The X-Wing shook as it re-entered realspace high above Tregallons' atmosphere, moments before the warning trill from his R2-series astromech 'Chirper' woke Krang from his stupor. Shaking his head, shoulders, and arms as best he could, the blue swirl of hyperspace turned into streams of light, each one resolving into tiny pinpricks of light hanging in the ether of space. The blue, green, brown and grey world appeared before him, filling up his viewports. Flicking a switch, the ship shuddered as the S-foils opened, giving the X-Wing its signature appearance.

To try and prevent any pursuer from tracking him, Krang had laid in his course to Fibra-4. A different world at the far end of the Exaron system, but at the last moment, had Chirper adjust the course in such a way that Tregallons' natural gravity well would pull him from hyperspace. It was a risky move. While he was far closer to the planet than a traditional hyperspace jump would allow, it also meant that if he encountered any Imperial forces, he would have to try to run away from the planet's gravity well before being able to re-enter hyperspace. The shattered asteroids were a bonus to the equation. High in mineral deposits, by coming in through them and cutting power, any passive sensors would hopefully just mark him as a stray piece of debris.

"Any sign of Imperials?" Krang grumbled. His deep and gravelly voice sounded like a poor or mocking attempt at the clean and 'proper' Corcusa accent that was popular among Imperial officers. The whistling and bleeting from Chirper came through his helmet comms; he could understand the Binary spoken by astromechs, though instinct had him look at the small display on his screen that translated for the droid.

¦NEGATIVE - SYSTEM SHOWS CLEAR¦

"Good, plot us a course down the rendezvous, we're going to stay nice and close to these asteroids for as long as-"

There was a sudden flash of green energy as his ship shook. Chirper screamed through the helmet in surprise. By instinct, Krang punched the thrusters and pulled the stick. Feathering the rudder, he pulled the X-Wing into a tight downward spiral. As the local star, a yellow giant, passed above him, a shadow flashed over. Looking up, he swore. "Karabast, I thought you said no Imperials."

¦SCANS WERE CLEAR¦

Pulling the ship level, Krang checked the shield status and winced. That first strike had knocked his rear shields to nearly half, and they weren't recharging as quickly as he would have liked. "Give me a full sensor sweep, active sensors." Chancing a glance to look down, he winced slightly. White dots filled the screen, the asteroids. Grey dots denoted likely civilian traffic, mining and transport vessels coming in and out of the belt. What was more concerning was the large red dot at the far side of the asteroid belt, and the single red blip right on top of him.

"Time till main intercept?"

¦ONE MINUTE THIRTY¦

"Time to atmosphere?"

¦FORTY FIVE SECONDS¦

Wincing again. The T-65B series X-Wing was, in his opinion. The best starfighter available, the fact that the Rebel Alliance had secured as many of them was nothing short of a miracle. Hyperdrives, proton torpedo launchers. They were nimble, fast and with their shielding, they could take a hit. An important attribute for an organisation that had equal issues with pilot retention and snubfighter acquisition. The issue was the craft that had scored the first hit, likely intending to immobilise him in the first volley. Was what the Alliance pilots liked to call an Eyeball. A TIE fighter. Cheap and easy to mass produce, what it lacked in durability, it could make up for in speed. Krang couldn't outrun it, which meant in order to make his way to the planet, he was going to have to destroy it first.

Destroy it within forty-five seconds, so that he had enough time to get to the planet before the second wave hit.

"Keep scanners on incoming ships. Designate by priority - Squints, eyeballs, dupes. Let me know what the capital ship is the moment you get a good read on it."

There was a trill of acknowledgement as he pulled up on the yoke, pulling back the acceleration and feathering the rudder pedal, the X-Wing turned in a near instant. Feeling the slight pull as the ship struggled to compensate for the manoeuvre. "Start the clock. Thirty seconds." Krang pointed the ship in the direction of the planet, forgoing his original plan to try and stay as close to the asteroids for as long as possible, then sneak his way into some form of automated convoy.

Pushing the acceleration to full, he felt the ship kick as there was a burst of speed. His fingers, as nimbly as possible, worked their way over a series of switches and buttons. Laser cannons to double-fire, allowing him to pull off a nice balance between fire rate, power and recharge rate. Twisting the X-Wing into a roll as hails of green laser fire passed, occasionally a bolt would pass near his shields. Light played over them. "All power to rear shields-"

A trill in protest. ¦BUT WE ARE APPROACHING ATMOSPHERE¦

The droid protested, but Krang growled through gritted teeth and didn't need to ask again. Keeping an eye on his rear sensor, he watched as the TIE honed in on him, matching his flightpath. "Prepare a torpedo, paint the target as your current coordinates. Three-second fuse." The astromech knew better than to argue as Krang clicked over to his torpedo launchers, sequencing for single fire. Flicking off the safety, his finger over the trigger. Wincing to himself.

