. All the while Eye-Gee told rather hilarious jokes that had Misch marveling at the droid’s sense of humor that even got Leto to warm up to him a bit and got Cayenne to even smile more than she had since that disastrous first night of shoreleave.

After they’d finished the meal, Leto had ordered another round of ale and the conversation came back to the memories of the pilots that they’d just lost and the mood became somber again until Cay told a story about Bandit and how he’d gotten caught late one night raiding the mess kitchen for snacks after he and Spice had returned from combat patrol with a mad craving for sweets.

This lead to more stories of those they’d served with and lost over the years with the ‘Rats and Mischa couldn’t help but marvel at how Tariq remembered so many of the names of the departed back to the times even before she, Stone and Spice were part of the squadron. She also got the sense from him that every loss was still nearly as fresh in his memory as the days that they happened and she couldn’t help but look at the man she loved with her heart in her eyes and smile.

Stone went over to the bar and ordered a bottle of the best whiskey Mattz had in his stock and brought it back to the table along with five glasses, handing the bottle to Captain Tariq. Even though Toaster couldn’t actually drink like the rest of them could, there was no way he was being left out of the toast, even if he could only do it symbolically. After he’d poured them all a round, Leto and the others raised their glasses and he gave the toast.

“To departed comrades. We sorely miss you all. Clear skies, until we finally meet again my friends”

Then they touched their glasses together gently and swallowed the contents in a draught before keeping a few moments of silence to reflect on their own personal memories of those lost. This was followed by another round of Morn Mattz’ exceptional whiskey and more stories were shared, including those from IG-80 who had a fair share of interesting exploits of his own to tell.

“So, Captain, Lieutenant Commander.” Mischa said addressing Leto and Jon’son in turn during a rare lull in the conversation with a gleam in her eye as she dropped bits of food through the opening in Dr. Jodo's pets' cage. “Shall we get to discussing the very important matter of the new additions to the squadron Quai, Fibuna, and that awfully nervous looking Taliba and any ideas you two may have to give them a proper welcome to the distinguished team of fighter jocks that are Womprat Squadron since you’ve both been so creative at such things in the past. The tin can here doesn’t have anything to worry about. We can consider today enough of an initiation I’m thinking.”.

[Jon'son Dethrider]

Borleais's blue-white sun tore a brillant hole through the pale afternoon sky, flooding the beachfront with heat and bleaching light. Temperatures ebbed higher, past the usual tidemark of a high-afternoon. With the oceans lapping the shore the air remained humid and baking, and puffs of dust swept up from each pounding stride Lieutenant Commander Dethrider took as he turned away from the beach hut with sackfuls of garbage in each hand, and eased into the last leg of his trip to the trash compactors.

<I>Maybe spending another day in the brig would be better than baking out here and making garbage trips... at least I didn't end up doing sweep duty. There's more glass broken in that place than a Gamorrean wedding...</i>

Jon'son's shorts and garbage-smeared tank top were damp with fresh sweat and soaked through in parts. The humid air didn't help matters to drink in the moisture quickly. He imagined his shaven scalp and arms were glistening as if painted with a diamond glaze. His felt his lower legs streaked with mud-- beach sand mixed with sweat, drying to sandy streaks along both well-muscled calves.

Unsnapping a plastic water flask from his hip, Jon'son swigged its last draught without breaking his stride. It tasted stale, tinged with the sweat on his lips and the plasteel taste of the flask, and completely failed to wash away the sour taste of yesterday's actions. He hooked the strap back into his belt, fastened it, and forgot it as his concentration turned back to the open mouth of the garbage chute behind the beach hut, then began to toss in the mounding heaps of garbage bags.

<I>From pilot to garbage man... yeah I guess I should deserve this for letting two of our squadron fall...</i>

Harris and Tessari were dead.

He'd been brooding on that since the funeral and now they had returned to the scene of the crime. Of course, he kept reminding himself that it was all in self-defense or else he would lose himself in the anger of blaming his temper in the events from last night. The Womprat's actions had certainly driven a hard wedge in between the Admiral and their Captain, even though it wasn't their goal at all. The Womprats had required drastic measures and she took them. And she won.

Not a flawless victory, though. Now she was doing a little song and dance to her higher-ups from it.

A stinging tear of sweat leaked past the seal of Jon'son's dark goggles, burning at the corner of his eye. His vision blurred for a moment, but he blinked it clear. Not that there was much to see in any case. The beach was closed for that afternoon because of the clean-up, so all the eye candy were missing, leaving an empty beach pounded by the harsh glare of a strong sun. His dark lenses filtered out much of the painful brightness, but did little to help the stark, white landscape.

Pounding up the steps and charging into the beach hut, Jon'son quickly dropped onto an empty seat. He stripped his goggles away, tucked them into his belt as well. His breathing strong but even, muscles burning with the pleasant ache of an honest workout. He looked to Captain Leto, who was straightening the music player in the corner which had been knocked over during last night's brawl.

"Garbage is finished, Captain. I just tossed the last of it." Jon'son informed matter-of-factly.

"Too bad you couldn't toss yourself in as well," Cay chimed right after, "you sure smell like it."

"Ha. Ha. Funny." The burly fighter pilot mocked in return. He glanced over at his wingman. Misch had bound her red hair into a ponytail, secured by a steel-spring clip. Her bright, green eyes missed nothing as she scanned the area for any sign of displeasure as IG-100 held up his broom as a sign of completion.

"Looks clean to me, Toaster. Leto?"

"Yeah, looks fine," he huffed. Jon'son would have been surprised at any other answer.

"Speeder taxi is here," Cay spoke up, the burly pilot seeing the slight crease in Spice's brow. "Time for our next assignment."

"Let's get this over with," Jon'son announced, pulling himself off the chair. He was just getting comfortable.

<center>***</center>

The day's work was finished at Morn's and Jon'son enjoyed the dinner that was served to them. At least they were appreciative of their work, unlike the Bothan at the other place. That cheapskate didn't even bother to offer them liquor for their efforts.

No matter, though. He had forgotten about it as Leto, Misch, Toaster, and Cay swapped stories and memories, with Jon'son adding some of his own. Most of the best stories, though, were Leto's. It was good hearing them again and were cathartic at times.

The day's humidity had spiked over the run of the day, but at least the sun had finally settled over the horizon. Dethrider's clothes clung to him like flypaper, bunching up around his waist and sticking to his back. Sweat beaded on his forehead and left a salty rime on his upper lip as he finished the last of his ale that Leto ordered for them. The amber liquid swirled around in the bottom like liquid smoke. Jon'son nearly fumbled the glass, ended up grabbing it with both hands. Everyone giggled at his antic. To dismiss his smooth move, he rose from his seat and decided to get a bottle of Whyren's Reserve from the bar. Mattz better have it or else.

After a few minutes, Stone returned with bottle in hand and five glasses. Before he could think better of it, he upended the bottle and allowed it to drain into each glass, then set it down. Leto and the others toasted, then clinked glasses.

As Jon'son settled down into his chair, Vacuum eyed him and Leto with a gleam, as she fumbled with a cage some doctor had given her.

She brought up the hazing.

"Well <I>there's</i> a subject to get us thinking after a few drinks." Leto sounded amused, though he did not exactly mind the suggestion. Better to brainstorm now while drinking, rather than discuss it under the table.

"I would agree with Misch that Toaster gets spared. He saved my ass, after all," Stone spoke up, then downed a shot. "But I definetely suggest Quai and Taliba getting ordered by Leto to jog around the <I>Second Chance</I> stark naked through the bridge and past the good Admiral's quarters." A circle of snickers exploded around the table. Cayenne laughed into her glass. Leto busied himself with a long taste, feeling a light smile curling at the edges of his mouth.

"And Fibuna?" Misch inquired, stretching back into the chair's embrace. IG-100 mimicked his human companions by kicking its feet up onto the table and lounging into a more relaxed posture.

"I'll leave that to you girls and the droid to figure out, since I made my suggestion," Jon'son replied, leaning back and staring unblinkingly at his wingman. "I already chimed my two credits about those two greenhorns, unless Leto has an idea."

He wagged his eyebrows, casting a single appraising glance back to them.

[Erc Vortan]

“Hello, anyone home,” Came the call from the entry Ramp.

"Time to get this show going I guess. But why make it easy for the pilots." Erc began moving towards the entry point, and as he did, reached across his body drawing the smaller blaster he carried along his belt on his left hip. he held the blaster, muzzle down until he arrived at the top of the Ramp, he then descended, letting muzzle swing towards the voice down there.

"What the Frell do you want, and who are you?" Erc yelled, obviously sounding like he was annoyed.

"Hey, watch that thing!" Dock said as he raised his hands, obviously not liking the look of a the swinging blaster. "I'm supposed to be here, I've been assigned here. The name is.."

"I know your name. And I also know your friends call you Dock. You're Early, what gives?" The blaster was now pointed down to the deck, and Erc squatted, still on a higher level of the ramp, but looking Dock in the face.

"I just packed quick, thought I'd come down and introduce myself, we are after all going to be working together on this." Dock was still a bit nervous, he had no idea where this guy had come from, or what he intended to do.

Erc looked around the Hanger, it was obvious that some of the Support personnel in the Hanger were taking notice. a crowd of sorts was forming around the Freighter. "See, that's where you're wrong. We won't be working together, you'll be working for me. Meaning I'm in charge. I have Rank here, and Experience. Something that Fleet doesn't always remember. Somethign Starfighter Command always has a problem with."

"OK, sure, you're in charge, think you can put the blaster away? this is a friendly ship you're on." dock was now aware of the crowd and the still not sure where this nut was coming from.

"This thing? it's more effective when I load it." Erc finally lifted the weapon showing the empty power pack slot. "I take it there will be no more questions as to who's in charge here. I won't tell you the best way to fly your fighter, and you do not tell me how to run an Intel Mission or how to appear to be a smuggler scavenger crew." Erc stood and motioned for Dock to follow him. "I do want to hear suggestions whenever you have them. I'm also going to look to you to work with the rest of the crew assigned me, from what I can see you're the most experienced among them, and have been a Womprat the longest. That means you stand up. Be the officer the New Republic commissioned you as. No running from their sides." That last bit was a shot at what Erc had heard concerning Dock's role in the mayhem the other night. Nothing could be confirmed, but Erc had assisted in the investigation. He had a good idea what happened, although his report only stuck to the facts.

"I think I can do that for you, as long as needed. Even with our briefing there was alot missing. especially about your history. seems you're not even listed in NR Military files." Dock couldn't help but poke around for some info.

"I see you tried to slice into my files. nice try, but they aren't on the net. The only copies of my files are in hardcopy form, and on Coruscant. You look me up in any intel data field and you get some highlights of quasi-illegal shipping activities. Not even enough to call me a full fledged smuggler. I hope you enjoyed the file. I wrote it myself."

You wrote your own Intel file? I bet that went over well with the big shots there. Who do you know to get that honor." there was a playful smile on Dock's face.

"I never said Intel knew I wrote the file. I just said it's there and I did write it. Took a pretty credit to get it sliced in properly. But it can be done." Erc stopped in the middle of his cargo hold and turned to Dock and smiled. "As for who I know, well, that's classified as well. but impressive to those who have heard the list."

The two came to one of the doors off the cargo hold. This is the only cabin other then mine. You'll all share it, or you can set a cot in the hold itself. We're going in empty, since we're there to scavenge. Can't do that with no room for supplies. you're choice. For now, drop your bag and tell me what kinds of skills you got for me to exploit. I have need of a gunner, mechanics and a Navigator. Which job do you want? First come first choice."

[IG-100]

IG-100 tilted his hand, letting the shot of whiskey slide into the grill on his face. It'd been a long day, and the droid took some satisfaction in watching his companions start to relax. He'd contributed a few war stories - none of his best but then he'd have to wait until he was a lot more accepted before he could reel out yarns about fighting against the Old Republic.

"I would agree with Misch that Toaster gets spared. He saved my ass, after all," Stone spoke up, then downed a shot. "But I definetely suggest Quai and Taliba getting ordered by Leto to jog around the Second Chance stark naked through the bridge and past the good Admiral's quarters."

There was a round of sniggers and Eye-Gee coughed a small burst of flame as its laugh coming out met the whiskey coming down,

"I saw some neon paint going spare in maintenence when they were messing around in my torso earlier - that'd make the jog more interesting. Those blacklights on the bridge should light the pair of them up like homing beacons."

It kicked back into a relaxed position with its feet on the table and popped open the carapace on its forearm to reveal a packet of expensive cigars, minus two of it's contents. The droid shrugged at the mildly suprised looks as it passed the packet round,

"What? I had to give up two in maintence to stop the techs telling the Admiral."

Most of the group raised their eyebrows at the comment, whilst Stone shot Mischa an 'I told you so' look. Eye-Gee accepted the packet back from Leto and returned it to its hiding place. Its glowing red oculars turned to look at Vacuum and Spice,

"So what are we going to subject Blue to then?"

The MagnaGuard fished a holoprojector out it's left torso carapace and set it on the table, hooking a cable fomr the same cavity to it and producing a slowly rotating image of a blue-skinned female Twi'lek in a Hapan Navy dress uniform.

"I hope she's got a good hook on her - half the crew on the 'Chance are going to be crawling after this one."

It gave Leto a look that could only be described as sly,

"Maybey Mischa should give her lessons?"

[Belle Fibuna]

Belle’s efforts to introduce herself personally to the Captain, and squadron leader, had been in vain as he brushed past her in pursuit of the Margolin lady. Raising an eyebrow, the rumors of special affairs between the two flooded back into her mind and she wondered if they might have been true after all. Then again, she was being transferred off the ship and Belle thought that he might have done the same thing for any of his other pilots. Still, the questions never left her mind completely as she watched him stare at her go.

It was then that the Admiral called for Leto to go with her for a private meeting. The looks on the ‘Rat’s faces were not pretty and Belle knew that if any conversation ever brought up in the future about the female Admiral would only end with each pilot burning in anger in memory of personal experiences. After making a note to never bring up the topic of the Admiral she really had no problem with, the Twi’lek faced the group of pilots. As if on cue, the members dispersed, each person going their own way.

“Yeah, so I’m just gonna go get changed out of this uniform,” she said more to herself than the others who were not even paying her any attention. The Twi’lek turned on her heels and headed down the corridor toward her room, the one she still shared with Keba. It was a longer walk than she wished it to be, but her quarters still were not far from the briefing room. When she entered the small room, she found that Keba was still on duty (she could tell by the lack of fur resting in the lower bunk). Belle stripped off the stiff uniform, and replaced it with her more comfortable tied jumpsuit and cut off undershirt.

Once she was fully dressed, she sat down on her friend’s mattress and sighed. She didn’t know what to do. She doubted any of her new squad mates would be out and about, and she didn’t wish to disturb any of her other friends that were still working. Belle reached inside one of her personal drawers and pulled out a journal. There weren’t many pen-paper journals anymore, but writing with her hand instead of typing with her fingers had always been a preference Belle had taken. Plus, if she were to type out all of her thoughts and put them on a datapad, there would never be enough space for everything.

The journal she withdrew from the drawer was new, a present sent to her by her proud parents back on Hapes. I still haven’t sent them word of my new squadron assignment Belle thought to herself as she pulled out a pen. Maybe I’m only trying to protect them from hearing things they rather would not hear. I’m sure that having their daughter assigned to the poster squadron of screw-ups isn’t something they would appreciate hearing. Plus, I’m sure they would like to think that I’m still on the do-nothing Blue Squadron, they didn’t even want me to join the military anyway.

She spent the next fifteen minutes laying belly down on her bunk writing. Thoughts of her new squadron, her future, and her feelings were all expressed in her new journal. Once the last period was dotted on the page, she closed the book shut and rolled off the bed, landing gracefully on her feet six feet down. The Twi’lek pilot glanced over at the chrono and noted that most of the others would be wandering around by now, so she headed out the door.

The halls were surprisingly empty, and Belle figured that it was because of the upcoming mission. Even if people weren’t personally connected to the ‘Rats, the squadron was everybody’s favorite subject to talk about in the mess hall. Even if they were viewed as mess ups, nobody wished misfortune upon them. Every crew member, pilot and officer on the Second Chance was in the same battle against the Empire and even if the team was unsuccessful, there would be very few who would talk about their failure.

Belle walked down the corridor, heading to the hangar in hopes of wishing the pilots a good trip. When she entered the docking bay, a smiled spread her face as the hustle and bustle of military life came back. The comfort of orders being shouted out and crew members scrambling around to prep ships came upon her like a breezy Hapan wind. Belle leaned against the door, wishing to take in everything before ruining with what had the potential to be the last time she ever spoke to some members of the Womprat Squadron.

When she was finished though, she looked over to her left and noticed the other new pilot, Maguire Taliba standing awkwardly on the other side of the door. Feeling that introducing herself to the lonely pilot was more important than wishing the others luck even after they had heard it millions of times already; Belle scooted her way over to the nervous young man. When she was finally standing right next to him she leaned over and spoke into his ear. “Comforting, isn’t it?”

The man jumped, having not noticed her presence behind him, and Belle could have guessed that he almost soiled himself. “Huh? What? Oh… yeah…. What is?” he asked glancing back and forth from the Twi’lek’s face and her bare midriff.

Belle covered up her stomach with a smile trying to relieve some of the awkwardness surrounding the two. “The smell, the noise, the activity. Sometimes I think to myself ‘Why did you go and join the New Republic anyway?’, but then all I have to do is walk into a hangar like this one and I remember. It’s for all of this.” Belle grazed a hand around the view of the hangar. “All the excitement, all the nerves, all the readiness to vamp some Imps in hope of making the galaxy a better place.”

She turned back to the new pilot and flashed him another smile. “I’m sorry, we haven’t properly been introduced.” Belle stuck out her blue hand, offering it to the human. “I’m Belle Fibuna.”

The young man shook grasped her hand softly and then left it fall to his side. His palms were sweaty and his grip was somewhat shaky. “Maguire Taliba,” he said plainly and then turning away, averting his eyes from her face.

“Nice to meet you,” she said facing in the same direction as him. “So where you from Mags?” she asked. “Sorry, you got a nickname?”

“…Maggie, I guess,” he said softly and Belle had to strain her ears to hear him.

“Ah… So, Maggie, where you from?”

“Coruscant,” he answered, not going into any detail.

Belle just nodded and smiled. “Coruscant. Cool place, I’ve only been there a couple of times myself. Once when I was real young, my parents took me, then when I first joined the New Republic. Lots of lights there. Lots of people to. I’m from Hapes. Ever been?” she asked rotating her torso to face him only for a second as she asked her question. He only shook his head. “Figured. It’s not that exciting. Only thing really interesting is the architecture. No place like it. Everything is so royal and elegant, it’s beautiful.”

Feeling as though the conversation wasn’t going to be any more eventful, Belle kept quite and just stood there. She could feel his tension easing slightly after a couple minutes of just watching.

[Jola'Edana Kahlid]

After leaving the Admiral, (and facing the fact that the nap she'd
spent most of the crew's dressing down daydreaming about wasn't going
to happen) Jola Kahlid ran back to her empty quarters to pack AGAIN.
She shouldered the bag, checked the charge on her issue blaster and
stuck it in her belt, and grabbed a tie for her hair. She knew she
didn't have much time, but there was always time for a cup of caff.
She made her way towards the commons area and got a cup. It was
relatively quiet. She shrugged her bag on to one of the tables, and
tossed down her datapad to spin to a stop next to her stuff. She took
a deep breath, leveled her gaze at it, and let her breath out slowly.

She had to face it. There wasn't going to be any downtime. For a while.

The Medic sat down, and completely ignoring protocol she swung her
small feet up onto the table, and crossed one over the other. One hand
pulled the datapad across to her. She flicked it on, quickly
scanning down the contents. Someone had been doing their job at
least. She not only had a briefing of the mission and her part in it,
but a full list of supplies they'd stowed for her, and the complete
medical histories of the crew. She saw one had been flagged-
apparently there was a wookie member of the squadron she hadn't met
yet in recovery. She would have to drop in on him before leaving. She
sipped her caff meditatively as she skimmed the mission one more
time. Her lips pursed as she read. She still didn't like the under
cover part.

"Is this seat taken?"

Jola glanced up to see the young Medic from the briefing, looking
slightly hesitant. "Perfect," she said, swinging her feet to the
floor. "I was wondering when someone was going to say hi- especially
you. We've got some conferring to do before we're shipped out." She
stood.

"Don't you want to finish your caff?"

"We have a patient to check on. Supplies to pick up. I assume you're
packed?" She gathered her things and tucked the datapad into her
thigh pocket.

Wess offered her a smile. “Just give me a second, I need to get something to eat…” he trailed off as if he had been about to say something else, but decided against it. The young doctor scanned the room, and then walked over to a counter. Jola only saw him take a roll, make a motion as if he were folding it up somehow. He brought his hand up to his mouth, and then brushed his hands together to knock off any crumbs.

When Wess turned around again he was chewing, and the roll had vanished completely.

He wasn’t kidding when he said he was hungry. The thought passed briefly through Jola’s mind as Wess walked towards her, swallowing twice and then flicking a small crumb off of his shirt front. Very hungry.

“I’m Dr. Wess Jodo,” he introduced himself and offered another, easy smile that showed a dimple. “I guess you already knew that. I prefer to be called Wess, though, when I’m not with a patient. Do you mind being called Jola, or do you prefer the honorary?”

Jola's lips curved. "Jola's fine. I find that everyone makes it a point to know who the medics are, title or no, for obvious reasons."

As they walked down the hall towards the medical wards, Jola studied
her new "partner", as it were. He seemed intelligent enough, which was
a bonus. "How long have you been with the New Republic?" She
inquired, arching one eyebrow.

“All of my life,” Wess shrugged, “however this is my first non-internship assignment, if you care to look at it that way.”

Jola's lips curved into a smirk. "From the looks of you, I've been a
combat medic since before you were shaving," she said shortly. "I
joined just before the Battle of Hoth. Been in combat situations?"

“Only some light skirmishes,” the younger doctor admitted, a brief flash of annoyance passing over his face for Jola’s comment. “I was assigned to the New Dawn for five months, but never saw any serious action. I’ve been in some tight spots when I was younger… but nothing major since I left for the Academy.”

When he was young-er? Jola hid her smile. Time enough to make enemies later. Still, it was good to know. She had a feeling that he might have a hard time handling the rescue portion of the mission.

They entered the med ward, and Jola stopped briefly at the medical
station. "I'm Dr. Kahlid." She eyed the calimarian nurse expectantly.
After slowly blinking his eyelids and scanning a list, he looked back
up. "You'll be wanting the wookie? He's in two." Jola nodded. Thank
the Force for military hospitals- they usually knew which end was up.

A GH-7 droid hovered in the second ward, apparently just having
finished changing the wookie's synthaflesh bandage. The wookie was on
its stomach, and from its grumbling it sounded none too pleased. The
unperturbed droid turned to the medics after retrieving its tray,
and gave them a slight nod before floating off.

"Chancbacca, correct?" The wookie gave a yowl that Jola took to mean
yes. "He was stabbed during the little brawl the squadron heard about
earlier."

The other doctor glanced at the chart Jola'd been given, looking over her
Shoulder to read it. "Why is he still here? The wound wasn't so severe some
bacta couldn't fix him up. Neither was the blood loss."

Jola smirked slightly. "Maybe they didn't want to strain the wookie
fur out of the tank." Wess gave her a look and glanced
at the patient to see if he'd heard. Jola ignored it. "He refused treatment," she explained, and tapped the note on the chart. "He's honor bound to endure his injuries. Some wookie thing. Not the smartest thing in my opinion, but whatever floats his hovercraft." She ignored the annoyed sounding yowl from her patient.

The wookie was trying to roll over, and Jola put a hand on his
shoulder to stop him. "Not so fast," she said, ignoring the look her
shaggy patient gave her. "I need to look at this real quick." The
poor guy had been shaved around the stab area. She peeled back the
soft pink synthaflesh patch. The wound was closed, they had stitched
it up. He still had patches across the area to prevent infection and
dull the pain. He probably wasn't feeling it much anymore, which more
than likely meant he was bored out of his mind. She patted the
wookie's shoulder and let him roll over. "You're lucky that didn't
get your lung. You're also lucky you're missing this Force forsaken
mission. Rest, heal. We'll be back to spring you out of here soon."

Jola handed a nearby droid the chart. "Nurse? We have supplies
waiting, I believe." She stalked off towards the desk where, in a
perfect world, they would already be waiting.

It wasn’t a perfect world. They had to wait ten minutes for the supplies to be ready, and they spent the time in near silence, only occasionally making a comment or asking a question. Finally the medical droid arrived, easily pushing two carts. The carts each had a tag with the doctors’ names on them, indicating which one was meant for each specific team.

Jola grabbed her hover cart and began pushing the thing along. Jodo was next to her with the same, and they made good time towards the bay where the ships were waiting. Jola had swung her bag up on top of the supplies, and noticed that Jodo was still carrying his, but had put the cage with his mice in it on top of his cart. She stifled a yawn. "I'm going to go stow my stuff."

"Same here. I have a few things I need to take care of,” Wess replied, picking up several of the boxes on his hovercart, including the cage of his mice. The pile was so tall that he couldn’t see over it, and was having to look around it. Jola rolled her eyes. No giant, this fellow, but at least he wasn’t one of those short, yappy doctors…

Jola glanced at both ships that were waiting. Hers, captained by...
she glanced at her datapad. Ati? Ati Quai. And the other,
captained by- hrm. The Medic noticed a small crowd gathered
around the other ship. "....you're wrong. We won't be working
together, you'll be working for me. Meaning I'm in charge. I have
Rank here, and Experience. Something that Fleet doesn't always...."
Jola frowned. Vortan, she remembered. A smuggler. The guy had a
blaster out. Her brows drew together, her brown eyes narrowed.
Probably for the best I'm not on his ship. I severely doubt we'd get
along. She hoped he wasn't a permanent fixture.

She hoped Quai wouldn't be as... difficult... to get along with.
Probably should've introduced myself back at the meeting.

The crowd broke up, and Jola shoved her hovercart towards the other
transport. She dropped her bag, which made a clang on the deck
plates. "Home sweet home," she muttered. "Joy."

Turning to look over her shoulder at the other freighter, Jola sighed and rolled her eyes again as she saw Jodo and one of the female pilots… Mischa?... from the briefing collide. Didn’t anyone ever bother to look where they were going?

Jola grabbed several of her own supply boxes and began stowing them away. She had just shoved up the last box when Dr. Jodo stepped on board and glanced around before catching sight of her and hurrying over. There was a sheen of perspiration on his forehead, his shirt was untucked, and Jola saw that he had a small, flesh colored patch in his right hand. What the frell?

“Sorry to bother you, but could you help me with something?” Wess began speaking before Jola could ask him anything. “I’ve got this tattoo on my shoulder of the New Republic, and I need to get it covered up, but I’m having a little trouble… I should’ve thought of it before, but it slipped my mind when I was headed to the briefing and then packing.”

Jola stared at him for a moment. “You’ve got an Alliance tattoo, and you expect to blend in on an undercover mission in the middle of a bunch of Imps?”

“They won't be able to see it,” Wess said in a clipped voice, a bead of sweat rolling down his forehead. “If you don’t think you can apply a flesh patch, though, maybe I should find someone else.”

Jola arched an eyebrow, annoyance flaring to life. “It's a flesh patch, not major surgery,” she muttered dryly, pulling the flesh patch out of Wess’ hand. “Take off your shirt—I assume you don’t expect me to do that too?” her voice dripped with acid sarcasm.

“No, thanks,” Wess snapped back, tugging his shirt off. Jola noticed that his hands shook slightly as he did it, and when the shirt came off she could see that his posture was tense, almost as if he were expecting a blow. She didn’t want to disappoint him.

Slapping the synthflesh onto the young man’s shoulder hard enough to elicit a grunt from him, Jola pushed firmly with her fingernail along the edge of the patch—to ensure a good seal—and drew a great deal of satisfaction from the now reddened area on his shoulder. If he didn’t know how to ask nicely, she didn’t have to play fair.

“Thanks,” Wess said, his voice falsely neutral and flat.

The short medic studied him. There's something else going on here. No one hates me this much out of the box. “What’s got your pants in a twist anyways, Wess?” Jola asked, arching an eyebrow and emphasizing that she had left his title off. He had asked her to, anyways.

A muscle in his jaw twitching from the effort of not glaring, Wess tugged his shirt back on and answered shortly, “I’m a little claustrophobic—I don’t like these closed in freighters. They’re too small. You can’t go anywhere.”

She could only stare at him in disbelief. He was supposed to be the head shrink, and he was claustrophobic? Jola wondered, for a moment, if he were lying. She knew she could look it up in his case file later… Claustrophobic?

“Well if it bothers you so much, take a sedative, Doctor,” Jola said pointedly. He should realize there was no reason for him not to prescribe himself some light medication to help deal with the problem. They didn’t need any liabilities.

“No.”

Jola felt her annoyance rising. What, was he three years old? “I’m the senior doctor here,” Jola said, her voice flat, “take a sedative, Jodo.”

“It’s not that bad,” Wess insisted. His face was set in a stubborn frown, and his easy, smiling persona from before had vanished—Jola could tell he wasn’t very good at being firm. The boy looked more petulant than commanding when he frowned. He was fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, not even looking at her.

"We can't afford to have you distracting people on this mission," she warned him. He was shaky, nervous, and sweating a storm. The kid was going to die on this fiasco, and he was going to have plenty of patients to take care of. I hope, anyway. He stayed silent and tucked in his shirt stubbornly. Jola shook her head. “Fine, but drink some water. You won't look like much of a doctor if you pass out from dehydration,” Jola sighed, letting Wess think he had won.It was time to prove why she was the senior doctor.

“Fine,” Wess grunted in reply.

Jola took a cup and filled it with water. She glanced over her shoulder—he was still fumbling with the top button of his shirt. It took her less than a second to snag a sedative and drop it into the cup, giving the glass a slight shake to make the tiny pill dissolve and vanish. Sometimes you have to teach them the hard way, Jola felt much better as she turned and handed the cup to Wess. Her satisfaction only intensified as he downed the entire cup in one go, then passed it back to her, turning and leaving without a word.

“Too easy,” Jola smiled. It almost made up for that nap she'd missed. Almost.

Now all she needed was for Ati Quai and the rest of the crew to arrive.

[Cayenne Rudal]

"Hey, you okay?" Stone asked her as they got onto the transport that would take them down to Borleias.

"Mm, as good as any of us," she said evasively. Spice wasn't anywhere near ready to divulge her feelings on the subject. Maybe she never would be.

"'kay," he replied, knowing better than to push her any further. They sat down next to each other, Cay snagging the window seat. It would be the perfect cover for her to get lost in her thoughts. She still wasn't sure whether she should push it out of her mind or dwell on it all the time, so her mind jumped back and forth between the two options.

The actions of others during the trip and even as they disembarked onto the planet were barely noticed by the young woman carrying scars from an event that could hardly even be called a battle.

* * *

Cay's upper back and shoulder muscles ached from all the scrubbing and cleaning they had done so far that day. She relished it, though, in a way. It helped her feel better, like she was atoning - if only the tiniest amount - for what she had done. She wiped at her brow to rid it of the excess sweat beading up.

She was also glad they weren't in the place where Harris and Tessari had met their early ends.

Driving it from her mind - it had haunted her the entire time they had been cleaning the beach hut - she concentrated back on their work at Morn's. For the first time in a while Cay had to hide a smile at Misch's very, very obvious look shot in the cap'n's direction over the owner's description of Dock. Oh damn is he ever going to get it later, she thought with amusement.

Two hours later they were finally done. To Spice's shock they were offered dinner for their help and Vac bought them a round of drinks. Drinks sounded so damn good at the time. Stories started bouncing around and, to her great surprise, Toaster proved to be a master storyteller. So much for the old saying that droids couldn't tell stories.

