---

Beck cleaned the Czerka cycler for the third time that day. That was one thing he hadn’t had to do back on Corsin, when he carried a blaster rifle instead of a slugthrower. Less maintenance with a blaster, but the components and gas needed to be shipped in from off-world. With a slugthrower, everything you needed to keep it operational, from the firing mechanisms to the slugs, was made right there on Tatooine. He slipped slug after slug into the cycler as he finished up, cursing as he slipped and jammed his finger on the fourth round.

He hated this backwater world, and not just for the lack of modern industry. It was the sand and dirt, too, the barren, wasteland earth that stretched, invariably, all around no matter where you were on the planet.

At that moment, Beck was leaning against the guardrail of an open-air skiff, smoking a thick, slow-burning cigarra as the ship bobbed and weaved through the rocky terrain of the Jundland Wastes. Jeeda, the crew’s Rodian pilot, kept them moving at a slow clip relative to the craft’s typical operating speed. They weren’t on their way to Mos Vaada for their own sake. They were escorting the long, multicar hover train that skated over the barren land not more than fifty paces to their right.

He loaded the last of the cycler’s eight slugs, locked them in, and stuffed the cleaning rag in the inside pocket of his dirt streaked poncho. He tilted his wide brimmed hat down, shielding his face from the twin suns, and kept his eyes on the rocks that reached up from the ground around them. He chewed on the butt of the cigarra and inhaled a cloud of smoky carababba tabac.

Sand people would shoot at anything that moved, if they were in the mood, but it wasn’t just sand people Beck worried about. The hover train was carrying thousands and thousands of gallons of water for the people of Mos Vaada. Out in the deserts of Tatooine, no matter who you were, you needed water to keep living, which meant water was just the sort of thing worth killing for.

Mos Vaada Transportation, Doga the Prospector’s shipping company that owned the hover train, the skiff Beck rode, and even Beck himself, if you thought about it like that, kept a robust, if ragtag, security detail attached to each water shipment out of Anchorhead. This particular hover train was escorted by a few skiffs, each outfitted with a mounted anti-personnel blaster and carrying half a dozen or so armed mercs, and the train itself was manned by its own security team. Beck could see a few of the mercs standing atop the hover train, rifles in hand, eyes on the terrain, and another skiff drifting further up the way alongside the front end of the train.

Circumstances being what they were, what with the sandstorm of the century on its way, they even had air support for this operation. Granted, it was a rickety light freighter sporting a jury-rigged laser cannon, not exactly the same caliber of air support as the FT-5’s that had flown cover for Beck and his unit back during the war, but it was something. More eyes to keep a look out for trouble never hurt.

“Hey boss, you keep that thing loaded, eh? A clean gun no good if the shooting starts and you got no slugs in it, eh?” the Rodian pilot shouted over the whirring of the skiff engine. Beck’s Huttese wasn’t great, and the Rodian spoke a broken form of the language to boot, but he took Jeeda’s meaning well enough.

“I hear you,” he shouted back, and rested the cycler’s barrel on his shoulder. He kept his eyes on the rising rock faces as the caravan descended into a canyon, deeper into the Jundland Wastes, toward the Western Dune Sea, toward Mos Vaada and a stack of credits. Toward the sandstorm, too, though, and other dangers.

He tightened his grip on the cycler and chewed at the cigarra, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke into the Tatooine wind.

---

As he sat near the stern of the skiff, the Kid had heard talk of brutal sandstorm headed their way, one that could not be avoided nor held out. And on top of the sandstorm, there were bound to others with their eyes on the prize, on the cargo Beck and his team were transporting. The danger of the job never really bothered Kid. Despite being young, he really had nothing to lose. He had gone through hell and back before Beck plucked him out of the hellholes of Tatooine.
He worked hard to impress, because most of the people he looked up to were members of the crew, Beck especially. Kid wasn't sure if he seemed like a father, uncle, or even brother, but the boy cared about Beck. The man had taken Kid under his wing after all, fed him, cared for him. So in return Kid worked hard, tirelessly, in order to show his gratitude and thanks. It wasn't exactly the safest life to be pulled into, but it sure as hell beat living on the streets, drowning in sand, and stealing to survive.

Weapons had been cleaned, examined, double cleaned and then triple cleaned. For something that might've been a chore for most, Kid always enjoyed sitting in silence and polishing the weapons. Functions checks were something he could do with his eyes closed, something he had done for nearly every day in the last two years.
Once most of his tasks were complete, Kid moved from the back of the skiff towards the front, his personal Cycler Rifle strapped over his shoulders and hanging off his back.

Many of the crew had come to respect the kid, he held up his end of the deal at least. Sure he was young, but he had proven himself capable many a time during all the jobs Beck put his crew on.