¦READY¦

Pulling the trigger, a streak of blue light shot out from the nose of the craft. Once it was clear of the ship, it received the target lock and attempted to turn. Unable to turn quickly due to its immense speed, it pulled up into a wide and almost lazy-looking arc. All the while maintaining its speed. Chirper screamed, alarms blaring in the X-Wing as it detected the torpedo. It completed its arc. Following his trail, approaching rapidly then-

A brilliant flash of white light from behind him, without pause, he pulled up on the yoke in his own wide loop. The nova flashing in his eyes before it faded away to nothing but void. Completing his loop, his left hand flicked a switch, turning back to lasers. Single fire. The target reticle on his HUD switched to red, and he pulled the trigger. Red bolts lanced out, cutting through space in rapid succession. The Imp pilot only had a split second to react, having been trying to avoid the blast of the torpedo. He missed Krang's manoeuvre, noticing too late as one bolt struck the connection between the TIES portside solar array, shearing it instantly. As the ship rattled and twisted with the change in profile, another bolt tore through the central cockpit. A third hit the ion engines, then with a brilliant flash, his pursuer was gone.

Looking at the clock, he couldn't help himself, unable to suppress the grin. Five seconds left on the clock, and another kill marker for his X-Wing. Assuming I survive to tell anyone. He banished the thought immediately as he redistrubuted shield power and turned the craft for full burn towards the planet.

---

Flames licked at the craft as the resistance of the atmosphere pushed against him. From the ground, the X-Wing would appear as a meteor until finally, through the initial barrier, the flames subsided. A sonic boom shook the craft. Turning dials, Krang pored over the sensor data provided to him on the ships trailing him. The larger ship was the Vindicator-Class heavy cruiser, with a maximum complement of 72 TIES. It was the Performer, Captain Grakkus' system patrol vessel. Which meant that his ambush was less likely a trap, and more likely a poorly timed arrival during a training exercise.

Ice clawed its way through his chest when the pursuing TIEs pulled back, shy of the planet. It was a sound tactic, despite their greater number and speed, their large solar arrays meant the TIEs performed poorly in atmosphere during tight manoeuvres. Many a rookie TIE pilot lost their life in atmosphere while trying to perform a twist that in the vacuum of space could give them the advantage. Instead, with a suitable patrol pattern, they could effectively force the X-Wing to ground. This, however, was fine. Krang would make the rendezvous with the local rebel cell, give them the information and then they would find a way to get it off-world, and he would either leave them the X-Wing or stay with them until such time as he could make his way off planet.

Looking down at the local map he smiled, he'd be well within the scanner range of the rendezvous point now. He'd go to ground, and they'd leave before any form of-

A shrill series of beeping, chirping, warbling and likely cursing came through from his astromech.

A wing of TIEs appeared on his scans directly ahead. That was, that was impossible. The only TIE Garrisons was at the main city and the Imperial Compound. Not only that, but the city still used V-Wings. They didn't have the manpower to spare a wing of TIEs for a random patrol or training mission at the far side of the planet. His hubris knocked the ice loose, as it collapsed down into the pit of his stomach. It hadn't been the wrong place, wrong time for the ships in orbit. They weren't pulling back for any fear of performance.

They had done their job, they had driven him to ground. Prevented him from fleeing.

The lonely X-Wing had flown directly into their trap. Pushing his shields to double-front, leaving his back end exposed, he flew directly at the TIE formation. Lasers fired rapidly. Streaks of red tearing through the clear blue sky, as the waters and the rock formations passed below. Juking and weaving, he kept his lasers trained on the incoming ties. His ship shook as bolts chewed away at his shields, before one of the incoming TIEs took a stray bolt and went spinning off and smoking into the distance. The two at the outer edges of the formation broke, pulling up and into a wide loop as the X-Wing tore straight through where their formation had been moments prior.

"I want you to download all the data, duplicate it to my data-pad and your own memory banks. Prepare your emergency ejection."

¦DONE¦

"Count down to rendezvous, at the opportune moment, punch out. Take the information to the cell, get it out of here and off planet. Get it back to Omi-Ren at Crait."