Cay warmed up enough that she told a tale of her own - her favorite, when Bandit had decided to go utterly against protocol and invade the mess on the hunt for snacks after a late night combat patrol. She should never have mentioned how much she was craving something sweet while they'd been out in space, and it'd gotten to the point where it was all they could talk about 'til they got back. Damn, had they been bored. She'd told him not to, but he said it'd be fine, and then they just had to arrive seconds before the ship's captain walked past... their giggles had utterly given them away.

Her story spawned several more, and after a while Stone bought them a bottle of fine whiskey. There was a rather touching moment, and if Cay hadn't gotten a hold of herself she would have let a few tears fall. Utterly against her will, of course.

And then the conversation turned to the hazings. It was a great subject to use to get her mind off her troubles, and Cay couldn't help but smile maliciously at the thought. They needed some fun and spark in their lives right now. And oh, could they set off something with this if they put their minds to it.

Stone just had to mention having Quai and Taliba run stark naked through the ship right as she was taking a long drink. Snorting ale through her nose into her glass at the mental image, she felt much better when everyone else was laughing too. Stone's wagging eyebrows really didn't help her regain her breath, either.

Neon paint? Oh, that droid had one great sense of humor. For a machine. It was hard to get her mind around that sometimes, but for now she was cool with it. As long as the mechanical pilot didn't make ale come out her nose again.

"I dunno," Cay chimed in after a moment. "Having the guys do something like running around in their birthday suits and then only subjecting Blue to something almost miniscule in comparison." She grinned authentically for the first time in what felt like a long time. "We keep calling her 'Blue', right? So, what would happen if we added yellow dye to her 'fresher unit?"

She actually got a laugh out of that one. "She sure as hell wouldn't be blue any more," Leto stated the obvious with a smile.

"It'd be even better if it was right before a briefing," Spice added.

"That's a pretty good idea there, Spice," Vac said encouragingly. Cay glanced at her with one eyebrow raised. Since when had Misch been so-- maybe her reaction to Tessari's death had been more obvious than she thought?

"What about a booze run? We're always frakkin' short of good drink up there. We could ask Taliba and Blue to pick us up here and in the process smuggle some liquor up to the Second Chance. And do it successfully." Vac grinned.

"Heh, nice one, 'lil sis. We could also dare Blue to shoot past the Admiral's window in an X when she's drinking her morning caf. Pull some major stunt in the process to startle her," Stone suggested.

Cay chuckled and turned to Leto. "You're the captain, Cap'n. Why don't you decide what the good newbies get to experience from us?"

[Maguire Taliba]

“Comforting, isn’t it?” a voice whispered in his ear.

Maguire jumped, and nearly let out a yelp of fright. Spinning, he saw that the Twi’lek girl had snuck up on him, and now stood there in pants and… a cut off undershirt that revealed her smooth, yet muscled midriff. Maguire flushed and tried to get the image of her dancing on a table out of his head. Thoroughly distracted, he tried to keep his eyes on her face and mumbled, “Huh? What? Oh… yeah…. What is?”

Belle covered up her stomach a smile flitting across her face. Maguire felt his blush cool slightly and was grateful that she had covered herself. “The smell, the noise, the activity,” the Twi’lek began, “Sometimes I think to myself ‘Why did you go and join the New Republic anyway?’, but then all I have to do is walk into a hangar like this one and I remember. It’s for all of this.” She waved a hand around the view of the hangar. “All the excitement, all the nerves, all the readiness to vamp some Imps in hope of making the galaxy a better place.”

Maguire just stared blankly at her, feeling awkward. He had no idea what she was talking about—‘vamping Imps’ was the last thing Maguire wanted to be doing, and especially right now he thought he’d rather just be alone on his bunk. Preferably huddled up under the covers. In his room. About five years in the past before this whole mess had begun.

Belle turned back towards him again, and smiled. “I’m sorry, we haven’t properly been introduced.” Belle stuck out her blue hand, “I’m Belle Fibuna.”

“Maguire Taliba,” Maguire replied plainly, extending a shaking hand. He just couldn’t get the image of her dancing on a table out of his head. Embarrassed, he turned away, averting his eyes from her face. Maybe if he didn’t look at her the idea would go away.

“Nice to meet you,” she said, seeming doggedly intent talking to him. Maguire wondered if she was bored and couldn’t think of anything better to do than chatter away at him. “So where you from Mags?” she asked. “Sorry, you got a nickname?”

“…Maggie, I guess,” Maguire inwardly winced as he mumbled out the nickname, wishing he could take back what he had just said. Why hadn’t he just said, ‘Mags is fine’? Or even, ‘just Maguire.’ No, he had to go and tell her his old school nickname. The one every bully had called him by.

“Ah… So, Maggie, where you from?” she asked, still clearly intent on continuing the non-existent conversation.

“Coruscant,” Maguire answered, not going into any detail, and hoping she would get the hint and leave him alone. He wouldn’t have minded being talked at so much, but he’d never been much for conversation with strangers.

The Twi’lek just nodded and smiled, either not seeing his awkwardness or ignoring it. “Coruscant. Cool place, I’ve only been there a couple of times myself. Once when I was real young, my parents took me, then when I first joined the New Republic. Lots of lights there. Lots of people to. I’m from Hapes. Ever been?” she asked rotating her torso to face him only for a second as she asked her question.

Maguire only shook his head in reply. Hapes? Of course he’d never been to Hapes.

“Figured. It’s not that exciting. Only thing really interesting is the architecture. No place like it. Everything is so royal and elegant, it’s beautiful.” Belle said, before finally falling silent. Maguire relished the silence.

He felt much more comfortable, now that the ‘conversation’ had ended. And he’d finally managed to mostly forget about the idea of Belle dancing on a table.

“Ever wondered if you… were doing the right thing?” Maguire asked suddenly, his forehead wrinkling with a frown. He had no idea why he’d even spoken—it had just slipped out before he could stop it. Instantly he felt awkward again, and felt a jab of pain at the memories his question brought up.

“All the time,” Belle smiled, shifting her weight to her left foot and leaning back against the wall slightly. “I was asking myself that when I decided to join the ‘Rats. What makes you ask?”

There was a pause, and Maguire turned to look at her fully, his face incredulous. “You decided to join the Womprats?” he asked, his voice matching the expression of his face. He completely forgot about her question in his surprise.

“Yes, of course I did. Didn’t you?” Belle asked, arching her eyebrows in surprise at the human’s outburst and sudden urge to speak.

“Of course not!” Maguire yelped, “I was assigned here after… after I… I…” his face flushed a brighter red than ever, and he tripped awkwardly over his own words. He had very nearly just spit out his whole ridiculous situation. “…after I graduated,” Maguire finally managed, “I was assigned here after I graduated.”

“Oh… I see,” Belle’s smile faltered, and she was clearly attempting to hide her curiosity at his lengthy pause, and the near-purple blush on his face. “Well I applied here because I think it’ll make a great springboard to become more active in the New Republic… you know?”

Maguire didn’t reply. Still mentally kicking himself, he turned away from her again. She had chosen to join the worst squadron? What kind of deadbeat wanted to be in the Womprats?

After another long pause, this one awkward instead of comfortable as the first had been, Belle finally spoke again.

“So… do you have any plans? And idea where you’d like to go after this?”

’I’d like to find a time machine and go back about twenty years,’ Maguire mentally answered her.

“Gotta run,” Maguire finally said outloud, and turned swiftly, walking away in the hopes that she wouldn’t try to follow and continue her questioning. It was his own fracking fault for opening his stupid mouth and asking such a dumb question in the first place.

’I hate my life,’ Maguire gritted silently, but vehemently as he walked. ’I hate my fracking life, and I wish I wasn’t here.’

[Ati Quai]

Ati wasn't particularly concerned with what the droid was getting into. While it had its quirks, the droid listened to orders. At least those orders stated in the manner in which Ati had informed Kaybo of earlier. And while he waited for the rest of his 'crew' to show up, there was precious little that Ati could do to pass the time. Except wait. Wait and think about the upcoming mission.

Not one that fell to the plague of nerves, his thoughts on the mission were somewhat mixed. Sure, it all sounded good on paper, but really now, they were pilots, not covert operatives. While he had snuck in and out of places before, it wasn't even his real cup of tea. And he had to question the logic behind sending all three of the woman on his ship. The cover story would work, and it made sense, but he didn't have much in common with any of them and it would be a rather lengthy trip. Then again, he didn't have much in common with any of the 'Rats to this point. He'd only spoken to one of them at any length, and even that conversation only lasted a few minutes. Granted, it was a pleasant enough conversation. A cynic would have figured that to be a front since he helped save her life during the firefight, but he wasn't a cynic. Ok, not an extreme cynic. She just didn't strike him as the type to put on any sort of front. In truth, she was the only one outside of the Admiral that had even hinted at thanking him for the help.

Of course, with the rap sheet that the group had and their habit of getting people killed, it was likely an involuntary defense sort of behavior that kept a name from a face and made losing a person a bit easier. Made sense, even if he didn't agree completely. But there was very little about this situation that he agreed with, if anything at all. Right, it was better than a brig. But at least in the brig he wouldn't be shot at.

The other two he knew nothing at all about, though he wasn't alone on one of them. A new doctor, one of two that had recently been assigned to the Squadron. How's that for a vote of confidence from the higher-ups? 'We're so confident in your abilities, we're sending not one, but two doctors to make sure you stay in one piece.'

Pietur was the third of the ladies that would be traveling across the galaxy with him. Another one that he knew nothing about. That would change by the end of the mission, and he certainly hoped that he didn't inadvertently say something that would have all three of them on his case. Y'know, one of those 'go cook me something' comments. That wouldn't do well at all.

But that wouldn't happen since there was very little to even consider cooking and he was rather particular about what he ate. The droid knew his eating habits and would handle the duties in that area. Besides, it would keep the pesky thing from digging around in the swoop parts. And the droid's antics would undoubtedly paint the smuggler in a much better light.

A beep sounded within the cockpit which brought the smuggler from his thoughts. With an audible sigh, Ati stood and headed out of the cockpit to greet the first arrival to his ship. Seeing that it was the doc was little surprise, since he didn't figure she was the kind to frak around. She would want to get there right away and acclimate herself to the new surroundings. Or so he figured.

"Doc," he greeted simply enough. Not having been formally introduced and not knowing her well enough for the whole first-name basis stuff, it was the easiest greeting and one that would be hard-pressed to be found offensive.

"I see you've already gotten your things stowed for the trip. Not sure what you have for medical, but there is a makeshift medroom down the corridor here. It's not much but it'll work in a pinch. And since you're the first one here, make yourself at home. We'll be leaving as soon as the other two arrive."

His words were echoed by footsteps coming up the ramp as both Ceryll and Pietur entered the freighter. A nod and smile were offered by the smuggler to each of them. Another clank sounded from the left as Kaybo returned from the cargo hold. The droid stood there for a brief moment as it looked over the trio of women that were now on the ship. -Oh, dear, I hope I'm not interrupting anything.-

"Go finish the preflights so we can get out of here, Kaybo."

-Yes, Sir,- the droid responded before heading off in the direction of the cockpit. The smuggler just shook his head to himself for a few moments before offering an apologetic smile to the others.

"You'll have to forgive, Kaybo. He had his memory wiped earlier and...he's not adjusting too well just yet. But as I told him, we're on a bit of a schedule, so if you care to strap yourselves in, we can get on with our agenda. The 'fresher is down the right corridor, and past that are a couple of bunks. I will assume that since we're all stationed on a ship that no one has issues with motion sickness or enclosed spaces. Once we're in flight, we can further discuss the mission. You're free to move about as much as you like, but I do warn you, they frakked with my ship so I cannot guarantee that this won't be a little bumpy."

His nose wrinkled just a bit at the end, apparently meaning that he was still a little miffed at what they did to his ship. And without the chance to take a test flight, he had no idea if any of the modifications would take away from the handling. For now, he would trust that the mechanics in charge were as competent in their work as they were thorough in their digging. And with the long flight, it would be the first test to see if any of these three had noticed the Admiral's ploy during the briefing.

[Gabriella]

It wasn't every day that the Admiral of The Second Chance was in the "hot seat" of the interrogation chamber, but she had been in it a few times in the past to answer for the actions of varoius crew members for a variety of ugly situations. As per protocol, Gabriella stood at full attention and issued a sharp salute to the two formally attired men in the room. Both returned the proper respectful greeting, then motioned for Gabriella to take a seat at the far end of the table.

'Here goes nothing. Time to sink or swim,' she thought as she sat down and set her own thick folder on the table. Fleet Admiral Yanesh offered her a glass of water. When she politely refused, he insisted, indicating that they would all be there for quite a while. High Admiral Borstel gave the woman a small, apologetic smile when Yanesh wasn't looking.

"Admiral Nerys. I've read over all of the reports and listened to the transmissions that cover the course of events which took place during the past two or so weeks." Yanesh began and seated himself to her right then flipped open his own set of folders. "According to my notes, it says here that you received a transmission from Admiral Voltaire of the Pax Republica."

Gabriella simply nodded, confirming that the man had the information correct.

"Tell me, in your own words, what the transmission was about."

This was not the time to roll her eyes, but she still did so mentally. The man had the details right there in front of him for crying out loud! "Admiral Voltaire stated that his ship was about to engage an Imperial vessel that they encountered at the Bilbringi Supply Depot"

Yanesh nodded, then lowered his eyes to the open folder. "It says here that this Imperial vessel was in fact reported as being one of the ships belonging to the Lost Fleet of the Imperial Grand Admiral, Thrawn. Can you confirm this?"

Gabriella's eyes settled on Yanesh and turned bitterly cold. Already the muscles of her jaw were beginning to tense. She didn't appreciate this entire situation at all, and she certainly didn't appreciate having her own word doubted. Yanesh was really only doing his job and had to ask her the question. He didn't intend to come off as questioning her given word, but that was the way she took it.

"Yes, I can confirm that the Imperial ships that attacked the Bilbringi supply depot were in fact part of the 105th Fleet once under the command of Imperial Grand Admiral Mitth'raw'nuruodo."

Yanesh nodded, then continued.

"Was it discovered as to why these ships of the Lost Fleet were at the supply depot? Were they provoked into attacking it?"

Gabriella wanted to tell Yanesh that she didn't know for sure the answers to those questions. After all, she didn't get a chance to enjoy a spot of tea with the Admiral of the Imperial warship. Instead, she remained composed. Calm, cool, and collected. These questions were easy to answer. The harder ones would be coming soon enough.

"There is nothing concrete as to why the Lost Fleet was at the depot, only speculation at this moment. However, that speculation is pretty sound."

Yanesh scratched a note on a piece of paper, then motioned for her to continue.

"The Imperial warships have been missing for the past decade or so, Sir. Last reported to have been somewhere in the Unknown Regions. It's a miracle the Imperials found their way back in the first place, and after being adrift for ten or more years, they had to have been running extremely low on supplies. Especially the basic necessities for survival. Food, water, power cells, weapons charges, etc. It's pretty clear that the Imperial vessels dropped out of a hyperjump near Bilbringi.

"It is at this point where I believe the Pax Republica first encountered the Imperial warships. Admiral Voltaire engaged in communications with the enemy ships, but I do not know the contents of their conversation. I was informed that Admiral Voltaire had ordered all of Pax Republica's weaponry to be online and ready to fire. As to whom fired first? I cannot answer that. That is the last communique I had with the Pax Republica and Admiral Voltaire.

"Orders came through from Command. The Second Chance was to break away from our position at Coruscant and aid Admiral Voltaire at Bilbringi. When we arrived, there was no sign of the Pax Republica, but the Imperial forces were there and attacking the station at full force."

"And what course of action did you take at this point, Admiral Nerys?" Yanesh asked.

"We arranged our ships in a defensive position and I sent out my Womprat squadron to engage the enemy. The other Republic ships in our rather small fleet followed suit."

Yanesh nodded, jotted down a few more notes, then skimmed over the third page of many from his folder. "It says here that you left command of The Second Chance to participate in engaging the enemy in your personal X-Wing. Is this true?"

He sounded rather perturbed by this and eyed her as he would eye a small child who did something completely unexpected.

"Yes, it's true, Sir." Gabriella answered promptly, her tone taking on a bit of an icy edge as she met his judgemental, beady eyes square on.

Yanesh sat back in his chair, looking aghast. "And what, Admiral Nerys, prompted you to take such a stupid course of action?!"

Her nose twitched. He'd just crossed the line with her. She swallowed slowly and kept her tone low and to the point as she responded. "Because, Fleet Admiral," she started with obvious disrespect for his rank, "I do this for nearly every engagement that forces me to send out my own men and women to their deaths. I cannot lead or expect to be respected if I issues orders I would not follow myself."

Yanesh did not appreciate the sarcasm in her tone when addressed by his rank, but he didn't press the matter further. He just narrowed his eyes and went on.

"What happened during the engagement of the enemy?"

Gabriella's jaw flexed and tightened repeatedly. She looked to the High Admiral, then stood. "I'll show you." Gabriella walked over to the podium in the room and pressed a button on a hand-held remote. The lights dimmed and the recording of the fire-fight played on the back wall. Inwardly she winced whenever she had to watch the fiery deaths of the men who bravely sacrificed themselves for the cause or for a fellow wingmate.

"Does that answer your question clearly enough, Sir?" She asked.

Yanesh turned from the holo to the Admiral. "I noticed in that recording there were other fighters there. Fighters the Imperials would not have had aboard their ships. Where did they come from and who were they?"

"They were pirates, Sir. Obviously hired by the Imperials to help fight against the Republic forces. The Imperials were severely outgunned and outnumbered until the Pirates joined in."

Yanesh began to pose yet another mundane question, but Gabriella interrupted curtly. "Look. We all know the two of you are not here to question me about an engagement that you know all the details of. So how about dropping the pretenses and getting to the real reason as to why you're both here, huh?"

High Admiral Borstel hid his smile. He and Gabriella had a long history together and he always admired her spunk. Yanesh just sat there, looking both shocked and bewildered at the nerve Admiral Nerys had in speaking so boldly to him.

"Gabriella, please. Sit down?" Borstel finally spoke and motioned to her vacant chair.

"You're right. We aren't here because of some skirmish with Imperials. We're here because of the incidences that occurred when your crew was given shoreleave on Borleias."

'Here we go,' she thought. It would have looked bad right about now if she took a drink of the water that had been left sitting on the table, but her throat was suddenly dry and her lips felt parched. Still, she refrained.

"The reports and complaints do not paint the Republic in a favorable light. There is a lot of damage control that must be done in order to try to save whatever we have left of our reputation," Borstel said.

"Don't insult my intelligence, please. What you mean is what you both have left of your reputations." Gabriella snapped.

Borstel ignored it and lifted a hand to stay Yanesh from saying whatever it was he was going to say.

"Yanesh, this matter does not concern the fleet. Would you please excuse us for a while?" Borstel asked, but his tone indicated it was more like an order.

Insulted, Yanesh shut his folder closed with force and stiffly stood, forcing his chair back sharply. "I have never been so ..."

"Enough, Yanesh!" Borstel shot a cold glare to the Fleet Admiral, then pointed to the door. Yanesh tried to gather up what remained of his pride and strode from the room.

"It's just the two of us now, Gabriella. Put down the defenses and just talk to me," Borstel said softly.

Now she took a long drink of water.

"This latest shore leave has cost the Republic plenty. Just as you have Yanesh and I coming down on you, we both have our own higher ups coming down on us. Of course, you know well about the shit rolling down the hill."

This actually made her smile and she nodded, much more relaxed now that the irritation of Yanesh was out of the picture.

"It's really, really bad public relations for the New Republic military, Gabriella. Especially since there were deaths involved. Those who died are like heroes to the racing community of Borleias, Gabby. Their names alone brought tourists in from all across the galaxy, pumping millions and millions of dollars into their economy. I have to do damage control, see? And, besides that, I have another priority that must be taken care of. Money and how this will affect our budgets for the next fiscal year. Also, what will this incident do to the recruiting numbers? It could even end up used against the chancellor, in which case we lose our positions and money. Do you see where I'm coming from, Admiral?"

Gabriella could not believe what she was hearing from her long time friend and mentor. Appalled by his words, Gabriella shot him the coldest, most hateful look anyone could muster.

"I cannot believe what I'm hearing!" Her voice began to rise, and at this point, she didn't care if the entire ship could hear her.

"I just gave a memorial service for six men who lost their lives and all you care about is money and how pent up emotions released during shore leave will reflect upon the Republic?! You have some nerve to come aboard my ship, disrespect me and my crew, and the lives of the men we just lost. If I were you, Borstel, I'd be more worried about the wrongful death lawsuits that are going to be filed than recruiting numbers!

"And the Chancellor?! Who the frak cares about the damn Chancellor!? That bastard doesn't even wipe his own ass. He isn't here fighting the good fight, Borstel. When it comes down to it, the only a few things I care about. Our Cause, my crew, and the lives we save by giving up our own. I could care less about the ignorant Chancellor, the fiscal year budgets, and the damn recruiting numbers!"

"ENOUGH!" Borstel shouted, slamming his fist down on the table as he stood abruptly. "Without the support of the Chancellor, the Senate, and the funding provided by them, there is no Republic! Do you get that?"

"Oh I get it, High Admiral. And there will always be a Republic. Formal or informal. Have you forgotten about the smaller bands of Rebels on numerous worlds fighting for the very same reasons?"

"Gabriella, you can lose your rank. You can lose your ship and your crew. Tread carefully with me, young lady."

The Admiral never did take too kindly to threats. Instantly, she lowered her voice and slowly responded with, "You might be able to do that, Borstel. But you won't and you know it. Do not come in here and threaten me with idle threats. You've known me far too long to stoop to such low tactics."

Borstel held her chilling gaze for a full two minutes, then sank back down into his chair and rubbed his eyes, chuckling. "I apologize. You're right. But your crew has put me in a rather precarious predicament."

"I understand that, Sir," she said. "I apologize on behalf of them. But, they've also put me in a rather precarious predicament, too."

Borstel nodded.

"You're good at what you do, Sir. I trust that you'll come up with something to get the finances worked out and things on that end set right. And as far as recruiting numbers?"

She smiled to the man seated to her left. "Just pull out those old posters of Captain Tariq with that actress. What's her name?"

"Shaye Starling," Borstel said in a dreamy tone.

"Yes, that's it. Those did the trick last year, I'm sure you could use them again."

"Fine, fine. You win. How about if you let me finish asking the questions I must ask so I can be on my way?" Borstel flicked a glance to her as he flopped open his own folder.

"Alright then. And take you time if you need to, Gabriella. Remember, just talk to me. I've read the reports so I don't need you to state what happened again. Don't worry about my bosses. I'll handle them." He assured her, then rattled off his first set of questions. "How were the offending pilots punished?"

"Well, you already know about each offending pilot spending twenty-four plus hours in the brig. And you already know that I had spread the rumor that they'd all been demoted and that one would be transferred out of her squadron and off my ship. That right there did the trick, I'm sure, but I also ordered them to return to the scene of their crimes to clean up the mess left in their wakes."

Borstel held up a finger. "One moment. I recall seeing somewhere in these reports something about a smuggler? What is this about?"

"He saved the life of one of my pilots and was a big part of the reason as to why we were able to break away from Bilbringi without further damages or losses, Sir." Gabriella stated honestly.

"Have you seen his rap sheet?" Borstel looked shocked as he thumbed through about five or so pages of charges brought up against Ati Quai over the years. Gabriella knew Borstel hadn't seen the whole of it just yet.

"Yes, I have," she said. "In exchange for not throwing him in the brig and turning him over to the authorities, he is now a member of my crew and I assigned him to the Womprat Squadron." She smiled.

Borstel just blinked, then had to loosen a hearty laugh. In all honesty, she didn't think it was that funny, and her expression reflected as much.

"I'm sorry. It's just ... the Womprats are the worst of the worst, Admiral. That's probably a better punishment for the smuggler than anything the officials could ever throw at him."

Gabriella's nose twitched again. He just said the wrong thing. Again.

"High Admiral. I'm going to correct you on a few things. First. The Womprats are not the worst of the worst and they are not the hopeless cases everyone else believes them to be. They happen to be among the very best pilots in the entire Republic Fleet and I would trust my life - along with anyone else's - to them. In fact, their skills are insurmountable and the Republic could use more like them. I trust them explicitly for the most difficult or most suicidal missions thrown our way and nine times out of ten, each of them comes back in one piece and the mission was a success. "Second. This smuggler isn't all that he's cracked up to be. I feel it. I didn't place him with the 'Rats as punishment, Sir. He's with them because I believe in the 'Rats and I believe that smuggler will be a highly-prized asset that this crew - and the Republic - needs."

Borstel's eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he studied the fiery woman. She was tenacious and never once wavered from her convictions. The way she quickly rose to defend her crew was admirable and all he could do was nod and smile gently, standing corrected. "I apologize again. I'm just going to rattle off my last set of questions and let you answer them." Borstel cleared his throat before speaking again.

"Did any of them not receive any punishment? Was the damage made right? Were the owners of the bars that the squadron tore up compensated for their destroyed facilities? Lost business? Are they certain that the members of the New Republic military are being properly disciplined for their transgressions?"

Gabriella answered each one in sequence. "Not that I am aware of. Yes, the damage was made right. I believe I already answered that one. Yes, the owners of the establishment are to be compensated for both damages and lost business and yes, they are certain the punishments fit their crimes. Are we through here? I have a mission to keep abreast on."

Borstel made his notes and nodded. As the two rose from the table, he stopped her. "Gabriella?"

She turned and looked to the High Admiral.

"Are you being too soft on them because you are too close to the squadron? Are you just trying to look out for them because they are members of the New Republic military?"

Normally, she'd take offense to being asked such questions. After all, she disregarded her own career to sass off to the two men she must answer to for just about everything. This time she took no offense. It was the tone of voice he used in the delivery of his questions. He was concerned.

"Why don't you ask them if they think I'm too soft on them, Borstel?" He just nodded. "As for being too close to the squadron?" Gabriella reflected on that question for a moment. "I'm not close enough to the squadron as I wish I could be," she finally answered softly. "And for your final question? No. I look out for them because I believe in them and I care about them."

"One bit of advice," Borstel said as the two left the interrogation room. "I wouldn't talk like to Yanesh again the next time we pay you an official visit."

Gabriella just winked and made her way to the medical bay.

[Maxwell Gandel]

The ship was called the Jacuna, a Gozanti freighter the pirates used whenever they wanted to run legitimate operations. Roschak had been assured that the rather large freighter had a clean record, and thus wouldn't draw the attention of of New Republic authorities on or around Borleias.

The only problem with it, Roschak had decided, was that it smelled. What it smelled of he couldn't be certain. Being that it was a pirate ship, the possibilities were both endless and unpleasant. Fittingly named, though, the commando leader thought to himself as he paced the length of the ship's mostly empty cargo hold. Jacunas were predatory avians from some alien world he couldn't recall just now. Predatory, he thought, was a rather generous term. They were scavangers. Travelling in flocks, they brought down the sick and elderly only when they were feeling particularly bold. Most of the time they squabbled over the already dead remains of some unfortunate animal. They'd even been known to turn cannibal in a pinch. Rather like the pirates of the animal kingdom, Roschak fancied.

He hadn't passed that opinion on to the crew of the Jacuna, of course. And it wasn't out of some sense that they all had to work together. It was that the ship had a crew of 10 pirates, and there were five Imperial commandos. It wasn't exactly a fair fight... and showing up at Borleias with a ship full of dead pirates was bound to raise some suspicions.

Despite all this, the Imperials and the pirates had made it most of the way to the planet without any untoward incidences. "Idanski," Roschak barked as he neared one side of the hold, "What the hell is that all over your face?" He tilted his head to one side and affected a curiously disgusted expression.

Pen Idanski, the strike team's surely demolitions officer, looked up from the travel bag he'd been rummaging through. "Whassat?" Idanski momentarily raised a hand to his cheek, wiping at his face before regarding his fingers. He looked at his still clean fingers for barely a second before laughing and shaking his head. "It's called facial hair, sir. Happens to young men when they hit a certain age. You'll understand when you're older."

Roschak smiled. "Never seen you with a beard before, corporal. For a moment there, I thought a womprat had died with a deathgrip on your chin."

"All part of the disguise, sir. Gotta blend in with the civvies, right?"

"Ideally. How's the ordinance?"

Idanski glanced over at a couple crates of explosives that had been brought along from the Decimation. "Just fine, sir. I'll have it packed in the smuggling holds with our armor before we hit orbit. Just wanted to give it another check before I put 'em to bed."

Roschak nodded his approval before looking around the expansive docking bay. Not being designed with passengers in mind, the Jacuna had no actual rooms for anybody but crew. Five cots had been set up for the commandos in the main hold, however, and it was working out well enough. "Seen Deran and Karis? Dak has our fake identifications all ready to go."

Deran Sakaar was the team's medical officer. His duties didn't stop at patching up the team, though. His expertise extended to all manner of specialty drugs and unwholesome concoctions. When there was an interrogation to be done, he was the man for the job. Karis Talin, the team's only female member, was he group's faceman. Disguises were her specialty, and her natural charm and charisma allowed her to talk her way into or out of just about anything. If you could think of an accent, she could do it, not to mention speaking over a dozen languages. Rounding out the team was Dak Zatrayn, the group's slicer and electronic warfare gremlin. All in all, Roschak considered, a pretty well rounded group.

"Yeah," Idanski gestured with one hand, "Doc and Karis went to spar for awhile. Back of the hold, there's some empty space in with the big containers." Roschak turned without a word, heading for the containers. While he was all for keeping one's reflexes sharp, there were other matters that needed attending just now.

********

"There she is," The pirate captain said, nodding at the planet that had materialized before the freighter. "Borleias, vacation world of whatever government happens to own it at the time."

Roschak leaned forward, peering out of the cockpit's forward viewports. He could see several larg starships in orbit of the world... some were no doubt luxury liners, if Borleias reputation was the same as it was seven years ago. But some were bound to be warships. "That ship," he said, stretching out a finger to point. "What's that?"

The pirate captain followed the gesture, narrowing his eyes. "Looks like a Mon Cal cruiser. Couple of 'em, actually. What you came here for, eh?"

"Yeah," He replied, leaning back and rubbing a hand over his chin. Now all we have to do is find a way to blow one of 'em up...

"We'll be hitting atmosphere in a few minutes, just as soon as traffic control gives us the go ahead." The captain gave Roschak a sidelong glance. "Your boys got everything stowed?"

"No need to worry about that," the Imperial replied. "If your smuggling holds work like they're supposed to, any scans will come up clean."

The Jacuna cruised easily through the planet's atmosphere some time later, touching down at one of the moderately priced spaceports. The boarding ramp lowered, and Roschak's team stepped out into real sunlight for the first time in what seemed like a lifetime. "Allright," Roschak said, squinting in the brightness of real sunlight, "Let's get to work."

[Leto Tariq]

Leto didn’t bother keeping the grin from his face as Mischa pulled him into a hug of relief. Maybe the galaxy was finally paying him the good luck it owed. It was a heavy weight off his shoulders to know that one of his best pilots and the woman he loved wasn’t being transferred to gods-knew-where.

As far as Leto was concerned, whoever was watching on the cameras could go frak themselves.

They broke the hug and each went to their separate quarters to change into something more suitable for cleaning duty. Leto dressed out of his uniform quickly. It was good to have a victory for once.


The hangar of the Second Chance could best be described as ‘ordered chaos.’ Deck crew were scattered about, either pounding the many dents the Womprats had brought back from their encounter with the 105th out of their fighters, rushing back and forth between their duties, or shouting orders or calls for help to each other. In some ways, the hangar was like the life of the ship… it was always active, always someone performing some job or another. The day the hangar was empty and silent was the day the ship was truly dead.

Leto took the opportunity to wander over to his fighter, still sitting in disrepair on the hangar deck. A pair of legs were sticking out from under the X-wing where the deck chief was doing what he can to save the fighter or prepare it for salvage.

