Telos IV's Open Terrain

The crunch of landing broke through the haze of repose. Odd that reentering atmo hadn't done that, but Mack always ran on his own rules. Now he was starting to wakefulness, in the same way that Mack did anything: loudly and with much profanity.

"D'fuck'm'I ya fuck-fucks - " As his brain came back online he cut short the flow of garbled swearing. One hand smeared across his face, attempting to wipe the sleep from his eyes as the other hand waved one of his pistols about. His eyes resuming proper function, Mack remembered where he was. "Riiiight, fuck, damn." The Unfair Advantage. Karana. Reencountering all his old friends on Coruscant, right where he'd left them. Killing an ass-load of Jekk and making another ass-tearing exit, just like the last time they'd thrown down. A momentary grin flitted across his face at that thought. Mack: 2. Jekk: 0. Bitches. Then they'd skipped town and fuckin' run, run for the stars. There'd been some shit with a big-ass hangar and... repairs? He couldn't recall. Must've gone comatose again. That had been happening more and more, ever since -

Mack's mind immediately shut down and he started laughing hysterically, balling up and cackling as his mind went white and fuzzy. He didn't know how long it lasted, but it passed after a time. He vaguely remembered hearing Karana's voice over the speakers. Shakily, he tried to stand. He'd been sleeping in the weapons locker, his back propped up against one of the locked cages. He winced and whimpered as he clawed his way to his feet, feeling stiff muscles flex and joints pop. One of his legs was buzzing and numb, and he stumbled as it almost gave out beneath him. His other pant-leg felt damp, and he looked down. Sure enough, he had pissed himself. Muttering profane secrets under his breath, he slung his pistol belt over his shoulder and stumbled into the hallway. He felt absolutely nasty - pissed, sweaty, sticky, and stinky. Just gross.

Those fits were a fucking pain in the ass. He'd piss himself almost every time, and that was no fuckin' fun. Legitimately annoying, and they kept sneaking up on him when he tried to think too much about -... eh, something or other. His mind was still buzzing and he didn't care. So Mack went stumbling along, nearly falling into the 'fresher. The door slammed behind him and he locked it, then his clothes began to fall off of his body. After all, Mack had long since picked up the skills of hastily dressing and undressing: came with the turf when you hook up with girls with jealous boyfriends. Smash'n'dash, don't you know.

Half an hour the gunslinger rejoined the ranks of the living, shuffling out of the 'fresher in a new pair of pants with his jacket, shirt, and pistol belt slung over his shoulder. Ruffling his hair - still damp, of course - he found his way to the exit ramp. Afternoon sunlight was toasting the metal. Mack promptly dropped his clothes and weapons, closed his eyes, and sprawled across the ramp. The warmed durasteel seared his tattooed skin deliciously, and he sighed in contentment. Life was not so fucking bad at all right now. His head was clear for the first time in a while, and he was able to think with about as much facility as he ever did. Moreover, Karana was finally back. He had his lady back, and that meant that everything else could go fuck itself. The rest of the world could do anything it wanted: he had 'Rana.

"Groovy, man," he sighed, "fuckin' groovy."

“Peril, huh?” Dropping her pack next to a box of tools, Malora jammed her datapad in her pocket and flicked her gaze up at the dangling Oz, head cocked. She pursed her lips in mock concern, making a show of studying his predicament. “Yeah, definitely looks like peril if I’ve ever seen it. But don’t worry, I’ll just cut that pesky arm off and you’ll be down before you can say ‘ouch’…”

She was tempted, so tempted to throw a ‘be right back’ in there and return with the bonesaw from the med bay, just to mess with him. But they were short on time, and the trip to Galen’s base weighed heavy and anxious on her mind. So Malora bent a little, placing Oz’s feet on her shoulders and, like the tough femme smuggler she was, boosted him upwards. Perhaps a bit too enthusiastically, though; she’d overestimated how heavy the anti-social engineer was. But she stabilized him easily. “Dude…” She huffed, pausing to blow a strand of hair out of her face. “I really think my backpack is heavier than you are. Gotta get you some doughnuts or something… Hurry up, you’re shoes are getting mechanic-y oil crap all over my jacket.”

Ordinarily such a pose - sprawled on a nice hot ramp, ripe to be toasted and dried - would have left Mack in a happy sleepy heap within minutes. He'd spent enough time asleep recently, though, and his body refused to fully relax and let him rest. So Mack spent a nice few minutes sun-drying himself before he finally pushed himself back into an upright position and stared at the deck between his heels. He stretched his arms and realized he was hungry, and that he had not shot enough things recently. Well, one could wait, but the other was the much more obviously pressing need. So Mack stood and drew one of his pistols, stepping down from the ramp. Stuffing the weapon into the back of his pants, the gunslinger went rooting through the low scrub until he found what he was looking for: rocks! Lots of rocks. His most beloved adversaries, right there with assbiter bugs and liquor cans on slum streets. Whenever he needed to blast the shit out of something, one of those three had always been there.