¦UNDERSTOOD. PREPARING EJECTION¦

Krang flicked the switch, bringing the S-Foils back together in an attempt to make the craft more aerodynamic. Practically trying to rock back and forward, to coax as much speed out of the ship as possible. He watched the countdown to target, the distance closing rapidly. The TIEs closing rapidly. Part of him wondered how he felt so calm, so at ease. He wasn't even sure what he was going to do once Chirper was away, how he'd survive. If he'd survive. That hadn't been the mission, though.

Turning as head as best he could when the countdown reached zero, he watched as explosive bolts fired and Chirper sailed off up into the air, his boosters deploying and firing to get his trajectory under control. To lower himself calmly down to the surface. The poor droid never got a chance, as one of the incoming TIEs started firing. One second, there was an astromech hanging in the air, then after a brilliant bolt of green, nothing fell through the air other than what little slag hadn't been superheated into vapour.

Part of him wanted to scream, or to shout. There wasn't time as the barrage on his ship continued, and his shields failed. Sparks flew around the cockpit, screens flicked on and off. Engines failed, smoke billowing from the tail of the ship. Over the noise of it all, he heard the roar of two TIE fighters. His ship was slowing rapidly, and they overshot him. Pulling hard on the yoke, he managed to pull the nose of the craft up for one single pull of the trigger.

Four bolts lunged out in frustration, four bolts struck and one of the TIEs exploded, and Krang allowed himself a slight smile as his X-Wing dipped below the top of the rock formations. He saw the water approaching, saw the nearby shore. Felt the ship catch, slow, and flip.

Then there was nothing.

---

---

We are now approaching: Caleoris.

Vissa closed her eyes, collapsing her head into her exhausted hand. Her middle finger and thumb gently rubbed at her temples as if trying to soothe the pounding in her skull. It wasn't working. Neither was the drowned out live band playing smooth music. They were good, Vissa had concluded last night, but it seemed like few people were listening in this morning. The conversations all around her table were boisterous as they tried to compete with each other in terms of volume. There weren't any clear winners but her hangover made her a clear loser.

"Rough night?"

The familiar voice caught Vissa's attention immediately, her head snapping up out of her hands to monetarily glare at the woman standing on across from her. She wasn't prepared for this conversation.

The glare gave way to a courteous smile as she motioned the other woman to sit. "Athlene, what a pleasant surprise!" Vissa said with a forced energy. The other woman, Athlene, set her drink down on the table and accepted the invitation taking the spot across of Vissa. "I didn't expect the Regional Director of Sales to pay me a visit." She said, waiting until the amber-haired woman sat. It gave her time to think, what the hell was the Officer of Intelligence for this region doing here? Without notice? "Thought I might see how you are fairing? Glidara wasn't my first choice for you but I thought you might enjoy yourself a little on this business trip."

"Aw, that is sweet but did you think I couldn't close with the client?" Vissa faked a laugh, though she made it convincing. Yet her gaze sharpened on her superior as she took a drink. That probably wasn't the case. Vissa's eyes wavered from her gaze, shifting to the rear of their socialite car to the corner booth where a few well dressed patrons sat, conversing quietly with an Imperial Officer. Two officers, technically, but the one that mattered was the Quartermaster for the sector. Even then it wasn't him, per sae, that mattered but which Gildarans were attempting to cozy up to the Quartermaster. Those individuals each needed to be identified: Vaylon Moss, Virex Daal, and Torren Kade.

Trivial at this point for her to come away with names, blackmail and coercion tactics that the Rebellion could use. The last crumbs of information she needed from last night's party. Athlene should have known that. She had to so this was about something else. What could be so important to drop in on an agent in the middle of their undercover work?

"Or was there something else?" Vissa's eyes focused back on her superior's. Her faked smile now taking on a sharper and real grin as she realized something. Her superior needed a favor. Athlene's lips folded, eyes widened as she realized she had been found out but she still rounded her expression to a polite smile. "You're right, Sev, there is something else." Athlene paused to compose herself with a drink. "I need to relocate you to Tregallon."

Vissa frowned. Tregallon? She knew the planet but only that it existed with a tiny garrison. It scarcely came up in intelligence reports and what she would hear from Imperials. It was the equivalent of rural backwater, might as well be considering the limited knowledge she had on it.

"I must decline. The client I have here should-" Vissa began, politely refuting verbally but internally she was seething at the idea that she was being plucked out of the comforts here when she hardly had anything else going for herself. Yet Athlene interrupted, raising her hand curtly. "I understand your commitment to your clients but I am in danger of losing one on Tregallon. I need someone good to keep them."