He tapped one of the chief’s boots, “How is she, chief?”

The man shot up in surprise, head clanging against the underside of the fighter. Leto winced as the clang dissolved into a long string of curses.

“You’ll be frakking lucky if the thing isn’t scrapped,” the chief poked his head out from under the fighter. “We’re still trying to fix together a replacement wing, the right s-foil engines are on the fritz, and you’ve completely fried the gimbal.”

“Can you fix her?” Leto asked, eyeing the machine that for countless battles had taken him into and out of hell in relatively one piece. It was something he had come to count on… no matter what trouble he went into, his beaten and scarred fighter always managed to carry him back out again.

“We’ll try, but it might take the act of some god to fix her.”

“You’ll fix her, chief. You always do.”

“I’ll see what I can do. But you’re going to owe me,” the chief ducked back under the fighter and set to work again.

“Just give me the word and I’ll see what I can do.” Leto left the man to his work and headed for the shuttle that would take them back to Borleias. Across the hangar, the rest of the Womprats were boarding the transports that would take them on their mission, as well as everyone else leaving with them. He glanced over their faces, burning the images into his mind. He hoped he would see those faces again. His full-dress uniform was getting too much use lately.


The trip to Borleias was a quiet one, and far different than the last time they had taken a shuttle to the planet. No mentions of what they were going to do on shore leave, how much they were looking forward to sandy beaches and a good drink. Instead the planet was almost tainted, now, Harris and Tessari burned into their minds even though they hardly even knew the two pilots.

Mischa made a few attempts to strike up some form of conversation, but Leto’s responses were short and absent-minded. Eventually she gave up trying to bring her captain out of his thoughts.

Their time spent at the beach hut was shortened because of the bothan owner’s own cleaning efforts, and Leto was grateful for that. There was a mood to the place, a grim air that came from the knowledge that only a few days ago Harris and Tessari were seated at a table, playing a card game with Stone and the droid.

The chore passed in relative silence, the pilots content to clean the mess and get out of there as quickly as they could. Eventually the bar was brought to some level of normalcy. Leto doubted anything short of replacing the building would make it good as new. The owner thanked them and gave him his condolences.

A speeder taxi took them to the cantina where Mischa and Adok had caused a good bit of trouble. Leto hid a grin as the owner ‘greeted’ Mischa. He imagined those gammoreans were much worse for wear right now, and wished he could have been there to see it for himself. He felt a sense of pride at that.

Besides, it was good to know someone else was at the other end of Mischa’s fists for once.

“Frak, Misch. Did you start using those gamorreans as clubs, too?” Leto asked, surveying the mess in front of them.

“Hey! Even I couldn’t create all this mess alone,” Mischa said, feigning offence.

“You sure? I’ve seen what damage you can cause in a fighter, you know.”

“That’s the thing about cantinas, Captain. There’s a distinct lack of X-wings.”

“And believe me, there is no-one happier about that than me.”

They set about their dirty work, the cantina owner watching them while telling about the bar fight from the night before. That was followed by other stories of the more memorable scuffles Mattz had seen, and in the end it eased the mood from its original gloom. At one point Mattz drifted back to the original fight, and began asking where a man who fit Adok’s description perfectly was. Mischa shot him a look that said, “I told you so,” that sent Leto laughing. He was going to make sure to have a talk with Dock when he got back from his mission.

Finally after a good deal of back-breaking work, they managed to clean the mess. Mattz, to Leto’s surprise, offered them dinner. When the only other choice was whatever was left in the mess on the Second Chance, they certainly took him up on his offer. Mischa even bought the first round of drinks.

Leto had to admit, as he chuckled at one of the droid’s jokes during their meal, that he had a good sense of humour… for a machine.

After their meal, Leto ordered another round of ale and the conversation turned to memories of the pilots they’d lost. Cay’s tale of how she and Bandit had gotten caught raiding the mess kitchen sparked more stories, good memories of friends already gone. Leto even told a few of his own, from his rookie days in the squadron to some of the trouble the squadron had gotten themselves into before he was promoted to Captain. He smiled fondly at the memories the stories brought up.

Stone hardly paused then at ordering a bottle of Mattz’s best whiskey and they all toasted to the memory of their fallen friends.

Eventually the conversation lulled, and Mischa brought up the hazings. Leto grinned as he listened to the various ideas, and even laughed at one of the droid’s remarks.

"You're the captain, Cap'n. Why don't you decide what the good newbies get to experience from us?" Cay asked.

“I definitely wouldn’t mind a little more drink on the ship. It’s even more dry than Tatooine,” Leto grinned, and stared at his drink thoughtfully. “Then we can add that dye to Belle’s refresher once we get back to the Second Chance. I think the yellow will match her uniform perfectly.”

They shared a round of laughter and finished their drinks. They said good-bye to Mattz, who grinned and shook his head as they stumbled out of the cantina. Leto fumbled at his commlink, winked at the other pilots and gave Maguire and Belle orders to come pick the lot of them up.

“Be quick about it,” he added, “or the both of you are going to be cleaning the mess hall for a week.”

[Erc Vortan]

The Raptor's Claw was well into it's second Hyperspace jump And Erc was sitting in the cockpit. He was staring at the colors of Hyperspace. Enjoying the peace. The Rest of his Crew were bunked down, would be for another 15 or so minutes. Over the years, Erc had become accustomed to less then the standard Sleep period. IT wasn't easy, and every so often it caught up with him, but it all evened out.

In an hour, he'd address the group and set the schedule for their end of the mission. As a Scavenger crew, they would have to be less military and more pirate. And there was just enough time in this trip to get some reason into these Intel Rookies. At least the Doctor being space sick was working to his advantage. No Military Doc Erc had ever dealt with ever had this reaction.

An hour later, Bogey was taking his tour in the cockpit. They were in hyperspace, but you never know what's going to happen and Erc insisted someone stay on duty at the control at all times. Plus, it wasn't that big of a ship, letting everyone wonder would result in people bumping into each other.

Moving into the main hold, Erc saw the temp bunks that had been set up, along with the space suits and salvage gear. it was beat up enough to look legit. Just a few more details. The Doc was in the Medical cabin, also known as the crew cabin, the only other cabin besides Erc aboard the small ship. It had no ports and was on an internal bulkhead, so it was easier to forget you were in a smaller ship in there. The only other option was staying in the main hold, but they couldn't do that. This was better.
Jones and Adok were checking the suits they'd have to wear once they made the target system. a draw of wires had selected these two as the outside crew. Whisker and Bogey would work the hold, collecting the salvage. They had lighter suits. Not rated for free vacuum.

Time for the show to start. Erc made his way to the equipment locker and removed the Stealth suit. The admiral had made sure they all had one, and Erc held back his comments then. IT was Whisker that noticed him first.

"Captain, what are you doing with that? it's too early to put it on."

"I'm not going to be putting it on, and neither are any of you." Erc said matter of factly.

Adok looked up at this, "But you heard the Admiral, it's part of the mission planning. She wanted us as protected as possible."

"Yes, I heard the plan, and I'm changing it. And I'll tell you why. How many covert Missions has the Admiral been on? how many missions for Alliance, or even New Republic Intel?"

It was Jones who tried to answer. "I'm sure the Admiral was busy with the Fleet."

"Exactly. I on the other hand have been in this line of work since before Yavin. If you want to hide your association to a group, the last thing you do is wear a garment that will tie you completely to it. The Stealth suit is New Republic issue. No one else uses it. WE get caught wearing it, we'll be hung out to dry. And even if we were dealing with the Empire, as equals, Spies are shot upon capture. And pirates will kill us anyway. We reduce the chances of being found out by NOT wearing these suits."

Dock looked around, he couldn't deny it made sense. And staying alive was a very good idea. Made perfect sense to him.

"You will study your cover stories. They actually check out as useful. But you will now be under my command. If anyone has to stand the line for this decision. That will be me. I have a selection of blast vests aboard. All somewhat old, but all will compensate for the loss of the suits. We won't have the sensor stealth effects. but we also won't be wearing NR calling cards." Erc stowed the suit in a disguised bulkhead locker. a classic Smuggler's compartment. Whisker and Jones handed the rest of the suits to him and then went back to where Dock was standing. "If it comes down to having to board an enemy craft, or base, I have these." Erc pulled out what looked like an oversized Comm link. somethign from a century ago or more. "It emits a jamming signal, that looks like simple background radiation. It'll cloud sensor feeds, They will probably send out repair crews, but short of what I hear Jedi can do, it's the best the Fringe has been able to come up with. I have one for all but 2 of us. Jones. You will be attached to our Doctor friend at the hip. You won't leave his side. And he doesn't leave the ship if we can avoid it. Adok. You're with me. Whisker, you'll be assigned to Bogey. You do not break your wing. You pilots should be able to do that. I also have coded Comms for you, to replace the ones you have. Which if I'm not mistaken, are NR issue. Or close to it. These are Imperial. Surplus from the Good old days. They have been altered, harder to jam, similar to what the Alliance did when we started out. It'll be a bit more difficult to jam. Give us an edge, I hope."

"Where in the galaxy do you get all the Imperial equipment in this ship? The Holonet Transceiver is Imperial, these comms, several of the weapons around here are old Imperial." Jones asked, looking around.

There is also Imperial Armor on the hull, and personal Armor in some hiding spots is also Imperial in origin. I started working for Alliance acquisitions. We used to raid Imperial Storehouses all the time. We were allowed to take a few extras from time to time, a reward for helping the cause. We were more or less independent contractors, and the Alliance couldn't pay what we were owed. IT was a bonus, We sold most of it to the Arms market, but kept enough to make sure, when and if we were needed in combat, we could do so. I have a feeling if we tried that today, the NR would court marshal us for piracy."

Now, we got another few hours before we start on the third leg of our trip. That third leg is only 3 hours. Halfway through that one, the first team will arrive in the target system. Bogey is going to be co-pilot. Jones, you will report to the Med Section," Erc said that with a wink, indicating that it was clearly an exaggeration, "And Whisker, you are on the lower guns. They are underpowered for Ship to Ship, but it will give anyone trying to get under there something to think about. Not take them out, but hurt them. Adok, you have the top turret. You're our big punch, we enter the system in combat readiness. And we move to salvage when we clear the system. I need your heads in the game. No mistakes, or at least none that a Fringe crew wouldn't make. you all follow my lead, and we'll get through this."

"You're the Captain, Captain." The smile that Adok had when he said that annoyed Erc a bit, but he bet that's what it was supposed to do. Maybe an attempt at payback for the blaster incident when he came aboard.

[Maxwell Gandel]

Gandel leaned back in his worn old office chair, fingers idly tapping a datapad on his desk. It was a report... the same sort he'd gotten every day for the past decade or so. He wasn't paying any attention to it. Instead, his gaze had gone to his ready room window. Asteroids floated beyond the plasteel, knocking into each other or occasionally being vaporized by the Decimation's point defense guns when they got too close. Every now and again, a group of TIEs or a pair of pirate uglies soared gracefully past.

Gandel saw none of it. Wheels turned in his mind, trying to find the next move before he needed to make it. The food and water shortage was looming large for the fleet. Food moreso... water aboard an Imperial warship was recycled with unbelievable efficiency. Even so, it wouldn't hurt to have some more. But food... food was running out fast. He'd set his hopes on getting enough during the first depot raid. Now he'd have to make a second. And now the enemy would be on high alert.

The black ops mission might help with that situation. Make the enemy think he meant to hit Borleias itself, concentrate it's defenses there. He'd already hit an installation near the planet... blowing up a cruiser in orbit would make more than a few people thinking about an impending invasion. And with all eyes focussed on the planet, perhaps Gandel could hit someplace else more easily. He thought about that for a moment, decided it was a decent enough idea. But like a chess player, he was already thinking yet another step ahead.

The enemy would hit the pirate base, sooner or later. They knew where it was, and they knew the pirates had been involved in the assault on the depot. They wouldn't suffer it to survive, especially if they thought Gandel might use it as a staging area from which to hit Borleias. Perhaps that was less of a liability and more of an asset... Thrawn always used to say that with a little leverage, obstacles could often be turned into advantages. He examined the situation critically, eyes narrowing as he studied the asteroids beyond his window. Asteroid fields were difficult to fight in... especially for capital ships. One stationary ship, such as the Decimation, could easily keep itself from colliding with a space rock. But formations of ships, which were required to fight any decent battle, would not have such an easy time. If faced with opposition in an asteroid field, they'd likely spend as much time shooting at asteroids as they would at the enemy.

If I was going to assault a fortified position in an asteroid field, Gandel thought, what would I do? Two options presented themselves. He would either arrive with overwhelming capital ship force and spend as much time shooting rocks as the enemy, or he would bring along a great deal of starfighters and let them clear the field. The first option was far less likely if the sabotage mission succeeded. At that point, the enemy would spend more defending their position and not risk weakening themselves by sending too many ships away.

So, the starfighters...

Gandel smiled slowly, an evil thought entering his mind. There was a lot of ordinance from the supply depot that had yet to be sold. With a few adjustments, he could turn them into proximity or remote detonation mines, and make the entire asteroid field a deathtrap. And, if he recalled correctly, the pirates had scavanged more than a few workable engines from the aftermath of the depot battle. It just might work... at least, it would work against the first wave. If the first failed, Gandel was certain the New Republic would send a second, larger force.

He turned in his seat, looking down at the datapad before him. Pushing it aside, he accessed the computer terminal built into his desk. He had a lot of things to work out, and he wasn't sure how much time he'd have to do it

[Maguire Taliba]

“Be quick about it,” Leto’s voice crackled slightly over the com in Maguire’s hand, “or the both of you are going to be cleaning the mess hall for a week.”

“Yes sir,” Maguire replied, getting a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Now he was going to be trapped on a ship with Belle. It was going to be incredibly awkward after their first meeting, he was certain.

Sighing, Maguire flipped his com on again. “Belle… Uhh… meet up in hanger 3?” Maguire stuttered slightly, flushing as two engineering officers walked past and tried to hide grins at his agitated appearance and words. ’I hate my life.’

“Sure thing!” Belle’s voice sounded far too enthusiastic. Maguire felt his stomach sink further.

As he walked towards the hanger, Maguire tried to calm himself. His face still felt red from embarrassment, and he could feel his heart beat picking up. He didn’t want to have to fly, not with her watching him… and then of course there would be the rest of the squadron on board once they picked them up.

Maguire froze midstride.

“We signed his death warrant when we let him go to that training school!”

“What could we have done differently, David? We couldn’t tell him he’s a bad pilot. You know how sensitive he is.”

“Maguire blew all his other options off to go be a pilot, and now he’s about to be in the worse squadron of the entire New Republic!”

Breathing heavily, Maguire bit his lower lip and squeezed his eyes shut, remembering vividly his parents words. They were right, he was a terrible pilot—he was afraid to even fly in front of a stranger, and he was worrying about flying in front of what were supposedly the worst pilots in the New Republic.

“Well I guess they can’t be any worse than I am,” Maguire gritted through clenched teeth, starting to walk again. It was the closest thing to a comforting thought that he could muster.

Frakk this! He was going to fly, and he was going to get over all of his stupid mental blocks, and he would make his parents proud of him. And then he was going to get himself transferred into a better squadron.

Entering the hanger, Maguire found Belle already leaning against one of the transports and waiting for him. She gave him a smile, and seemed a little surprised at how readily he returned it. Even if his was more of a lopsided half-grin than a smile. He was going to be sociable if it was the last thing he did.

“I thought we could take this one—it checks out as being available… you want to fly, or should I?” Belle asked, patting the side of the ship.

Maguire felt his stomach tighten slightly. He opened his mouth.

’I can do this. I can do this… I can’t do this.’

“You fly… I’ll run co-pilot,” Maguire muttered, flushing bright red and feeling embarrassed and ashamed of himself all at once. He always backed out at the last minute… he wasn’t sure that he should be surprised he’d done it again.

“Awesome—Lets roll, then!” Belle grinned enthusiastically.

“Yeah… lets roll,” Maguire offered back half-heartedly. He didn’t have the energy to be assertive or make life changes today. Maybe tomorrow he could figure something out… and of course once he got to know some of the other pilots it would be easier… there was always later.

Entering the transport, both pilots took their seats, and Belle rapidly readied the shuttle while Maguire signed onto the communication system and acquired clearance for departure.

“Second Chance, this is Maguire Taliba and… and Belle… Fibuna of the… Womprats,” Maguire barely held back a sigh. “Requesting permission to depart with shuttle 0-592 for the planet’s surface to pick up the rest of the squadron.”

“Permission granted, Taliba and Fibuna. Good Hunting.”

“We better not have to,” Maguire muttered to himself, flipping the comm. off.

“What’s that?” Belle asked, turning to look at Maguire and taking the flight stick as she eased the shuttle off the bay floor.

“I didn’t say anything,” Maguire lied, turning his attention back to the cockpit’s systems. He flipped up the shields and double checked the radar. It was a force of habit… they were in friendly territory, but Maguire knew he was supposed to check the radar anyways for enemy fighters. There were no enemy fighters.

Maguire sat back and put his hands on his knees, looking out the front view port. Despite the fact that he was leaning back, he could feel a muscle in his right shoulder tightening. He was definitely nervous. He hadn’t gotten to really meet any of the other pilots… of course the first he knew of them getting chewed out for being disorderly. Maguire could only imagine he had landed himself in a tough crowd. He felt his shoulder muscle tighten further.

“Oooh, I like it,” Belle grinned impishly, jiggling the flightstick from side to side and feeling the ship move with her commands. “You can always tell when they’ve just tuned these babies up, can’t you?”

“Yeah, sure,” Maguire replied, his hands automatically going up to grip the armrests as Belle gave the ship another jiggle. “Hey, do you think you could…”

“Oops—sorry,” Belle didn’t seem at all remorseful, and on the contrary her grin only grew a little wider. “I just love good handling… especially in something this size, you know? Usually they’re pretty crummy for maneuverability. Have you flown long, or are you fresh out of basic?”

“I just… graduated… from my rookie squadron,” tripping over the word, Maguire hoped Belle wouldn’t notice his pause and leaned forward to check the radar again. Unsurprisingly enough, there were still no enemy fighters within scanning range.

“Oh, that’s great, then,” Belle tried unsuccessfully to continue the conversation, “So… been in many fights?”

“No.”

“Any… uhh… dreams?” Belle asked, then winced slightly as she remembered that she had asked that question before, and it had made him leave abruptly.

“… no.”

“Do you… like… x-wings?” Belle was swiftly running out of ideas, and was beginning to grow frustrated with her near-silent companion.

“Yes.”

Belle sighed and turned her attention back on the viewport. Fine… if he didn’t want to talk…

It was a long trip down to the planet’s surface.

~*~*~*~

“Ahh, finally here,” Belle sighed in relief as she set the shuttle down for a gentle landing just outside ‘Mattz’s Dinner and Bar’. Neither of them had spoken a single word after Belle’s first attempt to start a conversation. “I wonder where they are… probably inside. Lets roll.”

“Yeah, lets roll,” Maguire repeated. He was suitably impressed with her landing. He was certain he could never have set the shuttle down so easily and smoothly. “You’re… really good,” he finally managed as he undid his crash webbing.

“What?”

“At flying,” Maguire explained, blushing slightly. “That was a nice… you know… landing.”

“Oh, thanks!” Maguire’s words seemed to perk Belle up slightly. “And… I’m just glad I had someone to mind the co-piloting for me,” Belle somewhat awkwardly attempted to return the complement, hoping it might lead to Maguire opening up and saying something else. Now he was talking, she didn’t want to let him retreat back into his shell.

Maguire just offered a small smile and stood, opening the hatch. Belle bit back another sigh. At least he has said something without her having to pull it out of him.

The two pilots stepped outside the shuttle and looked around. There was no squadron waiting for them.

“They must be inside,” Belle said again, setting off for the entrance. Maguire was only a moment behind her, pausing briefly to lock up the ship. There was probably no one around who would dare steal New Republic property, but it was always better to be safe than sorry.

The two rookies entered Mattz’s Dinner and looked around. It only took them a moment to spot the Womprat pilots, and only a few seconds more to smell them. Maguire’s nose wrinkled in disgust. What had they been doing—hauling trash in the sun all day? That was certainly what it smelled like.

“Ugh,” Maguire muttered. Belle nodded in agreement.

“Attennnnn-SHUN!” Leto barked, spotting the two rookies and standing quickly.

Maguire and Belle automatically snapped salutes and then stood rigid, awaiting orders.

“Took you long enough, rooks,” Leto growled, moving around to stand in front of the two pilots. “At ease. What took so long?”

“We didn’t take that long,” Belle protested, shrugging and relaxing her posture. “It couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes, sir.”

Maguire winced.

“You think twenty minutes isn’t that long?” Mischa stood, scowling at the new pilots. Belle looked startled and a little irritated as well, knowing that twenty minutes was excellent time for making the planet’s surface.

Maguire winced again and felt his shoulders slumping under the weight of Mischa and Leto’s combined gazes.

“Twenty minutes… twennnnty minutes,” Stone shook his head in disbelief, also standing. “Hey shrimpy—wanna tell me what took you two so long?”

Maguire swallowed hard and mumbled something completely incoherent. Stone could barely hide his smirk.

“You were asked a direct question by a superior officer, rook! What do you think this is… a shore leave? Answer!” Leto snapped, barely able to contain his own grin.

“I’m sorry sir, we did the best we could,” Maguire managed, a little louder this time.

“Well your best isn’t good enough, then” Leto sighed. “I’m going to have to discipline you—both of you. Now let me think… what would be a fitting punishment?” he tilted his head to the side and tapped a finger against his lip in mock thought.

“I’m pretty sure I know just the thing, Cap’n!” Cay grinned, holding up and shaking two bottles of Mattz’s finest. “How about we see if they can’t make a little better time with some motivation?”

Maguire and Belle blinked. They were going to have to drink as punishment?

“I second the motion… maybe getting those past security will teach these two slackers how to move a little faster,” Mischa smirked.

There was a moment of silence.

“You want us to what?” Maguire’s voice rose several pitches above his normal speaking tone and his eyebrows rose incredulously. “I am not smuggling booze for you!”

Belle just stared at Maguire, startled by his sudden outburst.

’Frakk no! I can’t do this! It’s illegal, and if I get caught, they’re going to throw me out of the squadron. Then I really will have no where to go,’ Maguire thought desperately.

“Awww, quit your whinin’, rook,” Stone yawned, rolling his eyes. “It’s not like we’re askin’ much of you, you know.”

“Frakk no!” Maguire’s voice rose in pitch again, “Are you trying to get me thrown off the squadron?”

“Uhhh, Maggie, I don’t think…” Belle began, trying to comfort her agitated copilot, but was cut off by Mischa.

“Maggie?... Hey, I like that. It fits you. Now stop whining like a little girl and just follow the frakkin’ order already.”

Faced by the entire squadron, Maguire looked around, hoping that maybe one of the Womprat pilots would relent and tell the captain to not have them do this. No one did. Maguire could almost feel himself withering under all of those eyes.

”Hey, Taliba! Jopp and I have this bet… He thinks if I punch you in the stomach four or five times, you’ll start asking me to call you Maggie… I think it’ll only take one punch. Wanna find out who’s right?” A muscle in Maguire’s cheek twitched as the memory bubbled up to the surface of his mind.

They had both been wrong—they hadn’t had to hit him at all. Maguire had instantly caved in, and then the nickname had stuck. He looked at the captain, Leto, and for a moment could almost see the old school bully who had made his life miserable and given him that nickname. Of course they had beaten up Maguire afterwards anyways… Either way he got kicked while he was down, but at least this time it wasn’t like he would literally get kicked. Maybe.

“Okay… we’ll do it,” Maguire swallowed, all his bluster vanishing without a trace. It looked like he was Maggie again.

[Gabriella]

"Sir, I'm afraid you cannot be in here. I'm going to have to ask you to leave." The nurse stated as she expertly intercepted the formally uniformed Fleet Admiral at the entrance to the medical bays examination rooms.

"I'm afraid, Nurse, I cannot do that. Now, if you'd just step out of my way..." Yanesh stated, looking down at the slender woman who was a foot and a half shorter than himself. The Nurse didn't recognize the man right away, obviously, as she insistantly barred the man's entry. Yanesh shifted his eyes from the fledgling nurse to the myriad medals, commendations, and ranking insignia pinned to his heavily starched jacket, then looked back to her with a smirk.

The woman's eyes went wide and her cheeks flushed a deep hue of crimson. "I'm terribly sorry, Fleet Admiral. I didn't rea..."

"You'll be lucky if I don't have you removed from service," Yanesh growled menacingly as he brushed past her and stalked down the corridor. The nurse stiffled the tears shimmering against the lower lids of her doe brown eyes, trying to maintain a professional sense of composure and dignity. Though her efforts were commendable, she spun on her heels and ran off to the ladies 'fresher as the tears tumbled free.

A rap on the door to the examination room told Gabriella that the nurse or doctor was back. "Enter," she called out as she seated herself on the table and tugged the hem of the flimsy gown to cover her knees.

"Thought you'd get away without answering the rest of the charges, did you?" Yanesh said as he stepped inside, closing and locking the door behind him.

Gabriella lept from the exam table, clutching at the front and back of the gown to keep herself covered when she whirled around to glare at the man whom just overstepped his bounds and violated her privacy.

"Get out of here! What in the name of the emperor's black bones do you think you're doing coming in here like this!?" Gabriella demanded, appalled by the sheer audacity exhibited by a man of stature and superior rank.

"We are going to finish the rest of this investigation, Admiral Nerys. Perhaps you'd rather do it from the brig? I could easily have the High Marshals escort you off of this ship and bring you in for a more formal round of inquiries under a Court Marshal." Yanesh's eyes lowered as he rubbed a finger against the side of nose lightly to calm a subtle itch. His action paused once he saw the burn scars marring up what once were a beautiful set of legs, then noticed there were more on her arms. Clearing his throat, he lifted his head and held it high, pretending he hadn't noticed.

She'd seen the fake looks before and read it all too well on the man. "Court Marshal won't be necessary. However, I do respectfully request a few minutes alone so I may be more appropriately dressed."

Yanesh nodded, then exited the examination room to wait just outside the door for her.

"Fracking droyk! I hope the sandfleas of a thousand ... No! A million bantha's infest his braggart armpits!" Gabriella continued to mutter a slew of not-so-nice and not-so-lady like curses and wicked wishes upon the Fleet Admiral as she yanked off the exam gown and threw her uniform back on. A once over in the small mirror hung from the wall told her she was fit to answer his ignorant questions and a deep breath calmed her down.

"Are they really necessary?" She asked, stepping from the examination room and motioning to the two uniformed armed men flanking Yanesh.

"Are they?" Yanesh retorted with a bit of cockiness to his tone and a slight canting of his head.

Gabriella just rolled her eyes. Yanesh swept his hand in a motion that indicated she should begin walking. The two fell into step next to each other and left the medical bay.

Yanesh stopped and checked both directions of the corridor. Since it was devoid of staff, he thumbed open the folder marked CONFIDENTIAL - FOR OFFICIAL EYES ONLY in bright red, large letters diagonally across the front.

"Ah yes," he said, then snapped the folder closed and turned his beady eyes to her. "You will turn over one Chancbacca and a droid, IG-100 into the custody of the High Marshals. You will also turn over Captain Tariq, Lieutenant Margolin, and Lieutenant Commander Jon'son Dethrider."

Gabriella scoffed. "On what charges do you think you can order me to those three over?" She asked.

"Captain Tariq is the commanding officer of the Womprats, is he not?"

Gabriella nodded.

"Lieutenant Commander Dethrider is to be brought up on charges of accomplice to murder in the first and second degree."

Gabriella rubbed her forehead, her fingertips reddened the deep wrinkles formed by the deep furrowing of her brows. He was the commanding Officer of those involved in that squirmish, she thought. Then she berrated herself for overlooking that fact while reading the reports.

"And what charges do you plan to bring against the Captain and Lieutenant?" She asked of Yanesh.

"Conduct unbecoming of an officer, for starters." Yanesh replied. "Admiral Nerys - your Womprat squadron, well certain members of it, have more infractions than some of Corsec's most wanted criminals." He seemed to revel in stating that, as if he had just won the upper hand and was thoroughly enjoying it.

Frackity, frack, frack, frack! Gabriella thought. It would take some pretty fancy footwork and quick thinking to get those charges dropped, especially the ones mounting against the injured wookie, the damn AI unit, and Lieutenant Commander Dethrider.

Gabriella straightened her posture, positioning her shoulders slightly back and rigid, her chin lifted a touch. "Fleet Admiral Yanesh. I refuse to hand over anyone from my crew into custody. No one was killed in cold-blood in that incident. It was purely self-defense."

Yanesh took a step forward and peered down his hawk-like nose at the Admiral. "If you are so confident in that, Admiral, then you would not be refusing a direct order from a superior officer."

"The wookie cannot be moved from med bay. His injuries are grievous and require around the clock care. You'll have to wait for him."

Yanesh nodded.

'Bought time for one, now to see what I can do for the others,' she thought. She couldn't tell him they were on a mission. It'd be too easy for him to discover that they weren't.

"The AI unit is currently on a covert op, sanctioned and backed by High Admiral Borstel." She lied about the whereabouts of the droid.

Yanesh let out an aggravated breath and nodded his head, upset that two Court Marshals would have to wait. "And the three Womprats?'

Gabriella felt her hands turn cold and she had to concentrate hard to not appear rattled. In truth, she was a bit rattled.

"I can't turn them over, Sir." She finally said, adamantly refusing to comply with his order.

"Admiral! I gave you an official order and I expect you to comply! If you refuse, I will place you in cuffs now and remove you from command. Do I make myself clear?!" Yanesh was losing his temper and composure at this point. It showed in the way his face turned bright red with anger and the way his clenched his jaw tight, forcing his words to come out clearly.

Gabriella just stood her ground. Slowly, she held out her arms and twisted her wrists, showing the underside of them to the ceiling. In short, she offered herself for formal arrest.

"Blasted woman!" Yanesh threw the folder in his hand to the floor out of pure frustration. "What is it with you!? You'd willingly give up your rank? You're command? This ship? FOR WHAT!? For a bunch of miscretants that don't deserve to breathe but still do!?"

Gabriella bit back the sharp impulsive retorts that wanted to fly off her tongue. Instead, she remained calm and composed, and nodded her head once. "Yes."

"WHY!? I always argued against women being allowed into the Alliance and I've always been vehemently opposed to women having any sort of rank, and this is the very reason why! You command with your heart, not your head and that is a dangerous way to command a fleet, Admiral!"

Gabriella lowered her offered wrists and looked Yanesh straight in the eyes. "It's been said that a woman is the most dangerous creature to ever grace the universe. We are deadly. We are conniving. We are manipulative, deceitful, and would kill in a heartbeat to protect those we care for and love."

Yanesh glowered at her and threw his hands up in frustration, turning to pace for a bit as he verbalized his anger incoherently.

"I have urgent matters to attend to, Fleet Admiral. Either you arrest me now and formally charge me, or you release me. And the rest of my crew that you are so desperately trying to condemn."

Enraged, Yanesh motioned to the two High Marshals. One stepped up behind Gabriella and the other faced her, cuffing her wrists tightly.

"Admiral Gabriella Nerys, you are hereby formally charged with willful treason against a high ranking Officer of the New Republic Alliance. You are also charged with failure to comply with a legal order .." the list of charges went on for a minute more and Gabriella just stood there, eyeing Yanesh coldly.

Down the corridor, unbeknownst to the quartet, an Ensign witnessed and heard everything. He ran off to find Captain Dervis to inform him of the event that transpired as Gabriella was escorted to the brigs where she would be held until transport arrived to bring her back to Coruscant.

[Belle Fibuna]

“Ever wondered if you… were doing the right thing?” Maguire asked suddenly, piercing the silence that he seemed so content to fall into. Belle turned to see the young man frown and she gave him a reassuring smile.