"Better hold onto something Kid, wouldn't want ye to get blown of this 'ere skiff when the storm comes 'round," said an older male Weequay, Bonvo.
"Heh, don' worry Bo, no storm'll get me. Besides, who's gonna save yer skin if I'm not here?" Kid joked, to which the pirate just chuckled and rolled his eyes as he resumed his watch on the horizon.
As Kid got to the bow of the ship, he leaned up against the guardrail next to Beck and looked out across the wasteland as the skiff moved. Dirty goggles resting on his head, he subconsciously reached up to adjust them in his unkempt hair.

"Y'know those cigarra's 'er pretty bag for ya, Beck. I heard they rot ya' lungs out eventually." Kid said, turning his head slightly as he looked up at the older man next to him.

---

The sky above the skiff was the color of blood, painted with a soft brush.

The sandstorm was rapidly approaching and visibility would not last much longer. Staring out at the charming wasteland that was Tatooine Noname did not need the gift of her people to sense the impending danger. Trouble was imminent. Violence was unavoidable. It would not be long before the sand ran red with blood. Czerka blood and Czerka bodies. If Noname had any say in the matter. And she did. She always did.

Noname had heard the rumors about Doga the Prospector that swirled through every dusty tavern of Tatooine. The Mayor of Mos Vaada. The newest enemy of the Czerka Corporation. He was a Hutt with fresh ambition. He was a Hutt with a plan. And he was a Hutt with a mercenary named Beck standing at his side. She did not trust the Hutt. She did not trust Beck. She did not trust the other mercenaries. They were weak men of little skill and ambition, almost to a man. But she shared a common enemy with the Hutt. She shared his hatred. She had felt it rolling off of him, a dark cloud of calculated fury, when they had first met. She trusted hatred. She believed in anger. She had signed up to protect the water caravan in Anchorhead. Tam had mentioned that Beck was looking to hire mercenaries for a big job. A rush job. Exactly the sort of job that wouldn't ask any questions. The other hired guns kept their distance. They knew enough. They had heard the stories about the unnamed gunslinger wandering the wastelands. They knew what she had done. They knew what she could do.

She had killed. And she had fled. She had fled halfway across the Outer Rims killing along the way. Criminals, cutthroats, and pirate scum. It made no difference. The dead did not weep for murdered villains. No matter what the Jedi said. Corporate killers did not deserve a trial. They did not merit mercy. Hatred was power. Anger was fuel. Violence was the true language of the galaxy. To deliver death to the guilty was righteous. To bring destruction to the corrupt corporations was divine. Justice had no need for politics or politicians. Noname was not done. She had just started. Her revenge had only begun. She would purify the galaxy by fire. One evil, one villain, at a time.

Thoughts did not dull her awareness. Memories did not hamper her focus. Recollections of her purpose did not distract her. Her lavender eyes scanned the horizon, watchful of any motion. Her left hand grasped the guard rail of the skiff and she moved expertly with each motion of the ship keeping a stable base. Her free right hand rested on the butt of her heavy slugthrower. Not idly waiting, but constantly moving. Shifting, stretching, and tapping a familiar pattern on the metal frame. Noname was ready to draw the ancient firearm at a moment's notice. She was prepared to put large holes into anything that threatened the safety of the water-laden hover train.

Noname readjusted the bandana that covered most of her face. She knew who she was. She was nobody. She had no name. She had no past. And she had no future.

She had no name.

---

"'It's good money,' he says; 'It's an easy job,' he says. 'It'll help people,' he says; Fuckin' Hutts, always pulling shit like this." Melech muttered under his breath, his ship currently filled with about ten mercenaries packing various flavors of slug-thrower. As a general rule, Melech did not take jobs that merited that kind of firepower. However, when Doga's man approached him about the job, there had been no mention of armed fighters. Technically, his only job was making sure the water systems in the prospecting town were in working order.

When he arrived at the rendezvous, though, he discovered that they had not given him planet-side coordinates for the town. No worries, though, because they had left word with the captain who drove the regular water deliveries to look for him. All Melech had to do was follow the delivery to the town. Of course, since he was going to be there anyway, they asked if he would mind using his ship's scanners to keep an eye out around them. They had had trouble with some locals trying to steal the water, and could use the help. No problem, right? They would even give him a few men in case something happened and his ship was attacked.

What they had failed to mention was exactly how many other vehicles were in this little caravan, or that the 'men' they had guarding it were mercenaries packing heavy ordinance. At least, as heavy as you could reliably get on this planet. The slug throwers were actually more cost effective than gas-powered blasters, since they would have to ship gas in from off world. That being the case, when they found out Melech's ship had the machines they needed, they loaded it up with materials for making bullets. A couple of the mercenaries happened to know how to make their own ammunition, and were busy churning out additional rounds for just about every gun in the caravan.