Her nostrils flared, her tell that she was repressing her anger. "Why not send Alaric or Nyce?" She hastily offered, replying a little too quick to sound composed. Athlene shook her head. "Not enough experience. I need you."Another broken promise from the Rebellion. Go figure. After she had finished here, she was going to resign anyway so might as well do so now. She opened her mouth but Athlene continued. "Before you reaffirm your commitment here, let me offer you this. The bonus you were asking for at the start. You go to Tregallon and I'll pay it. In full."

Vissa froze.

Almost ten years of trying to get the Rebellion to free her husband from whatever hellhole the Imperials put him in and never once had someone finally said they would do it. It was always "Well, we'll consider it." or "We just don't have..." and then insert reason. Yet in Athlene's roundabout way, she was offering it. Was it just a promise to be broken again?

"In full? I didn't think you had the budget for it?" Vissa sounded skeptical, reaching for the metal case on the table and retrieving a high-end nico. The rolled paper ignited as it was withdrawn from the case, burning at the opposite end as she brought it to her lips to take a deep inhale. Nicos were a smoking substance that were quite common here on Gildara. An addiction that she fell into rather easily.

Athlene continued, "I'm making the allowance. Because." The amber-haired woman smiled, genuine, though Vissa couldn't see through it to know for sure. "I'll take over here and I know a good lead on how to move our product. Imperial prisoners require uniforms after all and I know we can run a production of those. It just so happens that the person to talk to about that might be on this train."

Vissa pulled the nico away from her face, turning to blow smoke out into the rest of the train. So Athlene would be going after the other imperial officer, personally. At least that is what Vissa pulled from that loosely coded line. He might have had to do something with the Imperial prisons? She furrowed her brow trying to think about the connection but gave up. It wasn't important because Athlene would have to come through.

Vissa knew how to make sure.

"Fine. I get my bonus after or I walk." Vissa stated plainly as she stamped out her nico and rose from her chair.

We are now arriving at: Caleoris.

"I already packed your bag. You should hop off here to catch the first shuttle off world. Dossier on our client is included." Athlene offered, finally relaxing and leaning back in her chair. "You're such a doll." Vissa said through her all too flimsy smile. She hated when someone touched her stuff and the fact that Athlene presumed...

No, don't think that.

First Tregallon,
Then she is done.

The bar was half-lit by flickering durasteel panels and the tired hum of recycled air. The place smelled like spilled alcohol, overheated wiring, and the faint metallic tang of ozone drifting in from the landing pads outside. Underneath it all was the stale odor of too many bodies in too little space, sweat and cheap disinfectant fighting for dominance.

A handful of pilots, smugglers, and wreck-runners filled the room, nursing credits and bad decisions in equal measure. No one paid much attention when the door hissed open. A man stepped in. Rhett Calder. He didn’t look like a hero. He looked tired.

A civilian-cut armorweave suit in dark charcoal hung off him like something that had learned his shape over time. The fabric was scuffed at the seams, marked with old wear that hadn’t quite faded out. Shoulder-length dark hair fell loose around his face, just long enough to slip forward when he moved. Stubble shadowed his jaw, more from neglect than intention.

Dark sunglasses hid his eyes. If someone looked close enough, they might notice they didn’t quite match. A souvenir from a cartel boss after a job went bad a few years ago.

He crossed the room without hurry, boots quiet against the floor. No swagger. No attempt to command space. Just steady movement and an awareness that never switched off. He took a stool at the bar, keeping one shoulder angled slightly toward the room, and ordered in a low, flat voice.

“Something hard to take the edge off.”

He paid immediately.

The glass arrived warm from the bar’s ambient heat, the sharp scent of alcohol cutting through the heavier smells in the air. Calder didn’t lift it right away. He let it sit while he watched.

He dint watch people or faces. Not really. He was observing. Cataloging. Not intentionally, but more out of habit. Watching who shifted their weight. He leaned across a table to avoid being overheard. Who was carrying a blaster on their hip.

Calder felt the weight of his own RSKF-44 resting on his hip through the fabric of his jacket. A gentle reminder that even here he wasn’t safe.

He took a slow sip. The burn settled in his chest.

For now, he was just another body in a crowded cantina on a world that had learned to survive without optimism. A man passing time, breathing recycled air, listening to distant engines vibrate through the walls.

This place was fine.
Yeah. Fine. Real charming.

The bar was doing its best impression of a coffin. Low ceiling, bad air, a smell that suggested the the place was better fit for worms than the 'people' that frequented it. Exactly the kind of place you end up when you tell yourself you're 'getting back on your feet'. Trelvik was just getting settled in. That's what he said. Getting comfortable. Letting things cool down.

Time to move on. Get on with his life. Sure. Absolutely.

