The northside merchant square aboard the Ostro wasn’t the result of any planning or careful consideration, it just arose one day, much like the Ostro. The ship had started life as a Mon Calamari cruiser, but other ships had accumulated on it, like barnacles on a Great Whale. The original ship was barely visible underneath the over three dozen Baleen class heavy freighters that had been bolted to it, their network of docking ports and cargo containers functioning as the primary living and cargo areas onboard. No one has taken an accurate census of all those who lived there, it would be a fools errand given how many came and went every day as the Ostro lumbered along with the rest of its refugee fleet, makings it’s way on overtaxed engines in search of a home it may never find.

Social order was as amorphous and ad-hoc as the ship itself. The general rule was to not bother others and to uphold ones promises; how seriously that was taken depended on whatever militia or gang was enforcing order in that part of the ship. Keeping the ship functional and on course was a matter of generosity and negotiation between the residents, although there was no formal tax or tribute demanded, the promise of reputation and favors meant that usually someone could be found to donate their time or their resources when the ship really needed something to keep going. This ethic could even be seen in the merchant square, where those with the best placed stalls would be sure to make the occasional show of giving to a beggar or a “good Samaritan” working security as a way of justifying their position and differentiating themselves from the crowded masses in the dark aisles at the edges of the square.

Those dark aisles held the stores with the shadiest goods and most precarious finances. No one knew which of them would still be in business in the next week; angry mobs chasing out bad merchants was not unheard of. This very feeling was why it was Zartosh’s favorite corner, it was never dull. He was walking through one of them when he saw a store a stall with a title he liked: “Enlightenment Straight to Your Datapad”. The man behind the counter was hawking his wares, shouting to anyone would hear “Light side, dark side, I’ve got it all! Just a quick download and you could be reading the Testament of Palpatine, the Sayings of Anakin Skywalker, or The Autobiography of Darth Vader! I’ve got all stuff from all the masters, from Yoda to Ajunta Pall, the most profound collection of wisdom the galaxy has ever seen. Come on, wouldn’t you love to discover the teachings of Revan or Luke Skywalker?”

Amused, Zartosh approached him, and asked a question. He said “Interesting goods you have. I was wondering, do the texts you have say whether Revan was a man or a woman?” The merchant smiled and pulled out two chips “I’m glad you asked. I’ve got both versions! Just tell me which one you want.” Now Zartosh smiled and said “You want to go home and take the rest of the day off.” The merchant looked confused but started to step out from his stall and look towards the exit. Zartosh said “You will let me watch your stall while you are gone.” Then the merchant said “Hey buddy, I’m gonna go home, can you watch my shop for me?” Zartosh nodded and then sat down on the stool behind it, waiting to see who came by. This would be an interesting way to spend the day, and maybe earn some money too.

While Zartosh was waiting he saw that an open air bar in the alley had a screen rigged up to the ships subspace communication array. They had managed to get a signal for a swoop race in some far off corner of the galaxy, and were collecting bets from all comers. Right as the race was about to start, an emergency alert notice flashed on the screen. These were common enough, usually the sign of a hacker showing off or someone pressing the wrong button by accident. This time the screen switched to a view of the bridge, at first blurry and out of focus, while a voice in the background said “Is it on?”. The camera refocused to reveal some thugs in cobbled together armor standing in a line, and then another figure walked into the center of the frame. His armor too was a mix of different parts, but it was polished and decorated with sigils and medals on the chestplate. He had a tight grip on a customized disruptor rifle in his hands, and if one looked closely they could even see a lightsaber mounter on the front of it, like a bayonet. He spoke by shouting, the way someone does when they want to convince someone they are serious. “People of the Ostro, or whatever ship in this trash fleet you’re part of, you are now under the dominion of Gorun the Great, terror of the Western Reaches and commander of the dreaded Crimson Fleet. Your property are your lives are now dependent on my generosity.”

There was a pause, when he looked off to the side with a confused expression. From the background Zartosh could tell they were at the bridge of the Ostro, a place he had been only once when trying to convince the bridge crew to give him some money, but a place not too far from the current marketplace He muttered something that sounded like “oh, right”, then said “Further details will be given out later. For now, I’ll just say that collaborators will be rewarded generously, and those who resist, well, they’ll be lucky if they end up like this guy.” He gestured and another of his cronies brought in one of the navigator’s assistants, whose hands were handcuffed behind his back. Gorun forced the man’s face up to camera, so close that the only things in the frame were the man and the barrel of Gorun’s rifle. The bar owner turned off the screen before they could see whether Gorun used the lightsaber or the rifle to complete the execution. This was enough to set off a small panic around, all of the screens in the ship had picked it up. Most worried about finding what goods (or what people) they could offer the pirates if they came by demanding tribute. Others realized that now could be a great opportunity to strike or escape. Marauders, especially organizations no one had heard of like these guys, always had leadership problems, and whenever the leader was off of his flagship everything went bad. Things like stopping escaping ships would be hard, and if something happened to the leader while he was onboard another ship, the whole fleet could fall to infighting in the aftermath.