Letting out a heavy sigh, Melech shook his head and got back to business. Both of his hands were firmly connected to his ship, each connecting him to a port that enabled him to fly a ship that only droids could pilot otherwise. Even then, a droid would need the right port jack to connect, like the one his co-pilot Beep-Boop was equipped with. Currently, the co-pilot was busy keeping them on course. Melech had other things to worry about.

With his hands connecting him to his ship, Melech could see the world around him through it. The vast array of sensors and detection equipment came together with a system that was used to create holograms, combining with his own cybernetics to let him view their surroundings as a vast map spread before him. No one else could see this map, of course, as all of this information was being directed straight into his mind, overlaying his vision whenever he closed his eyes. Thanks to his cybernetics, he could interact with this map at speeds on par with a droid, and it all gave him a perfect view of the world flying by underneath his ship.

There was a storm coming, his on board systems could see it, let him see it. The sand made it difficult to detect anything too deeply within the storm, but once they were in it he should be able to correct for it. As it was, the miles stretched out before them, nothing standing in their way. Each crack and crevice of the canyon they were entering was perfectly clear to him, each little plant and creature giving off its own signature, hundreds of targets being identified and dismissed as they came within his miles-long sensor range. Even as they flew into the tight walls of the canyon, his ship would fly steadily forward, the walls sometimes coming within an inch of the hull. He never once got struck, though, all his sensor data giving his co-pilot perfect information to drive the surprisingly agile ship through the dangerous terrain. Where other ships would have taken off miles overhead to allow for this trench, Melech's ship was able to stay six meters overhead the whole way through. Whatever happened on this trip, he would be ready for it.

---

A distant wall of sand sapped the colours from the suns. A pair of yellow lenses twisted tighter as they watched from underneath a wide-brimmed hat.

"Agh, sand!" B1-LL3 exclaimed, to the voice of a B-grade actor. As much as it tried to flatten the exclamation from the sound sample, the awful acting still carried through. Its yellow lenses fell from the horizon and to its chassis, where it tugged and twisted at its hips and its elbows. Seemingly not content with its inspection, it tugged a bandage from a crook in its belt and began fastening it around a wrist servomotor. The sand that they headed for would get everywhere, coarse and rough as it is, and B1-LL3 knew first hand it certainly isn't beyond many of the myriads of threats in the wastes to attack in a sandstorm. It didn't take the many threat notifications for B1-LL3 to know that a seized joint was the last thing it needed if it came to that.

Its rifle almost looked as sad as B1-LL3 did: rusted and mismatched, with bolts hanging out that are too long to fit. A roll of tape might almost do it some good - a thought B1-LL3 agreed with as it covered over a damaged ejection port with a few wraps of it. It made a conscious effort to keep the rifle stowed above 6 feet high. If Kid got a hold of it, B1-LL3 imagined that he would hand him back a different weapon altogether. In the back of it's indexed secondary memory, B1-LL3 made a note of getting Kid to take a look at the weapon if they ever took another job together; but for now, they both had bigger concerns.

The sandstorm crept closer, or at least as well as a sandstorm could creep. It loomed over them, sapping the colour out of the twin suns and casting a long shadow that only drew closer. It wouldn't be easy to press through a sandstorm by skiff, but it had to be done. B1-LL3 twisted to look at the hovertrain. Water, B1-LL3 reminded itself; the very same thing its two wards needed 6.2 times per day. Browsing back through its secondary memory records, B1-LL3 eased for a moment to revisit old memories; memories of his two daughters leading it by the hand and eating its meals, from steel to skin.

But now it was time for reality. B1-LL3, returning to the land of the living, swung its rifle over its back by the sling and stood up from its rail. It had heard about the woman with no name. Being a droid in the industry, how could it not? In truth, it hoped to learn a thing or two from at least everyone on the skiff before the job was over, but old no-name especially so. B1-LL3 was not subtle in its approach: it whined and whirred, plagued by mismatched servomotors and rusting joints. Contrary to its lack of discretion though, it knew better than to talk to her, so it didn't bother. Instead, it plucked a packet of off-brand cigarras from a dusty pouch and offered a protruding one towards the woman.

A distant wall of sand sapped the colours from the suns. In a manner not too unfamiliar, a plume of smoke sapped the colours from a pair of faint yellow lenses, all underneath a wide-brimmed hat.

---

“I heard they’ll rot your lungs out eventually.”

“If I live that long I’ll take it up with myself then,” Beck retorted crisply. “Give myself a good hollering in the fresher mirror.”