One foot deftly flicked a rock up to his hands. Mack caught the lump and began to juggle it, feeling its weight and shape. A second joined it, and a third, until he had a full juggling circle rolling through the air in front of him. Fun, but not fun enough. Not yet. With a grin, he caught each rock in turn and hurled them as far and as high as he possibly could. With the last throw, he turned a pirouette, drew his pistol, and with a whooping laugh reduced all three rocks to floating dust.

Now that. That was better. Smiling in inane happiness, Mack shoved the gun back into his pants and went jigging - yes, jigging - back to the ship. Now he could get dressed and worry about food.

Two minutes later, Mack's head poked in the door to the hold where Oz had just hit the floor and said:



In his usual tactful and calming manner, Mack sized up the fallen engineer and, grinning through a mouthful of unidentifiable jerky-ration, said, "Well if it tasted better than this shit, I'd support the idea. This junk be jank. We got anything made for human consumption?"

Oz looked Mack up and down through narrowed eyes. "Uh, hey." Insane gunslinger huh? Maybe I should... Nah. He might need them. I'll just scrounge up a shield out of the stuff I brought. Then Oz turned and started digging in the pile of random junk that sat next to the now-hovering form of Frend, eventually pulling out what looked like some kind of ancient high-tech bracer. He strapped it to his left arm and tapped the display a few times, and the device hummed to life. The air around Oz shimmered for a moment, then returned to its normal non-reflective state and Oz beamed, a smug smile plastered across his face. "Mando-made power shield... This thing has gotta be over a thousand years old. You know how many people could still make these things work?" All he got in response was blank stares. "Well, yeah. Me neither I guess... But I bet it ain't many."



"Uh... yeah. Just, uh... gimme a minute. Hold on." Moving as he spoke, Oz reached into his tool belt and pulled the current model Ultra-multi out of its pocket and aimed it at the floor while pressing the on switch. When nothing happened, he pointed it at his face and smacked it a few times with his other hand while trying the switch again, and eventually the end lit up in a brilliant flash that left him seeing stars. "Gyah! Gorram frakkin piece of... His voice trailed off as the light backed down to a gentle glow and was joined by a mechanical hum, then without thinking he pointed the multi-tool at Mack and ran a scan to calibrate, before sliding it back into its holster. "Yup! Looks like we're all good here!"

Oz was in the middle of guiding the large floating droid out of the hold, which mostly consisted of trying to get it turned sideways and close enough to the floor to fit down the ramp, when Mack stuck his head out the armory door and posed his question. Oz froze in his tracks, eyes racing around the room in search of a way out. Unfortunately, with Frend blocking the exit there was none to be found and Oz was stuck behind him. "...maybe." He didn't turn around and his voice was hesitant and his body tense, as if waiting for the inevitable sound of blasterfire. When it didn't come, he slowly turned his head to look at Mack, still in the armory doorway. "Well she said you were crazy! I was just being cautious!" He's right about the power cells though... I'll have to find some diatium cells and do some tinkering. As he finished talking, there was a loud CLANG and Oz spun to find that Frend had just decided on the brute force approach and rammed through the space, leaving an indent on both the surface of the ramp and the bulkhead above it. Note to self, use the loading bay next time.

“Job.” Malora spun her blaster around between her fingers and dropped it into the holster at her thigh with a definitive nod. “Right…” she breathed, scanning their scrubby, desolate surroundings with a narrowed gaze. Raising the ship ramp, she beckoned her little party of misfits forward. “Keep up. In and out fast. This place IS on Galen’s grid, so when we open the front door, he’ll know. Once we get what we need, we blow it.” To her knowledge, the tiny outpost had been abandoned for years; in fact the whole project had been scrapped mid construction after her ‘betrayal’. But Galen didn't like loose ends, which is why Malora was so on edge. He didn't forget things. He knew this place was still here. So WHY was it still here when all the others had been obliterated? He was consolidating, so he’d obviously found a better, less scattered way of housing information. Maybe he had other plans with this place.


Too bad for him. Malora arrived first. And she had explosives. Hope you like your plans extra toasty, Galen…


“It’s not far. C’mon.” Ship locked up tight, the group set off at a brisk walk, Malora leading, dead grasses and dry earth scrunching and crumbling under their boots. She kept her eyes to the ground, scanning, brows pulled together in concentration. Looking for something? Yeah. She was.