---

A teeming mass of wretched scum hidden behind a thin veneer of civility. Haggling merchants, pompous guards, a mass of beings getting by without a care for their fellows. It was the same everywhere civilisation touched, permeated the air. Everyone one of these beings were alone in their shells. Ghorfa may be made up of solitary tribes but there was still community. The children would be taken care of, the elders willing to wander the dunes so that they saved their burdens from the young. The men had purpose in hunting and the women purpose in gathering. Urr'argh could admit that it was a harsh and frugal life that his people lived but there was a reason many of the kurantt did not leave. They knew what waited for them out there beyond the stars, heard stories of the chaos. And now, his people have been forced into this wretched galaxy without their free will.

The Tusken clenched his fist at the sight of a beggar child, some small human squatting next to a bar's entrance. None could see his frustration as he was wrapped under a thick black cloak. It was obvious he was sporting unique clothing and slugthrowers, as well as being a unique sight out of Tatooine. There was no need to attract attention. Since the walking Krayt dragon and his comrades had saved him, he had since gotten separated from them in the masses. He still held some grievances towards them for not saving every one of his people and mourned for those he lost.

Failure. His mind would whisper. Urr'argh simply shook his head and tried to walk with his shoulders straight. He would find a way to save his people. Breaker of Chains, they would call him. Ghorfa do not need civilisation to prove themselves superior.

He bent down as he came to the small human child, removing a black melon from inside his cloak. Urr'argh cracked it open in front of the child, the sweet smelling black smoke rising from within. The child seemed to crinkle its nose in a strange way. These barefaces have always had a strange reaction to the sweet Ghorfa fruit. The child squinted at him and he merely tilted his head. Desperation seemed to win over whatever emotion that was and the child started drinking the black melon's nectar. The leader of his people stood, ruffling the child's hair in a way he had seen the elders do with the Uli-ah.

Urr'argh's small moment of reminiscing was interrupted by the crackle of technology. He peered at the screen within the bar as civilisation seemed to come to a close above this ship. He hissed at the sight of the raider. Such disregard for order, for the "civility" that these spacefaring races seemed to hold over the primitives. The horrors of this galaxy only seemed to grow which only fuelled him his desire to remove his people from the hands of these wretched people.

The Wanderer shooed the human youngling away, scanning the crowds which surrounded him. Panic, chaos, fear. All of these pathetic things seemed to rise from their masks. Disgusting. He would not become bound to another because of these panicking, sorry excuses of sentient life. He needed off this ship before those raiders could fully consolidate their hold on it. Time to use his leadership to whip the rabble into shape.

Entering blank rounds into his shorter rifle discreetly, Urr'argh then fired into the air among the masses, now next to an old greying human merchant. Three sharp cracks were heard, smoke rising from the barrel of his slugthrower. People seemed to freeze around him and only inched away further when he let down his hood. An unknown mask holding an unknown face.

The primitive roared, slamming his rifle's butt on to the hard metal floor. He hated speaking to such beings but needs must. He transferred his frustration and hatred into his speech. "You wretched excuses of flesh, scurrying like scared womp rats. These raiders come to take your livelihoods and freedoms that you desire, the reason you dwell in this miserable shithole of a ship. They come to take your wealth, your belongings, your persons. And you run, like pathetic Jawas, mewling on your knees like babes." He whirled his attention to a nearby Twi'lek, unclipping his gaderffi and pointing it.

"Will you fight for your right to live as you wish?" Urr'argh moved to another, imagining the faces of his people rather than these aliens.

"Will you fight against the oppresive yoke of the outsider, coming to take your work away?" In his eyes, he saw a Tusken cheer, raising his cyclonic rifle in the air.

"Will you let these whoresons and waste of breath step over you like you're slaves? Let them take what they want, no regard for your being?!" The imaginary Ghorfa seemed to move now, more confidence in the air. There was fire in Urr'argh's movements as he cracked his neck with a viciousness that vanished his self-hatred.

"Fight for your lives, damn you, or let yourselves be taken to the wastes by those better than you!" There was more movement now, more rifles- no, blasters raised in the air. Others seemed to continue on, lowering their heads in submission. Warriors had raised their chins at his call. Urr'argh almost felt bad as he slinked next to a merchant's stall, letting the rage spread. A warrior's spirit, these beings seemed to possess. He would use it to escape and find his people, let it not go to waste.