Beck chewed at the cigarra as he looked out on the distant sandstorm, looming in the background behind the Jundland Waste’s pillars and trenches of towering rock faces. The hover train weaved between a pair of the things and Jeeda guided the skiff with it, coming all too close to smashing them apart on the rock. Odds were he wouldn’t be living that long.

“Careful, Jeeda!” he shouted. The Rodian shrugged, and Beck shook his head, looking to the motley crew of mercenaries Doga had purchased for the job. He knew some of them, worked with some of them, but there were some new faces. Jeeda, for one. And the woman with no name. He’d heard of her, which was something, given that she didn’t have a name. He’d heard she was good with a gun, which he reckoned must be true, from the way she thumbed the butt of the slugthrower on her belt. Confident.

All the same, he was looking to be the leader of this merry band of backwater soldiers, and he figured he ought to act like it. “Any of us survives a crash is only bound to die in the sandstorm,” he announced. Something plinked hard against the skiff’s lightly armored fore, leaving a fresh dent in the durasteel construction. He paid it no mind. A rock, likely. “So hold on tight, eh?” Plink, again. And then another. And this time Beck heard the report of a distant gunshot.

Not rocks. Slugs.

“On the left!” Jeeda shouted in high pitched Huttese, seemingly realizing what was happening as Beck did. Beck wheeled around, shoulders hunched, bringing the Czerka cycler to bear and looking for a target amount the passing rocks. He heard returning fire, closer by, from the mercenaries aboard the hover train, and shouts.

“Sand people!” a train-bound mercenary shouted over the din of engines, gunshots, and screams, taking a shot at an intricately featured wall pitted with cracks and crevices that seemed entirely vacant of any enemy. Except, of course, for the fact that the wall shot back. Beck could make out the muzzle flash of a slugthrower, wielded by an expertly camouflaged shooter, followed by a sharp crack. Beck aimed and fired, putting a hole in something that may have been a sand person, may have been a rock.

“Keep your heads down and shoot!” Beck shouted to the crew, and fired again.

---

Noname had barely managed to palm one of the cigarras that the droid had offered her before the shooting started. She didn't smoke, but on backwater planets like Tatooine death sticks were always a valuable trading commodity.

Dancing to the side, Noname smiled beneath her bandana as the familiar whistle of bullets raced past her. In one fluid, well-practiced motion, Noname drew the heavy slugthrower that she carried on her right hip and adopted a low, crouched stance. Sand People were not worth wasting a blaster on. They didn't wear armor thick enough to stop a good slug.

Drawing a deep breath, Noname waited and peered down her sights until she saw movement in the rock formation. With two gentle pulls of her finger she sent two heavy slugrounds into a large rock that let out a low scream before it fell towards the reddish sand beneath them.

Offering the briefest of nods towards the strange droid Noname squeezed off another round before raising her voice, "Aim for the heart, Tin Man."

The brief statement was more than Noname had ever said to the droid before. Shootouts always brought out the best in her. The smell of cordite and blaster fuel was sweet, oh so sweet. And the thunder of gunfire and shrill screams of bullets as they hurtled towards their targets was an unmatched symphony of sound. Adrenaline surged through her system and Noname felt unabashed joy at the thrill of dancing with death once again. Gunfights gave her life. They allowed her to remember. They gave her peace. They were all that she had.

She heard a scream next to her and ignored the mercenary that slumped beside cradling what had just been his hand. There was no time to spare for the wounded when there was still shooting to be done. He knew the risks of the job. They all did.

A mercenary who couldn't fight was not worth saving.

---

"I think you'll make it old man." Kid replied, rolling his eyes at Beck's response. Kid understood how dangerous this life was, how every assignment was a hit or miss when it comes to making it back home. He understood the dangers, the risks, and the grief that could come with it. That didn't mean he couldn't show compassion towards those he cared about in the here and now. Beck was one of those. The Kid was younger, maybe faster; he could pick up where Beck couldn't. At least the kid tried to.

Distracted by his thoughts, he didn't hear the first few plinks of what he assumed to be rocks on metal. Suddenly others were calling for gunfire, giving a direction for shots, and Beck was returning fire.
Kid reached up to pull his goggles down over his eyes, lifting the eyewear up off his head slightly to move them. He heard the whiz of a slug as it flew right over his head, catching the goggles and knocking them out of his hands and off the side of the skiff.

"Little bastards!" Kid cursed under his breath. Pulling another pair of goggles from his pocket, for the boy was never short on them it seemed, he quickly pulled them over his eyes and pulled his Czerka cycler from his back. He took a couple steps back to put some space in between he and Beck, Kid wiped a few loose strands of hair from in front of his face before lifting the cycler up and aiming towards the rocks. A flip of the safety and a quick moment later a sand person could be seen falling from his perch upon the tall rock pillar.
Two more shots and two more sand people fell to the desert below. He kept an eye on Beck as the skiff swayed left and right, watching for any hand signals, listening for any orders. The boy kept up with his shots, hitting every other shot it seemed, the movement of the skiff challenging his abilities as a shooter.

