[h2]Cragdor[/h2] Cragdor gathered a group of nine soldiers, though the entire process was like pulling teeth. Of those gathered with him in the hanger, only three of them readily volunteered to join him; two Hassk brothers and a Weequay. The others simply shifted their feet and tried their hardest to avoid eye contact. Some even drifted closer to the other squad leaders, as if hoping to be picked for their mission instead. Licking his lips, Cragdor surveyed the remaining group, then pointed a gnarled claw at six others he believed would be suitable to follow him. To his annoyance, many of those chosen reacted like sighs and grumbles, dragging their feet to join his team. Granted, Cragdor wasn’t expecting them to be enthusiastic, but he at least expected them to follow orders in a prompt manner. Taking his rifle in hand, Cragdor began to make his way towards the far doors, hoping his new team was close behind. The wolf men and the Weequay were at his back, and the others followed shortly after, albeit with less pep in their step. “Come now. Let us not waste any more time. We have imperials to route, and points to tally.” “This is a mission, not a hunting trip.” Grumbled one of the soldiers. Cragdor half turned, recognizing the voice as that of a Bothan by the name of Koff Kothe. He was short for his race, and compared to others in the Scarlet Moons, he was rather fresh faced. He didn’t look much like a fighter; more like a scout or assassin. The kind of being that stabbed his enemies in the back rather than look them in the eye. Cragdor shook his head. “They are one in the same.” He slipped down the hall, signaling the team to move quietly. “As a quiet killer, Kothe, you should be aware of how predicting your enemy’s movements and finding their weaknesses can improve the chances of success. That is hunting, whether you no it or not.” The Hassk brothers, whose names were Geri and Freki Vargr, agreed with his sentiment. The others mostly exchanged glances. Koff Kothe, thankfully, made no reply, though he made no attempt to hid his displeasure. The halls were surprisingly quiet. The main patrol groups must have been distracted by the actions of the other Scarlet Moon squads. Cragdor was thankful for that. It allowed for him to focus almost exclusively on reaching his own target in a timely manner. He was already weighed down by the 9 soldiers lagging behind him. Needless confrontations would serve little more than a distracted an minor bonus points. It was not long afterwards that there came the sound of marching boots from down a nearby passage. The team members readied their weapons, excited to finally engage some Imperials, but Cragdor waved them down. “No no, friends. Let these small prey go. We draw close to their warren. Killing these troopers will give away our presence too early.” Gari Vargr bounces on his feet. “Oh, come on, boss. We hunger for violence. We smell their sweat. Let us hunt as you hunt.” His brother, Freki agreed, also hopping and rubbing his furry belly. Cragdor smiled. “Deny your hunger for now. When we reach the barracks, you will gorge yourselves on man flesh.” The Hassks cackled quietly, shushing each other like sneaky children. The Weequay rolled his eyes, but did not suppress a smirk. The Bothan, Koff, looked disgusted. Cragdor continued to hold the group until the sound of footsteps had faded, then he waved for them to follow him once again as he crept towards the barracks. Even before the living area of the Imperials came into view, Cragdor could tell he was drawing close. Not because everyone studied any maps or recognized any layout plans. Be knew because he could feel the life in the air. Over the years, he had developed a sense for such things. He was naturally attracted to places were creatures gathered, and he often used it when hunting his prey. Cragdor always chalked it up to his own animal instincts; a sort of predator sense. Even in a cold mechanical place like this, his senses led his way. The Hassk brothers seemed to sense it too, became they began to cackle to each other. Freki whispered loudly, “I smell meat!” He rubbed his paws together. Geri sniffed the air and licked his chops. “Cooked hot meat! Red Nerf steak! Grilled Numa! Fried Chuba!” Koff Kothe shushed them both. “Quiet! You idiots will give us away!” He smelled the air himself. “We must be close to the cafeteria. I’m surprised the Imps serve real food. Usually it’s just ration cubes and nutrition paste.” Cragdor payed them no mind as he sank into his on thoughts, trying to plan o how best to go about taking the barracks. If they could somehow find a control panel, they might be able to lock the area down. Then they could prevent the Imperials from reinforcing their comrades in other locations on the station, and it would also allow Cragdor to more easily hunt them down. “Anyone good with computer? I’ll need a skilled slicer, or at least a competent hot wirer.” Nobody got the chance to answer. As Cragdor turned to fill his team in on his idea, the Hassk brothers bolted from their cover. Whatever hunger they had been fighting, both for blood and literally food, had overpowered their better judgement. They dashed down the hall before Cragdor could stop them, giggling like hyenas. As they threw open the doors to the caf, the small group of off duty stormtroopers jumped to their feet, caught by surprise by the two wolf men who immediately jumped onto the tables and began shoving meat into their muzzles. Cragdor rushed in just in time to see Freki pounce onto a young officer and begin making a meal of his face, causing the remaining Imperials to flee. Cragdor quickly blasted each of them before they could earn their comrades. The screaming of the officer was enough to wake the Emperor from his grave, and it took all of Cragdor’s strength to tear the Hassk away and slam him against the wall. “You feral beast! I’ve known hunting dogs with more control...” A blaster bolt wizzes past Cragdor’s ear and struck his shoulder, causing him to end his scolding prematurely. A squad of stormtroopers, fully armored, had appeared at the far end of the cafeteria, and were wasting no time in opening fire on the rebels. Geri took a shot directly between the eyes and toppled off the table, a Numa leg clutched in his hand. Cragdor barely managed to roll under a bench, clutching his sizzling shoulder. Outside the cafeteria, he could hear the panicked voices of his squad members as they rushed to counter the Imperials. It was too late. Cragdor knee they had lost the upper hand. They were now trapped in the anooba’s den, trapped on all sides and outnumbered. There was no escape; no retreat. The only option was to hold his group, kill as many Imperials as possible, and hope to escape with enough of his squad to make it worth it. But if he died here, at least he had a score worthy of a reasonable place in the afterlife. Nothing too spectacular; nothing close to what Uncle Oshka has. But it was enough. The Scorekeeper would accept him. But Cragdor was not planning on tallying his final score yet. Cocking his blaster with his good arm and his teeth, he rolled into his stomach, took aim at the nearest stormtooper, and fired.