The Arkanian sighed softly as he put down his drink. While he usually had higher standards than the alcohol he had just downed, the substance that tasted slightly like engine fuel was the best he could find on board the Ostro. As Arec glared at his empty cup, he debated ordering another. His pockets were mostly full of the local currency, having just come back from a bounty job. The Rodian bartender now knew Arec pretty well, as whenever he came aboard the Ostro with money, he would quickly find his way to this bar. But the Rodian kept the drinks coming as he knew Arec always paid his tab.

Arec motioned for a refill, deciding to have one more drink. While Arec did like to indulge, he also knew that too much alcohol would dull his connection to the Force. And the Force was one of his greatest tools for staying alive. The Rodian placed another glass in front of Arec, the murky green liquid bubbling a little bit. Arec decided to down it in one gulp as he didn’t want to have to deal with its taste. Placing the now empty glass on the bar, Arec fished out a few credits, placing them next to the drink.

As Arec stood up, he felt a slight spinning. He chided himself mentally for drinking enough to throw his balance off. Pausing for a few seconds, Arec did his best to reestablish his balance. The inner power of the Force helped him with this. Once it was good enough, Arec pushed the sheet that served as the bar door out of the way, entering back into the ramshackle market of the Ostro.

Around the entrance were gathered a group of child beggars. While that was nothing new, what was new was the individual stooped in front of one. He was of a species that Arec didn’t recognize, and was holding some strange fruit that emitted smoke. Arec was surprised at this as he knew how hard it was to find actual fruit unless you plucked it from the tree yourself. While the beggar was initially unsure of this offer of food, he quickly decided to consume the fruit.

Arec was surprised by this act of charity, but decided to continue on his way. However, he barely made it a few steps before a screen in a stall suddenly switched to footage of men in armour. The apparent leader then entered frame, wielding a blaster with a lightsaber bayonet. He announced that he was Gorun the Great and that he was taking over the Ostro. He then executed a crew member before telling everyone aboard to work with him.

Arec sighed once again. While he had never seen this happen aboard the Ostro, Arec was well aware of wannabe warlords popping up all over the place. Hell, Arec had even worked for a few. But this Gorun guy would be lucky to last a week. Sure he overtook the bridge, but how big was his forces even? Arec had never come across this Crimson Fleet that he claimed to control. Surely the inhabitants of the Ostro wouldn’t put up with this nonsense.

And in less than a minute, someone did have enough. The generous stranger from earlier fired several shots from an outdated slug thrower into the air. The stranger would then give a rousing speech about throwing off these outside invaders. Apparently it was good enough to make several others raise their blasters into the air.

The still tipsy Arec sighed once more, this time even louder. While he had expected to just relax today, the energy in the market was infectious. The shouts and hollers of the populace were heating up the Arkanian’s blood. In his mind he made the snap decision to go with this growing mob and kill this Gorun the Great. If nothing else it would make things stable on the Ostro and it could up Arec’s notoriety.

“I guess we’re doing this,” Arec said, “Let’s kill these drukking pirates!”

Arec grabbed his lightsaber from his side, preparing to ignite it in excitement, when he was suddenly distracted. A figure in a large robe moved past Arec, clearly trying to get out of here before the battle started. The reason Arec even noticed him was the fact that the Force gathered around him. Arec watched the man strong in the Force make his way through the crowd. While it seemed that he wouldn’t be sticking around, Arec made a mental note to watch out for him. It was getting rarer and rarer to find one strong in the Force.

The merchant square of Ostro reminded Jinaath of those early years living in the Eriadu slums. The mercantile-oriented nature, structure, and the species involved were wildly different, and yet…Back home, there too had been hastily constructed habitations, peddlers on the streets hawking their wares, would-be thieves slinking among the crowds searching for an opportunity to steal. Even the transitory nature was similar, though much more apparent here. Of course, there was also the fact that those people who knew each other stuck together.

Yet, he’d seen no group either as large nor as self-contained as the Miraluka community upon Eriadu had been. In fact, he had not come across any Miraluka, here. And what if he had? As he’d learned, though his ancestors might have once been a united people, as soon as the Miraluka fled Alpheridies in fragmented groups such an ideal had suffered a quiet death. No, despite the attempted intrusion of fond memories – playing with Vier, Mi’ik, Xer, Sumi, the calm teachings of Iolac, the companionship of Lanein, Eimeh, Xereey as they served the Houzran, his mother’s support, before… – he could not rely upon such ephemeral things.