---

Forty-seven; That's how many new organics pinged on Melech's system. Of those, three had been identified as local fauna, a small group of reptiles sunning themselves on a rock. Given the time of day, they had likely been kept in the dark and then placed there as a distraction for radar-users. Sandmen were no strangers to technology, and it showed in their assessment of his ship. Unfortunately for them, this particular vessel was a lot more than it looked like. It had taken less than a second to identify and then dismiss the lizards, and within the next ten seconds he'd already located thirty of the hidden sandmen. All he had to do was have his droid plot a course to bring them alongside their targets long enough to take them out, then move to the next.

That was the plan, at least. As the ship pulled up alongside the first cluster, Melech told the mercenaries to be ready to fight over the ship's intercom. When they were all in position, one of them slammed the butt of his gun against the hatch control, jamming the button down flush with the panel. Melech saw the warning light flash inside his holo-field, informing him one of the ship's systems had been damaged.

Even as he'd begun disconnecting himself from the ship, he could hear the mercs cursing. The door had opened about thirty percent, allowing gunfire from outside to start ricocheting into the vessel. Then, it had abruptly shut. After a second, it would start to open, then slam closed once more. Melech had to grab his tools and head down himself, knowing the repair would take at least ten minutes, assuming the button was just jammed in place.

"Okay, who did it?" He asked, as they all stared at him. Before he could shout his own obscenities-a most choice selection, that encompassed the daily vocabulary of engineers from across a large percentage of the known regions of space-another shot fired into the cabin, bouncing off two walls before catching Melech directly in his calf. The one limb he had that was still made of muscle. Funnily enough, despite his career, Melech had never actually been shot before.

The string of profanity that proceeded was enough to render the collection of hardened killers wide-eyed. Once his still-organic leg had given out, his prosthetic had locked in place to brace his weight. As a result, Melech immediately lost his balance and toppled to his side, the cybernetic leg sticking straight out, stiff as a board, as he grabbed his injury. "Fuck! Beeps, raise the damn shield! Son of a Glorcknib, that hurt... Now, which one of you skunking cock-suckers broke my door?!" he yelled at them, after a very deep breath.

---

The Czerka barked once more, and on the next pull of the trigger gave a hollow click.

“Shit,” Beck growled, throwing his back against the skiff’s rail guard and sliding down to cradle the cycler in his lap. He jammed slugs into the magazine, muttering curses the long while, wishing he hadn’t lost his stripper clip back in Anchorhead. Swore it was in his pack, but it wasn’t, turned out.

A slug skipped across the handrail near his ear. “Oy, lads, get this cannon online and give us damned suppressive fire!” he roared, pointing out the inert anti-personnel cannon hanging limply on the rail. It should have been manned, but the would-be gunner was nowhere to be seen. Must have caught a slug in the fray and fallen off. Not a lot of rhyme or rhythm to a firefight, in Beck’s experience. Mostly luck.

He jammed the last bullet through and pulled the bolt handle home. Another slug plinked against the skiff deck, and he attempted to find the offending sand person through the scope. It was rough shooting. Between the heavily camouflaged attackers and the moving skiff under their feet, hitting a target was a tricky proposition. Beck did his best, loosing one shot after another in an effort to get the sand people to put their heads down at least, if not shoot them outright.

He found one, standing on a ridge, outlined nice and clear against the red Tatooine sky. Beck’s first shot skipped on the rock in front of his target, kick up shards of stone. The second struck true, and the sand person went down.

He didn't have much time to celebrate. There was a deafening crack from the hover train to their side, and Beck turned to see it shudder, as if some massive hammer had just been taken to it. The train was heavily armored, and it kept moving despite the blow, but something big had just hit it. Did sand people have anti-armor?

“Keep an eye out for whatever that was!” he shouted, scanning the ridge with his optics.

---

"Y'know, you never think to ask, do ya?" Kid hollered at Beck, watching as the man jammed slugs into his weapon, by hand, without a stripper clip. He stepped closer to Beck, his focus down range, acting as sort of a cover for the man as he reloaded slugs into his cycler. First shot, miss. Second, hit. By then Beck was back up and at it, so Kid took his turn to reload his cycler.

Being the sassy youngin' he was, the kid couldn't help but flash his stripper clip at back as sort of a 'you should've just asked' gesture. He didn't wait another moment before jamming more slugs into his weapon, pulling the bolt back, and focusing back down range. Beck gave the order for someone to man the anti-personnel cannon on the rail and Kid didn't hesitate as he jumped up and bolted over to it. Sliding his cycler over his shoulder, Kid flipped a couple switches and got the cannon online in a few short moments.
Sure, he was better with a long-range cycler, but Kid had received a few lessons on different weapons the crew tended to use, so luckily he knew a little bit about how to man the cannon.

