[center][img]https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/7/75/Emblem_of_the_First_Galactic_Empire.svg/220px-Emblem_of_the_First_Galactic_Empire.svg.png[/img][/center][hr][right][b]Op. No. KY-9914; Pvt. Malik Skaya
121st Battalion, Bravo Company, 1st Platoon, 1st Squad
Lothor Minor | Planetfall - Contact
APPROX. 1200HRS; 5 BBY[/b][/right][hr]

The rear of the Lambda shook as it broke through Lothor Minor's atmosphere. Malik Skaya wrapped his fingers tighter around his E-11, his gaze kept firmly on the floor as he counted down the seconds until they made planetfall. The nerves he'd gotten simply entering the shuttle returned now, the prospect of rushing into a volley of blaster fire made his blood boil with anticipation and anxiety. Violence and bloodshed had plagued Aquellan culture since its dawn. It was bred into each and every one of them at birth; those who refused to fight were seen as oddities at best and damned cowards at worst.

Skaya had spent every day in the Corps proving again and again that he was the warrior his people expected him to be. This was just another chance to prove his mettle one more time.

A panicked voice drowning in static screamed out from the cockpit. Skaya was too far from that side of the shuttle to understand it, but the tone in the pilot's voice and the way the sergeant spun around made the medic's heart jump into his throat. [i][color=a187be]'Contact? Already?'[/color][/i] He wondered, only for the enemy to confirm his suspicions by firing upon the shuttle. The entire vehicle gave a sudden and savage lurch, throwing the sergeant to the ground and slamming Malik's head forward. He would've gone tumbling out of his seat if not for the restraining straps that dug into his shoulders between the gaps in his armor plating.

[color=a187be][i]"Zina."[/i][/color] He cursed under his breath, clutching his service weapon to his chest like it was his only lifeline in the middle of a storm. That rifle was the only damn thing Malik knew he could rely on. It was the only thing that would keep him alive once that lift fell and he went dashing headfirst into enemy laser fire. Everything else was just noise. Screeching, violent noise as he counted down the agonizing seconds until the fighting began- or they were blown out of the sky before he ever got the chance to fire off a shot.

The shuttle touched down, crushing a mass of trash underneath its weight, the ramp beginning to fall but a moment later. Skaya unhooked his straps in one, quick motion, rising out of his seat to the tune of the devil's piano that the enemy was using to pepper their transport. A thick, noxious fog rammed against Malik's nostrils as he filed out behind Sergeant Vytuia, adrenaline racing through his system as he mentally steeled himself for what came next.

A flurry of heat passed mere inches from his head, the blaster bolt striking against the hull of the shuttle directly above him. Vytuia's voice played in his ear through his helmet's built-in radio even as Skaya made his mad dash for cover. A large, flat piece of metal half-buried in a mountain of junk looked to be his best bet. It was was one of the wings of a long defunct TIE Fighter, he guessed; not that where it came from mattered as much as its ability to absorb enemy fire. Malik slammed his shoulder up against the broken wing, several more blaster bolts flying passed him just as he disappeared behind it.

His first task was to crouch and peek, hoping to get a decent lay of the land before he decided the best course of action for taking the top of that hill. The first thing he noted was just how damned hard it was to pick out the natives from the terrain. They wore the same, drab browns and dirty grays that made up the junk and rock of Lothor Minor, allowing them to blend in even when they stood in plain view. There could be anywhere from five to twenty-five of them just on this hill and Skaya wouldn't know until they started shooting. The second thing he noted was just how [i]aggressive[/i] they were. Even now, two of the bastards were running right at them with near-suicidal intent, like their lives didn't matter. Fanatacism, maybe? Or desperation?

Malik slid his scope up in front of his face, dragging it along the hillside. He counted out each individual muzzle flash he noticed, tallying them all up before moving the scope back over and double-checking his math. He popped up a shot whenever he thought he had a chance to land it, the E-11's stock smacking up against his shoulder with each gentle press of the trigger. Malik was no marksman, however, and the extraneous conditions on the field made his aim...questionable. [color=a187be]"I count eight in total, including the gunner-"[/color] He started to speak over the comm, only for a blaster shot to fly right past his head and force him to duck into cover to avoid decapitation. That one came from somewhere else entirely. [color=a187be]"Nine! Make that nine!"[/color]