Rather, he had engraved upon his mind the precise arc of his mother’s body as it was struck down, the deceptively gentle sway of her hair as she fell, her shrill scream, pleading, his name the last feeble whisper upon her unresponsive lips, a rictus of despair overtaking her…the blood, oh, the blood. It strengthened him, stoked his determination ablaze, and brought him as close as could be to that visceral reaction of excruciating wrath. But that power he’d felt back then eluded him, tauntingly remaining out of his grasp. Inevitably, his emotions would fluctuate towards grief, regret – or worse yet, his old mentor’s voice would suddenly infringe upon his psyche, espousing control, as if he were haunted by some sort of a ghost.

Some days, he didn’t even bother anymore, living simply as if he were one of the myriads of witless refugees who lacked any proper ambition. It fueled his self-loathing, whenever he emerged out of such a funk, but such was his life now. And as much as he itched for more, his lack of resources forced him to seek employment. Certainly, he could have resorted to petty theft – or even purposeless murder – yet neither appealed to him. Perhaps his intact morals were what prevented him access to the so-called dark side, however…if he lost himself in his search for dominion, what would the point of it all be? Is it truly losing yourself that you fear? Or that you may not have yet discovered who you are, beneath all these layers of self-deception? a different part of him whispered. Jinaath shook it off, however. He had work to do.

Work for Jin was being a hiree at a small-time yet stable merchant, who’d been there since a few months ago as far as he knew. The middle-aged man was a Chiss who went by Tisok, since his whole name wasn’t something most foreigners could pronounce. He ran an electronics and repair shop, repurposing scrap and junk into trinkets, fiddling with machinery people brought in to get it working, and so on. Since Jinaath had offered his services as a splicer, the mechanic’s customer had expended, but he insisted keeping a place near the edge of the square rather than moving towards the center. Which was just as well given that they offered questionably legal services.

Besides his hacking, and minor assistance to Tisok’s repairs, Jinaath was basically a glorified errand-boy. He bought parts they needed, went around selling whatever had stayed in the shop too long, and investigated (and subverted) the competition. Not that the latter mattered too much in a place like this. Currently, he was on a return trip, carrying a burlap sack with a few items he’d procured.

When he returned, an odd scene was unfolding at Tisok’s place. All the small screens he had, from computers, to televisions, to viewscreens had been interconnected hastily, and were currently displaying a video from the bridge. Jinaath arrived just in time to see the leader of the takeover, and hear his speech. Tisok let it run till the end, including the execution, which panicked the watchers. Jinaath could sense their fear, confusion, desire to flee.

Meanwhile, all he felt was a righteous fury. The fleet might not have been a decent place, all things considering, but these scum had crossed a line. Now, the anger came easily, eagerly, and would not be quelled by platitudes. “Are you really gonna let these bastards do as they please?” he shouted his frustration into the scattering crowd, slapping a palm upon the table full of not-quite-delicate machinery. The Chiss owner frowned at him reproachfully, but was more concerned with packing up.

As for the others…They were too shaken up by the real-time recording of a murder, Jinaath could tell. Scoffing, he turned to Tisok, handing over the items. The man grunted, then paused to study him seriously. With another species, they would have met gaze to gaze, but as it was, the Chiss would just get a really good look at his mask – in another circumstance, that would be amusing. Today, Jin merely waited impatiently for the man to get on with it.

“I ain’t waitin’ on ya to change yer mind, lad,” he finally uttered gruffly. Jin shrugged – he’d expected so much. “How ‘bout you give me some good stuff as a farewell gift?” Jinaath suggested dryly. Tisok shook his head, muttering something in Cheunh under his breath. Jinaath did receive something, though it was just a scramble key. It wasn’t a computer, but better than nothing. “Thanks,” he said, pocketing the lock picker into the inner side of his dark grey robe.

Then came his self-imposed ordeal of sifting through the emotions of all the ship-folk, finding those with sufficient anger, irritation, displeasure, or variation thereof. He approached each such person, exchanging quiet words, offering encouragement and co-operation, refining ideas for a counter-attack, and coordinating plans. His search eventually led him to a bar, full of riled up people. “Hey, hey!” he shouted to get attention. “Is this the meeting place for the resistance, or what? Might wanna relay that info to the others!”

Roak Vano Resol

Sleight of hand magic tricks, simple, entertaining, building blocks. Quite a few smaller children gathered round to watch and learn. Magic tricks designed to distract the viewer with one thing while the real trick was somewhere else. They laughed and smiled as did some of their parents that were watching the large man closely. He had a gentleness about him around the children that made them forget at least for a time where they were.