After a few moments he could hear the cannon winding up. He used most of his body weight to move it, pointing in the general direction of the sand people and letting loose a barrage of lasers in a moments notice. He crouched low behind the machine as he fired down range, knowing all too well how much of a sitting target he could be, and attempting to use the cannon as a shield while he fired.

---

B1-LL3 enjoyed watching the light from his lenses play with the smoke. It was so rudimentary, so useless, but that's exactly why B1-LL3 enjoyed it. It could enjoy the little things now, after such a time of-
"On the left! Sand people!"

As Beck's voice came by, breaking over the roar of the skiff, a series of warnings assaulted B1-LL3's visual interface. [CONDITIONS REASSESSMENT...] came first, before several [CONDITIONS REASSESSMENT COMPLETE: DANGER] and several [AUDIO ARTEFACT DETECTED] warnings flashed over. By the time B1-LL3 could pull its combat subroutines from secondary memory to primary memory, the no-named gunslinger - and just about everything else, for that matter - had already started moving.

Metal clashed against metal as B1-LL3 threw itself for something solid: for the bow of the skiff. The rifle came next, being thrown from the droids shoulder and into its hands. Steel slid and clicked as the ejection port of the ad hoc rifle was forced open, before it was racked shut again over a fresh energy cell. Then, as the rifle sat whirring and squealing as the gas from the cell was pulled into the weapon, B1-LL3 lifted its head just in time to watch the no named gunslinger glide her pistol abroad and advise over her own gunfire:
"Aim for the heart, tin man." There was a moment to process before one of B1-LL3's lenses flickered off for a second. The droid winked.

With the noise from the rifle lifting towards a crescendo, B1-LL3 drew a pistol in its offhand and lifted over the cusp of the skiff's bow. The pistol didn't nearly have the same effect as most of the others on the skiff; it didn't crack like thunder or kick like a bantha. Instead, it more screeched as it threw yellow bolts across the terrain and into the mountainsides. The droids algorithms struggled to keep up as they attempted to follow the fight and make sense of where the attackers were, but B1-LL3 moved briskly never-the-less. Every time the algorithms pinged a potential weapons fire source, B1-LL3 put fire into it. It wasn't worried about checking and with a mere blaster, it certainly wasn't worried about bleeding an energy cell before the fight was over.

"Oy, lads!" roared the same voice. Beck, if B1-LL3 remembered right. The would-be shot caller on this skiff, if B1-LL3 remembered that right too. He seemed capable enough, was B1-LL3's initial verdict - not that they'd had much time to chat. "Get this cannon online and get us some damned surpressive fire!" B1-LL3 twisted around to check where the cannon was just in time to see Kid running for it. Twisting back about, B1-LL3 indiscriminately sprayed more blaster bolts at the ridges to try and give Kid a minute to get there and going. As the first volley came from the cannon, B1-LL3 dropped back below the bow.
"You alright to- use that, kid!?" B1-LL3 shouted, crudely cutting two voice samples together to make its voice.

Then it came: steel groaning and roaring and cracking, threatening to give its water away. B1-LL3 peeked over the bow for a moment, sweeping its yellow lenses over the train and then towards the ridges.
"Keep an eye out for whatever that was!" came Beck again. B1-LL3 dared to continue to look, searching intently before being interrupted. It sounded like an oven timer, a cute little noise a dutiful upper-levels Coruscanti housewife would chuckle responsibly at while taking food out of an oven. It came from the droids rifle, which now thrummed and shuddered with anticipation. The droid snatched the weapon up, pressing it into its shoulder servomotor and bracing it on the rail of the brow.
"Does anybody see- it!? Any ideas, boss!?" shouted the droid, intently glaring over its weapon as it swept over the ridges. It snuck a glance to the no-named gunslinger, recalling her words from before. Aim for the heart, right? The droid wondered if the rifle even could.

---

"Son of a-!" Melech yelled as he pulled the slug from his leg. His left hand contained a powerful electromagnet at the end of the middle finger. Its original intent was grabbing small metal pieces that slipped out of reach. However, even as he had designed it, Melech could recall having this exact situation in mind. Though, if he was being honest, he'd originally imagined a nail-gun being involved.

He'd gotten onto his back as quickly as he could. The wound wasn't life threatening, but infection was a real threat. So, closing his eyes, he had had to move his hand down his calf, until his finger sunk into the wound. That alone had him cursing and biting holes into his shirt collar. When he finally pulled his hand away, though, that was a new kind of pain. Effectively, he had grabbed the bullet and yanked it back out of the wound. Likely as not, he had caused as much damage taking it out as it had caused when it went in.

