((Yes, that was better, thank you. Now s'cuse the mess while I try to squeaze Kal back in here... Gaz, if you're still in this, Cyphor is more'n welcome.))

Things had gotten out of control. Kal had been handling it fine, at first, but then the Jedi had lept whole buildings, and troopers had flooded the area with Katarn armor.

The commando fought to reach on foot the new battlegrounds; fortunately the majority of his former brothers were too concerned with attacking the Jedi. There had been dust and blasters in the air, explosions and collapses, chaos of which Kal was only half-aware.

For him, it'd ended with the fall of a building as the Sith made his escape. Kal had felt, more then heared, the crack of the structure. There was no superspeed, no inhuman leap, no force shield. The clone could only tuck into a crouch and shield his head with his raised arm.

Darkness and pain greet him a few moments later. His Deece was digging painfully into his side, nearly strangling him with its sling around his neck. Plaster dust seared his lungs, and a warm wetness seeped out of stinging wounds. For a moment, he's confused. Where was this? Dantooine? Had the tunnels collapsed? The Killing Room? Was his instructor about to dig him out, cursing his carelessness?

'Two-nine, get moving before the pile shifts. You need to move, Kal.' Feirfek. Chief only sounded concerned when they were really slagged. He grunts a response to a voice that isnt there and twists. Something in his shoulder pops, bringing new pain, as he reaches up to begin the long process of digging himself out.

'Sithspit. Where's a hand when you need it?'

'Yeah, belay that, Twitch. The only hand we're likely to see'll be in Trooper armor.'

"Shut up, Boomer. I hear them moving." And so he could. They were noisy; in persuit of something. Still worked up. That was good; the Jedi, at least one of them, had to be still alive. Then he still had a mission.

His hand breaks through into cold, open air, and slowly the Commando crawls from the rubble. His eyes stung with debris and sweat, but fortunately the growing darkness and his black clothes kept him sheilded. They werent looking for him, not here. He staggers off of the pile and into an alleyway, away from the shattered district.

He wouldnt have a 'presence' in the Force; he had no talent for it. The only lead he has is the memory of the Bothan's words. He recalls the adress and instructions flawlessly; Clones dont forget.