“All the time,” she answered. Leaned onto the nearby wall and rested her head against the durasteel. “I was asking myself that when I decided to join the ‘Rats. What makes you ask?”

Belle had expected for the unsocial young man to ramble off some excuse that she wouldn’t even be able to understand, but instead he just turned around slowly as if in shock. “You decided to join the Womprats?” he asked, completely shocked at the notion.

“Yes, of course I did. Didn’t you?” Belle asked trying to beat around the bush. It was a spontaneous request, one that she hadn’t fully thought about. However, afterwards, she thought about all she could gain from her new position and now that she was confronted with her decision she felt somewhat guilty of her ‘cunningness.’

“Of course not!” Maguire yelped, “I was assigned here after… after I… I…after I graduated,” Maguire finally managed, “I was assigned here after I graduated.” It was obvious that there was something that the pilot was not telling her the truth but it had taken so long for him to talk and by questioning his honesty, it would only make him shut-up and return to his shell.

“Oh… I see. Well I applied here because I think it’ll make a great springboard to become more active in the New Republic… you know?” she confessed, hoping that by her truthfulness, he would shed some light on his own facts.

He was silent. And then he was silent some more. Okay, so her idea didn’t work to well. The silence was awkward, even for her and she was at a loss for words.

“So… do you have any plans?” she asked finally, unable to think of anything else to ask. “Any idea where you’d like to go after this?” she expanded.

“Gotta run,” Maguire managed before he turned on his heel and walked away. As he left, Belle gave his back a long questioning look. Maybe, he just wasn’t a talker. It was hard for Belle not to converse in someway with someone. She had struggled with it all the time, especially when in a squadron controlled by someone else. Most commanders ordered comm. silence before missions and flights and comm. chatter was frowned upon by most.

It had been a relief when she was put in charge of her own squadron back on Hapes. She felt that by keeping the minds of her pilots at ease with meaningless talk, they would be clear headed when a battle came around, and it worked for her.

Still, even it worked for her, orders were more important. She would have to obey whatever lame rules Captain Tariq would come up with, though she doubted a squadron with the reputation of ‘worst squadron in the New Republic’ to be very strict about flying procedure.

Belle stood up straight, and made her way back to her room. As she walked down the corridor of the Second Chance, she picked up bits and pieces of other crew member’s conversations. As she passed by two human men, both of which were a little two large in the stomach region to have any important job besides maybe mechanics, she caught part of their jabber and derived from it an idea. “…and he caught me napping. As if napping were a bad thing,” the man had said.

“Oh no,” Belle said under her breathe. “Napping is not bad at all. In fact it sounds like just the refresher I need.”

Keba was laying down in her bed and the Twi’lek woman was delighted to see her friend. She pounced on the Chadra-Fan’s bed and started giggling like a little girl. The little furry alien only moaned and hit her roommate with the pillow she pulled out from under her head. “Oh come on, Keba,” Belle said happily leaning against the wall. “You can’t tell me your not excited to see me.”

“I’m very happy to see you,” she managed. “However, I would be even happier if you would let me sleep.” Keba returned the pillow to its original position and bounced her furry little head on it until she once again resumed comfort.

Belle’s head tails twitched in irritation that her friend had no wishes to talk with her. She let out a long sigh as she moved off the bunk and pulled herself up onto her own in one swift movement. So, it had really come to napping.

Just as she laid her head down on the pillow and closed her eyes, the door to their small quarters opened with a hiss. Both females lifted their heads to see who had arrived. The Mirilian navigator, Fisba, walked into the room and looked up at the Twi’lek. A smile crept across her face, something that didn’t happen very often. “So, are you glad you took my advice?” she asked approaching the bed.

“I haven’t really decided,” Belle replied, sitting up and shooting her friend an arrogant look. However, the blue skinned humanoid couldn’t keep the act up any longer and she let out a laugh. “What would I do without you, Fis?” she asked leaning over and giving the Mirialian a quick kiss on the forehead.

Fis shook her head and jumped up to the top of the bed and rested her feet across the bars next to her Twi’lek friend. Keba, realizing that with the other two in the room she wouldn’t get any sleep, got up from her own bunk and joined them on the top nestling herself in between. The three of them did that every once in a while. It was in that same position that they had officially bonded as friends.

“Guys,” Belle said her voice a little less happy than it had been earlier. “What if we never get to do this again?” she asked sounding really concerned as she looked into the faces of her two best friends.

“Oh please, Belle, you’re not going to die,” Keba said jokingly. They laughed for a moment before the new Womprat pilot continued.

“That’s not what I mean. I know I’m not going to die any time soon. I mean, what if the Womprats get transferred somewhere else. Someplace that is in more need of services?”

“Belle, the military doesn’t just move squadrons around on a whim. I seriously doubt that they would move the ‘Rats without moving the *Second Chance*,” Fis reassured, leaning back on the wall. “Face it, Belle, your stuck with us for life.” She smiled and they shared a grief chuckle before all three fell asleep slowly, each female tired form her own job.


Belle roused slowly. Something was pushing at her and speaking something in an urgent tone of voice. “Belle!” Fis was saying loudly in face. “Belle, wake up.”

The Twi’lek pilot saw her commlink in the Mirialian’s hand and shook the drowsiness out of her head. She grabbed the small device and listened closely. It was the voice of Captain Leto, her new squadron leader. “Be quick about it, or the both of you are going to be cleaning the mess hall for a week,” was the only thing she heard and the last thing he said.

“Ah Frang! Why didn’t you wake me?” she shouted at her two friends who were on the floor doing their own thing. Keba was in the corner reading a message on her datapad while Fis was looking over something on her own.

“We tried to but you were out cold,” Fis answered looking up from the datapad she had only begun to read.

Before the green-skinned woman could continued, Belle’s comm-unit returned to life with Taliba’s voice coming over the frequency. “Belle… Uhh… meet up in hanger 3?” he said, sounding unsure about what he was saying.

Belle jumped from the bed and moved to her boots that she had discarded earlier. “Sure thing,” she responded more excited than she meant to. The confusion was getting to her. “What am I supposed to be doing in hangar 3?” she asked shouting to her two friends.

“I don’t like ease-dropping on orders,” Fis said not letting her eyes leave the screen she read. “But lucky for you I did anyway. Captain Leto wants you and the other pilot to pick up the rest of the squadron on the planet and bring them back here,” she informed her. “I’d be careful, his words were a little slurred, I suspect that your new friends have been drinking a bit…though who could blame them.”

Belle was already out the door and sprinting down the hall before Fis could finish. She held her specialized helmet in her hand as she dodged past crew members and other pilots. Hangar 3 had come up on her quicker than expected, and she found it to be almost empty. It didn’t take her long to survey the different ships and pick out the one they would fly to Borleias. It was a fair sized ship, not too big, not too small. It seemed like it would be easy enough to maneuver.

After checking it out with the landing personnel, Belle examined the bulk while she waited for her fellow pilot. Sure, before taking off they would have to do a checklist that would go over any possible harms that could have come to the ship, but it gave her something to do. Once she circled the shuttle several times, Belle finally decided on a place to stand and leaned against the side of the transport.

Finally, Maguire showed up, and the Twi’lek could tell that there was something on his mind. But given the history of conversation between the two, or the lack there of, she decided to leave it alone and great him. She gave the ship a good pat and spoke, “I thought we could take this one—it checks out as being available… you want to fly, or should I?”

After some hesitation, the young man answered, “You fly… I’ll run co-pilot.”

Smiling she turned to the boarding ramp. “Awesome—Lets roll, then!” Taliba followed behind her and mad an attempt to respond by repeating her last couple of words.

It was exciting to be in the cockpit of a ship again, and Belle nearly jumped into the pilots seat and started preparing the shuttle for take off. She went through the start up procedure, while Maguire fulfilled his co-pilot duties by clearing their departure. He mumbled something under his breathe and Belle asked him to repeat his statement. Instead of clarifying what he had said, the young man only shrugged off his comment and denied opening his mouth.

Belle lifted the shuttle up and moved her out of the docking bay. As Maguire checked the sensors for enemy fighters, the Twi’lek got acquainted with the transport, bumping the control stick left and right and up and down, the ship moved just as the stick did and she was surprised at how well it moved. “Oooh, I like it,” Belle grinned impishly, jiggling the flightstick from side to side and feeling the ship move with her commands. “You can always tell when they’ve just tuned these babies up, can’t you?”

The bulky shuttle swayed back and forth under her control. She reared the front up and then brought it back down sharply. In her preferable vision she could see Maggie tense up, but she figured it was for some other reason than her flying. He was a starfighter pilot wasn’t he? “Yeah, sure. Hey, do you think you could…”

“Oops—sorry. I just love good handling… especially in something this size, you know? Usually they’re pretty crummy for maneuverability. Have you flown long, or are you fresh out of basic?” she babbled off forgetting that he co-pilot wasn’t much of a talker. He was a strange character, especially for a fighter pilot. Not really a bad character, just a strange one.

Belle tried several more times to strike up a conversation but it was all in vain as Maguire responded with simple one-word answers. Finally, she decided that it was just a waste of time and breathe and decided to keep her comments to herself.

Minutes later, the shuttle entered Borleais’ atmosphere and Belle struggled to keep the ride as smooth as possible. “Ahh, finally here,” she sighed in relief while setting the shuttle down for a gentle landing just outside ‘Mattz’s Dinner and Bar’. “I wonder where they are… probably inside. Let’s roll.”

The two stood up from their seats and exited the cockpit. “You’re… really good,” Maguire muttered as they approached the ramp.

“What?” Belle asked more out of surprise that he was actually starting his own conversation, than not knowing what he had meant.

“At flying,” Maguire explained, his pale cheeks filling with color. “That was a nice… you know… landing.”

“Oh, thanks!” Belle excepted the compliment with excitement. It was nice to know that some one was noticing her skills right off the bat. “And… I’m just glad I had someone to mind the co-piloting for me,” Belle offered with a smile. It sounded somewhat like a flat praise, but she really was glad that he had come along.

Maguire opened the hatch, and Belle thanked him as she passed through before him. As she expected, the rest of the ‘Rats were not waiting for them but instead were forcing the two new pilots to search for them.

“They must be inside,” The Twi’lek guessed as she strode toward the bar. Maguire walked behind her, and she could tell by the way he walked and looked around, that he was a little nervous with the whole situation. However, she knew that giving him a word of encouragement would only make him feel even worse that she had noticed his anxiety.

When she approached the tavern, Belle pushed through the swinging doors with her blue arms and grimaced at the smell. It smelt like the decaying tongue of a rancor, or she assumed that’s what one would smell like. Unfortunately for Belle and Maggie, the source of the smell was coming from their new squad-mates.

“Ugh,” Maguire sounded when his nose finally caught the odor. Belle gave him a nod and gave a hopeful smile as she turned her gaze back to Leto and his followers.

“Attennnnn-SHUN!” Their new leader commanded. Belle snapped her feet together and gave a salute to her commanding officer. “Took you long enough, rooks,” Leto snarled as he placed himself in front of the two new pilots. “At ease. What took so long?”

“Excuse me? What do you mean ‘what took so long?’? I’d like to see you do better than twenty minutes, you overpowering, ignorant son-bitch,”Belle thought about saying, but she settled for a more respectful version. “We didn’t take that long. It couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes, sir.” The Twi’lek pilot could see Maguire retract a bit, wishing that she had kept her mouth shut.

“You think twenty minutes isn’t that long?” the fiery redhead asked with just the same growling tone Leto had used. Belle held back a glare towards the woman and managed to keep her cool, however Maguire’s comfort level seemed to be dropping by the second.

“Twenty minutes… twennnnty minutes. Hey shrimpy, wanna tell me what took you two so long?” Stone, the big burly man interrogated Maggie. Belle felt a pang of sympathy for the young man. She knew that she could handle whatever hazing rituals the ‘Rats threw at her, but she wasn’t quite sure if he would be able to stand the pressure.

“You were asked a direct question by a superior officer, rook! What do you think this is… a shore leave? Answer!” the Captain cut in sharply with a raised voice.

Belle was about to answer for the nervous wreck of a pilot, but to her relief, he answered. “I’m sorry sir, we did the best we could.” Not really the response Belle would have chosen but good enough for now.

“Well your best isn’t good enough, then. I’m going to have to discipline you—both of you. Now let me think… what would be a fitting punishment?” Leto said softly, turning around and facing his friends for a moment. The Twi’lek knew that he already had his ‘punishment’ in mind.

“I’m pretty sure I know just the thing, Cap’n!” the short redhead spoke p for the first time. In her hands she held a couple of bottles of booze and shook them. “How about we see if they can’t make a little better time with some motivation?”

“I second the motion… maybe getting those past security will teach these two slackers how to move a little faster.”

Silence

“You want us to what?” Maggie shouted suddenly, piercing the quiet with his high pitched voice. “I am not smuggling booze for you!”

“Awww, quit your whinin’, rook,” Stone replied, his eyes rolling. “It’s not like we’re askin’ much of you, you know.”

“Frakk no! Are you trying to get me thrown off the squadron?”

“Uhhh, Maggie, I don’t think…” Belle started trying to encourage Maggie to keep quiet and that she would take care of everything. Instead, Mishca interrupted.

“Maggie?... Hey, I like that. It fits you. Now stop whining like a little girl and just follow the frakkin’ order already.”

Belle swayed to her weight onto her other foot and rolled her eyes as the squadron taunted the obviously troubled young man. It was all Belle could do not to stand up for him. But she knew that it was something he would have to do for himself. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be able to do anything.

“Okay… we’ll do it,” he finally managed. Belle smiled and faced her Captain with a determined yet still challenging look on her face.

“Give us what you got,” she said meaning both the alcohol and a exigent dare.

Half an hour later, the drink supply was stowed away on the shuttle as well as the liquor taunted pilots. After making sure that the ‘Rats were strapped into their crash webbing in the back passenger area, Belle plopped down in the pilots seat for the trip back to the Second Chance. She glanced over at Maggie to see how he was holding up, and found him twiddling his thumbs and taking deep breaths.

“Maggie,” she said getting his attention. The young man nearly jumped out of his seat at the sound of his name. “It’s gonna be alright. I’m sure we won’t be the first pilots to smuggle ‘happy water’ unto the ship and I assure you we won’t be the last.”

He only gave a small half smile that wasn’t very reassuring before turning back to the panel in front of him. The Twi’lek watched him for a moment, trying to think of something else to say, but it wouldn’t matter what she said. He was way too nervous about their up-coming illegal act.

Belle flipped the comm unit that would allow her passengers to hear her, and asked for everyone’s attention. “Make sure your strapped in,” she started. “We’re taking off in about…. Now.”

She lifted off the ground quickly, and shot into the Borleais sky. The flight out of the atmosphere was much smoother than the one on the way in, but there were still a few bumps and jags that Belle couldn’t prevent. Once they were in open space, she could really open up the thrusters and add burst of speed to the flight.

“Maggie, could you contact the Second Chance and tell that we have picked up the ‘Rats and will be expected a place to land in a couple of moments, please?” she said to her co-pilot without taking her eyes off the viewport.

“Huh?” Maggie asked as he she had pulled him out of a trance. Belle turned her head sharply and stared at him in almost a glare, as if she didn’t believe that he wasn’t paying attention. “Oh yeah,” he added quickly before she had a chance to repeat the order. “But we aren’t even there yet.”

Belle turned back to the viewport. “Tell them how far away we are. They aren’t going to jump at working for a place to touch down. As long as we have them apologizing the whole time, then maybe we can break up some protocol and get this booze onboard.” He nodded. “You drink?”

“What?”

“Do you drink at all?” she asked again, giving him the same look as before.

“Not much,” he answered softly as if he were embarrassed by being able to hold his liquor.

“If I were you, I would start.” With that, Belle boosted the throttle and the figure of the *Second Chance* grew closer and closer. Finally, they were floating under the belly of the huge capital ship. “Give me a channel,” she ordered Maggie while taking up a comm link from her panel.

“Second Chance, this is Shuttle 0-592, Fibuna of the Womprats speaking,” she transmitted. “How’s our landing clearance coming, I was hoping to be on solid floor by now?”

“Our apologies, Fibuna. We weren’t expecting you for another few minutes. Feel free to keep position on the Second Chance until we can get you onboard again. Give us about five. Once again we apologize.”

Belle smiled as she leaned back in her seat. “Here, take controls. I’m gonna go give our lovely passengers an update and give them the scoop on what’s going on.” Without waiting for acknowledgment from Maguire, the Twi’lek pilot stood and exited the cockpit.

The rest of the ‘Rats were in their seats all laughing at something, most likely a joke or story from the talkative droid. However, when they spotted her, their laughs died and they stared. “Captain Tariq,” she said addressing the handsome man in front of her. “May I suggest that you give the docking crew a hard time about not being ready for our arrival. I’m assuming that while your busy yelling at a couple of crew members the rest of us can retrieve our cargo while all the attention is on you.”

The Captain only nodded, having obviously got the idea. Either that or they had tapped into the drink supply and started cleaning out some bottles already. Belle gave a relaxed salute and returned to the cockpit, and she could hear laughs start up again after she closed the cockpit door.

[Maxwell Gandel]

For the first time in his career, Commander Roschak considered desertion. He thought about that as he lay on one of Borleias' golden beaches, exotic drink in hand. At length, he decided he wasn't really serious about it. He'd made an oath to the Empire, and he wasn't the kind of man to lightly toss aside such commitments. But it felt damn good to lie out under a real sun and just tan for awhile.

Of course, his little trip to the beach wasn't all fun and games. In a little while, he would have to meet the rest of his team at a nearby establishment for a status update. He'd made a point of getting out here early, though, just so he could relax. A shadow fell across him, and he frowned in annoyance. Lifting his sunglasses, he peered up and the figure that stood above him. It took him a minute to recognize who it was, and he blinked deliberately just to be sure. "Hello, sir," Karis grinned down at her commander. "Taking a bit of a nap?"

"You can't fault a man for wanting to enjoy himself," Roschak muttered as he pushed himself up on his elbows. He peered sideways at Karis, who was attired in the the revealing sort of outfit they called beachwear around Borleias. Roschak himself was in little more than long shorts and flip flops, but seeing his fellow commando like that was a little odd.

"No, sir, I don't imagine I could. Not after I've been doing the same, anyway." Karis plopped down into the sand beside her CO, peering around them at the crowds of people who populated the beach. Many of the humans were as pale as they were themselves, a sure sign they were New Republic Navy. Hard to get tan and stay that way when you were cooped up in an artificially lit warship for months on end. "Looks pretty pleasant, sir. Just sitting here, looking around, it's hard to imagine these people need to be liberated."

Roschak nodded, but not in complete agreement. "That's not the point, though, is it?" He asked. "This new Republic deposed the Empire through armed rebellion and murdered the Emperor. That's gotta be repayed."

"You're right, sir. I was just saying."

With a grunt, Roschak heaved himself up onto his feet. He offered a hand to Karis, pulling her up to stand beside him. "I think it's time we got to the bar."

"It'll be easy enough to fit in with the locals, sir," Karis was saying with authority a short time later. "The civil authorities are as diverse as anybody else on the planet, and the military presense I've been able to spot is mostly off duty crewers on shoreleave. Usually pretty well plastered, too. I picked half a dozen pockets just this afternoon and nobody noticed, so if we need to forge military idents we'll have plenty of refference. There were some uniformed, on duty personell, but they were mostly MPs. And they were usually there to break up bar fights."

Roschak nodded his understanding as she ended her report, then glanced around the rounded table at the rest of his people. They'd taken a corner booth as far away from the bar as they could get, so the likelyhood of being overheard was minimal. Everybody was keeping an eye out, just in case, but to any casual observer the group would just looked like a bunch of friends relaxing after a day of fun on the beach.

"Dak?" He asked, turning to the unit's electronic warfare specialist. He looked a little sour, since he'd been tasked with probing the planetary comm nets and computer systems for weaknesses while everybody else did their thing. In other words, he'd been cooped up in a hotel room while everybody else went outside to enjoy the sun and fresh air.

"Well," Dak said, peeling the lable off of the bottle he held, "Technology's come a long way since we left, sir. It's a lot to catch up on, and in my line of work being out of the loop that long is a big disadvantage. But..." He paused, taking in a breath and applying his newly freed lable to the tabletop, "But I think I can do something with it, I just need some time. And examples of current technology wouldn't hurt too badly, either."

Roschak sighed. He'd been afraid of this sort of thing. "How long do you need?"

Dak fiddled with his bottle for a little while, then shrugged. "Couple a' weeks. Three, maybe. Depends on whether or not I can get my hands on some of the latest gear. The stuff I brought with me is ancient compared to what they must be running these days."

"I'll ask the pirates what they can rustle up," Roschak promised. "Maybe one of them knows a thing or two about slicing." Silently, the commander cursed himself. He should have thought of this sooner, instead of wasting time doing it now. But what was done was done, and what wasn't wasn't. Dak nodded, and that left Idanski and Deran. The two of them had been out and about trying to get a fix on important landmarks. Military barracks and hangars, police stations, local government buildings, comm relays, shield generators, planetery turbolasers, and anything else that might be of use. "Just remember," He added, "we don't have two or three weeks. We need this done ASAP."

"In that case, sir," Dak said seriously, "You may want to consider hiring a local. There's always underground slicers around, for a price, and if you can find 'em." Roschak opened his mouth to say that was't good enough, either, but he closed it before the words came out. Dak knew his stuff, and if he said he needed outside help he wasn't just trying to take the easy way out.

"Ok. You find me one, I'll think about hiring him. Idanski? Deran? What've you got for me."

Idanski leaned forward, bracing one hair covered arm on the table. "A lot, actually. There's a spaceport right near the center of town, so we'll use that as a starting point. About two clicks west of it there's this police station..." Roschak listened to the report as Idanski rambled on, Deran jumping in whenever he figure the bigger man had missed a detail. In the back of his mind, a plan was congealing. It wasn't complete, and it was far from clear, but it was a start.

***************

Admiral Gandel looked over the starcharts for the sector. A number of dots on it glowed a baleful red - locations with too high a NR fleet presense to justify a raid. Otheres were green, potentially acceptable targets with light to minimal enemy presense.

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Anton asked as he entered the main astrogation room. Gandel glanced back at his XO, then nodded.

"Yes... I did. I've been thinking, Anton, that perhaps a raid isn't as nessecary as we might think. We made off with a great deal of ordinance from the depot. The black market prices on it must be astronomical."

"Without saying, sir. That's why the pirates agreed to assist us in the raid. Getting that stuff represented an enormous porfit potential with relatively little risk to themselves."

"How much of it did we give them?"

"Uh," Anton was caught unprepared for a moment, and his mind raced to find an appropriate figure. "Well, everything we didn't take for our own use. I can comm the fleet quartermaster a call, he should have all the numbers..."

"No, no, that's allright. I was just curious." Gandel turned from the map and regarded Anton. "The point is they'll get far more money out of that then they could possibly know what to do with. If we garuntee a prolonged partnership with future payoffs of the same level, they may be willing to part with some of that bounty."

"Sir?" Anton arched an eyebrow.

"It would be infinately easier to buy the food we need, Anton," Gandel smiled. "And I'm sure our pirate friends have ways of getting all we need very discretely."

Twenty minutes later, Lauren Askaza fidgeted under Gandel's gaze. It wasn't often that the pirate leader fidgeted, gaze or no gaze. And he certainly wasn't used to being stared at like that. "What do you mean," Gandel asked incredulously, "It's all gone? There's no way you could have safely gotten rid of all that on your own."

"Well, yer right there," Askaza replied with a grin. Gandel raised both of his eyebrows, and Askaza coughed. "We're not the only pirate group 'round these parts, y'know. And half that stuff got us more credits'n we've ever seen. So we... traded the rest."

"For what?" Gandel asked, overcoming his surprise. Was Askaza trading weapons for loyalty? Was he trying to make some sort of pirate's alliance? Or was there something else going on? Gandel couldn't for the life of him figure out what the pirate could have traded all the rest of that ordinance for. Ships, perhaps? They had taken losses during the raid... His train of thought stopped dead at Askaza's expression. The pirate was grinning so much it must've hurt, and his chest shook with contained laughter. "What?" Gandel asked again.

"Well, Admiral," Askaza said, finally giving in to a laugh, "We got you a shipyard."

"What?!" Gandel checked himself, and was glad that he and Askaza were alone in his personal office. He frowned and prepared to forgive the pirate for what was obviously a distasteful joke, but something about the other man spoke of sincerity. "How?" He asked carefully.

"Well, it's a long story," Askaza said, still grinning, "But me an this friend o' mine used to be part of the same outfit. Not all pirates live in asteriods and scrape out a living just waiting for some lost Imperial fleet to drop into their laps with promises of salvation." He shifted in his seat, still smiling, and when he was comfortable he continued. "See, there's some that decide they want to settle down and at least pretend to be legitimate organizations. This pal o' mine, his people are what you might call nomads. They've got a few permenant settlements here and there, but mostly they move about and make a living mining asteroids to sell the metal. It's how I got this rock, when I was ready to strike out on me own. Anyway, part of bein' on yer own and bein' a government-like is to have shipyards. It's not state of the art, and it ain't all that big... but it just might do ya."

Gandel stared. "They're always in need o' cash," Askaza continued anyway, "So they figure you get to use their yards and they get paid with some high priced black market weaponry."

Finally, Gandel decided he'd better ask some questions. "The New Republic?" He inquired.

"Don't know they exist. Hell, the Empire barely knew they were out there. Tried their best to stomp on 'em, never did find 'em all."

"And they'd help us?" Gandel demanded curiously.

"I vouched fer ya," Askaza confirmed.

"Well, that solves one problem. But now we still have to figure out the food situation."

"Well, I might just have an idea fer that one, too," Askaza smiled a predatory smile, and Gandel didn't like it one bit.

[Pietur Legatus]

The ship lifted off with a slight shudder, sending Piet stumbling back into the arms of her chair. After hurriedly checking that none of the others had seen her clumsy seating, the blonde propped her boots up on the bulging sack she had dumped where she was standing. She was tempted to sprint to where the smuggler had indicated the bunks were and make a claim to one, but she had made a vow to try to act less childish on this trip. It wouldn’t look good if a mere grease-monkey had the best bunk anyway, so there was no point doing her normal race to toss her bag on the best bed.

So this is us then.

The blonde studied the other faces in the room carefully. Most of them she knew from before but the woman who had been introduced as the doctor was new. She eyed her curiously. Shecould be the difference between all the team getting home alive and the Admiral planning another memorial.

How do they deal with that? With all the pressure? If someone depended on her, Piet crumbled. She made even more stupid mistakes than normal, fumbling and forgetting what she was doing. Hopefully that was the last thing that would happen to their medic. She looked Jola over trying decide if she would want to trust her with her own life. If she was bleeding to death she would trust anyone more or less but she would be more willing to dive into that blaster fire with a decent doctor at her back.

Piet's curious stare was returned unwaveringly, so her face creased into a grin. 'Steady of eye, steady of hand' her Dad had always said. He was talking about drinks, but she figured that it could be carried across. Piet got the impression that she could operate under blaster fire without a flinch. A comforting thought when it could come down to that.

Ati had already introduced himself –he was flying the remodeled ship, supposedly assisted by his droid, the one Piet could see shuffling around in the corner in a manner that could almost be interpreted as confused. It might be a smart idea to keep a wary eye on the droid. Memory wipes did weird things to their circuits and that particular one looked like it might have been badly wired to start with.

Ceryll she knew of course. Piet knew the redhead the best of all the Womprats she had talked to. Sharing a room does that to people. But she’s not Ceryll anymore she reminded herself firmly. And I’m not Piet. It would be wise to get used to that idea or she would stuff the whole mission up by using the wrong name.

A wry grin slipped out. That would go down well with the Admiral. Was it possible to be demoted below the rats? There would be no need to find out for herself hopefully. She wasn’t going to be the one to frak it up with a careless word. If it had to happen (and with their track record it probably would) let someone else do it.

“So” she said brightly, breaking over the quiet mutterings between the others. “Are you all ready for this? Ahdara Vic at your service.” She tried to give a mock bow, the motion somewhat impeded by her feet still being on the sack. "And if you call me anything else I don't intend on answering." she added with a slight wink.

[Leto Tariq]

“Poor kid. You’d have thought we were asking him to kiss the Admiral in front of the bridge crew,” Cay smirked as the pilots laughed about the earlier treatment of the rookies.

Jon’son raised an eyebrow. “Do you think we should have do that next?” They laughed again.

“Shrimpy,” the droid mused. “I like that. Can we use that one?”

Leto shook his head, “Maggie stays. It suits him.”

“Where do you think ‘Maggie’ came from?” Mischa leaned over her chair in front of him. Leto shrugged in reply.

“Probably for the same reasons you said in the bar. Whining like a little girl.”

“We’re terrible,” Cayenne observed, smiling. Leto was glad her mood had changed from its earlier gloom.

“We’re the Womprats. It’s what we’re known for.”

“I thought we were known for being a thorn in Command’s ass?”

“Isn’t it our respective attitude?” Mischa grinned. “Or lack of.”

“Or for being only a step above Academy washouts.”

“One of the things we’re known for,” Leto corrected, shaking his head. They laughed again, and fell silent until Jon’son knocked once on the crate they were smuggling aboard the Second Chance.

“Where are we going to hide these?”

The droid raised a metallic hand. “I can keep them in my quarters. I’ll hide them under my spare parts.”

Leto nodded, “That sounds like an excellent plan, Toaster.”

It was strange, but Leto was actually starting to like the droid. In some ways, it was just another pilot… only lacking in blood and organs. Still, likable or not, a machine was still just a machine no matter how it was programmed.

“Whiskey,” Mischa said, and they knew she was talking about the twi’lek addition to the ‘Rats.

“Sounds familiar. Didn’t we have a Whiskey?”

“You’re thinking of Sober,” Leto corrected.

“Sober?” the droid asked, almost sounding amused.

“Yeah. His name was Whyren,” Leto grinned at the memory.

“Certainly wasn’t sober for long, though,” Mischa said and shared a laugh with Leto, Jon’son and Cay at the memory. “First shore leave, we had him drink nearly enough to make him pass out just before the shuttle back to the ship.”

“And waiting for us as soon as we got back,” Jon’son continued, “was the Admiral of the ship himself.”

Leto took up the rest of the story, “So Sober, he stumbles off the shuttle and he sees the Admiral standing there in full uniform, face like a rock, right in front of him. So Sober snaps off a salute and shouts ‘Sir’, just before he throws up all over him.”

They burst into laughter again, this time Toaster’s mechanical version joining in with them. The hatch to the cockpit hissed open and they’re laughter quickly died as they saw Fibuna standing in front of them.

“Captain Tariq,” she said, Leto trying to keep his face as flat as he possibly could. “May I suggest that you give the docking crew a hard time about not being ready for our arrival. I’m assuming that while you’re busy yelling at a couple of crew members the rest of us can retrieve our cargo while all the attention is on you.”

Leto nodded. It was a good plan and should give a good distraction so Maguire and Belle could sneak the alcohol onboard. They may have wanted to give the two rookies a hard time, but they certainly didn’t want the two getting caught.

Belle gave a salute and returned to the cockpit, at which point the laughter started up again.


“What the frak is going on?” Leto asked the closest deck crew member. “We should have been onboard ten minutes ago.”

“Sorry, sir,” he quickly apologized. “We needed to clear room before you could land the shuttle.”

“Clear room?” Out of the corner of his eye Leto could see Belle and Maguire dragging the crate out of the shuttle, trying to look as inconspicuous about it as they could. “What the frak are you talking about?”

“Someone moved one of the damaged fighters into the space when the shuttle left,” the deck hand pointed to the remains of Leto’s fighter.

“Who the frak decided to do that?” Leto asked, voice rising.

The man licked his lips nervously, “Umm, me, sir.”

“What if there was an emergency?” Leto started shouting at him. “We would have been stuck out there waiting for one of you knuckle-draggers to clear enough space so we could frakking land!”