It'd been years, after all. Long enough that it should've stopped mattering. That's how it's supposed to work, right? Time passes, memories fade, you stop replaying things frame by frame like you're trying to find some other reason things went down the way they did. Let it go. Seriously. It's getting sad now. That's what they said. And he nodded, drank, and agreed with them - doing his best impression of a healthy person.

Maybe he'd lost his self-respect somewhere along the way. Easy thing to misplace. Slips out of your pocket when you're not looking. But it was back now. Mostly. No, really.

He took another drink and shot a glance over to the bartender that begged for another. He must've sunk enough credits in this place to afford a death star of his own and the owner still looked at him like he was a womp rat eating his garbage.

A figure slid up next to him. He waved away the bartender when he came over to take his order. That said all he needed to know.

"You're Noss."

Trelvik didn't look at him. "Bar's full of disappointments." He said. "I'm not the one you're looking for."

"An Alliance pilot just went down a couple of hours ago. The Imperials were expecting him, TIEs swarmed him before he could break the atmosphere. He had to put it down hard. We're not sure if he's alive or dead. The system's been sealed." he said. "Imperials have doubled patrols. Whatever he was carrying, they want it buried with him."

He rolled the glass between his palms and waited for the moment to pass. It didn't.

The Rebel hesitated, then leaned in and lowered his voice like that made things look any less suspicious. "We could use someone who knows how to hold ground. Buy time. Someone who doesn't panic when it goes bad."

There it was. His call back to the big time. Pull the sports star out of retirement for one more game. Let everyone feel sorry for the sad sap.

"You've got the wrong guy, kid. There's plenty of old broken guns in the Rebel armory. You don't need this one."

"He might still be alive." The rebel added, almost ignoring his comment. "Command says you know him. Tyrell Omi-Ren."

Tyrell, huh? Even at just the mention of the name he was brought back to better times. Times filled with mud, and blood, and beer. Those were the days. Days when they were closer to gallant Jedi knights than whatever he had melted into over the years.

He laughed into his glass as he took another drink.

Listen - if you think I could still do the job, what did I have to lose? Apart from the weight. Very funny. Ha ha. Yes, that is a fake laugh, you jerk.

He stared at his glass and waited for the urge to pass. That old itch. That voice that says you could help. Trelvik pushed the drink away and stood up. Somewhere out there was a Rebel bleeding into the dirt because someone had talked, and the Empire was tightening its grip like it always did. Civilians caught in the middle. Again.

"Point me in the direction, kid."

---

Trelvik braced himself against the side of his fridge. With great effort, and no shortage of wheezing and grunting he managed to move it from its place against the wall. The bottles inside clinked and shook as it settled into place, the contents of it were primarily not, solid, healthy food.

After a brief rest he kneeled down next to the spot the fridge once stood, and pulled up a false floorboard. As if he was reaching directly into the past he pulled up an assortment of gear - gear he hadn't worn since well before he'd landed on Exaron. He'd thought about chucking it out more than once, getting rid of the past - letting go. Who was he kidding.

The weapons came out first, a rifle and pistol no doubt in dire need of servicing. Then the clothes, old rebel gear he'd taken care to scratch any identifiers off after getting settled here. Lastly was the machete.

He'd named it years ago, but now after all this time and everything that had happened the name hardly seemed appropriate. He held the long blade in his hands, inspecting the flat surface of it. Finally he caught his own eyes in the scratched, dirty reflection staring back at him. As quickly as he saw himself he'd put the machete down. He wasn't in the mood for any bad jokes.

Outside, he stood in his back garden. At the top of a fence post he'd placed some empty bottles - no point wasting bad booze - and was gripping his pistol, aiming down the sight with one shut eye.

He squeezed the trigger. The shot cracked sharp and loud, far louder than he remembered, and the bottle didn't move. Not a wobble. Not a chip. Just stood there, smug and intact, almost as if it was mocking him. Trelvik frowned at the sight like the bottle had personally offended him.

He adjusted his stance, shifted his weight, squeezed the trigger that much harder. The round kicked dirt halfway up the fence, sending a lazy puff of dust into the air. The bottle remained, yet again, untouched.

He lowered the pistol and stared at it for a long moment, thumb brushing over the worn grip. It felt smaller than it used to. "Yeah..." He muttered. "Makes sense."

He set the pistol down on the rickety table and rolled his shoulder, working at a dull ache that hadn't existed back when this sort of thing had been easy. When lining up a shot was just another habit. He glanced back down at the pistol, memories flooding back of times long past. Failures entering his mind like unwanted houseguests. Rage bubbled up inside, he could almost feel himself physically getting angrier. Then a flash of the memory he wanted to forget the most - of his biggest failure. Of that little girls face as the detonator rolled towards her.