‘Not far’ turned out to be a huge understatement. The trouble-maker halted abruptly in front of a large, lone boulder, not fifty feet from the ship. Its surface was rough and grey, altogether very normal for a boring rock, but there was one small area that spread a bit darker, shone a bit smoother than the rest. Malora tapped at it experimentally. She’d never been here herself, but she remembered (not fondly) Galen’s security procedures at his other bases. “He never could just use a normal keycard, could he?” she mumbled, pulling the knife from her belt. “Sick bastard.” And she drew the knife calmly across her palm, grimacing, and slapped her bleeding wound against the smooth bit of rock. The stone absorbed her blood like a sponge, the smear of red disappearing into the dark grey. Something rumbled under their feet. Malora stepped back, nudging Oz and Mack behind her.




The ground opened up in front of them.




A set of metal pillars rose, connecting at the top like an archway, and behind them a short set of stairs leading into the ground. At the bottom of the stairs was a small platform, littered with dirt from the walls and rusted with time, but it looked sturdy.




‘Lora turned to face the men (or boys, depending on the time of day and how much they’d had to drink. In Mack’s case, at least.  She knew zero about Oz's bar habits), hiking a thumb over her shoulder at the scene. “See those pillars?” They nodded. “See that big rock I just bled all over?” Nodding. “Unless you wanna die, do not step through those pillars until you've done the same. Some kind of Sith alchemy or something. Can’t go around them, either. I've seen guys try without giving blood, and if I explain what happens in detail, you’ll probably hurl, so.”  Flipping the knife around, she handed Oz the weapon, handle first, and stepped through the entrance and onto the stairs below. “You’re first, Z-man,” she smirked, wrapping her hand with a bandage. “Slice ‘n’ smear, c’mon, don’t be squeamish.”

She huffed, blowing a wayward strand of hair out of her eyes, and considered Frend. “Uh…” That was actually a good question. Malora had never seen machines pass through the pillars before. Galen never employed droids. “Have him guard the door up here?” she suggested, shrugging. “I have no idea what happens to metals when they go through this thing, and I’d rather not risk Frend’s shiny ass finding out. Hope you didn’t need him for anything…”



With a nod, the smuggler beckoned Oz through the pillars and handed him a tiny bit of bacta and a bandage. “Bacta it and tape ‘er up good.  Forgot to clean the blade after I stabbed that Hutt with the weirdo skin disease..."  Yep.  Oz's expression was so worth it.  "Hey, Mack…” Malora flipped the knife and, with a wild, mischievous gleam in her eyes, hurled the blade at the gunslinger. “Think fast.”

The knife bounced off Frend with a twang and landed in the dirt at the machine’s feet, leaving just a tiny scratch on his exterior. Good, they didn’t need anything else to fix.

With Frend in position guarding the entrance and all the fleshies through the ‘magical’ archway, Malora led the tiny party down the stairs and onto the small platform. “Hands inside the vehicle and to yourself at all times, gents,” she said with a short but meaningful glance at Mack. Palming a small keypad at the edge of the wall, the platform sank rapidly into the ground. Malora’s ears popped as the sky above them shrunk quickly, her hair fluttering annoyingly around her face as their speed kicked up a decent wind. Sure don’t remember it being this fast before, we’re totally gonna crash and die, this was a horrible plan, she thought in slight alarm, but the lift slowed to a halt before it hit the bottom and everyone scrambled off the platform in one piece.



It was dark. Like, horror-flick dark. “Super, the automatic lights are still on vacation,” she grumbled, pulling her flashlight from her belt. “Lucky for us, there’s really no place to get lost.” Her beam flooded the narrow hallway, reflecting off the black stone walls and into the small room at the end. There was one way into this place, and one way out, and nothing but tech and building material clutter in between.

Finally. They were here. Answers were a few files away. Wade was a few files away.

Excitement bubbled inside her. Maybe this would be easier than she thought. They’d be in and out of here in no time, she’d have Wade back in a matter of weeks, and then… Then she was gonna find Fel. They were ALL gonna find Fel. Together. As a crew, a team, a band of ragtag friends that probably wouldn’t have been friends at all if not for the circumstances that had plucked them from their previous paths and put them all in one vase.



“Okay, Ozball,” she said, giving a few lightsticks a crack-shake and tossing them down the hallway, “you’re up!” By the glow of the green-blue-white lights, Malora charged down the passage, bag slung over one shoulder, torchlight beam jumping from wall to wall as she entered the room and scanned quickly. Enough room for a small scaffolding and plenty of boxes of tech, but not enough for an echo. The walls were still, surprisingly, a dust-free shiny obsidian, and it caught the colored light from the scattered lightsticks, pulling it in and spilling it long across the dark surface like a blurry portrait of the galaxy.