Leto risked a glance and could see that Belle and Maggie had managed to get past without anyone noticing anything suspicious. He smiled quickly, then returned to facing the crew member. “Get back to work. And pay attention to what the frak you’re doing now.”

The man nodded, saluted quickly and ran to the nearest wreck he could find.

“So maybe if you hadn’t wrecked your fighter, we wouldn’t have waited.” Mischa grinned as she walked over next to him.

“Hey, it’s not like I’m the only one who took a little damage out there,” Leto said.

“Yeah, but you’re the only one who got a medal for it.”

[Mischa Margolin]

The “hazing mission” had gone off without a hitch and now the ‘Rats would have a decent enough supply of booze not just for their own consumption, but as a damn good bartering tool as well. After they’d made sure the two rookies had gotten out of the hangar unnoticed, the next priority was to hit the showers and wash away the stink of the day’s work.

She’d wanted to take a few moments alone with Leto to talk to him about a few things she’d been worrying over in her mind since that morning in the brig. Things that Leto probably wouldn’t be happy to hear, but that needed to be said and soon. But Mischa just couldn’t bring herself to do it after seeing the way he looked at her as they joked around in the hangar, the same one she was most likely giving him at many opportunities. Eye-frakking she’d remembered hearing one of the deck crew call it when talking about two of the other tech’s flirtatious interactions. That look only confirmed the necessity in her mind that they needed to talk and soon.

Taking a look around the hangar she realized though that this wasn’t the best place or time for it. She also noted they were the only two ‘Rats still in the hangar. “Shavit! Stone’s going to beat me to the shower…again.” Misch said with a sigh. “If he uses up all the hot water this time I swear I…”

Leto looked at her, grinned and leaned in closer, “You could always use the ‘fresher in my quarters you know.” He said in a low voice.

“Leto, please. Remember what the Admiral said.” Vac answered just as discretely, glancing around the hangar. “You never know who from the Fleet might be hanging around watching. Remember those two uniformed goons that were hanging around after the memorial service?”

“The ones that were with the Admiral?” Tariq asked, “Yeah, I heard some scuttlebutt right before we left that they were here to investigate Nerys’ command. You know how good news travels fast around this place.” He continued in that same low voice, giving her that smile that drove her insane. “Okay, no shower sharing now. But after those Fleet investigators are out of here…”

She peered into the box she was carrying. “Uhm…sure...later, Leto. I’ve got to get Dr. Jodo’s little friends here out of this drafty place.” Mischa said moving away from him and toward the doorway to the corridor heading toward she and Stone’s quarters, leaving Leto to watch her go with a puzzled expression on his handsome face until she was out of sight before he headed for his quarters and a much needed shower of his own.

*******************************************

When Mischa got to the berth she shared with her wingman and best friend, as she’d expected, Stone was still in the refresher. Banging her fist on the door she yelled, “Dammit, Dethrider! You better leave me some hot water in there if you value your life.”

She walked over to her locker and grabbed a clean pair of sleep pants and a tank top before walking back to the door, hand raised to knock again.

“Quit your grumbling, Misch!” Stone yelled back from behind the door just before opening it right as she was about to hit it. “I saved you some alright. Like I’d be able to sleep in the same room with you smelling like that.” He said with a grin as he walked into the bunkroom dressed in his pajama pants and rubbing his hair dry with the towel he had slung around his neck. “And don’t worry, I saved you a couple of dry towels too”

“What a guy.” Vac replied with a roll of her eyes, pushing past him and closing the door to the refresher behind her. Once she was under the water, she turned it up as hot as she could stand then washed her hair twice just to be sure she got the smell of the day out of it.

After dressing and drying off she walked back into the bunkroom to find Stone already in his rack, scrolling through the latest issues of his favorite periodicals on the datapad in his hands. “Glad this day is frakkin over with.” Mischa said as she swung onto the upper rack, rolling onto her side. “Think we were too hard on the rooks today?” She asked with a frown.

“You kidding, Vac? Remember our initiation with Blaze way back when? We treated them like babies compared to that.” Stone laughed. “I think you got into your first intra squadron fight over that, didn’t you?”

“Hey, you were right there with me.” Mischa couldn’t help but smile remembering the beginning of what had seemed at the time to be an unlikely friendship between the two pilots. “We kicked some ass, didn’t we?”

“Still do.” Jon’son, chortled, “Always will, Misch.”

He went back to reading his datapad, while Mischa, try as she might to relax, just tossed and turned above his head until she finally gave up on the idea of actually falling asleep anytime soon in spite of the fatigue caused by the events of the past couple of days. She just had far too much on her mind and the thoughts weren’t about to give her any peace anytime soon it seemed. She loved Leto, of that there was no doubt. She’d been in love with him for a long time now. But was it worth risking his career and what was left of Vac’s own for them to be together. Always having to worry that someone higher up in Fleet or Starfighter Command would find out.

They’d almost lost everything after the incident in the brig, and only the totally unexpected reprieve from Gabriella had prevented that. And now the Admiral’s career was on the line too. All because of Misch frakking up as usual. “Shavit! I hate this” she thought jumping down from the top bunk.

Stone watched as she rummaged around in her locker before putting on her sports shoes. “What’s up, little girl?” he asked, swinging around to sit on the edge of his rack. “Something on your mind?”

“Can’t sleep, big man.” She replied as she tied up her shoes and grabbed a pair of gloves and some hand wraps out of her locker. “Got a lot on my mind and figured I’d go hit something inanimate to see if it helped.”

“What? You don’t want to drag Tariq’s ass along to the gym and wail on him like usual?” Stone asked raising an eyebrow in surprise.

"Who said I wasn't talking about Leto already?" She replied with a smirk that quickly faded. "Not tonight…I’d like to not run into Orion at all actually if I can help it.” She shook her head slightly, avoiding looking her best friend in the eye as she answered. “I’ll be back in a while.” She finished, heading out of the door of their bunkroom quickly before Jon’son had a chance to ask her any more questions and hoping he’d be sound asleep when she got back to avoid the same thing then too.

[Jon'son Dethrider]

Stone let it alone. There was something else here, but he wasn't sure what it was. He wasn't sure he wanted to know what it was. Of course, with everything that had went on this week, he didn't blame her mood. The burly pilot remained sitting on his bunk and turned to look at the stuffed gym bag under the rack of small arms, next to a large durosteel case. Jon'son figured Misch made a good suggestion going about hitting something right now. He certainly felt he needed to.

Jon'son rubbed at his face and thought back about all the events that happened and pondered what was to become of their squadron. Six pilots were now dead, and the squadron had almost a complete turnaround with the addition of new pilots: three of them being new pilots and one of them a droid. To add to the situation, Chanc was out of commission from the fight during shoreleave and Adok was heading off on a covert mission with the rookies, which left only himself, Misch, Cayenne, and Leto as the experienced Womprats aboard the <I>Second Chance</i>.

He wondered how many of them would last this latest roster. Sure, you could train them hard, drill them over and over again with simulators, but it wouldn't guarantee they won't be vaped on the next mission. Leto would try to keep them crisp, to maintain their cutting edge, nothing more. Being in top shape was part of the business, necessary, and Stone trained himself as if he were a prized show animal, proper diet, enough rest, technical mastery as required, no more, no less. Still, piloting a starfighter was a fool's game, and since the last man standing was the victor, there could be no second-place winner. To be second was to be last and to be last here was to be dead.

Stone peered at the gym bag, then to the large durosteel case again and stood. He pulled the gym bag from its place, then pulled the case over his shoulder. Not only did he feel like hitting something, he also felt like <I>shooting</I> something. He felt like shooting a lot of things...

Misch had her back to Stone as she punched away at the bag in front of her. The doors hissed open to the gym, which signalled her to pause for a moment. She exhaled, relaxing her stance, and turned to see the big man looming in the doorway. There was the faintest sheen of perspiration on her forehead; otherwise her skin was dry.

"Couldn't sleep either, eh Big Man?" she smirked, her eyes trailing to the gym bag, then to the large case over his shoulder. "So what's in the case?"

"Oh, something I picked up on Ord Mantell a long time ago, but never got around to playing with it. It's my new toy."

Misch pulled off her gloves and wagged her eyebrows. "Oh? Care if I played with it?"

"Maybe." He set the case on the floor and the locks snapped open as he figured the combination. The hinges grinded as it opened up and Stone pulled the weapon to show it off to his wingmate. Misch stared at it in admiration.

Stone grinned mischievoulsly at her expression. "This here is the latest in my private collection that I picked up. It's a BlasTech A-280G-fully-automatic-modified-blaster-rife-with-built-in-Stouker-concussion-grenade-launcher," he said, as if reciting a litany. "It has an effective range of five hundred meters, holds a one-hundred-shot charged power pack and mounts a thirty-millimeter pump-operated grenade launcher under the barrel with a range of one hundred meters. I'm going to test it out on the <I>Second Chance</i>'s gunnery range."

He shrugged as he dusted it a bit. "From what I hear though, the Rodian who sold it to me said you can't hit anything smaller than a speeder bike past a couple hundred meters 'cause the sights are shavit, and if the grenade goes farther than fifty meters before it hits the ground, you must have a god who likes you.

"At close range, however, this is a mean machine and you don't want to be on the receiving end in anything less than full-class body armor or you get turned to bloody mush. This was used in the Battle of Hoth thirteen years ago, so it's a collector's item, which is why I grabbed it."

He held the weapon out. "Take a look. It won't bite."

Misch held her smile in check. The model number had changed, but the basic weapon was not that different from the one she had used with the crew of the <I>Starr</I>. The instructions Bentler had given her were burned into her as if branded by white-hot metal.

She took the rifle, thumbed the power pack catch, and popped the dummy, checked to be sure it was empty, then slammed the pack back into place. She cycled the action twice to make certain the weapon was powered down, then stroked the grenade launcher's pump twice to make sure the loading tube was empty. She pulled the weapon to her shoulder, sighted at the far wall, both eyes open, and dry fired the piece. The electronic trigger was rigged to make an audible click for such practice and did so. Misch lowered the weapon, twisted it to present arms, and tossed it at Stone. It had been more than a dozen years, she had not touched such weapons in all that time, but it was like she knew it would be.

He was surprised, but managed to catch the rifle without dropping it.

"Trigger's a little stiff and it's got some creep," she said. "You should run a diagnostic on it before you take it to the range.." She was showing off, but what the hell.

Stone laughed. "I'm impressed. Where'd you learn to do that?" He placed the item back into it's case and closed it.

"I ran with a crew of spacers aboard a ship named the <I>The Argent Starr</I> when I was a kid." She paused, then said simply. "I was a stowaway, I was hiding from my mom's killers."

"Frak..." he said. "I'm sorry."

She shrugged. "I don't talk about it. I never bring it up." She looked at him. "What about you? You have family? I know we don't talk about our pasts."

"No. The Womprats are my family now. I was disowned long ago by my real ones." Jon'son thought about that for a second. Well. Other than going off to get vaped in space they had something else in common. No family.

He sighed. "Listen, about Leto," he began. "If you've got something that you want to--"

Misch cut him off. "Don't worry about it, Stone. It's something me and him need to figure together."

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to pry--"

"Sure you do. That's okay. I've been pried open before. I'm used to it."

He stared at his feet.

"Let me ask <I>you</I> something," she said.

"Okay. That's fair." He looked up.

"Why'd you really start that fight down there?"

He sighed again. "Wanted to take out what was burning inside. The gang seemed like a good excuse."

"What's burning inside?"

"The fact you will forget about me when things get serious with Leto." He shook his head, stared at his feet again.

It hit her all of a moment. Suddenly she saw him in a new light. He'd been a big brother to her and he was always looking after his wingmate-- always being <I>concerned</I> about her. He had nobody but the Womprats and they were always being sent out to die. He was lonely. She knew what that felt like.

She reached out, touched him on the shoulder. "Hey," she said. "Jon'son."

He looked up from his boots, his bright, brown eyes clear and searching. "Yeah."

"I promise I won't forget you. If I do, you can punch me in the face. Hard."

He grinned, like a kid with a new toy. "Deal. And I won't hold back, either."

"Ha!" she laughed and jabbed him in the face playfully.

Stone growled and shook his head. "No fair! I wasn't ready!"

"Put on your gloves, then. We'll see how ready you are."

"You just signed your death warrant, Margolin," Stone countered, opening his gym bag and pulling out his gloves.

An hour later, Jon'son Dethrider left the gym and headed out to the gunnery range on the other side of the <I>Second Chance</i> with gym bag and case in tow. Tonight, he would sleep good, despite on how many times Misch would toss credit chits at his face everytime he snored loudly...

[Leto Tariq]

Leto wasted no time with getting undressed and stepping into the refresher once he got back to his quarters. When the hot water hit his body he couldn’t hold back the tired moan from how good it felt. It had been a very long day, and even for its few bright points he was glad to be ridding himself of it. He shut his mind off from its worries and focused on washing away the dirt and alcohol from his body.

The spray of water was shut off and then his hand searched for a towel. Leto dried off and dressed just as quickly, slumping onto the bed like a heavy sack. He reached over and glanced over his datapad, then tossed it aside when there nothing important that needed his attention.

Adok, Pietur, Cyrell, and Ati were all gone on some mission of the Admiral’s devising, while Chanc was recovering in the med bay. That meant they were down more than a forth of the squadron until Chanc recovered enough to fly again and the other pilots returned. It wasn’t a happy thought to know they were going into a combat action undermanned until then. It was hard enough for the Womprats to stay alive with all twelve in the air.

The worse part was he didn’t think they could handle losing another pilot so soon. Six dead in less than a week was mentally and emotionally wearing on all of them. Losing any more was going to push them to the limit. The veterans could probably handle it; they’d seen worse, Leto included. But the rookies were untried, untested. Leto doubted Maguire had seen even a few seconds of combat.

It was a hard time to be a ‘Rat these days.

Leto prayed to anything out there that something would keep its eye on them. Satisfied, he tried to get some sleep. After half an hour of unsuccessful attempts, he pulled himself out of bed and slipped on his running shoes to find something, anything to do. Maybe, if he was lucky, he could run himself into exhaustion and finally get some form of sleep. It probably wasn’t the best plan, but it was the only one he had.

He left his quarters and took off at a jog. Most of the ship’s corridors were empty at that time of day except for anyone on duty, and Leto was grateful. He needed some space and time alone to think without having to dodge around the morning crowd.

Mischa’s evasion in the hangar was confusing, but it was something he could understand. She had a lot to think about; they both did. Leto knew he loved her, even though it took him long enough to tell her.

His thoughts stopped and he corrected himself. It had taken him a long enough time to act upon it. He still hadn’t actually told her his feelings. That was something that needed to change quickly.


Leto was moving past the ship’s gymnasium when he heard the thwack of someone working out their aggressions. He rested his hands on his knees, using the moment to regain his breath. He listened to the familiar sound of fists hitting the bag and grunts of exertion. It didn’t take Leto long to figure out it was Mischa behind the hatch door. He’d been on the receiving end of those fists enough to know those sounds by heart.

He slipped into the gym as quietly as he could, pausing in the hatchway just to watch her. She tensed when the door clanged no matter how softly he closed it, then went back to her attacks. “Hey,” she said without turning around.

“Hey.”

“You just here to watch me?” she asked. Leto shrugged, “I couldn’t sleep.”

I guess I wasn’t the only one, he thought.

She was breathing heavy from the exertion, sweat slicking the muscles in her back and wetting her hair to her face.

She swung a kick into the bag. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“You never answered my question,” Mischa stopped in her attacks and turned back to look at him, giving Leto a full view of her front. His eyes drifted over her, taking a long breath as he took every part of her in. Frak him, but she was the most beautiful woman he had ever known. “You just going to watch me?”

“Would it bother you if I did?” he answered.

Mischa rolled her eyes, “At least hold the bag for me.”

Leto raised an eyebrow. “I still remember last time, you know.”

“That was an accident.”

“I bet it was,” Leto smirked, picking up a pair of gloves and fastening them to his hands. “I’d rather you throw your punches at me. It’ll hurt less. Unless you’re too tired, of course…”

Mischa stepped away from the bag with a cocky grin, grabbing Leto and dragging him into an empty part of the gym. “Less talkin’, Captain, more swinging.”

He’d barely had time to take his position on the floor before Mischa swung a quick jab into the side of Leto’s face, sending him back a step. She laughing while he clumsily regained his footing.

“We’ve just started and I’m already winning, Leto. Maybe you should go back to- umph!” Leto didn’t hold back as he swung into her chest. Mischa managed to keep her footing and knocked back his second jab.

“C’mon, Misch,” Leto grinned. “I thought you were winning?”

“Frak you,” she said, emphasizing her point with another punch. Leto took it into his chest with a grunt. She swung again but he quickly moved out of its way this time. He attacked again, catching her in the side twice before she struck him again in the face.

Mischa smiled triumphantly for a moment as Leto’s smile disappeared, replaced by a quick grimace and look of determination. Now they were past the initial dance-around that usually accompanied the beginning of their matches before they settled down into their natural routine. Namely, Mischa using Leto’s ass to clean the gym floor.

“Think they’re going to make it?” Mischa blinked. That question came out of nowhere.

She shrugged, “Dock can handle it, even if he’s a pain in the ass.”

“I think that comes with the uniform in this squadron,” Leto pointed out. Mischa grinned and introduced her fist to his stomach. The grin didn’t last long when Leto returned the favour. She grunted, the struck out hard against his, sending him into the wall behind him. Leto grunted, feeling at the spot just beneath his eye and he knew that was going to leave a nasty bruise in the morning.

“You okay, Leto?” she asked, and Leto nodded.

“Less talking, more swinging,” he growled. Mischa paused, tongue flicking over her lips for a moment before she raised her fists again. They circled each other, looking over their opponent for a sign of weakness or a place they could attack.

It was how Mischa caught the look in Leto’s eyes, the look that contrasted the rest of his impassive face. She hadn’t seen that hungry look since the brig.

“Leto…” she began but didn’t have the chance to finish because Leto took that moment to attack. His left fist caught her hard in the gut, his right following with a blow to the side of her face that would give a matching bruise to his own. Mischa stumbled backwards, tripping over her feet and crashing hard into the gym floor.

Leto cursed, moving over to her quickly. He’d expected her to block, to move out of way, maybe try punching him herself. He hadn’t expected her to stand there doing nothing.

“Frak, Misch,” he leaned over her. “You okay?”

Mischa didn’t reply, only snarled and swept her foot hard into Leto’s ankle, sending him crashing into the floor. He groaned and pulled himself to his knees, only to take the full force of a tackle from Mischa which sent them both roughly to the floor. She grinned in triumph as she pinned his hands to the ground.

Always have to be the winner, Leto thought. He hooked a leg around her waist and twisted them around, Mischa striking the cold floor roughly. They glared at each other, panting as they tried to catch their breath. Not this time.

“Frakkin’,” Mischa started and then hooked her hands around his head, pulling his mouth down to her’s. He didn’t pause at all when her tongue pushed its way into his mouth and kissed her back just as fiercely. Her hands were at the edge of his tanks when she broke away from him just as quickly as she had brought him in.

“Frak!” she pushed him off, getting to her feet with her back to him. Leto sat up, his face a mixture of concern and confusion.

“What’s the matter, Misch?” She turned back towards him, and Leto saw the hurt in her eyes. “Did I do something wrong?”

She hesitated, then reluctantly said, “We can’t keep doing this, Leto.”

“Can’t keep doing what?”

“This,” she said and tried gesturing vaguely between the two of them. “Us. You remember what happened in the brig.”

Leto stood up from the floor. “We didn’t know about the camera. We just have to make sure we-…”

“Make sure we what?” she interrupted him. “Be careful? We’ll always be on the lookout for cameras, for people. And it’s only going to be a matter of time before we make the same mistake again and we’re back to what happened in the brig. Only this time I don’t think the Admiral can let us lightly a second time.”

“Is that what you thought it was, Misch?” Leto accused. “A mistake?”

She paused, staring at him, and nodded. When she spoke again he thought he heard her voice crack, “Yes, Leto. It was a mistake.”

“Right,” he said, and couldn’t hide the hurt from his voice. “Maybe it was.”

She nodded, blinking back tears in her eyes and turned towards the hatch. Leto followed her and quickly rested his hand on the hatch, keeping it closed.

“Leto,” she warned, hands on the latch.

He shook his head. “It may have been a mistake, Misch, but if given the chance it’s a mistake I’d make again, and again, and again, every time. Do you want to know why? Why I’m willing to lose everything for you, why the Admiral was willing to risk her career?”

Mischa turned back to look at him and he could see her trying to decide whether to force her way through the hatch or stay.

“Why?” she finally asked and Leto took the moment to press his lips to hers. The way she didn’t pull back from him, instead going in with all guns blazing and taking him hostage, the way the moment could drag on was more than enough proof than he would ever need.

“Because,” he said, breaking apart from her. “Because I frakking love you, Mischa Margolin.”

She stared at him for a long time. “What?”

“I love you.” He’d done more to prove it; it was in his actions, in the way he looked at her when he didn’t think she would notice, in the way he looked at her when he did think she would notice. But saying those words, admitting it to her, was worth all those actions, glances, the brig.

She stared again, mouth hang slightly open. “Oh, frak this,” she said quickly and grabbed onto the bag of his head, pulling him into a kiss.

It was a long time before they broke apart again. “You really mean it, don’t you?”

Leto rolled his eyes, “Of course I frakking mean it.”

She laughed. “We’re frakked up, you know that?”

“That’s what makes us so right,” he grinned, resting his forehead against hers.

“You know,” she said, “Everyone’s asleep right now and we still have a little time until they get up.”

Leto raised an eyebrow and smirked, “Yeah? What did you have in mind?”

“Well, your quarters aren’t very far from here.”

“Aren’t you afraid someone will see?”

She paused for a moment, then shook her head. “No, I don’t really care if someone does. To hell with them.”

Leto began moving his mouth down to the base of her neck. “Good answer.”

“Know what I could really use?”

“What’s that?”

“A shower in the refresher.”

Leto paused, moving his head up to look at her smiling up at him.

He grinned.

[Ceryll Tana]

The ship entered hyperspace without a problem, and Ceryll soon found herself quietly surveying the surroundings and her companions – better known as “Team One.” The medical officer, Jola’Edana, Pietur, and two others that Ceryll had never met before: ‘Jockster’ and ‘Hawkeye.’ Ati Quai was currently in the cockpit of his ship with the bumbling droid he had called ‘Kaybo.’

Making herself comfortable in her seat, the red-head attempted to find something other than nerves to occupy her mind. They were, after all, returning to the place where almost half of the squadron had perished. Sure, she knew that their mission was an important one…and that the higher ups must have had a lot more faith in the rookies than she had in herself, since they had allowed them to take on such a risky task.

Kaybo wandered into the room, looking as confused as a droid possibly could. Ceryll could have sworn she heard it talking to itself. Suppressing a chuckle, she glanced to her right at the young man who’s nickname was ‘Jockster.’ He caught her glance and winked.

“Hey, beautiful,” he said, all too smoothly. He leaned over and clumsily offered to shake her hand. “I’m Rell McKay, but my friends call me ‘Jockster.’ Pleased to meet you.”

Deciding against being put off by the man’s forward nature, Ceryll grinned back and shook his hand firmly. “Ceryll Tana,” she replied.

Jockster settled back into his seat and took on a purely conversational tone. “So…how long have you been with the Womprats?”

“A few months.”

“What do you fly?”

“And X-Wing,” she said shortly, averting her gaze and scanning the others in the room casually. “And what do you do?”

He patted a sturdy-looking bag at his feet and almost swelled with pride. “Mostly demolitions…and other odds ‘n ends…” he trailed off with a shrug. “But I wouldn’t call myself a bad pilot, either.” Jockster leaned in closer and lowered his voice conspiringly. “See that guy over there?”

Ceryll followed the jerk of his head and nodded when she saw the slim man she had assumed was ‘Hawkeye.’ He was tall and gangly, seeming to have a hard time fitting into his chair. His icy blue eyes traveled around the room, occasionally locking onto an object and studying it until it seemed he was staring right through it.

Jockster continued, still as if he was sharing a secret. “One of the best slicers I’ve ever met in my life, but mad as anything.” He chuckled, shaking his head in something resembling pity. “Trust me…I’m his roommate. If it weren’t for the fact that he knows more than anyone about computers…” he continued to shake his head in amusement.

Wondering what precisely she was supposed to be getting out of all this - apart from the knowledge that Jockster was a poor conversationalist - Ceryll merely smiled back and started to withdraw from the discussion. He opened his mouth, to say something witty no doubt, but was beat to the punch when Pietur spoke up.

“So” she said. “Are you all ready for this? Ahdara Vic at your service. And if you call me anything else I don't intend on answering," she added with a slight wink.

Jockster joined in loudly. “Nat Marl, reporting for duty, ma’am,” he responded jovially, giving her a mock salute and a flirtatious wink. “And you are indeed right, Ahdara,” he emphasized. “We should become familiar with each other’s identities, shouldn’t we?”

Ceryll had to search her memory for a moment before she recalled her new ID. “Shara Dycaal,” she announced, once again thinking hard. “Mechanic,” she added with more surety. She remembered that she thought it fitting and slightly coincidental that she had been given a cover job she was so familiar with.

The others also provide as much information on their aliases as was necessary and Ceryll vowed to commit to memory everyone’s name before they arrived at their destination. As Pietur had implied, it wouldn’t do any good for them to slip something up and get the entire group in trouble.

And if anyone was to make a mistake, Ceryll was sure it would probably be her.

* * *

Jockster continued to joke with Ceryll throughout the flight to the damaged supply depot. She found that the only time she could truly escape him was when she pretended to have a headache and went to bed. Then he would just start to pick playfully on Pietur, or the more stoic character of Jola’Endana. He had little luck with either, but the simple joy of teasing and flirting seemed to be what kept his spirits up. And, as much as Ceryll hated to admit it, the scruffy nerfherder was starting to grow on her. The slicer, Hawkeye, kept mostly to himself, wandering around in the cargo holds and talking with Kaybo. The droid more or less puttered around the ship, still seeming to be a bit out of whack, while Ati kept mostly to the cockpit, conversing with his passengers once in a while.

Ceryll had just spent a fitful three hours sleeping when her watch started to beep shrilly, warning her that the flight was almost over. Pietur, asleep in one of the bunks she had hastily chosen the first day of their flight, grumbled and turned over.

“Almost there, Piet,” Ceryll whispered as she slipped into her jacket and pulled on her boots. “Better hop to it…”

She made a quick stop in the ‘fresher and tamed her wild mane of hair before finding the others. Everyone but Ati, Kaybo, and Pietur was in the main hold. Jockster was attempting to carry on a friendly game of sabaac with Hawkeye, who seemed more interested in studying a wall behind Jockster’s head. Jola glanced up when Ceryll walked in, then returned to scanning her datapad.

Ceryll glanced at her chrono again. Yeah, that was right. They should be arriving at the abandoned spaceport any time now. Blinking the sleep out of her eyes, she passed by the sabaac players, ignoring Jockster’s cheery: “Welcome back to the land of the living!”

The plan was that they would exit hyperspace a distance from the supply depot and feign hyperdrive failure. Though Ceryll had slight misgivings about the whole idea of being stuck in the middle of nowhere without a hyperdrive, she reminded herself that Quai was an experienced pilot and there really was nothing to be worried about. She knew that things like this had been pulled off before with relative ease and so she dismissed all misgivings.

“Hey there,” Ati greeted absently as she wandered in.

Ceryll nodded her own greeting. “How’s it going?” she asked finally, glancing at the cloudy, blue swirl of hyperspace travel outside of the viewport.

“We’ll be experiencing hyperdrive failure in less than ten minutes. Feel free to warn the others to strap in.”

Someone chuckled from behind Ceryll. “Or we could just not and say we did,” teased Jockster, who had followed her into the cockpit.

The two took their seats minutes later, after Jockster had given in to reason and popped his head back into the main hold to give the team the heads up. Ceryll strapped herself in and leaned over to look out. She could see Ati making a quiet countdown in his head…

The ship lurched and there was the sound of shrieking metal, though the sound was not nearly as bad as Ceryll had expected it to be. Just right for a convincing ruse that the hyperdrive had failed. She was, nevertheless, thrown into her restraints and she felt the beginnings of a blackout. But that was only momentary. Where the mayhem of hyperspace had once been, now twinkled only a sprinkling of stars in a massive expanse of no-place-in-particular. She breathed a bit easier, now that the hard part was over.

“So where’s the depot?” Jockster demanded, removing his restraints and searching the vacuum.

Ati didn’t answer for a few minutes, but eventually it wouldn’t have been necessary. With a few direction changes, the ship started to limp along. Finally, Ceryll spotted it just ahead. A bright spot that grew larger and larger until it took the shape of a supply depot.

The same one she and the rest of the Womprats had fought to defend just weeks ago.

“There it is,” Ceryll murmured, mostly just to herself. A slow breath left from between her lips and she felt her pulse quicken just a bit. Leaving her seat, she went back into the main hold to inform the rest of the team to get ready for touch down.

* * * * * *

[Maxwell Gandel]

*thunk-thunk*
smack

...

*thunk-thunk*
smack

"Getting onto the ship is the only real problem," Idanski said, eyes following a bright blue ball as Roschak bounced it thoughtfully from the floor to the wall, catching it on the return trip.

*thunk-thunk*
smack

"Options," the commando leader demanded, pausing with ball in hand to look around the room. Idanski lounged on the room's chouch, while Karis stood behind it and leaned forward against it's back. Deran sat cross legged in one of the chairs around a small table, and Dak sat across from him. Only Roschak stood.

"Hijack a shuttle," Karis volunteered, "Pretend to be crew and land in their hangar... hide in plain sight. We can fit the ship with temporary smuggling holds, bring the explosives in that way."

"Go extravehicular," Idanski offered his own idea, oblivious to the grimaces it produced. "It'll make us smaller sensor targets, and if we don't have any active energy signatures they probably won't see us at all."

"What about the explosives?"

"We take 'em in on cargo sleds, or tow 'em behind us. If we box 'em up in some sort of stealthed containers we can get 'em close easily enough."

"Hmm."

*thunk-thunk*
smack

"Deran? Dak?"

"I'm all for taking a ship in," the medico said honestly. "But we don't necessarily have to hijack one. If we forge valid military idents, get our hands on some uniforms..."

*thunk-thunk*
smack

"What about the ordinance?"

"Take it on as luggage or something," Deran shrugged. "Forge orders to have some crates taken up with us. We can use Idanski's idea for stealthed containers, just in case."

Roschak glanced at the group's slicer, thus far silent. "Dak?"

I think they're all good ideas, sir," He said thoughtfully. "But it comes down to what we can do with the explosives once we get them there. If we go with Karis' or Deran's idea we get the bombs inside the ship. We go with Idanski's, we'll have to either gain access through an airlock or plant the explosives on the outside hull. Trying to get in through an airlock would raise some internal alarms. Planting the ordinance on the ship's outside would cause a number of explosive decompressions, probably kill some crew before they get the area sealed... but capital ships have tough armor. We wouldn't cause much internal damage. If we get the stuff inside, there's no armor to go through. We light off some of those space bombs and torpedo warheads, we're garunteed to do a lot of damage and cause a lot of casualties. Especially if we manage to move deeper than just the hangar. Near the reactor or one of the fuel tanks would be best."

"We'd have to get our hands on some ship schematics to do the most damage," Roschak nodded, tossing the ball from hand to hand. "Think you can get your hands on some, Dak?"

"I can try, sir. If nothing else, I may be able to slice a terminal once we're onboard and bring up a schematic that way. The second way is obviously more risky."

*thunk-thunk*
smack

"Do what you can. Karis, start forging the necessary IDs. Even if we can't get the necessary schematics, we might be able to pretend we've never been on that class of ship before. Some helpful idiot might just point us in the right direction... I haven't decided to go wtih Karis' version or yours, Deran, but we'll still need a cover." Roschak paused, thoughtfully rikocheting his ball off the wall again.