Trelvik slammed his fist down against the table. He grabbed the pistol quickly and swung it round, firing off one last shot.

The bottle shattered and rained glass shards down around the fence.

He let out a breath through his nose and laughed. Yeah, that fit. He'd let the fire inside die down over the years. About time someone added some fuel, he was getting cold.

He holstered the pistol and picked up the rifle, turning it in his hands. Familiar weight. Wrong balance. Like shaking hands with someone you used to trust and realising you didn't know them anymore. After a moment, he lowered it too.

That was enough.

By the time he stepped out onto the street, night had settled in properly. He'd pulled on a long duster overcoat before leaving. It hung low enough to hide what he needed it to hide: the machete strapped flat along his back, the rifle collapsed down beneath it, and the pistol hanging at his side.

Underneath, he hadn't bothered with the old shirt. Tried once. Couldn't get it over his shoulders without feeling ridiculous, so he'd left it folded at the bottom of the floorboard. He was already mentally preparing himself for the jokes Tyrell would no doubt make at his expense when they met, no point in giving him any more ammunition than he already had.

He tugged the coat closed, set his shoulders, and started walking. Each step felt heavier than the last, like his body was arguing against his decision. He pulled up his datapad, the screen dusty and slightly cracked and switched it on.

He didn't have much information to go on. The tracker on Tyrell's fighter had stopped bleeping long ago, but what he did have was a direction to head in, and a clock that wouldn't stop ticking. If the rebels knew about the crash, there was no doubt the Imperials did too.

Collaboration with: @Landain & @Taka

---

“Sending the code now.”

A series of beeps emitted from the large panel of flashing lights, switches, and buttons located near the yoke of the Bane. Wear and tear had taken its toll on the dash, leaving tiny nicks and scratches across the metallic panel. Certain buttons faded from frequent use. Worse of all was the seat that the captain currently reclined in. The leather had seen much better days, with holes exposing the padding within, and so much of it was so worn down that the seat had a skewbald texture to it.

Sat in that seat, before the dash was a duro woman, her hands clasped together and a serious look as she stared out at the massive space station before her. Her red eyes lacked any pupils, making it hard to tell just where she was staring, but Captain Jade Sim was staring pensively at the massive turrets that protected the space station.

“Everything checks out. Prepare to dock.”

The voice came back to her through a speaker nearby. Jade released her bated breath. Such were the dangers of running a wanted ship. You could alter and switch Chain codes all you want, but it never made the occupation less dangerous. Most officials did not have the resources and time to dig up information on a ship, especially one so old as the Bane, but it only took one to ruin a good thing.

“You heard the man, Vaxxi. Bring her in” the woman finally said, letting her relief slip into her voice as she thrust a finger into the air, a smile forming on her face. Her eyes flickered to the panel to ensure her comlinks were off before she turned to the other figure in the bridge, the one that wasn't her co-pilot and old ally. The Jedi. The word still made her spine tingle, as if just thinking it painted a bullseye on her back.

‘...Snnnnrrrrrt, snnnnnrrrrt, snnnnnnrrrrrt…’ Korvax snored loudly in the cargo section of the Dayvan cargo ship. He was strapped into a canvas and aluminum constructed row of seats along the port side of the fuselage that could be removed to accommodate more stores if needed. For now, the ship wasn’t carrying too much and the seats were installed. As the vessel neared it docking moorings, Korvax was shaken out of his dream. He was slow to become alert, but looked around recognizing his surroundings. Afterall, it had been about ten years he had been working on this ship.

After unstrapping his buckles, he made his way to the bridge. The port whooshed open allowing him access. The other two crewmates were seated facing forward as Jade Sim made her way towards the tractor beam drawing the Bane into its moorings. He looked at Quin who was attentively staring at the station they were docking at. “Vallis, do you know what we are doing here?” He then looked at Jade, “Cap’n?”

“You have the data pad, right?” She asked, moving past Quin without making eye contact. They had worked together for some time, and she liked the boy. He was sweet, in a sort of naive way, but she was focused on the job. She moved to her gear behind him, attaching her holster and wrist mount as she waited for his reply.

The sound of the navigation map beeped loudly as the fingers of the only human onboard continued to mess with it. The course of [i][color=cyan]the Bane[/i][/color] had already been constructed but the man who would be the Navigator of the most illustrious ship in the galaxy, at least that's what he called it, wanted to make sure any future changes would be easy. A tingle at the tip of spine resonated throughout the rest of his body, his mind wandering as it attempted to figure out why. The Jedi, as he was known to the crew only, couldn’t make heads or tails of why the tingle happened.

