Kal leans over to glance at the paper once before snorting, "Kashyyk -was- a vacation." the commando opinions.

He kept forgetting - or chose to forget - that Morad was no Commander. Kashyyk might've seemed a nightmare to an uninitiated youngster; whereas to the war-weary Talons, having a planet that was thick in cover and even had the occasional friendly locals was a blessing.

Having logged the scribbles of the map into his memory, he nods warrily to the dealer and moves into the shadows of the alley towards the steps descending into the first of many underground streets, motioning for Morad to follow him quickly before the Dealer realized he'd been duped.

When they are relatively clear, the clone grunts and motions for them to stop for a moment. He selects an abandoned crate and sits heavily on it.

"Hold this." He hands Morad a glowstick so Kal can see what he's doing.

Beneath the dim blue light, Kal's hair is soaked in sweat, the front of his dark shirt in blood. The stuff trickles in a black rivulet down his arm from his shoulder, dripping from his fingertips in a chilling rythm. Even his rifle is drenched in the stuff, soaking it up from the torn fabric at his side. Kal has, since the end of the fight, been operating with wounds that would have dropped a normal man an hour ago. Every grunt, every hiss, every curse under his breath has not been made out of anger or impatience towards Morad, but out of pain and fatigue.

Well, what did you expect? He'd been holding off a platoon of Troopers while the Jedi had been playing around with their Sith counterpart. The building collapse had hardly helped.

He sets the bacta canister on his knee and extends the injection tube, bringing it to his teeth. He rips out the filter assembly and attatches the needle directly to the line before jamming it into his vein and letting the blue wonder-drug drain. It might seem like suicide; pure, unfiltered bacta injections were poison to human lifeforms.