*thunk-thunk*
smack

"Maintenance techs," Karis thought aloud. "Engineers... something like that. We can say our explosives are parts and equipment. As long as we have the right clearance and the right forms, nobody should question us. Most of a warship's crew doesn't pay much attention to anybody outside of their own department, unless they're officers. And posing as techs would allow us to get closer to the sensitive parts of the ship."

"Allright," Roschak nodded sharply. "That'll work. Dak, have you found that underground slicer you wanted to hire?"

"I've got a guy in mind, yeah."

"How much does he want?"

"He says it depends on the size of the job..."

*thunk-thunk*
smack

"Tell him we need to slice past NR military security protocalls and see what he'll charge. And see how many questions he asks... if he wants too much information, we're cutting him loose."

"Got it."

*thunk-thunk*
smack

Roschak looked around the room again. "We'll go with Deran's idea, but we'll keep Karis' in mind as a backup. Ok people, let's get it done!"

************

"We've codenamed this 'Operation Takeout'," Captain Anton Mercils told the assembled captains with a perfectly straight face. Why Gandel felt the need to codename an operation when there was no possible way word of it could leak was beyond him, but Gandel was an Admiral and Anton was just the flagship's captain.

To their credit, the assembled captains also maintained perfectly serious expressions. Anton glanced at Gandel, and the admiral gave a small nod. "As you all know, the food shortage within the fleet has become untenable. Takeout is meant to remidy that situation. Through analysis of area starcharts, a number of target systems have been chosen." Anton pushed a button on the briefing room's conference table, and the holoprojector in the middle sprang to life as the lights dimmed automatically. A sphere showing the space around the 105th's current location slowly turned, and as Anton manipulated more buttons a number of star systems turned from white to gold. "All are agricultural planets that provide the New Republic with most of it's food supplies," he continued, "And all have the advantage of being nearly or completely without a New Republic fleet presense."

"We're still waiting for last minute probedroid reports to verify the vulnerability of these star systems, but we feel the current information is accurate enough to begin the planning phase of this operation." Anton once again manipulated his control panel, and one golden star system zoomed in to fill the holosphere. Individual planets took shape, blue rings marking their orbits around the system's star. "This is the Moorj system," Anton explained, "And unless our probes show an unacceptable level of New Republic military strength, it will be our primary target. Admiral?"

Gandel sat straighter in his chair, looking over every man in the room. The newly promoted captain of the Plague, Petri Utralin, looked thoughtful but worried. Gandel couldn't blame him, the last time his ship was chosen for a raid the bridge had come a hair's breadth from being hit head on with a torpedo. Though he didn't know it yet, Utralin had nothing to worry about this time. The Plague would be staying behind with the Decimation this time. This operation would be the Dominator's show, and Gandel looked at her captain. Harlen Marachek sat stoickly in his chair, face giving away nothing of what he must be feeling.

Next, Gandel's eyes went to Captain Thomas Tureval of the escort carrier Swarm. A more expressive man than Marachek, he looked relieved at the thought of securing more food. Or, Gandel thought, perhaps it was the fact that he thought his ship wouldn't be going in on the raid. Lastly, Gandel looked squarely at Henry Bontell, senior captain of the 105th's frigate defense screen. What must he be thinking as he sat, contemplating the holoprojection? His frigates has thus far been spared from the only action the fleet had seen since returning, but he had to know that wouldn't last.

"Gentlemen," Gandel addressed them all at last, "I hate to propose dividing the fleet at a time like this. Tied down in the defense of the pirate base, we'll need every warship we can spare when the New Republic strikes. At the same time, we cannot continue to function without food. Given that, I'm prepared to release the Dominator and a number of frigates for this operation." Marachek nodded sharply, as if he'd expected his ship to be assigned to the mission and welcomed the opportunity. It hadn't sat well with the man to be left behind during the attack of the depot, even knowing the damage the Plague had taken. Bontell nodded as well, though more in acceptance of the orders than out of anticipation.

"Your holds will be emptied of everything you don't need for a short combat mission," Gandel told them, "Giving you as much room as possible to store the food you'll be securing. Askaza's pirates have also been able to secure us a number of freighters to assist in transporting food. It won't be enough room to bring back the full ammount of supplies we'll need, but it'll be a helluva start. And after this operation, we can expect to be able to carry out at least one more if we do it soon enough. Two such raids should be enough to top off our food stores."

"Now, down to the details. Upon entering the star system you'll begin immediate jamming of all comm traffic, preventing the planet from calling for help just like we did at the depot. Stop what civillians you can from running, but don't waste too much time on it. Your main objective is to place your ships in orbit over the planet, threatening orbital bombardment if you encounter any large scale resistance. At the same time, you'll be landing as many troops as possible to secure their major planetside food stores for transport back up to the ship. If you feel it would be worthwhile, Captain Marachek, you are cleared to take the Dominator into atmosphere. I want you in and out as soon as possible. If the enemy shows up in force, do not engage except to cover your withdrawl. Recover your fighters and your troops, and get out."

Marachek nodded his understanding, though Gandel could tell he didn't like it. He'd follow his orders, though, of that Gandel was certain. "If we feel we can best the enemy?" he inquired. To some, his words may have sounded stiff and pompous, but Gandel knew it was just the way the man went through life.

"If you can do it quickly, and with minimal losses, feel free to engage. But not," Gandel stressed, "At the expense of your primary objective."

"Understood, sir."

"Excellent. Now, according to the pirates, the main population centers..." Gandel continued the briefing, and by the end of it he was feeling much better about his prospects. If all went well, Marachek and his small force should only be gone a few days. And if Roschak's commandos were doing their job, that should be a few days with no New Republic attacks...

[Cayenne Rudal]

Cay chuckled. Her Cap'n sure knew how to lay it on people, 'specially when there was booze involved. Well, it was much more the fact that he was covering for the two rookies so they could finish their bit of hazing in peace - kind of a contradiction, wasn't it? She smiled. It was better this way. Much better.

So, Maggie had a callsign. But they hadn't really decided on something for Belle, now, had they? Well, Whiskey had been tossed around, but that wasn't good enough. The liquor was a joint venture for the pair of 'em, and it sounded like the guys had a few things up their sleeves for the kid. Cay didn't want to be in his shoes right now. So that left Belle needing something a little... extra.

She waited until the tech had left and the rooks had taken their spoils safely out of the hangar before approaching Leto and Mischa. "I've decided we need something a little... extra... for our new blue friend there."

"Whoa, everyone, look out - Spice is giving orders!" Leto teased.

Cay stuck her tongue out at him impishly before continuing, ignoring Vac's laughing reaction. "You know that yellow paint they use to mark out caution areas?"

They both nodded, wondering where she was going with this.

"It's hard to store in cans, so they have it in powder form that they just mix with water when they need to paint. So, if we put some of that powder in her 'fresher..."

"We wouldn't have a blue friend any more," Stone cut in, walking up behind Spice.

"Exactly."

"Don't we have a briefing tomorrow morning?" Mischa asked. "Rundown on what we'll be doing tomorrow and whatnot?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Brilliant!" Cay exclaimed, barely remembering to keep her voice down. "I can sneak the stuff in tonight and in the morning she'll show up in a different hue. If not, we'll all know she doesn't shower enough."

"Cay, you're horrible," Vac said with a grin.

"You love it, and you know it."

"Spice, you think you can get the powder easily enough?" Leto asked.

"Is that my Cap'n looking out for me? Aww, you're so sweet. No sweat. They won't even know I've been there."

He smiled, glad to see her newfound perkiness was still around. "Good."

Cay turned to leave, but couldn't help but overhear the banter that immediately started up again between her captain and that spunky red-haired pilot. She smiled as she headed toward the supply area, but couldn't keep a sharp pang of jealousy from rising up in her chest. Almost immediately she shoved it away, but the sting remained. She shook her head violently as she slipped into one of the supply closets. "Paint powder... paint powder... where in the frak do you guys keep this stuff?"

So she'd told a bit of a white lie earlier when she said it'd be easy to get this stuff. She had no clue where it was. A chance eavesdropping a few days before was the only reason she even knew that such a stunt existed, much less would even work. She thought the tech had said it was in a supply closet in the hangar, but she didn't know which one and she certainly didn't know where in one it would be. Cay sighed. Perhaps this would be a little tougher than she expected.

Then, all of a sudden, her eyes fell on a can of the stuff. She grinned. Throw pessimism out the viewport on this one; Cay had found the jackpot! She had just finished scooping a small amount into a plastic container she'd had in her pocket when the door slid open.

"Oh, sorry, I didn't know anyone was in here."

Cay squinted at the sudden light and only then realized she hadn't turned on the normal illumination. Only the emergency lights were on.

"Can I help you?" the tech asked.

"No, no, I'm fine - just got a little turned around is all," she said, her laugh forced and oddly high-pitched. "I was supposed to find out where some tools were and this is totally the wrong place. I don't even know why I came this way. They're so in the other direction." She laughed again. "So sorry!" With each word she inched closer to the door and by the time she apologized she'd whirled around and began walking briskly across the hangar bay, leaving the tech behind scratching his head. "If that's the one they call Spice, they didn't name her that for nothin'."

* * *

Hours later found Cay in her room. Taking her hair down from the ponytail it had been in, she shook her head to get the kinks out and enjoy the feeling of her hair falling down. She'd always loved that. She liked it even better when someone played with her hair, especially someone like--

She jerked her thoughts in another direction. The installation of the powder in Belle's 'fresher had gone strangely without a hitch. No one had been around - Cay figured they were all exercising, relaxing, or getting food - and she'd been able to get in and out without being noticed. She'd returned to her room and was now preparing for a shower. After her close encounter in the supply closet, her meal and workout, and then the successful mission with the dye... she was ready for something to relax her muscles and get her ready for sleep.

Cay was in and out in minutes, an old habit that had started long ago, when her showers were so long they'd use up all the hot water for her parents and they'd resorted to diverting enough water to her personal 'fresher so that she'd have about five minutes of warm water, and then it would almost immediately turn cold. She shivered involuntarily at the memory, despite the fact that she could laugh about it now. The shock of that icy water had set her screaming, and it was a long time before she would speak to her parents again. But it was funny now. Cay smiled, realizing that she missed her parents and wondered how they were doing.

A few minutes later Spice stumbled into bed and rolled onto her back, staring up at the bunk above her. She realized then that she didn't know who she bunked with, and that she also didn't really care. Ever since Bounder died, she hadn't bothered to find out who was around her. Other than her fellow 'Rats, she barely spoke to a soul. That damn dull ache wound its way back into her chest at the thought of him.

Falling in love was such a frakking stupid idea. Cay closed her eyes and tried to sleep.

[IG-100]

IG-100 held out one of its mechanical hands,

"Hydrospanner."

The mechanic next to him rummaged in the toolbox a moment, then passed it the required tool. There were some metallic grinding sounds and then the hyrdospanner skittered out from under the X-wing. IG-100 followed it out, hauling a large box with intake and outake ports. It stood up and looked down at the air-recycler unit,

"That's the last."

The droid and two mechanics looked around them, an entire snubfighter life support system laying around them on the dock. The senior mechnic shook his head slightly,

"Can't say I've ever intentionally removed one of these before."

IG-100 shrugged,

"Not like I need it. Now where are those schematics - if I remember correctly that should free up some room for a few modifications."

It wasn't technically meant to happen of course, but the mechanics were intrigued by the possibility - and if Command were going to bend the rules enough to put a droid in the pilot's seat, why would they complain about a little fighter customisation? One of the mechanics chewed his lip thoughtfully,

"What are you thinking? Add a secondary weapons capacitor? Engine supercharger perhaps?"

The his companion was chewing on the end of a pen,

"Re-router to pump the shields a bit?"

"If we take out the manual controls and shift the droid interface to the cockpit, we should have room for a capacitor and a supercharger."

The senior mechanic nodded,

"Not like you need an astromech, and if nothing else removing the manuals will stop anyone idiot rookies flying off in the wrong snubbie and working out that it doesn't have life support that hard way."

There was a metallic laugh from IG-100 at the comment, as the droid clambered up into the cockpit to remove the manual controls. It was perfectly happy flying, but it wasn't what it was meant for really. Somewhere deep in it's programming, the war droid was itching for a proper fight. It sighed inwardly - not that it was likely to get one on board a cruiser.

[Gabriella]

"Captain Dervis!" An out-of-breath ensign ran onto the bridge, offering a quick succession of salutes to the officers he passed. Dervis spun around and eyed the ensign like he was a madman who'd been let out of his cage without a leash. upon noticing the wide-eyed look of shock on the young man's face, Dervis' expression melted into one of concern."Ensign?"

"Sir!" The ensign said sharply, then looked at the others on the bridge. He certainly didn't want to alarm them, so he stepped in closer to the Captain and lowered his voice. "The Admiral's been taken to the brig." Like a child who'd just revealed a secret to his parent and was hoping to avoid getting punished for the revelation, the ensign turned his sparkling hazel eyes to the Captain.

"What?" Dervis was confused. He motioned for the ensign to follow him and the two left the bridge. In the corridor, they stepped into a small alcove for privacy. "Start from the beginning and do not leave anything out."

The ensign told Dervis exactly what he had overheard and what he witnessed. Captain Dervis nodded and then dismissed the ensign, ordering him to say nothing to anyone else of the matter. The crew didn't need the added stress right now.

"Sir?" A bridge officer poked her head into the corridor. "There's a communique for the Admiral, but I can't seem to reach her." Captain Dervis turned and nodded. "She's busy. Who's it from?" He asked.

"High Admiral Borstel, sir."

"Transfer to my private comm channel. I'll take it for her and will be away from the bridge for a little while," he said. Dervis took the communique on his way to the brig. Though the guards had been ordered to disallow access to the Admiral, Dervis was let in. The guards really didn't have a choice considering he just walked right past them and kept on going. They weren't going to attempt to stop the ship's Captain.

"Admiral? What..." He began, but Gabriella's look stopped him cold. "Let me guess. Yanesh?" She nodded. Dervis went quiet.

"I'm refusing to turn over some crew members. He claims that's treasonous." She said quietly, approaching the bars.

Darien asked, "Who?"

"It doesn't matter. The point is, I'm not turning anyone over. They don't deserve it." She sighed and lowered her head to rest her forehead against the cell.

"Why? If it doesn't matter who it is, then why risk everything you've worked so hard for?" Darien couldn't fathom why the Admiral was being so adamnant. "Ah. Those whom you refuse to name or turn over into custody are members of the 'Rats, aren't they." Captain Dervis stated, without question. Gabriella just looked at him, but passed on confirming or denying his supposition.

"Listen, Gab," he began with a lowered voice. "A few members of a squadron of misfits isn't worth losing your career over. There are far more important things to take a stand on, Gabriella."

"Sheesh. You're just like Yanesh, Darien. It doesn't matter what position one of my crew holds on this ship, they are all very important to our cause and our functionability." And as her eyes grew cold, she added, "They aren't misfits. They are among the reasons I haven't given up years ago."

Captain Dervis just sighed and shook his head. "I'd wager my career that not one of the 'Rats would risk their careers for you, Admiral."

"Are you so sure you want to make that bet, Captain?" Admiral Nerys shot right back without averting her gaze. Darien just returned her stare until he could bare it no longer. As he looked up the corridor, he drew a deep breath.

"There's a mission underway, Captain. I'd strongly suggest you return to your station. Now."

"Borstel was looking for you." Darien said. "He's on his way."

Gabriella looked at the man, confused. "Why?"

"An ensign accidentally overheard and saw everything. So he came to me immediately." Darien told her. "Shortly thereafter, Borstel transmitted, so I took it for you. I filled him in on my way down here to see you." She just nodded, then looked to him again. "No," he said with a wan smile. "The rest of the ship isn't aware, but I don't know how long that will last."

She was surprised the word hadn't spread like a wild fire out of control throughout the ship already. After all, there were plenty of gossip-mongers on board and many times when the antics of the crew reminded her of grammar school kids on a playground. Gabriella glanced at her chronometer. "They should be at the depot now," she murmured quietly. Nervously, she twisted the watch around her wrist a few times, worried and wondering if the two crews were doing alright thus far.

"We're ready to receive and send messages through shadowcast." Darien said.

"Yeah," she said, distracted.

"They're fine, Gabby." He patted her hand through the bars for reassurance, then made his way back to the bridge. Gabriella narrowed her eyes and watched him walk away. 'You will not be on this ship much longer.'

*****

Yanesh strolled down the cell block corridor with an arrogant pride he never earned. Though he had known Gabriella for years, he never did like the idea of allowing a woman to lead or command anything. That alone explained why he was never married and had never been seen with a woman on his arm for any of the Alliance's formal functions. Women couldn't stand Yanesh and had more respect for themselves than to hook up with a control freak who thought so little of the opposite sex.

"Ah Admiral, there you are." Yanesh couldn't be bothered to hide the joy in his voice. "Well. Are you ready to co-operate or do I have to begin the lengthy process of removing you from command and embarass you by having you removed from the ship in stun cuffs?" He beamed, rocking back and forth on his heels, expecting the woman to cave in.

"I think I'm going to make you do your job. Yanesh." She purposely left out his rank. The beaming smile immediately vanished and in it's place pursed lips burned white from pressure. If blaster bolts could be shot from a person's eyes, Gabriella would have been killed before she ever knew what hit her. From the look of absolute pure hatred that flashed from Yanesh's eyes, she died a thousand horrible deaths in the blink of an eye in the man's own mind.

Gabriella's gaze never wavered from his. Until she grew bored with his theatrics and idle threats and turned her back on the man. The Admiral made herself comfortable on the cot and closed her eyes, stretching out a yawn to the point of over-exaggeration. "AaaaaaAAAAAAAAHHH! I must say, Yanesh, I think I owe you a huge thank you for having me tossed in here. I haven't had much sleep lately and now is the perfect time for me to catch up. Wake me when the shuttle arrives to take me to the inquisition, would you?" Then she rolled over and stared at the wall.

"I may have supported your advancement through the ranks, but I've never trusted you one-hundred percent. And it's not because of your gender, it's because of your past. I'm not so certain it was an 'accident' that you happened to be the closest ship to assist Admiral Voltaire and I find it to be more of a coincidence that you let the Imperials go!" Yanesh's voice rose, allowing any guards in the cell block area to hear the accusation, as well as eluding to her past.

Ever so slowly, Gabriella rolled over and planted her feet firmly on the ground and stood, keeping her head held high. "My records with the Alliance speak for themselves. I will not be goaded into a pissing contest with you nor will I dignify your baseless accusation any further."

"And your Imperial military records speak quite clearly, Admiral Lioncourt." Yanesh's smug smile returned and the fires of the nine hells burned bright in his eyes. "I think, now that I have managed to get a hold of these records, it will be much easier to have you held for high treason and removed from command, along with those who helped you."

"As of now, Admiral Yanesh, I expect you to formally arrest me, read me my rights, and have Council present the next time you address me." With that, Gabriella snapped off a perfunctory salute and set her sight just above the top of Yanesh's head.

"So be it." The Fleet Admiral read the woman her rights and placed her under formal arrest. Yanesh turned sharply on his heels and did not return the salute while walking away.

"Pompous ass," Gabriella uttered as she relaxed the rigid pose and slunk back down onto the bunk for a nap, knowing it would take at least a week before he could get the paperwork pushed through and the process of transferring her from the ship back to Coruscant. It would take another six to twelve months for a trial to even begin.

She had time to kill, so she laid back down and took a nap.

[Jon'son Dethrider]

A plasteel disc, bearing a notably Imperial insignia, snapped out from a launching tube inside the target range in the gunnery room. <I>Tack!-Tack!-Tack!</I> The disc exploded into hundreds of shards as a burst of rapid blasterfire ripped it apart.

Scowling, Jon'son waited impatiently for another target to present itself. A whiff of ozone rose from the muzzle of his Blastech A-280G.

His face still smarted from the quick blow where Misch had nailed him. He didn't expect her reflexes to be <I>that</I> quick. Then again, she had plenty of practice using their captain as a punching bag, so that proved it. The burly E-wing pilot had hoped to blow off more steam here at the firing range, but so far he felt as irate as before. Only a fierce determination not to stir up more trouble and division had kept him from hitting the nearby messhall with his attitude. <I>I can't afford to stir up more trouble than we were just now</I>, he reasoned, <I>not with that wild card of an admiral running around this ship.</I>

Another plasteel disc target peeked out from behind an obstacle. Jon'son efficiently shot it to pieces, firing continously until the Blastech's power pack was drained. He swiftly ejected the drained pack, grabbed a fresh one, and angrily slammed it into his rifle.

An amused chuckle came from behind him. "Sure hope you never get pissed off at me," Leto said with folded arms. The Womprat captain stood a few meters back from the firing range, observing his practice session with friendly interest.

"You haven't. Yet." Stone replied. Jon'son almost smiled but kept his gaze fixed on the far end of the range. His finger tensed upon the trigger. He was fully prepared to blast apart every marked disc in the gunnery range if that was what it took to get past the memory of his parent's disowning and casting him out into the galaxy alone. The intimate conversation with his wingman had stirred those memories back into the forefront of his mind, which soured his mood a bit more. It was bad enough he was insecure about the budding relationship with his captain and Misch, but now the fear of being alone again was present once again. Misch and the rest of the 'Rats were family to him, but seeing six pilots gone that quickly brought him to that reality.

He wasn't jealous of Misch and Leto. Stone wished all the best to them. It just took him unexpectedly and he wasn't one to keep his emotions bottled in. Usually, it came out in a brawl or was drowned in a bottle-- which is how he ended up in the 'Rats in the first place.

"Mind if I joined you for a few shots?" Leto said, before the next target could claim his attention. "Or do you wish to be alone?"

Jon'son reluctantly lowered his blaster rifle and saluted his superior with a raised eyebrow. "Of course not, Captain." The burly pilot noticed Leto was recently showered by his wet hair slicked back. "Go ahead and squeeze off a few."

Leto tugged a wicked-looking blaster pistol from his holster and aimed it toward the range, balancing it in his grip and testing its weight. He tapped his boot down on a scuffed red button built into the floor. The remote mechanism triggered the appearance of another plasteel disc at the far end of the firing range. <I>Tack!-Tack!-Tack!</I> A tight grouping of laserfire shattered the target like a blow to a skull.

"Not bad, Orion," Stone confirmed.

Leto grinned proudly. "Couldn't sleep either, eh?"

Jon'son nodded with a smirk. He noticed upon closer observation Orion had a mark on his face as well. "Misch used you as a punching bag again?"

"Of course," Leto answered, as if puzzled by his question. "She mentioned you sparred earlier with her."

"Yeah, she jabbed a few good ones this time," he replied, as he fiddled with his new collectible. He racked the slide back, removed the barrel, and proceeded to examine the rifling. Leto leaned pensively against the wall as Stone continued. "So I take it you sparred after me?"

Leto's grinned widened. "Guess my face told you that?"

"It tells me enough," he jabbed back, jokingly. <I>And your wet hair tells me you probably showered with her too...</I>

"That bad, huh?" He shook his head. Leto watched Stone suddenly become lost in thought.

"Tell me, Leto," he asked after a moment. "Do you think our pilots are going to come back in one piece? I don't like the idea of being undermanned like this. We got a bunch of rookies to train and a droid, which only just leaves you, me, Cay and Misch. Chanc's still in the infirmary."

Leto's face didn't change as he paused the target. "I'm hoping Adok, Erc, and Ati will have the smarts to come back in one piece with our rookies. We don't have the time or manpower to go searching for more pilots." He sighed a moment. "The Admiral still insists on hunting down that hiding Imp fleet."

"That's my point," Stone insisted. "What's to stop <I>them</I> from hitting us while they're gone? Has anyone thought of that? What's to stop them from knowing where we are? We're half the squadron at the moment." The scornful tone in his voice made it clear how much he thought of this. "If they knew half our pilots were gone, they could be hunting <I>us</I>."

The implied concern got Leto's attention. His amiable grin faded, and he shot him a deadly serious look. "Then I think we should get our pilots up to par as soon as possible," he reminded him, lowering his voice. "<I>If</i> what you fear happens, then we have no time to waste." He carefully holstered his weapon and eyed him warily. "I see your point, Stone. I think we should send our rookies to the simulators as soon as morning comes."

"Agreed," he muttered finally, not wanting to burden his captain with his as yet unsupported misgivings. Shrugging casually, as though the matter was of little import, he began to file away his weapon back into the case, readying himself to leave the range and hit his quarters for some needed sleep. "Then again, I suppose I am just being paranoid."

"Yeah, you could be," Leto smirked wryly. "But I'm taking your thoughts to consideration and getting our rookies in the sims for training after we rest up." After they packed up, both figures stepped out from the range and into the corridors toward the crew's barracks aboard the <I>Second Chance</I>.

Stone nodded, then saluted his superior again. "See you in a few hours, Captain," he remarked, then split off into another corridor. Perhaps his insecurities were tugging at him which were causing his paranoid thoughts? He wondered if he made his captain worry for nothing. Perhaps nothing would happen after all? Maybe their pilots would make it back unsuspected and they would be successful in this hunt?

It didn't make him feel any better. He hoped after a few hours of sleep, it would.

[Chancbacca]

The entire Crew of the Med bay knew enough to leave the Wookie alone when he was irritated. And as he healed, and wanted to be out more, the irritation grew.

Chanc had given in and allowed himself to be dunked, ever so shortly in a Bacta Tank. The few hours in the tank didn't compromise the scar that was going to be a trophy/reminder to The wookie of the encounter. but it did make him much stronger. And allowed him to begin the rehab to get him back up to full strength.

His daily excersises were getting closer to human standards, still very poor for a wookie, but it encouraged Chanc. In fact, after a long talk with a MD droid, He'd agreed to another Dunk in a tank. And it was that second dunk that the wookie was coming out of now.

To a wookie warrior there was nothing worse then the stink of wookie fur wet with Bacta. but the strength that he felt made it bearable. His honor was still there. Knowing half the Squadron was gone on a mission required a compromise to his natural healing to help protect those who were still here.

A Droid tried to explain that the wookie should report to his bunk, but the Wookie insisted on taking a walk. He'd been measuring his progress by how far he could go before becoming fatigued.

with a smile on his face, the wookie returned to his med bay Bunk, happy at the advantage he'd been given in his recovery. Still upset with his being here in the first place though.

There had been one other condition he convinced the Med Crew to agree to. Although he couldn't keep the Bacta Dips out of the official reports, None of the other Rats knew, and it wasn't common knowledge just how far along the Wookie was now. What people did know was there was a fairly nasty looking scar highlighted by the shaved area around it.

Soon enough Chancbacca would be able to return to his quarters and surprise the rest of the Rats in doing so.

[Belle Fibuna]

Belle landed the shuttle easily in the hangar bay of the Second Chance and the landing personnel nervously got to work. Belle’s plan worked perfectly as well. While Captain Tariq was chewing out some of the workers, the Twi’lek and her new friend Maggie hustled the booze through the corridors and into the droid’s personal room. Why a droid really needed a room of his own with a bed was beyond her.

The two new ‘Rats made one trip to the droid’s room and not a word was spoken as they carried the cases of alcohol. It wasn’t until they had hid the stuff under the droid’s spare parts that one of them spoke. And it wasn’t a surprise to Belle that she would have to be the one to break the ice. “No problems,” she said simply, hoping that the shut off pilot would at least give a reply. When he only nodded, the blue female spoke again. “So what made you decide to do it?”

Maggie looked her in the eye and shook his head as they walked down the hallways. “I don’t know,” he said and Belle was sure that he really did know. However, she knew it was rude to pry and kept away from the topic. At least for a while she would.

“Well,” she said as they came to the split in the hallway where she would turn right to go back to her bunk and he would turn left to return to his. “I guess I’ll talk to you later. I’m gonna go take a shower and then grab a bite to eat. Maybe I’ll see you in the mess hall,” she finished with a wave.

“Yeah maybe,” he replied before turning and going on his way.

Belle shrugged and continued on down the passage. Her room was empty and she assumed that Keba was at her post ready for any Imperial invaders to gun down. Just as she had told Maguire, Belle took a shower, got dressed in a new set of coveralls and headed back out again to grab a bite to eat.

As she walked into the mess hall, the blue Twi’lek wasted no time getting in the growing line of hungry navy officials. She felt alienated as all the others in line around her were talking to a friend that was standing with them, while she was left to stand by herself. Tapping her foot and looking at the door every once in awhile, Belle pretended to be waiting for a friend so she wouldn’t look so pathetic. As the line moved forward she even muttered a couple of comments about her non-existent being late to the group of men in front of her.

In one of her fake lookouts at the door, Belle spotted Maggie and started waving her hand in the air at him. “Maggie!” she shouted across the cafeteria at the young pilot who looked at the long line with dismay. If he accepted her invitation to join her, she wouldn’t look like a friendless loner and he wouldn’t have to wait in line for hours. “Hey, Maggie,” she repeated.

Finally, the young man heard her and he made eye contact. He looked somewhat embarrassed that his nickname was being shouted above the roar of innocent conversation, and somewhat disappointed that he would be able to eat in solitude. Still, he looked at the front of the line and followed it all the way to the end and he seemed to be struggling with the decision of having another one-sided conversation with the talkative blue pilot or if he would rather wait out the line.

But lucky for Belle, Maggie moved past the line of people, receiving many glares and snares, toward her. Belle gave him a smile and started to speak. “Hey, I saved your spot for you,” she said so that those behind her would think that he was supposed to be in line with her and he wasn’t really cutting.

“Huh?” Maggie said, seeming somewhat confused of what she was saying. Then it seemed to register in his mind as he continued. “Oh yeah. Thanks,” he said softly as he stood beside her.

Belle was about to start up a discussion, when a tray was shoved into her stomach and she was forced to proceed through the line. She picked out the food she preferred with her fingers and Maggie did the same behind her. Once she was through the line and he tray was full of food, she proceeded to an empty table where her and Maggie could chat.

Belle put her tray down on the table before sitting down on the connected bench. She motioned for Maggie to follow suit and he did with a little bit of reluctance. Before Belle could open her mouth to speak, Maggie stuffed a spoon full of food in his mouth so he wouldn’t have to speak. The Hapan Twi’lek got the hint that he liked silent dinners and she too began to eat. Occasionally during the meal, Belle looked up from her tray at Maggie. He picked at his food before eating it and never brought his eyes up to look at her.

Chuckling a little, she rose from the table and picked up her devoured plate. “Well, thanks for sitting with me,” she said flashing him a smile. “I guess I’ll see you in the morning. Our first official day as Womprats,” Belle said without thinking. It wasn’t until after she had spoken that she remembered, Maguire wasn’t as thrilled as she was to be apart of the famous squadron. She laughed sweetly again and walked away.

After returning to her room, Belle was happy to climb into bed without even changing clothes and once her tailed head hit the pillow, she was asleep.

The next morning, the Twi’lek rolled out of bed, almost stepping on the head of her Chadra-Fan friend beneath her. Lazily, she walked to the ‘fresher and discarded her clothes. She turned on the water and closed her eyes as the hot water from the shower hit her chest. Her sleepiness rolled down her blue skin with the water, and circled the drain. Still, she kept her eyes closed and just let the water soak into her skin.

Belle reached for the soap, but stopped when the water switched from hot to cold. There was no way she was going to stand in a cold shower, so she turned off the faucet and grabbed a towel. She continued her morning routine by getting dressed in a white jumpsuit that she tied around her hips and a low cut crop top of matching color.

It wasn’t until she stepped outside of her room and into the hallway that she looked down at her skin. Yellow? She wasn’t supposed to be yellow! A loud shrieking scream rang through the Second Chance as Belle continued to look over her yellow splotched skin.

[Erc Vortan]

The rest of the Hyperspace trip went well. Erc had been able to dull the edges of military training enough to pass off as a pirate crew. not enough to please him,. but most Imperials should dismiss the group as rabble.