The Force was a mysterious entity in the Galaxy, living and ever present, but never giving a straight answer or at least that was how it felt to Quin. After his mom’s passing, he always felt something was off. His senses weren’t as sharp as they were before, things would rattle his mind in ways he had never expected before, The Force feeling disconnected from him at times. Drifting further and further, his thoughts ran rampant before he heard the Captain and Korvax.

“I have the datapad.”

Quin reached over to retrieve, turning it on with a touch and passing to the Captain and dear friend Jade. Ever since he had joined, it had been a wild ride and he respected her with the full breadth of his being. And then there was Korvax. Truthfully Quin had no issue with the Ugnaught, while not the most empathetic, he was definitely the best drinking buddy.

Jade extended her arm behind her and accepted the datapad before tapping it to bring up the information within. A rotating picture of the informant flashed onto the datapad: A young human male with long hair and a scruffy beard. The alias given beside him was ‘Mynock,’ which caused Jade to scratch her chin. Why a beautiful young man like this would have such a vile name made her curious. Adrenaline was already starting to pump through her veins now, the mystery, the allure, this was what being a smuggler was all about.

Standard procedure rebel gathering. Meet somewhere discreet enough to not to be questioned, but open enough not to be isolated. Speakeasies in hives of scum and villainy were usually the best place, and this space station had a plethora of spots like this. As per usual, a basic description of the contact, along with their alias, would be forwarded to the Bane crew in some form or another.

“This is where we are meeting the contact. Probably in the worst bar they could find. You’d think avoiding the scum would be the idea”

Jade turned her head back to Quin, now grinning ear to ear at his comments about their rendezvous. She wiggled a finger and shook her head at his admonishment of their locale.

“If the rebels were in the practice of avoiding scum, then they wouldn’t be working with us, would they?” She snarked before leaning down to rest a hand on his head.

She may have only been a year older, but Jade had seen the galaxy and learned so much with Dura. Quinn had insights into mystical practices she could never fathom understanding, but at times it amused her that she was, in fact, a seasoned smuggler now, and some of that experience gave her information only a select few bold characters were privy to.

“Take a look at this space station. Notice the distinct lack of imperial banners and general disrepair,” She replied, ushering with her other hand towards the rapidly encroaching space port. The place had certainly seen better years. The ground in the ship bay had scuffs from the occasional hash entry, the exterior having thousands of tiny bumps too minimal to bother with buffing out but noticeable in their multitude, all likely from stray shrapnel or tiny meteors. Grease stains and scorch marks left a grimy appearance on the ship bay before them.

“That’s because this is an independently owned space station. They pay their taxes, sure, and plenty of people stop here for totally legal business: probably coming in for pit stops or a bite to eat before your next jump,” She mused as the tractor beam sent them through the containment field. Jade rushed back to her seat to guide the ship the rest of the way down from here, gently positioning her ship between various other customized lightweight cruisers and civilian vehicles.

“But the real money for a place like this is with smugglers like us” She said as she flicked a series of switches, hearing the engines wind down, watching the various spacers below them walk the space port like dozens of little ants. The space station was bustling, even in the docking bay.
“They look the other way while we do our business, and suddenly you’ve got frequent customers and loyal ones too,” She said as she spun the pilot's seat around to look at Quinn.
“A place like this, perfect for smuggling, we call that a ‘shadow port’. Best places to find business, and the more populated, the better.” She finally said, stretching her back as she did.

“So we’re meeting at Hutt’s tail? Man, that brings back memories,” She said as she looked back at the datapad, but her eyes drifted away in a wistful expression. It had been over a year since she had lost Dura. Since THEY had lost Dura more accurately, but everything seemed to remind her of him. The Hutt’s Tail was a favorite haunt of his. She had such vivid memories of sipping nectar wines and huffing spiceblends, the latter of which likely made the memory so vivid.

A deep sigh recollected the young captain’s composure. She wasn’t there for leisure, and she didn’t have time to doddle on the past. The rebels were sticking their neck out trying to get her attention and she had to remain professional here. A few taps on the datapad wiped the information stored on it before she started heading off the ship.

“Alright boys, look alive”

Governor Rax Tsundre sat in the command chair aboard the bridge of the Judicious, the Vindicator-Classes knife-shaped bow cut through space menacingly. Less imposing than the larger Imperial or even Victory-class Star Destroyers, the Judicious maintained the familiar, and comfortably threatening, wedge shape that dominated the Imperial Fleet since the declaration of the New Order. Sometimes she believed she could accumulate enough wealth, or enough status, to get a larger, more modern vessel. That said, there were systems elsewhere in the Outer Rim and the Unknown Regions whose sector command ships were even more pitiful. A Naval Officer by training, a politician by happenstance, she was the natural pick to govern a backwater colony sector such as Exaron. Other Governors lived in palaces full of grand halls and expensive artworks. Rax instead commanded the system from her ship, a mobile command centre full of the Empire's finest technology.