In the middle of the room was a large, circular terminal, partially covered by a few haphazardly thrown tarps, which Malora tore off enthusiastically. She slid her beam over the pylon. “Once you get into the system, Galen will know, so pull the info fast. I’d rather not be here when the Jekk investigate.” The lights and screens were as dark as the rest of the base, but she knew the terminal had a backup power system. “Here,” she said, handing Mack her bag and crouching near the base of the tech. There was a panel just under the side there, somewhere on the-..ah, right there. She pried it off and dug around in the stem of wires until she found the one she was looking for, pulled it up, connected it with the port, and… There was a thrum, and the pylon winked its lights at them dimly. Malora rose, pushing her hair back with a huff. “I have no idea how long that’s gonna last, so chop chop, tech-wiz.” She clapped Oz on the shoulder and scooped up her bag. “Find me Wade Connors, and I’ll give you whatever you want… ‘cept my-..our ship,” she said as she marched away, digging through the rucksack and returning with a handful of the explosives Liya had left her.



“Mack!” She didn’t have to look far. He was staring wide-eyed at the light reflections on the wall like it was the most interesting thing he’d ever seen. If she weren’t so stressed out, she would have smiled fondly at his familiar wacko behavior. “Hey! Mack! Look, bombs!” It took her a minute to snap him out of it, but the promise of things exploding in the near future finally drew the gunslinger from whatever trance he’d been living in for the past ten minutes. The smuggler piled his arms full of explosive and waved him off to the right of the room. “Place them strategically, okay? I want this whole room wiped off the map when we leave. And Mack? …Don’t blow anything up before we’re outta here.” She gave him one of her tiny, lopsided little smirks before taking her share of the explosive and heading left.



It took her another ten to set the boomsticks up, and five to make sure everything was in place on her end of the room before she went to check on Oz. “How’s it goin’?” she said, leaning over his shoulder and gazing at the pylon.

Oz had a tendency to not travel lightly. When you own and live on a capital warship, you had the luxury of being able to hoard a great many things without feeling the squeeze of 'clutter.' Leaving the Independence, however, had been under less than ideal circumstances. Not much besides the essentials had come with Oz, which to the untrained eye might have looked like a pretty big pile of junk: circuit boards, wiring by the spool, bits of this and that, and tools... oh, the tools. 

Most of this lay in an unorganized heap in the UA's main cargo bay, slowly being sorted and organized when there weren't life-or-death struggles to attend to. Which is to say, there was a big, unorganized heap of crap in the UA's main cargo bay. 

The passengers of the Unfair Advantage, CEC YG-4210 S/N 545-8967TS, had been on the surface for about fifteen minutes. The ship was in hybernation, cold, mostly dark, minimal systems active. Still, there was a sound to a dormant ship. Fluids moving, hydraulics cycling, systems running diagnostics. I suppose it might sound like digestion in a human being. In the cockpit, the rear seat swiveled slightly, and in the engine compartment, a mouse dared to peek out from between floor grates. All was quiet. 

Astromech droids are known to be slightly headstrong. 'Orders' were often 'guidelines.' 'Parameters' were more often than not overlooked in favor of expediency, impatience, or outright disobedience. The word amongst those who knew was that by the R6 models, that trait had been corrected. In older models, memory wipes were commonplace to prevent such tendencies. Galdaart Fel had never wiped the memory of R2-P47, 'Wrench,' and had joked on several occasions that the droid had a better memory than he did. It was true. 

As part of new (replacement) programming, R2-P47 had been instructed to remain powered down unless otherwise instructed. (It was wise, and safer while finalizing the systems restoration undertaken weeks ago by Oz and Fel.) But now, at just this moment, in the hold of the Unfair Advantage, R2-P47 was bored. A certain time-stamp had been reached and breached, and no new information had been received, and so the little droid powered on, gyrostabilizers immediately leaning him forward, unearthing his cylindrical form from under a rat's nest of wiring and cast-off parts. 

It did not recognize these surroundings, but databanks told him immediately that he was in a Corellian vessel, YG-series, Troop-shuttle variant. Outdated. Obsolete. He activated his photoreceptor, casting his gaze around the cabin. Assuming the crew to be abed, he voiced his readiness for action, should there be a supervisory droid nearby. 

Repair and service droid R2-P47 stands ready to assist. Orders?

None were forthcoming. And after a wait of 14.76 seconds, he repeated the statement, in case the supervisory droid had misheard him. Still nothing. So he waited.