The counter was counting down. 5 minutes to reversion. They had did a practice run as they dropped from hyperspace to reorient for this last leg. Things went less then perfect, but not bad.

Everyone was in position. All systems checked out. The power transfer was ready to throw power to the shields when they reverted. Power was already warming the guns. sensors were ready to sweep the sector they arrived in.

Time was counting down, one last look back showed that Bogey was ready. he'd handle the sensor sweep and report contact. Erc was going to revert them and handle the power transfers.

30 seconds.

15. Hands moved to the hyperdrive handles. the other to the throttles. ready to push up power to the Sublight engines. The ship would always be sluggish transitioning between engines, but Erc had them as close as possible. Only 2 ships he knew of handled the transition better. The Falcon and the Outrider.

"Mark" Bogey sounded off, but Erc was already moving first the Hyperdirve and then the throttles. it seems the ship stopped and then accelerated again. Shields were the next move. As his left hand activated the shields, his right was on the controls, ready to maneuver.

That's when the ship shuttered. "Sensors have a small freighter, type unknown yet, coming in at attack speed. Vector is.....123 mark 56" Bogey was on it. Sounding off into the ship's comm. Everyone aboard should be listening.

The first reply was Dock up in the upper gun turret sending a couple of blasts in the direction of the attacker. "What the Frell, we just got in system, why are they blasting?"

Throwing the Claw into a maneuver to put some distance between the attacker and themselves, Erc replied, "Rem,ember people, we're in the fringe of society here, WE make a living on what we salvage here. competition is bad. And we could have been ready to do the same thing. Kill or be killed."

Whisker sounded off next, cause of the maneuver, the enemy was currently in his field of fire, but the Dual E-Webs wouldn't be much help against a ship this size. "Ah guys, I'm not even scratching his shields when I hit, but I am keeping him moving, you might want to concider.....ok that works." While Whisker was talking, Erc had rotated the ship so Dock now had the attacker in his field of fire. And he wasted no time.

Red flashes moved from the top turret into the forward shields of the attacker. Meant for Ship to ship fighting, Adok was able to track the ship as it tried to maneuver out of the incoming fire. It's shields collapsed in a flash and as he moved off, the hull was impacted directly by the linked fire of the turret. "I got him good, not sure if he's out!"

Bogey answered. "He's out, in fact, you hulled him. Cockpit is open to space. Maneuvering has stopped. He's ballistic."

"Adok, target the engines and take them out. I want that ship." Erc's command was met with silence. As soldiers, they'd never gone after a dead enemy. "We're here for salvage. That ship is better then most of what we'll find here. It's gruesome, but it's what a crew with our mission would do. Fire now!"

Red fire lashed out, and the engines flashed and then died.

"Sensors are all clear, we're alone in this sector. Switching to secondary systems." Bogey was doing his job as Erc had described it. "I have 3 fresh wrecks out there. Looks like our attacker was more successful with the last 3 salvage teams. He has them all together. Frellign bastard killed 3 other crews."

"OK, we take over his bundle. Tractor his wreck to them, and we move to our real mission. We'll consider a vacuumed Ship secured. Adok, Jones, secure your positions and suit up. Bogey and Whisker, you suit up too. Dr Wess, report to the Cockpit, you'll have Radio duty. I have a suit here. I'll be able to move from cockpit to hold. Doctor, I'm sure you were wondering why we'd have a doctor here. If that battle had gone differently, we might have needed you here. Don't think we don't need you. We're just hoping we don't."

20 minutes after the weapons were powered down, everyone was where they belonged. Adok and Jones were currently moving the wreckage of a Tie Fighter into the cargo hold. The entire Hold was open to vacuum, and Erc was giving Whisker and Bogey a hand accepting the wreckage and stacking it correctly. Some of it was being cut down, to get rid of the junk, or low profit salvage. It wasn't being tossed, but bundled, like the attacker did to the other ships, for pick up later. A coded passive transponder being planted in the bundles.

"Captain Jonas" That was the cover Name Erc was operating under, "I'm picking up a distress signal. It's coming from the main structure in the system, the old depot. The Signal is civilian. I think you should come up here."

"I'm on my way." With the Open channel off, and the internal suit comms turned down to minimum power, Erc looked to the 2 officers int he hold. "That's Team 1. They have done what they set out to do. Make sure we have those Imperial flight systems aboard before you seal up. We'll need them to backtrack the Imps. Also, That Pirate ship, the one with the Hyperdrive is our next target. I'm hoping we get a partially operative Navi Computer. That will make things easy."

Erc moved to the first set of doors and opened them. Stepping into the cutoff chamber, he sealed the doors and let the cutoff chamber pressurize. When everything was set he opened the cockpit doors. There was the Doctor, looking a little worse for the wear.

Dropping his helmet on the deck, Erc took his seat. and put the ship's headset on. "Unidentified Civilian Transport. This is Captain Jonas of the Skifter. What seems to be the trouble?

"This is a Registered Transport of Bin Grassi Racing, we've run into some Hyperdrive trouble and could use some help fixing it. We're more then able to pay for any help."

"Ti's never a safe thing to advertise you can pay for help like that, but you're in luck. We are currently in the outer system. We will begin making our way to you. We may have what you need to fix your drive, or can ferry someone to get what you need. Stand by for updates. Skifter out."

"Ok folks, get that Last bit aboard, and our cover mission will be complete. When it's secure, we drive at full sublight towards the Ruins of the Depot. Secure our of EVA suits as soon as we can and be ready to help Team 1. This is where the real fun begins. The Imps or the Pirates have to have left something here to watch what happens."

[Leto Tariq]

Leto was focusing on the flight rotation for the week, trying to find a way to fill the empty slots left by Adok, Pietur, Ceryll, and Chancbacca while chewing on what counted as the morning breakfast on the Second Chance. He jumped in surprise when Mischa dropped her tray on the table, hard. “Hey,” she grinned, taking the seat across from him.

“Hey, Misch.” Leto shook his head and went back to working on the rotation. He had to fix Cayenne’s name which had turned into a long black line thanks to Mischa’s interruption.

“What the frak is this?” she asked, poking at a white glob on her tray.

“I think it’s supposed to be some kind of egg,” Cayenne sampled a similar glob from her own tray and made a face. “But I could be wrong.”

Jon’son shrugged and chewed on his own mouthful, “It all looks like slop to me.”

Leto lifted a small piece with his fork, looking up from his papers. “I’ll have you know this ‘slop’ is the very best that the military can give such a fine squadron as ourselves. This stuff will keep for weeks. Entire armies have marched halfway across the galaxy in the hope they’ll find something new before they have to eat this druk again.”

Mischa smirked, “Besides, if it doesn’t kill you…”

“... They’ll try harder next time,” Leto finished, the table chuckling lightly as they went back to their breakfast.

“You’ve got Stone down three times in a row,” Cay pointed out to him.

“What, where?” Leto blinked at his chart, scanning the page until he found the error. “Frak. I thought I’d almost had it worked out, too.”

Mischa leaned across the table to glance over the chart while IG went into a conversation with Stone that involved using the salt as a visual aid. “Try switching Spice into the second rotation, then put Stone in the third.”

Leto nodded, “I can put Toaster down twice and that’ll free up Maggie for another slot. He’s a droid, so he’ll easily handle double patrols.”

“Slot for what?” Maguire asked, taking an empty seat.

“Look, the rookie finally woke up,” Jon’son commented before returning to his conversation with the droid. He was proving some point by jabbing at the salt with a bottle of ketchup.

“CAP rotations,” Leto explained.

“You forgot someone,” Mischa pointed out. Leto’s eyes went back to the chart, “Who?”

“Belle.”

Leto looked it over and noticed that she was right. “Frak!” Mischa grinned and shook her head while he worked on his corrections.

“Speak of the twi’lek,” Cayenne smirked as the mess hatch hissed open and Belle stalked in.

Looking very yellow.

“Hello, Bel-…” Maguire trailed off as he noticed Belle’s sudden change in colour. The twi’lek rookie grabbed a tray and let it crash loudly onto the table to grab the squadron’s attention so she could explain how unhappy she was about the change.

“Someone’s a pretty little canary,” Mischa spoke into the silence. Belle’s mouth hung open as the table went into fits of laughter.

“Take a seat and eat your breakfast, Belle,” Leto said. “You rookies have a busy day today.”

Maguire blinked in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Leto smiled, “Care to explain, Stone?”

Jon’son grinned at the newcomers to the squadron. “Because we want to make sure you don’t explode or flash him your engines the moment you see an Imp coming out you in his flying egg, you lucky two get to spend a few hours in the simulators.”

“Once we make sure you two won’t splat into the Second Chance, we’ll consider putting you in a real plane.”

Belle and Maguire both grimaced at the idea of spending the next few hours doing training drills in the simulators. The squadron went back to their conversations while Leto worked out the rest of the flight schedule until the breakfast was finished.

“A canary, huh?” Leto asked Mischa as they left for the simulators.

Mischa smirked, “I had a bird for a few months on the Argent Starr when I was a kid.”

Leto grinned, “I like it. Canary fits.”

“That mean Belle finally has a callsign?”

Leto nodded, “We’d better let the rest of the squadron know the good news.”

[Maxwell Gandel]

Lieutenant Sal Masterson checked the preflight telltales, fingers tapping queries into his control panel as the shuttle's engines cycled up. All lights were green, just as he'd expected them to be. Masterson had personally checked his systems only an hour before, so unless some super sneaky Imperial sabateur was running amok on Borleias, and unless that sabateur just happened to choose shuttle delta-one-eight to start their reign of terror, takeoff would go just as smoothely as it always did. Masterson smiled at the thought. Ferrying New Republic personell from their ships to the planet all day every day may not have been the most glamorous of jobs in the universe, but it was definately a safe one, and Masterson was anything but a glory hound.

He checked a few more readouts, then turned to his copilot. "How are our passengers, kid?" Flight Officer Reynolds really was just a kid, at least to Masterson. Reynolds was fresh out of flight school, so new he squeaked, while Lieutenant Masterson had been with the New Republic flight corps since just after they'd taken Coruscant. Before that, he'd spend nearly a decade running shuttles for civillian passenger liners. It was what he knew best, and he did it like nobody else.

Reynolds craned his neck to look through the cockpit's door. Five passengers were all they had for this trip, four men and a woman, but they were mostly engineering types and had brought a lot of equipment with them. One was a pilot of equal rank to Masterson. All five of them were sitting, two of them together and chatting away as if the rest of the universe didn't exist. The other two had picked seats that provided them a bit of personal space and privacy, but all five were strapped in. "Looks good from here, cap'n." Masterson smiled at the designation. Reynolds insisted that, because the shuttle was designated a small starship and not a fighter, the highest ranking officer was technically her captain. That wasn't technically true, but Masterson really didn't feel the need to correct the younger pilot.

"Ok then, let's get 'em up where they belong. And when we come back down, I'll buy you a drink for that perfect landing last run." Reynolds smiled at the compliment, though he contrived to look less embarrased than he actually felt.

"You've got a deal, cap'n."

The shuttle's repulsorlifts whined to life, sending a slight vibration through the hull. The landing pad fell away beneath them and soon they were soaring through atmosphere and into the clouds, the city turning into a mere speck below. Transition through the upper atmosphere and into space was a little rough thanks to some upper level wind shear, but the shaking lasted less than a minute, and then it was over. Black, star studded space burst into view as the blues and purples of atmosphere vanished like a mirage. Masterson checked his nav markers and adjusted the ship's course. Far ahead of them, orbiting the planet in one of the outer lanes, was the Mon Cal cruiser Second Chance. Masterson let himself marvel at the deadly beauty of her organically curved hull.

"You just wait, kid," he told Reynolds, "One of these days you'll be flyin' an X-wing off a hanger deck from one of those things." Reynolds stared almost whistfully at the warship before them, and Masterson had to chuckle. Unlike him, the kid dreamed of being a fighter jock. That it involved the distinct possiblity of ending life as an expanding ball of plasma didn't seem to bother him at all.

"Yeah," Reynolds said. "Then again, cap'n, I may just decide to stick around here with you." Masterson appreciated the sentiment, even though he knew the kid wasn't very likely to do it. He might even mean what he'd said... but sooner or later, he'd get restless and realize he was just wasting his life as a shuttle pilot when he could be doing something he dreamed of. He considered telling the younger man, but before he could decide to or not somebody rapped lightly on the wall near the door. Turning, he found one of the engineering techs standing there.

"Lieutenant Masterson?" She asked, tucking a strand of blond hair behind one ear and smiling with all the charm a naval officer could have wanted.

"Uh, yes?" He responded, wondering what she wanted. Surely she wasn't one of those starry eyed types that marvelled at flying the ships she maintained... then again, if she was Masterson didn't think he'd object just this once.

"Sorry to distract you," She said with a dimpled smile, "But I think some of our equipment's come loose in the hold. I swear I heard something banging around back there..."

"Crap," Masterson muttered as he unbuckled his seat's harness. It wasn't that big a deal, really, the shuttle wasn't making any dodgy moves just now. But if something had broken loose during that bumpy ride through the upper atmosphere, something might've gotten broken. And the last thing Masterson wanted was to explain to some tightass master chief petty officer how he'd let expensive engineering equpiment bust itself against the inside of his ship's cargo hold. "I'm gonna go check on this thing, kid. Try not to fly us into a planet while I'm gone." he growled at his copilot. It was said in jest, but Reynolds often had a hard time picking up on the lieutenant's sense of humor, and Masterson was glad to see Reynolds grin and shake his head in response this time.

"Allright then..." Masterson glanced at the woman's rank badge, "Ensign. Let's have a look at that cargo." The woman stepped aside to let him pass, and Masterson walked easily down the isle that separated the seats into two distinct sections. The cargo access was at the rear of the shuttle, but it was't hard to get down in there if you needed to. "So how big were those noises you heard?" He asked, trying to get a feel for how much stuff might be moving around.

Something tickled at his throat. As he reached up to scratch, however, his neck abruptly constricted as if it was in a vice, and something hard planted itself in his lower back. He lost his footing, pitching forward as blinding pain exploded through his entire head. Lights dazzled his eyes, blinding him as he gasped for breath that wasn't coming. He nearly passed out, then, but years of personal combat training he thought he'd never, ever need kicked in as if from nowhere. Seconds after slamming onto the deck his thumbs were up at his neck, gouging bloody furrows in his flesh as he fought to get something between his airway and the garrot that was crushing his larynx. His thumbs pushed out hard, and it bought him just enough room. All the air in his lungs exploaded out in a ragged gurgleing cry of defiance. Before he could suck in more air, however, something heavy slammed into the back of his head. His face rebounded off of the deck from the force of the impact, and this time he did black out, his last thought of Reynolds, hoping his last desparate shout had been enough to warn the kid...

Reynolds heard it, and turned his head in alarm at the noise. He'd never heard that sort of animalistic cry before, and the way it suddenly cut off was even more alarming. He unbuckled his seat harness and moved for the door, not even sparing the seconds it would take to put the ship into auto pilot. "Cap'n?" He asked, stepping out to take a look at the passenger compartment. The sight that greeted him was a shocking and confusing. Masterson was on the floor, the blonde woman he'd gone out with kneeling on his back and heaving up on a length of cord... a cord that was wrapped around Masterson's neck. "Cap'n!" Reynolds shouted in surprise as his brain registering the older man's blue and purple face, the blood that spattered the deck from his broken nose. Oh no, oh no oh no oh no, his mind repeated itself frantically, no no no...

The nearest engineer was out of his seat the moment Reynolds stepped out of the cockpit, launching himself with impossible speed and agility into the isle and towards the young flight officer. As it had in Masterson, Reynolds' combat training kicked in even though he didn't understand what was happening. But he didn't need to understand. On some basic, animal level he understood that these people had just killed his friend, and he was next.

He had just enough time to fall into a guard position before the engineer - if that's what he really was - was on him. A fist flew in at his face, aiming to knock him out quickly and end the fight in one move. But fast as the attacker was, Reynolds was almost as quick simply because he was young and his combat training was still fresh in his mind. He bobbed his head down and weaved to the side, grabbing clumsily at the man's wrist as it failed to connect. But that punch had been only part of a multifold attack, and the engineer's momentum carried forward, his kinetic energy expending itself with bone shattering force as a knee came up under Reynold's defenses to slam into his crotch. The blow lifted the flight officer up off of his feet, and Reynolds screamed in pain so severe it temporarily erased any concious thought. Luckly, it didn't last long. The engineer batted away Reynold's flailing hands and grabbed either side of his head, twisting sharply. The sick popping sound of bone splintering and snapping echoed through the compartment on the heels of Reynold's scream, and then it was over.

Roschak stood above the body of the young copilot's body, lips taught and face tight. Sweat beeded his forhead, but it wasn't from exertion. It had been a long, long time since he'd killed somebody like that, up close and with his own two hands. But it was over now, and he forced himself to look away from the boy who's life he'd just ended so violently. Karis stood straddling the body of the pilot, her garrot tucked away out of sight in one of her belt's many utility pouches. It was done... they had their shuttle. Now it was time to move on to phase two.

"Deran," Roschak ordered the medico, voice hard as steel, "Get these bodies to the cargo hold and space 'em. Idanski, help him." That was part of the plan. The shuttle was still close enough to the planet that nobody would notice a few bits of space trash being tossed out to burn up in atmosphere. Then he moved to the cockpit, sliding into the pilot's seat as Karis joined him in the empty copilot's chair. They buckled in, and Roschak eyed the control console. It wasn't locked down, not even on autopilot. Too easy. He checked the shuttle's course and found that it hadn't drifted much. It adjusted course to keep them on track, and focussed his mind on the task to come.

The plan was easy enough. Four of them were in engineering uniforms of various ranks, complete with military identifications expertly forged by Karis. Should anybody question them, their credentials would prove look solid. Those four would disembark the shuttle and take the "engineering equipment" with them. The equipment was, of course, a great multitude of explosives. It was all hidden in carefully shielded compartments, of course, and there were some real engineering parts and equipment in there just for show. Armed with the ship schematics Dak and his slicer contact had managed to dig up, the group would travel around setting remote detonation explosive packages (disguised as equipment or storage containers) in sensitive areas.

Idanski alone was decked out as a shuttle pilot. He was to stay with the ship, ready to bring some heavy weapons to bear if the group got into trouble and needed cover fire coming back to the hanger. If the plan went as it was supposed to, everybody would be back aboard the shuttle and headed out the hangar when Roschak pressed the button to set off the explosives. With the resulting chaos and confusion, they would be able (hopefully) to get away clean, using their stolen shuttle to hyper back to the 105th's location.

In case of the worse situation, along with the explosives the team also had firearms hidden in with the equipment. And underneath their uniforms, they wore light body armor. Not enough to stop a direct hit, but it was something.

"Attention shuttle delta-one-eight," a voice crackled over the shuttle's comm speakers, "This is Second Chance flight control. We have you as number two for landing, maintain present flight profile."

"Acknowledged," Roschak replied, "Maintaining profile." And the beauty of it was, he thought, nobody onboard could possibly tell whether or not he was the real pilot. Since the ship came from a contingent assigned dirtside, nobody on the cruiser would really pay much attention.

The shuttle approached the massive warship approached without issue, standing off when ordered so another shuttle could land, then gliding through the magcon field themselves when the time came. As expertly as the real pilot would have, Roschak set the ship down in it's assigned landing area and cycled down the engines. "Front and center, Idanski," he called back into the passenger compartment, "Show's yours now."

"Good luck out there," Idanski said gravely as the two passed each other in the isle. "Watch your butts."

The landing ramped hissed open a minute later, and four New Republic engineers disembarked. The external cargo doors were already open, and they moved with quick competence to unload their equipment. The repulsorlift pallets made things easy, and soon those four engineers were pushing their crates across the deck towards the nearest equipment lift. Nobody challenged them.

[Maxwell Gandel]

Tie Fighters swarmed from the Dominator's hangar bay, bombers following close behind. Already the ISD's turbolaser and quad laser emplacements were blasting away full tilt, venting their destructive fury on the Mon Cal that had closed to trade broadsides. The space between the two ships was a canyon of death, energy pluming and crackling away from shields that had yet to fail. Any fighter that tried to weave it's way through that maelstrom was sure to be vaporized.

Elsewhere was another matter. Flight Lieutenant Showforth checked his HUD sensor display, noting the position of hostile starfighter units in the area. There were a lot of them, and they were swarming around the Dominator like flies around a carcass. Showforth swore under his breath and pushed the throttle to maximum. Twisting and rolling he brought his TIE up and around the other side of the star destroyer. Checking his HUD once more, he saw that the rest of Alpha Squadron had followed him through the maneuver. Time to get things started...

"Alpha Squadron, Alpha One. Our objective is that squadron of X-wings coming in from four zero point seven. We'll come in from their starboard side. Designate..." Showforth checked his targetting computer and flagged three enemy starfighters, "These fighters as primary targets. Focus fire on them as we come in, then break by fours and engage targets of opportunity."

A series of quick acknowledgements came back, and they began their maneuver. Other fighter squadrons, TIES and X-wings alike, filled the combat zone, twisting and diving in a furball so intricately complex that it would have looked completely random to any outside observer. But it wasn't random, and Showforth knew it. Each squadron had it's role to fill, it's on objectives the accomplishment of which would contribute to the overall success of the battle for one side or another.

Alpha Squadron's objective came up quickly, for the X-wings were headed in at the Dominator for what could only be an attack run similar to what had nearly destroyed the Plague's bridge at the battle of the depot. And to make things worse, they'd looped around to come in from an angle that no other enemy formation occupied... and all the other Imperial squadrons were off dealing with their own objectives.

"They've spotted us," Alpha Three's dispassionately filtered voice crackled over Showforth's helmet commlink. Sure enough, nearly half of the X-wings had broken away from the rest of their squadmates. Overconfident so and so's Showforth thought, but he began to doubt that assessment even as it crossed his mind. The enemy was nearly in torpedo range of the Dominator, and Alpha Squadron had to get to them quickly. But with half the enemy squadron moving away to provide cover, the TIEs had a tough choice to make. Either they tangled with the fighters sent to hold them up and risked not reaching the others in time, or they flew right on past the covering fighters and risked getting hit from behind.

Showforth needed to make a decision, and he needed to make it soon. "Seven, take half the squadron through those incoming X-wings. Hit the bombers, I don't want them getting a volley off. Everybody else, follow me. Reassign... these fighters as primary. Watch each other's backs, now, here they come."

The six X-wings that had broken off from the main formation came rushing in at top speed, S-foils locked in attack position. Showforth gritted his teeth and tightened his hands on his control stick. It'd been years since he'd gone into a fight without massive numerical superiority, and he was only too aware that his TIE was a very fragile thing compared to the enemy X-wing. The seconds 'till engagement ticked down, and finally the two squadrons reached weapons range. "Seven, break!" Showforth snapped, and half of Alpha Squadron broke into mind bending evasive maneuvers that would've killed a man without inertial compensators. The other half of the squadron ran straight into the jaws of death, green lasers blasting forward at fighters that were sending twice as many red energy lances back at them.

Thankfully, the long initial range gave Showforth and his TIEs a chance to dodge. And dodge they did. After only a few seconds of holding down his firing stud, the squadron commander yanked hard on his flight stick, sending the fighter spinning down and to the right before snapping back up to fire once more at his target. But the pilot of the other ship was fast, and his he adjusted his fire far more quickly than Showforth would have liked. It forced his to abandon his attack, once more pulling into a quick evasive snap roll. He cursed aloud as a red laser punctured his port solar panel, just missing the domed top of his ball cockpit as it sailed off into empty space. He rolled again, trying to lose the fighter that was now settling in on his tail. A duo of red energy bolts zipped by, one missing cleanly while the second scorched a glancing blow to his starboard solar panel support strut.

Despite the near misses, he was breaking away from his pursuer. The TIE's only advantage - it's speed and maneuverability - were paying off. Showforth glanced at his HUD's sensor display, noting with some satisfaction that the half of Alpha Squadron sent through the dogfight were approaching their targets without pursuit. Then he noticed the number of fighters his half of the squadron had lost, and flinched inwardly. Of the six that had engaged the X-wings just seconds ago, only four were left. Damn, Showforth cursed. Two fighters gone in the initial engagement. That didn't boast well for the rest of the fight. Time to even the score a little...

Pulling back hard on his flight stick, Showforth sent his fighter into an up and over barrel roll. The pursuing X-wing tried to match the maneuver and stay behind him, but the TIE's superior speed saw it through the roll. Showforth settled in behind the enemy fighter, hands twitching the flight stick back and forth as he followed the other's evasive maneuvers. But it was no good... once Showforth settled in, his superior maneuverability ensured he was going to stay there. He pushed the firing stud, and green death lept out at the enemy fighter. Shields flared, but under a sustained barrage they weren't going to last long, and -

"Alpha One, break right!"

Showforth snapped his stick to the right, putting a little spin into the maneuver just for good measure. He was glad he did. A staggered burst of red laser blasts passed through the space he'd just occupied. The friendly fire slammed into the back of the X-wing's already weakened shields, and two of the bursts actually impacted into it's hull in a shower of sparks and molten armor. The X-wing that had fired roared by just behind it's salvo, pulling up and around to miss colliding with it's damaged comrade. One of Alpha's TIEs was in hot pursuit of that second X-wing, green lasers splashing against stubborn New Republic shields.

Showforth brought his fighter up and joined the pursuit, abandoning his previous target. With two TIEs on it, the X-wings shields failed and emerald fire raked across it's exposed hull. The aft end of the ship's hull exploded brilliantly, sending it's cockpit and S-foils spinning off into space. "Good job, Four," Showforth praised his squadmate before pulling away to home in on his previous target.

Battle chatter filled his ears as he stole a glance at his sensor display, and realized that they'd lost another TIE while the enemy had lost only two X-wings. That made it four against three. Another searching look and Showforth saw that Seven's half of the squadron was dogfighting the other half of the X-wing squadron, with considerably less luck. At least, Showforth told himself, the enemy wasn't still coming in on a bombing run...

"Break and assist Two," Showforth ordered Four. He didn't spare the other TIE another thought as he settled his targeting sights on the damaged X-wing. Two of it's engines were no longer functioning, he noted, and though the fighter was running as fast as it could, it wasn't going to outrun a TIE. He smiled grimly and pressed the firing stud, sending a burst of green lasers directly at it's damaged aft end. The X-wing dodged, pulling sideways at the last second. Showforth's lasers still took off one of it's S-foils, but that only registered in the back of the squadron commander's mind as he saw a group of red laser blasts coming straight in at him.

He realized, just before those lasers hit, that the X-wing had been running towards the other half of it's squadron. Having handled Alpha's other half easily, they must've send a few fighters to assist their comrades... and Showforth had flown right into a well executed trap.

The lasers slammed into his ball cockpit as if it were a bullseye, punching through into his ion drives. They exploded with all the brilliance of a small supernova, and what was left of the fighter spun off into space.

"Damn. Damn, damn, damn," Showforth cursed as the simulator's hatch opened. He pulled off his flight helmet and stood, sweat cascading down his face. Those pilots who had already "died" in the fight stood outside of their own simulators, helmets off and resting on the deck or under their arm. There were a lot of them, and not just from Alpha Squadron. Half the Dominator's fighter compliment was taking part in the exercise to defend the ship from an imaginary ambush, with the other half playing the "bad guy" NR squadrons. "That was a massacre," Showforth continued to vent as he hopped down the ladder and onto the deck. "There's no way we can take a squadron of those fighter to fighter." He looked at his XO, Lieutenant Cardigan, for confirmation.

"I have to agree, sir," the shorter man replied. "There's just no balance... speed and maneuverability may have their advantages, but it's not enough. Not when a lucky shot can take out one of our TIEs, and we have to pound on their shields until they fail." He shook his head.

"If we would've had the entire fleet's fighter core out there with us, it wouldn't have been a problem," One pilot observed sourly. "We've always had the advantage in numbers, why should we start playing it even all of a sudden?"

"Because," Showforth explained with a sigh, "Things have changed. We're not fighting small, backwater, single system alien governments anymore. Most of their tech was so basic we probably could've taken them fighter to fighter and won anyway. No... I don't like it any more than you lot, but now we're fighting something much bigger. You've read the intelligence briefs. This New Republic that's out there, it's taken the place of the Empire. It beat the Empire into submission while we were gone, and it's got us as a fleet outnumbered hundreds to one. We need to learn to fight them one on one and win, because if they decide to throw everything they've got at us the odds won't even be that good."

"Sounds like we need to hook up with what's left of the Empire, you ask me," Another pilot commented. He wasn't in Alpha Squadron, but he was close enough to hear the conversation. "Why haven't we done that yet?"

"I don't know," Showforth addressed the man - a bomber pilot from Tau Squadron, from his unit patch. "That's Admiral Gandel's decision, and Captain Marachek backs it. They've got a better idea of the situation than we do. And if I were you, I wouldn't start questioning their decisions in public."

"Nothing against the admiral," The man said raising a hand, "But I hope the old man knows what he's doing on this one."

****************

Captain Marachek looked over the latest simulation reports, and his face was grim. Just before he'd left on his food gathering expedition, the technicians aboard the Decimation had finished their tear down and rebuild of the captured "X-wing" class fighter. Per Admiral Gandel's orders the information had been used to develop a simulator mockup of the fighter, and that mockup had been distributed throughout the fleet for training purposes. What little information that had been gathered on the enemy cruiser during the battle of the depot had also been included as a training resource and distributed. Given all that, Marachek had decided to make use of the Dominator's long stints in hyperspace during it's trip to Moorj.

One simulation set had already been completed, with TIE squadrons engaging X-wings with the three to one advantage in numbers that Imperial doctrine dictated for any fighter engagement. That series of sims had gone well, though there had consistently been higher than expected casualty rates. Not enough to warrant a rating of "failure" for the squadrons involved, but enough to be worrisome. For the next set of simulations, Marachek had taken things one step further. Knowing that the 105th was one fleet against an entire Republic, he'd opted to do away with the numerical superiority his pilots were so accustomed to. Even failure in such a simulation could only be a learning experience for the pilots involved, he'd reasoned. Well, it had been a learning experience all right, for Marachek as well as his pilots.

The initial rounds had been massacres, with his TIE squadrons taking nearly three times as many casualties as the fake New Republic fighter squadrons. One simulation had even produced casualty rates as lopsided as five times those of the simulated NR squadrons... though to be fair, the pilot playing the NR squadron commander in that sim had come up with a particularly devious bit of tactical brilliance. Marachek had expected his TIE pilots to get better with each sim, to even out the casualty rates as they learned how to react to their NR counterparts. Instead, the casualty rates had just kept getting worse as the pilots flying the NR ships had become more familiar with their mocked up fighters.

The overall lesson was clear. Standard fighter doctrine was not going to work against NR fighter squadrons. Something else, something more radical was needed. The Dominator's CAG had already begun formulating new strategies with his squadron commanders, but so far none of them had been tested in the sims.

Given that information, Marachek was surprised the casualty rates at the battle of the depot had been so low - comparatively speaking. He'd discussed the matter with his CAG and decided that several factors had come into play. One, the NR depot had been caught completely off guard. Two, the NR squadrons had engaged the pirates first, and it was the pirates who had borne the brunt of that assault. Third, the 105th's ships had come in virtually right on top of the engagement, hitting the NR squadrons from the top and rear when they were already engaged with the pirates. And, finally, numerical superiority had played a major role in swamping the defending NR squadrons.

Marachek set the report on his desk and leaned back in his chair. Moorj was supposed to be lightly defended, with only regional planetside defenders and a few roaming system patrol craft for anti-piracy purposes. With any luck, the appearance of a Star Destroyer and two frigates (plus nearly a dozen freighters) would be enough to scare them into surrender. But after seeing the simulation results, Marachek was in no mood to take chances. The probe that the Decimation had dispatched to the system was still there. The Dominator and it's small fleet would drop out of hyper close enough to access the probe's sensor feed, but far enough away to avoid detection from anything in system. Just in case.