"Fuck! Gah, finally, it's out. Now, just bring me the- the...Uhhh..." Without thinking, he had lifted his hand up to look at the slug. Unlike his other limbs, fixing this one left his hand coated in blood. The site of it alone was enough to make him hesitate, but seeing it glisten on his fingers, watching it start to pool on the floor of his ship as it pumped out of his leg; It was all too much. Everything went black, his last vision the roof of his ship as his head hit the floor.

He was woken up by the feeling of antiseptic foam being injected into his wound. Luckily, the mercenaries were smart enough to find his first aid kit, and at least one of them could read the instructions. Once the foam hardened, the bleeding stopped. Someone had put something on his head. Whatever it was-the scent made him think a wet rag-it covered his field of view long enough to tell them all to sop up the blood. Chances were, he wouldn't hear the end of this little incident until he was off this planet. This kind of phobia didn't usually just jump out of people's minds.

Of course, he could always blast it out. Once the floor was clean, he told everyone to move away from the door. Grabbing one of the shells from the bandoleer around his torso. Yanking the massive gun off his back, he cocked it open long enough to slide the round into the chamber. Moving around, the braced himself with one leg against the base of a huge 3D printer, and the gun firmly in his right hand. With that arm bent at the elbow along his side, his weight on top of it, he gripped his other onto it with a vice setting just after the trigger guard. Taking aim, he grimaced, knowing full well what was coming.

When the hammer fell, his arm felt like it was going to come off; Just like usual. The massive round sailed forward, a bright blue light flashing against the surface of the door as he blew it open. As he expected, the hinge shattered under the huge force, forcing the door to hang open. It was now held on only by the braces, and only barely at that. Looking out, he could see one of the enemies. It fired in at them, and Melech could only grin as the little slug fizzled on his heavy shields.

In seconds, the mercs had taken up their stances. Each unloaded rounds into the target, peppering his hiding place until he was dead. When he saw the kill shot, Melech clicked his tongue three times, the signal for Beeps to move on. Which is what they did. Over and over, the shuttle moved, going from target to target. With each move of his ship, another enemy was taken out, unable to offer a counter assault, falling under the onslaught of firepower all the mercenaries could pour onto it. Before long, half of the enemy's numbers had been taken out. Melech himself was busy trying to make his way back up to the deck when a massive blast slammed against the ship's shields. When he saw his shield stutter, he cursed, knowing he needed to get his ass back to the main deck. "Beeps, we've got a new target to find. Prep the scanners for me!"

---

"You alright to- use that, kid!?"

“Yea Billy, I got it!” Kid hollered over the roar of the cannon. He held it tight as it threatened to throw him off balance. Minutes went by as the convoy kept moving and Kid kept his aim at the enemies towards the rock pillars. Slugs whizzed past him here and there, hitting the skiff with quiet ‘plink’ noises as they bounced off.
It was all too easy it seemed, with everything functioning perfectly. Then again, Kid did his best to maintain the crew’s weapons in his off time. After all, a downed weapon could mean a dead man. He took a few seconds pause every now and then, allowing the cannon some time to cool before sending another barrage of lasers downrange. The incoming fire never seemed to let up, so Kid didn’t either. Everything was going well, everything was fine.

That is until the cannon stopped firing, when Kid was definitely trying to make it fire.
“Beck! I gotta take a look at the cannon!” Kid hollered, watching as smoke started to billow out from inside the mechanism. He didn’t hesitate before moving to the side with the hatch, turning the knob and opening up the metal panel, using a small metal bar to keep the panel propped as Kid started to assess the inside mechanism. Pulling a couple tools from his jacket, the boy went to work right away as he noticed a few pieces that were loose or crooked.

A minute went by, the Kid attempting to keep his side profile low as he worked, not wishing to take a stray slug from the side. He heard a couple ‘plinks’ closer to him, hitting the guardrail and bouncing off. A couple more, and more, closer now.

They must’ve noticed our damn cannon is down. he thought, hearing more plinks closer to him as he works.
Suddenly he heard three in quick succession, and then another merely inches from his head. The Kid turned as the loud noise startled him, and suddenly the side of his head started to sting, and he could feel something warm running down his cheek.

“Shit!” he hollered, a little louder than usual as the stings came on stronger and stronger. Shrapnel from an impacting slug hit the guardrail and ricocheted into the side of his head. A few pieces stuck in his goggles, from what he could see, as he continued working on the cannon. His jaw locked and teeth clenched as the worked through the small pains, knowing just how important the cannon was to their survival. Small streams of blood started to line the side of his head and cheek as he worked, but Kid paid no mind to it. The cannon needed to come back online.