"Status report."

An image appeared in her personal viewer, showing a downed X-Wing with smoke twisting and streaming up through the air as it bobbed in the waves of the shallows. A silky smooth voice came from the front of the bridge, a rich Coruscanti accent. A genuine coruscanti accent.

"Two TIEs down. The rebel has been driven to ground. The ship's astromech attempted to eject; however, the TIEs reported a clean kill on it. Ground forces are moving in, they're encountering resistance, but nothing that should prove too difficult once we commit more assets." The Captain spoke as he turned to face her, reading from his holopad. He wasn't an unattractive specimen, tall and lean. A rising hairline threatened to assault his scalp beyond the boundary of his forehead. In certain lights, Captain Xin Ulrand bore a stark resemblance to a slightly younger Wilhulf Tarkin. A fact, she knew, he took great pleasure in.

Rax lifted her glass to her mouth, swirling the sweet red liquid around before letting it aerate, then taking a sip and savouring it in her mouth for a second before swallowing. "Very good."

Standing up, she moved herself forward. "Any report from Entralla?"

He nodded, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Grand Moff Kaine is moving assets to support the blockade. Under your command."

Rax nodded approvingly, raising her hand slightly, indicating that he should continue. "One Imperial, Two Secutor class and their escorts. All to be placed under your flag." Now she couldn't help but allow a smile to cross her face. All her machinations were finally coming together.

"Let's see that we have our rebel before they arrive. Show our worth to the Grand Moff." She stood, straightening out her uniform and allowing the elaborate cape she wore drape down her back. Rax walked forward, ignoring the occasional glances she garnered from the crew pits as she walked to the bridge, looking out as a pair of TIE fighters flew past the command deck. They bobbed their wings back and forth in a sign of respect as they flew towards the bow of the vessel.

It would be a shame when it came time to move her flag. Yet it was time.

The warbling and the trilling roused him, pulling him from his stupor and bringing him back to his senses. Krang coughed through a throat full of smoke, his lungs burning. Adrenaline shot through his system, bringing him back to his senses. The X-Wing bobbed and weaved slightly, then he looked out in panic as the nose of the craft, all broken and bruised, started to tip below the waterline. The cracks in the hull filling with water. Slapping one control, he watched as his bag of gear appeared in a flurry of bubbles. With his free hand, he undid his restraints and hit the switch to pop open the canopy. There was a dull thunk, and he pushed against the canopy, but it didn't open.

He tried it again. Thunk. Looking back at the controls, he scanned over them, as he noticed various switches and lights flickering on and off indiscriminately. The water was seeping into the system and shorting out the electrics. A sense of urgency was evident in his movements now; he pulled the manual releases, then heaved on the heavy transparisteel cockpit, forcing its hinge to give way. The humidity assaulting him, he looked up as the remaining TIE fighters performed a perfect spiral, then dove and shot off into the distance. Looking towards the shore, he could faintly see figures on the beach, which were no doubt the rebels he was supposed to rendezvous with. Jumping out of the seat, he grabbed his bag and swam for shore.

The water was shallow, just barely too deep to stand, as he kicked he tried his best to listen to the sounds going on around him. Every time Krang's head dipped beneath a lazy wave and he lost track of the world around him, his heart rate increased. He had already been ambushed once today, very nearly twice. To say he was on edge was a distinct understatement. A shadow crossed over his head as he surfaced, and he stood. His heavy feet sank slightly into the thick mud beneath him. A Gozanti-Cruiser passed overhead, two AT-ST scout waters hung from its belly. Followed shortly by a Sentinel-Class shuttle. Already laser fire started to go out between the rebels on the beach and the larger vessels, as the cruiser dropped low over the shallows it shook slightly as the walkers dropped into the water in a resounding splash. Their knee joints bending slightly to absorb the shock of impact.

Heavy laser cannon shots of angry red energy lanced into the rebel position, and he winced. The shuttle would be carrying at least a squad of stormtroopers. He was effectively cut off from his support, the only thing he had that could make a dent in the walkers was a well-placed thermal detonator and there wasn't any guarantee that he could make that shot from this far away. He looked around, panic setting in. For any other beach, any other angle of attack he could take or any other avenue for retreat that he could possibly find.