***************

Roschak nodded courteously to another engineer as they passed in the hallway. So far, nobody had really looked twice at the quartet of Imperial commandos as they pushed their "equipment" down the wide engineering hallways within the bowels of the Second Chance. Maybe it was because Roschak wore the rank badges of a Fleet Chief Petty Officer, or maybe it was because he'd been right... a warship this big had so many people on board - nearly six thousand officers and crewers, not counting the military contingent - that nobody knew many people outside of their own departments.

"Ok chief," Dak said, motioning towards a set of doors coming up on the right, "That's Charlie." He consulted the datapad he carried, then nodded in confirmation. Target Charlie was one of the Second Chance's sublight drive rooms. Destroying it (and a good portion of anything above, below, and to either side of it) wouldn't cripple the massive warship. There were multiple sublight drives clustered at the aft end of the ship, each seen over by a number of drive rooms. But if it wasn't going to be a crippling blow, it would cause chaos and destroy a lot of complicated, expensive equipment that would probably require a long time to replace. The commandos had already planted explosives at targets Able and Baker, which were a communications room and a damage control room respectively. A life support control room, a hyperdrive maintenance access room, and the ship's main power reactor were next on the list. Last would be the ship's internal ammunition stores, where things like torpedoes and space bombs were kept for the fighter squadrons. If that went up, it was likely to take a massive chunk of the ship with it, and Roschak wanted to put place his charges there last, in case (force forbid) something detonated ahead of schedule.

All in all, the combination of targets was calculated to create a lot of confusion and a wide variety of problems for the ship's crew.

The doors to the sublight drive room opened obediently, and Roschak led his people into the room beyond. As a maintenance and engineering room, most of it was actually a network of crawlspaces and access routes to vital systems. The only part of it that was actually a "room" was the initial entryway, which boasted a number of consoles and status displays with a variety of lights and readouts. Should anything in this drive room's jurisdiction fail, it would show up here as an amber warning light of warbling alarm. The cheif technician on duty glanced up from a datapad as Roschak and his team walked in. He raised an eyebrow curiously, and saluted lazily as he saw Roschak's rank. "Sir," he said simply.

Roschak took in the man's fluid stained utility overalls and saluted back. "Chief," He replied with a slight smile. "How're things looking down here?"

"Well as can be expected, sir. Those relays to junction four seventeen are still on the fritz," He used his datapad to gesture at one of the wall mounted status readouts, "but we're working on getting the replaced ASAP. Gotta pull the whole damn run to find the problem. Aside from that, everything checks out."

"Good, good," Roschak contrived to look pleased at the status report. "I'm sure you'll handle it just fine... and don't worry, me and my people aren't here to look over your shoulder. We've got some business to take care of in junction..." Roschak frowned and glanced at Dak, who dutifully consulted his datapad.

"Three Oh Eight, sir," Dak provided dutifully. Roschak nodded.

"Junction Three Oh Eight. Do you have any men in there just now?"

The chief technician consulted his datapad, rapidly pushing the button to flip through pages of documentation. "Ah, no. Nobody anywhere near there, actually. It's been working perfectly. If you don't mind my asking, sir, what is it you'll be doing down there?"

"Just a little bit of inspection and overhaul," Roschak replied quickly. "Checking to make sure everything looks good, pull those parts that look like they're wearing too much and replace them with new ones. That sort of thing."

"About time," The technician said with a smile. "I've been trying to get maintenance down here to do a thorough part reevaluation for months. Not a top priority, they keep telling me."

"Well, looks like you've been moved up on the list," Roschak told the man, waving the rest of his team down an access corridor. "Just do me a favor, and keep your people away from that junction while we do our work. If anything needs switched out, we'll let you know well before we pull it."

"You got it, sir." The tech watched the engineers move deeper into the ship's bowels, then returned to watching his status monitors. It was good to finally get some attention around here...

A half an hour later, Roschak led his people out of the drive room. The chief tech who'd been there when they came in was gone, and none of the more junior technicians seemed to pay any attention as they left. Back in Junction Three Oh Eight, hidden behind an out of the way data relay access hatch, was a cluster of improvised explosive munitions tired to a remote detonation receiver. Had anybody been around to see it, they would have noticed that the only light on the device was a slowly blinking, ominously red LED underneath the word "armed".

"So far, so good," Karis said with a smile as they group moved down the corridor towards their next target. "You know, it's almost scary how easy this is."

"Don't say that," Deran muttered, looking around nervously, "you don't want to jinx things."

Ten minutes later, the commandos rounded a corner and were within sight of their next target: Environmental Control Four, one of several stations responsible for maintaining the ship's life support levels. "Here we go," Roschak said, "Second verse, same as the first."

Petty Officer (first class) Hagar looked up from his control station as a quartet of engineers with grav sleds walked into his environmental control room. That's odd, he thought, We don't need anything fixed down here. Yet apparently he did, as the leading engineer (A fleet chief petty officer, no less!) approached. "Good evenin', sir," Hagar said amiably. He was a friendly sort, as all of his buddies knew. And he was one of the few people on the Second Chance that had been with her for as long as she'd been in the NR Navy.

"Evening," The officer replied with a friendly smile. "How're things down here, Petty Officer...?"

"Hagar, sir." He pointed to his jumpsuit's nametag and grinned. "An' things are goin' just fine. People were still breathin', last I heard."

"Indeed," The engineer actually chuckled. "Well, we're here to make sure things keep on working. Just keep doing what you're doing, don't mind us." The engineer moved off, waving his fellows ahead of him into one of the maintenance access corridors that led to the air scrubbers and airvent junctions.

"Ah," Hagar ahem-ed pointedly, "Sir, I don't recall bein' informed of your activities. I hate to be a pain, but what is it you're gonna be doin'?"

The engineer paused, tilted his head to one side, and contrived to look somewhat annoyed. "You weren't informed?" He asked. Hagar shook his head. "Huh. You were supposed to be filled in on everything. So you could make any preparations needed, etc. You sure they didn't send you a notice?"

"Sure as I'm standin' here, sir."

"Ah. Well, in that case... we're here to survey your parts and equipment. If anything is showing excessive wear, we replace it. This is just the initial survey, though, if anything needs to be pulled and replaced you'll have ample warning."

"Ah. Well, carry on then. There's nobody back there just now, so there won't be anybody in your way." Hagar nodded towards the access corridor, and the engineer nodded his thanks before disappearing with the rest of his people. "Huh," the environmental tech muttered as he watched the engineers go. It was odd, he thought, that Shively wouldn't have told him about something like this. It was possible the old buzzard had wanted to keep things a surprise, but he'd never done that before. Hagar decided to give the maintenance chief a buzz.

"Maintenance, Lieutenant Commander Shively," A grizzled voice responded. He sounded annoyed, but then, he always did.

"Shively, it's Hagar in environmental." The environmental tech, having been aboard the ship for such a long time, knew just about all the senior officers by name. And he played cards with every "original" department head on a regular basis.

"Ah," Shively replied, suddenly sounding less irritated. "What is it?"

"Just wonderin', old boy. Did you send me a notice about the crew you got down here today?"

"What crew?" Shively demanded so sharply that Hagar blinked in surprise.

"The maintenance crew. They say they're lookin' for parts that show excessive wear. Told me they're gonna replace 'em."

"If there's a crew down there, I didn't send it," Shively growled, and Hagar felt his spine start to tingle. "Hold on," The older man muttered, "I'll check to see if some enterprising upstart decided to take initiative without telling me." Hagar's mind did a little flop. Shively knew everything that went on in his department. If somebody was giving orders without his approval... "Nope," The older man finally came back on, "I don't know who's playing at what, Hag, but none of my crews are down there under orders. Who is it?"

"What" Hagar asked, trying to run through the implications that were suddenly popping up everywhere.

"Their names, boy, what're their names." Shively said far too patiently. He knows something's wrong, too, Hagar realized.

"Uh... I didn't catch any but one. A fleet chief petty officer, I think he was. His nametag said Roschak."

"Roschak," Shively muttered, "Roschak..." The seconds dragged on, and Hagar assumed Shively was checking through his personnel records. Finally, he came back on. "Hag?"

"Yeah, Shively?"

"There's nobody in my department named Roschak."

"Sithspawn."

"Yup... sithspawn."

*******************

Hagar did something he never thought he'd do... he abandoned his duty station. Without a replacement present, he got up and left Environmental Control Four. He worked things out in his mind as he walked, barely noticing where he was headed. Those engineers in Environmental Four weren't with Shively's department. But they claimed to be... which meant they probably weren't with engineering at all. But they had New Republic uniforms, New Republic rank badges, so they had to be New Republic, right? Right...

But what did that mean? Hagar remembered a rumor he'd hear recently. A visiting Admiral, Yanesh, had thrown Admiral Lioncourt in the brig on trumped up charges. No... no, that hadn't been a rumor. He'd heard it from one of the security personnel that guarded the bridge. Yanesh had actually accused her of treason! If he could do that, what was to stop him from doing more? What if he wanted to take the entire ship for his own? It made no sense, yet it made perfect sense all at the same time.

Hagar's thoughts snapped into focus as he realized somebody was standing in front of him, speaking to him. "What?" He asked.

The armed guard looked exasperated, but repeated the question anyway. "I said, what business do you have in the brig?"

The brig? Oh! "I'm here to visit the admiral," Hagar replied levelly. The guard raised an eyebrow, as if to wonder why somebody of Hagar's rank would want to speak with the imprisoned Admiral Lioncourt, but he didn't comment.

"Ok. Step through the scanner. No weapons or dangerous items... ok, you're clean." The guard led Hagar through the cell block, a cushier affair than would ever be found on an Imperial warship, but still a far cry from your quarters. They stopped before one of the cell doors, and the guard rapped on the bars.

"Visitor for you, sir." He glanced at Hagar, then at the admiral. "I'll be just over there," he warned, and stepped away down the corridor.

******************

The commandos moved down the corridor, having finished hiding their explosives in Environmental Four. Despite the sense of victory and accomplishment they were all feeling, Roschak was nervous. Things were going too easily, and as the old combat axiom went, "if it's too easy, it's an ambush". The thought was made all the more poignant as a duo of ship's security officers - one Bothan, one Human - rounded a corner and strode down the hallway. Roschak thought they'd just pass by, but when one of them looked down at a datapad he carried, then back up and right at Roschak, he knew things were about to get messy.

"You, sir!" The guard ordered, gesturing to the group in general, "Hold on a second."

Roschak cursed mentally, but smiled and waved his people to a stop. He saw Dak slide a hand into one of the compartments where the weapons were hidden, and hoped the slicer wouldn't do anything stupid. "Is there a problem, officer?" He asked, hoping the obviously cheesy joke would lighten the mood. The security officer just shook his head as if he'd heard the line a million times.

"We've had reports of some suspicious activity," he said simply. "Present your IDs."

The commandos produced their forged IDs while the second guard, a Bothan, stepped up and started taking a closer look at the "equipment" on the sleds. He opened a few of the containers, but saw only the dummy equipment that the commandos had placed for just this sort of moment, and Roschak tried to watch him and the man scrutinizing his ID at the same time. "I'm going to have to ask you to step over here," the guard with the IDs said ominously. The look he shot his Bothan partner was enough to trip alarm sirens in Roschak's mind.

He'd been caught. He knew he'd been caught, and so did the guards, who's hands were even now resting on their blasters. The commando leader evaluated his options. He didn't have any weapons on him, he'd have to go for the weapons hidden with the explosives. There was no way he'd make it in time, though some of the other commandos might be able to. He could try taking them hand to hand, but he didn't want to try his luck against the combat reflexes of men who had their hands on their guns already. The only option left was not surrender. No... Roschak wasn't going to just give up. Slowly, he slipped a hand behind his back to where the remote detonator was tucked into a pouch on his utility belt.

That small movement was enough to show the guards he knew he was caught, and they drew their weapons faster than Roschak could have gotten to the hidden weapons. Good thing he hadn't opted for that choice. "Don't shoot!" Roschak said loudly, slowly moving his hand out from behind his back, "I have a remote detonator here," he held his hand out to his side, thumb flicking the "arm" switch before hovering above the big red button that would wreak so much havoc. "It's tied to heavy explosives set throughout this ship. One wrong move, and I push the button. Now, we're gonna just walk right on out of here... and if you let us go, nothing has to blow up."

The guards held their weapons level, pointed directly at Rosochak. "Drop the detonator," One of the guards ordered. "There's no reason to do anything foolish here. Just drop the detonator, and everybody walks away alive, ok?" Roschak smiled slightly, but shook his head.

"I don't think so. Now, my team is going to go for their weapons. Just a self defense maneuver, nothing to worry about. But if anybody starts shooting, the bombs go off." The Bothan guard started going for his commlink, but Roschak twitched his head. "None of that, now. Once we're out of sight you can call all the backup you want. Until then, comm silence." Roschak nodded to his team, and they quickly retrieved their hidden weapons.

"You won't make it off this ship," The Bothan told Roschak with such a tone of certainty that the commando leader almost believed him. "There's nowhere for you to go. Let's just make this a bloodless situation. You give up the detonator, and we take you into custody alive. You push that button, you're all dead."

"Yeah, but we'll be taking a hell of a lot of you with us," Roschak said dangerously. He tossed his head to the side. "Let's get out of here. Karis, cover our friends there and bring up the rear. Dak, Deran, make sure nobody blocks out path."

The commandos started moving down the corridor, and the guard stayed put. Other crewmembers who'd been in the hallway at the time were back up against the walls, not wanting to antagonize the man with the remote detonator. Roschak kept an eye on the ones nearest him as he moved, and caught the eye of a Twi'Lek. She started at him hard as he moved past, and he found his eyes locked on hers. A corner of his brain knew it was coming, but that didn't prepare him for her to actually plant a foot against the wall and leap forward at him. He spun, thinking to block a body attack. But that wasn't the Twi'Lek's target. Her hands grabbed at his wrist and the detonator he held, the rest of her body bowling into his as an afterthought. They both went down, grappling for control of the detonator, and Roschak heard blaster fire erupt in the hallway.

But he didn't have time to spare for that... right now, he needed to get control of that detonator. "Stop!" He shouted at the Twi'Lek, "For sith's sake, let go!" Roschak's worst fear, though he couldn't say why, exactly, was that the woman would accidentally trigger the explosives set throughout the ship. It wasn't that he was afraid the ones in the stealthed crates would go off... they hadn't been armed yet. It was that the woman would be killing her own crewmates, and somehow that was even worse than Roschak doing it.

The two struggled on the floor, the Twi'Lek's hand wrapped around Roschak's thumb, pulling back on it so hard he thought it might break off, keeping it from touching the button while her other hand tried to twist his wrist enough that he dropped the device. It was a good plan, Roschak though, but she couldn't possibly have thought it was going to work. More slowly than he would have hoped, Dak and Deran turned to assist, and unlike the Twi'Lek or Roschak, they had blasters.

The Twi'Lek had managed to get up onto her knees to leverage the detonator, and she almost had it when a pair of blaster bolts struck her in the back. Her face froze in shock, and she pitched forward into Roschak.

The detonator sandwiched between them, and Roschak gasped as he heard the distinctive 'click' of that big red button. "Sithspit," He growled, and then the first explosions shuddered through the ship.

He pushed the Twi'Lek off of him, and quickly got to his feet. The power flickered, and red emergency lights came on as a power relay that ran through Environmental Four was cut by an explosion. Quickly, he took in the situation. Karis was down, but so were the two guards and a number of bystanding crewmembers. "Karis!" He shouted, discarding the detonator and moving to his fallen team member.

"I'm ok," She said tightly as Roschak helped her up off her back. It was far from true, he knew, and the scorched flesh of her abdomen attested to the severity of her wound. But she was still up and alive, and that was what mattered. Roschak wrapped her arm around his neck, pulling her to her feet and helping her walk.

"Let's get out of here, people!" He shouted, and the commandos took off down the corridor.

They made a series of blind turns, just wanting to get as far away from the sight of their botched encounter as possible. A pair of security personnel stepped through a nearby hatch, and one was down before he even had time to draw his blaster. The other was faster, pulling his blaster and opening fire. The shot hit Dak in the chest, just below the neck, and knocked him from his feet. Karis, blaster clenched in her free hand, sent a bolt into the guard's chest as Deran put one in his stomach, and he crumpled to the floor. The team medic dropped to one knee by Dak, checking his vitals.

Roschak tossed his head in question as the medic looked up, mouth tight. "No good, he's gone."

"Grab his datapad and let's go," Roschak ordered. He needed to get himself and his team out, before he lost anybody else. They hobbled down the corridor as fast as Karis could go, Deran fervently trying to figure out just where on the datapad schematic the team was. Finally, he picked a door. "There," he said, "I think... through there."

Roschak punched the door's entry pad, and it slid obediently open. A guard behind a desk stood as the door opened, his mouth opening to ask a question. He never made a sound, as Karis put a bolt into his face. The guard pitched backwards, and the team piled into the space beyond the door. "Are you sure this is the way?" Roschak demanded, looking around.

"I... I think so." Deran looked over the datapad, then looked around again. "Oh... no, no... I think..."

"Where the frell are we?" Roschak demanded, and it was Karis who answered.

"The brig." Both men looked around, gaze following the blaster barrel she was using as her pointer. A nearby door had just opened, and two people stood in the doorway. One was Hagar, the environmental tech from one of their bomb sites, and the other was a woman Roschak didn't recognize. But behind them was clearly a row of detention cells.

"Bloody perfect," Roschak grumbled, glaring at the two. "All right, this is how it's going to work," he told them. "Hagar, you and your lady friend are now my hostages. And you're going to get us the frell off this ship, understand?"

Karis' knees buckled then, and Roschak had to grab her before she hit the deck despite his support. He gently took the blaster from her fingers, one arm wrapped around her waist, and glared at Hagar. "I suggest you do it quickly... because if she dies, so does one of you."

[Gabriella]

"Visitor for you, Sir." He glanced at Hagar, then at the admiral. "I'll be just over there," he warned, and stepped away down the corridor. Gabriella was just rousing herself from a nap when the guard announced that she had a visitor. Figuring it was going to be yet another lovely visit from Yanesh, she continued to lay on the cot with an arm draped over her eyes.

"What is it?" She said, sounding rather annoyed.

"Admiral, it's Hagar from Environmental Control Four, Sir." The tech slipped a finger between his neck and uniform collar and gave it a tug, loosening it up a bit. He didn't interact much with the Admiral and even here in the brig, her presence was commanding, making him more nervous than he thought he would be.

"Is there a problem, Hagar?" Still, the Admiral didn't move an inch.

"Yes, sir. It seems that there is a crew in there, reportedly doing some work. Something about conducting an internal survey of the systems and replacing out-dated or worn parts."

Gabriella slowly lifted her arm from over her eyes and looked to Hagar. "There aren't any systems in need of repair in Environmental Control Four that I'm aware of, Hagar," she said slowly as she stood from the bunk and smoothed out her uniform. "Have you asked Shively about any repairs?"

"Yes, Sir. Er. Ma'am. He said he doesn't have anyone on his crew by the name of Roschak," Hagar glanced in the Admiral's eyes, then elaborated on who Roschak was." Erm, Roschak was the name of the Chief Petty Officer that entered my area and told me why his crew was there, Ma'am."

Gabriella nodded and motioned for him to continue.

Hagar said, "I figured I'd better come to you and report immediately, Sir. Ma'am." Hagar's nervousness was really apparent now. "I mean Sir," he added before forcing a swallow and averting his eyes from meeting hers.

"And Captain Dervis has no knowledge of this purported repair inspection?"

Hagar shook his head, then verbally confirmed, "No, Sir."

"Before coming to see me, did you consider informi...." The Admiral was cut off abruptly as the ground shook and the bars rattled. The sound of explosions erupting from another level and area of the ship reverberated throughout the Mon Cal Cruiser, alerting security and crew immediately of danger. Alarm klaxons immediately blared to life, adding to the noise and chaos already breaking loose on the ship. Officers armed themselves, sprinkler systems and emergency extinguisher systems activated, and other military personal jumped to immediate action. Flight Officers and fighter pilots divided - some scrambled to their ships while the rest took up their emergency assigned stations. Bridge crew worked fervently to compensate for the blown sublight drive and take up the slack for systems that were either shutting down systematically on their own, or were knocked offline due to the explosions; and an emergency SOS signal was sent to the nearby ships as well to home base. In the medbay, a few emergency back-up generators kicked in, compensating for the temporary shut-down of vital components and equipment until the controls were re-routed to the remaining environment control equipment.

"What the hell was that?! GUARD! Open this door. NOW!" Gabriella shouted the order while Hagar, who had been knocked off balance by the jolt, composed himself.

Just as the guard began to stand from behind the desk, the doors to the cell corridor hissed open. In stepped several armed men and one injured woman. Immediately, the guard opened his mouth to question. He was shot instantly by one of the armed men who had just entered, not allowed to utter a single syllable prior to having a hole blasted into his face.

The commotion made Hagar freeze, stunned by the action he just witnessed. Gabriella was trying to see what was going on, but from her poor vantage point, she wasn't able to see much of anything aside from the terrified expression marring Hagar's face. She'd heard everything that just occured, and was already formulating possible plans of action to persue. However, with the door to her cell still closed and locked tight, there was little she could do. Had Hagar not frozen up as he did, he possibly could have taken some form of action. With blasters aimed at him, there was nothing he could do other than to comply.

"Hagar, you and your lady friend are now my hostages. And you're going to get us the frell off this ship, understand?" Hagar managed to flick a glance to the Admiral, perhaps seeking some sort of comfort or acknowledgement as to what he should do next. Considering the present situation, all the Admiral could do was offer a subtle nod, silently telling the tech to remain calm and do as ordered. Hagar, thinking quickly, flexed his hand four times, hoping the Admiral would notice and realize that he was trying to inform her that there were atleast four of them. If she noticed, she made know recognition of doing so.

Deran moved around behind the desk and nudged the fallen body of the guard aside. Recalling the proximity of where the one Roschak called Hagar was standing at the time of their entry, Deran pushed a handful of buttons, opening up the cells in the area of the block.

Gabriella stepped back when she heard the distinctive click the locking mechanisms made when activated and kept looking to Hagar as the cell door opened.

"Step out of the cell slowly," ordered Roschak as he adjusted his hold on his injured team member, Karis.

Gabriella paused, and drew a breath, then stepped out slowly with her hands shown, palms facing Roschak to show she was not armed.

Roschak motioned for Deran and the medic to approach the Admiral and Hagar, Deran picking up the dead guards weapon for good measure. Both men slowly approached, and motioned for Hagar to step away from the Admiral and for her to advance slowly. Then Deran noticed the ranking insignia on her uniform. "Hey Roschak, we just bought a one-way ticket out of here. She's an Admiral." Deran chuckled this last part, finding it ironic at the change in their luck.

Numerous armed guards and officers arrived, keeping their weapons trained on the commando team that was now abducting the Second Chance's Admiral. Not wanting to get her killed, they kept their distance but refused to lower their weapons, even when Roschak ordered them to. Finally, after getting a confirming look from Gabriella, the guards and officers lowered their weapons a little. Roschak handed Karis over to the medic, then grasped Gabriella by the arm and jerked her around in front of him, leveling the muzzle of his blaster against the side of her temple.

"Clear a path. One wrong move and I swear on the Emperor's black bones, I'll kill the Admiral before you can realize I pulled the trigger," Roschak ordered.

[Jon'son Dethrider]

Jon'son's head moved from side to side as he looked along the lines of asteroids and warships that were the striking force of the Imperial remnant. His E-wing's cockpit display showed the location and status of all friendly units, including those not directly visible, with markers indicating presumed enemy locations as the intel came in.

<I>The remnant have a thin line</i>, he thought, <i>and a brittle one. Crack it at any place and it will shatter, leaving the road open for us to swoop in for the kill.</i>

"S-Foils to attack position. Shields on double front. On my command," Orion came over the comm. "Stone: use proton torpedoes and find targets. Lock on and fire." And again, "Vacuum: find targets and follow Stone in." And a third time. "Spice. Follow them and find targets. We'll cover you."

Then, "On my command: Furball, Toaster, Maggie, and Canary, follow me in and give them fire support. Keep those Imps from vaping them and watch out for big rocks."

A blinding curtain of fire, torn and obscured by the asteriod field, spread out over the opposing warships in response to Orion's words. Ahead of the Rats, the proton torpedoes were already detonating, the light of their explosions reflected by the drifting rocks. The asteriods would be hell on the fleet, New Republic and Imperial alike, but in his cockpit, Jon'son was quite aware of the large drifting rocks ahead of him. And to add, the asteriods would help to hide and evade the Rats from any incoming TIE's. Of course, the same could be said for them as well.

"Have your pilots stay close, Stone," Leto ordered his Lt. Commander. "Try to find the ends of their lines. Then swing around behind. Envelop them. I want attacks from the rear. I want attacks wherever you can find them. The rest of you guide on me!" Tariq set his X-wing racing toward the enemy's lines as the other snubfighters followed in behind.

"Captain." The words sounded from Jon'son's comm. "We're picking up mutiple signals from the ImpStars. Looks like they're launching TIE's." A babble of rising and falling voices sounded over the Rats comm channels.

"So they are," Leto replied. "And quite a bit of them. Looks like they're making their location known for us," he clipped over the comm. "Furball, Toaster, Maggie, Canary: Target them and fire. Give Stone, Vacuum, and Spice some cover."

Beside Stone, a TIE fighter was stopped aruptly, lurching sideways as its solar panel exploded. The E-wing avoided the incoming wreckage so not to be caught in the fireball by jerking to its side. Jon'son traced back the probable trajectory of the barrage of laserfire that had taken out the Imp and realized Vacuum claimed her first kill. A line of laserfire suddenly stitched up the E-wing's lower fuselage, chewing at the surface layer of its shields. He pulled on the stick and snaprolled toward the enemy, then engaged the TIE who incited the attack. In seconds, the starfighter exploded into a million shards.

Bucket whistled and hooted, giving Stone a damage report. He shook off his astromech and steered his fighter back on trajectory. "Okay, Misch and Spice, cover my arse, I'm going to try and take out those big guns on that nearest ImpStar. Both of you prep up your torpedoes and follow my attack run."

"Copy that, Big Man."

"Copy that, Stone."

Heading back toward the Imp fleet hidden in the asteriod field, the two X-wings and Stone's E-wing screamed toward the nearest Star Destroyer and targeted the emplacements-- passing turbolasers flying left and right as they missed and hit the asteriods behind them, scattering pieces about. Jon'son fired two proton torpedoes, then Vacuum and Spice fired theirs seconds after him with precise clockwork. A series of violent explosions were seen from the other Rats.

"Good work, Stone!" Leto called out. "That will keep them distracted, but for now we're taking heavy fire, so get your asses over here!"

"Copy that. We're on our way," Stone complied.

"We got more Imp fighters!" Spice called out. Jon'son looked over behind an asteriod to see another squadron of TIE's racing to intercept.

"Vape those frakkers!" Misch retorted.

"I'm with Misch on this one!" Stone smiled behind his helmet. "Engage those TIE's then rendezvous with Orion. He needs our--"

The cockpit shuddered violently and Jon'son gripped the sides of it to steady himself. Suddenly the screens went out along with the computers. It was completely dark in the room.

"What the frak?!" Misch growled over the comm. "I was just about to vape some Imps!" She hit the side of the canopy projector in hopes to turn it back on.

"Unfortunate..." IG-100 sighed audibly in its tinny voice.

"Simulators went down it seems..?" Maguire inquired. A howl from the nursed-to-health Chancbacca confirmed the same. Belle chimed the same answer.

"The frell is going on? Anyone felt that shudder? Looks like the <I>Chance</I> hit something or something blew up." Stone asked around quizzically as he pulled off his helmet and released the canopy to swing up. "Everything seems to be down."

"Are we under attack?" Belle shot out with a tinge of panic in her voice with lekku twitching. Suddenly, the alarm klaxons began to blare and emergency lights came on throughout the sim room.

"This <I>can't</I> be good..." Leto sighed as he looked at the dead sensor displays in his simulator.

"Captain Tariq?"

The canopy opened to reveal a tech wearing a set of heavy earphones. At the moment he was holding one of the padded earcups away from his head so that he could hear the officer's reply.

"Yes, what is it? What's going on?" He pulled off his helmet.

"We've had an explosion aboard the <I>Chance</i>, we're trying to figure out the cause and location of it. We're trying to order everyone to their quarters for their safety until we can ascertain how much of a threat it is."

"Frell that!" Orion spat in return. "If there's an explosion in here, I'm going to have my pilots check out our hangar and see if our birds are okay."

"But sir, it's dangerous to let--"

"Did any immediate reports say anything about the hangar bays?!"

"Sir, I don't know. I was just sent here by the acting commander since Nerys is held prisoner to inform you."

"Well, that's what I need to know..." Leto leapt from his pilot's chair and began to climb down the sim's ladder, ignoring the tech's banter. As he stepped on the last rung, his pilots had already gathered around his simulator. Jon'son folded his burly arms and rose his trademark eyebrow as Misch and Chanc stood by him.

"So what's going on, Captain?" he sounded in a deep throaty voice. Chanc gave a sharp howl behind him.

"The <I>Chance</i> had an explosion and I need to find out if our birds are okay." Leto turned to the turbolifts that lead to the bays. "Chanc, Stone, and Misch, head on down to the hangar bays and check them out. Let me know if there was any damage."

The trio of pilot acknowledged and saluted. "Aye, Captain," Stone blurted. The threesome raced in the direction of the lifts.

Leto thought for a moment as he stood there, while the other pilots looked about nervously. "Cay, IG, Belle, and Maguire, you're with me. We're going to the bridge and see what this is about. Maybe get some answers hopefully and help out around here. Follow me." He eyed the other turbolifts in the other direction and began to pace toward them.

***

"I don't know why we're stopping by our quarters, Stone. My snub is probably on fire right now," Misch persisted, "we need to get down there quickly."

"I know, but I need to get something really quick," Jon'son agreed. He pulled out the long case under his bunk and opened it to reveal his prized possession: the big burly blaster rifle he had just used at the targeting range a few hours ago. He held it up and slammed a power pack into it. "One thing about explosions: sometimes they're not accidental."

Misch nodded soberly. "So you think this wasn't an accident?" She quickly took it upon herself to strap her holster on and sheath a blaster by her lower hip.

"I was in the Imperial Academy many years ago. Paranoia and suspicion is normal in my case." He shouldered his weapon and palmed open the doors to their quarters. Chancbacca was standing there blocking the doorway with a sizeable bowcaster in his hands. He grunted at both of them.

"You had the same suspicions too, eh, furball?" Stone observed. The wookiee barked and nodded his shaggy head.

He rose an eyebrow. "You sure about this, Chanc? You just got out of the medical ward."

The wookiee growled louder, shaking the bowcaster in gesture that he was ready and willing.

"Alright furball, just be careful and follow me." Stone turned to his wingman. "Coming along?"

"Do I have a choice, Big Man?" she smirked and glanced to the scurrying crewmen racing the corridors. "I hope you're wrong about this..."

"I hope so too."

The three raced toward the nearest turbolift.

[Jola'Edana Kahlid]

Jola had endured a lot today.

The hyperdrive failure had sounded something like a protocol droid being fed through a recycler while it was still on. Perhaps it sounded worse to her than it actually was- she imagined that had something to do with the slight headache building at the base of her skull. Or maybe, it had to do with enduring the company on the ship. Their explosives expert had decided to try and chat her up, and the medic had tried her best to make it clear quickly that there would be no after mission hookup.

She knew she was being anti-social, but sometimes that was better when you were fairly sure you were going to be patching those same people back together at some point.

Which brought her to her final point of contention: the whole bloody mission.

After spending a good portion of her time in the hold reviewing what she'd been thrown into, she'd decided it was the dumbest and most overly complex plan she'd ever been a part of. And after all her time with the Rebellion, that was saying a lot.

As she understood things, she was the medic for a swoop racing team. Not