---

After the Sith had wrestled control of both moons from the joint Republic-PDF coalition and started landing the invasion forces on Corsin proper, the PDF had found itself stretched thin on resources, heavily depleted by the arduous defense of the homeworld. Billions of credits in military equipment has been lost in a slog across the system. Laser weaponry, something Beck had always taken for granted, was suddenly in short supply. There simply weren’t enough working laser cannons to shoot at the oncoming Imperial armor, and so the PDF found alternative options.

Advanced as technology became, there was always be something to be said about loading a multi-kilogram slug of durasteel into a long rifled barrel and launching it at supersonic speed towards something you didn’t like very much. Corsin Hardball, they called it, and it worked better than most expected. Sure, ray shielding complicated matters where it showed up, but the Imperial Army had heavily discounted the potential of basic low-mass, high-velocity physics while planning the planetary invasion. Beck had been a huge fan of Corsin Hardball.

Point is, when Beck saw that bloom of air that came with the sonic boom discharged by a slugthrowing artillery piece, he knew it and he didn’t like it.

A durasteel slug raked the side of the hover train before ricocheting into the earth of Tatooine, kicking up an eruption of bone dry soil and stone that rained down on the crew of his skiff. The thunder of the cannon arrived only after, the sound catching up with the supersonic projectile a second later.

“Kid!” he roared over his shoulder, throat rough and hoarse as he strained to shout over the din of battle. “Get that cannon online! I don’t know how many more of those shots she can take!”

He returned his attention forward, toward the slowly dissipating sonic bloom. It was rising away from a craggy growth jutting up from the Tatooine surface, almost directly in the path of the hovertrain. He lined up the sights of his rifle with the ridge and felt dread. Too far to fire at with accuracy with small arms, outside of the firing arc of the Kid’s blaster cannon, and firing two shots per minute or so. If it took the hovertrain five minutes to pass the cannon, that meant it was absorbing ten shots, more if the thing was mobile and the sand people understood show to reposition in.

They needed to kill it, immediately, and he wasn’t sure how.

He gritted his teeth leaned against the skiff’s rail, sights trained on the ridge ahead, waiting to take a lucky shot.

---

Yelling more profanity as he went up the steps-at this point, he'd almost made a game out of trying to see how many he could remember without accessing cyber memory-Melech headed back to his command deck. When he got there, things looked less than ideal. Beeps, in a glorious display of why it's a very bad idea to model an AI on your own personality, had made things 'ready' for Melech by finding a crate he could use to prop up his injured leg. This was, of course, in complete disregard to the fact Melech did not keep a chair on this level of the ship, in addition to not getting the scanners ready for Melech to reconnect.

While Melech's systems did enable him-a primarily organic being-to directly interact with the ship's controls as though he were a droid, with comparable efficiency, it took time to get them running. When he wasn't plugged into them, though, the drain on the ship's processing power to keep it active was high enough that he programmed them to end the program when he disconnected. Beep's could have restarted those programs, like he knew he was supposed to, and Melech would have been able to resume interfacing with his ship almost immediately. Instead, he'd now have to spend the better part of five minutes doing it himself, all so his robot could trill the closest thing it had to a laugh at him for getting shot in the only limb that could bleed.

Luckily for the skiff, he didn't need his long range scanners to tell him which side of his ship had taken fire from the heavy artillery. Sacrificing pure efficiency, he was able to delay the processes that would connect him to the scanners and a few of the ship's other systems all so he could bring shield controls online faster. Control of the ship's navigation already had similar protocols in place, specifically in case he needed to quickly take direct control of piloting his ship. Once the shield controls were up, he was able to adjust and redirect power to the forward shields to brace them for the impact of the heavier fire.

Once the shields were ready, he'd drop down in front of the skiff, putting the Trudger directly between the enemy's big gun and it's main target. The Trudger was by no means a small ship, so it would provide ample cover to the skiff. However, without his more complex systems online-Beeps rolling on the floor, trilling loudly, after Melech stubbed his toe on the crate while trying to kick it aside-there were no fancy tricks he'd be able to pull off to counter clever aim. The enemy might not be able to get a hit off on the engine, and anyone smart enough would be able to figure out a safe place to hide on the skiff, but there was more than ample opportunity to deal lasting damage with a well-placed round. At the very least, though, Melech's strategy meant the enemy would need time to aim, and would be hard pressed to get off two or three shots where before they could have gotten off nearly a dozen.

Bₐ𝒹 𝓌ᵣᵢₜₑᵣ 𝓌ᵢₗₗ 𝒸ₕₐₙ𝓰ₑ ₛₒₒₙ