What he was teaching with most of him hidden in a dark cloak, were the building blocks for pick pockets and survival in city environments. He didn’t talk, not much only when explaining something he couldn’t with his hands. Games he had learned as a slave to better teach them the sleight of hand skills to survive. He hoped this would help them in the long run.

This wasn’t enough to set his mind at ease, he didn’t believe it would ever be enough to drown out the nightmares and memories. This helped but he couldn’t relax, not fully. His weapons always within arm’s reach and some seldom quick movements occasionally startling the young ones. He knew it would be some time before he could find peace.

The events that lead him here where still fresh in his mind, two months ago a job went sideways. His team was ambushed, set up by the Hutt that hired them because they were too efficient. He should have seen it coming but he was just as blind as the rest of them. When old man Resol gave the order for scorched earth they all knew what it meant. Retreat and scatter. No communications, no meet ups, no regrouping. It was one of their contingencies that meant they were compromised and would scatter only to regroup at home 1 galactic standard year later.

The Mandalorian wasn’t sure who all got out and he wouldn’t know until they regroup. He stole a ship and ran just like he was told too so that the clan may live on. Selling the ship once he arrived here likely wasn’t the best option, but he couldn’t be seen in that ship any longer. Now he has been wandering around this ship city for the last week trying to find something to do that wasn’t noticeable or would draw attention to him. He knew he wouldn’t be able to do this forever.

His thoughts were brought back to the present from an emergency alert through the ship. Alerts varied from one thing to another and could almost be easily forgotten but the children were watching the broad cast near him and pointed to it. Roak turned, his large cloak concealing his heavy frame and what lied beneath. The scene of what looked to be some pulled together raider crew that only marginally seemed to know what they were doing.

He knew what was about to happen and decided to distract the children with a ration tube. Giving it out to some of them and made sure they would share as panic began to make its way through the market place. None of the pirates looked to be professionals, gangster’s maybe or some remnant of a security force somewhere. The only thing standing out is the lightsaber bayonet fixed to their captain’s rifle. Now that was a weapon if it worked, even broken one could normally get a good price for them and it could help him get a new ship he otherwise would likely have to steal.

Urging the children and their parents to seek shelter and surveying the scene before him. Roak could see some gathering together to take back their ship while most seemed to start either hiding or running. There wasn’t much choice as it was. These people had been kind to him while he stayed here and the old man would not look kindly on him if he did not at least try to help. Maybe this would be a good time to get some of his anger out then.

Strategy could be important here. There weren’t many options to getting up to the bridge but it was mostly close quarters with the occasional long hall way. Perfect for him and perhaps these civilians could provide some good distractions at least. Going in quiet likely wasn’t going to work this time, the pirates would have at least set up checkpoints around the bridge access by now. No, likely going in loud was the best plan as other civilians may already be engaging them.

Making up his mind, the large Mandalorian stood to his 7’2” height and dropped his cloak. His heavy armor making him stand out not just for how imposing he was but also because of its configuration. With this he began walking in the direction of the bridge. Drawing his large Ryyk blade with his right hand and heavy pistol with the other. Moving at a quick pace but not running through the crowd. His attention drawn to a bar for a moment with the sound of a familiar voice but he had a job to do and couldn’t stop to chat.

Zartosh took his time before speaking to the boy with the insignia. He looked it over and after contemplating realized he didn’t know much about it. He thought he might have seen it on the side of some ship he had only seen in pictures, but it was never something he had seen firsthand. Not that he could outright say that. Mystery was a large part of his persona, after all. “That symbol has more meaning to you than it does to me. In the future it will have even more meaning to you; after all has been revealed. Keep you mind open and patient and the truth will come to you.” He stopped talking and watched the growing unrest in the crowd. This was interesting enough for him to follow, and he gestured for the boy to follow him.

The market cleared out quickly after the announcement, almost everyone decided they had somewhere better to be. Some went to their quarters to secure their valuable or be with their companions, some ran to wherever they thought would be a good place to lay low, but the most interesting group was the ones who marched towards the bridge. It was quite the crowd, and the drive cut across lines of species, class, and age, one massive mob walking together. As they went through the twisting and narrow hallways, chattering amongst themselves and only half thinking about the fighting ahead, their march resembled a Trade Caravan or a train of revelers more than a tight marching military unit or a horde of berserkers, but they reached their destination in time and with terrifying impact.
The bodies of the first pair of raiders that the mob came across were never found. Both of them found that a blaster pistol wasn’t enough to scare them away, and their last screams sounded into their comlinks. The rest of them decided to retreat from back to the bridge. They were used to resistance, but this was the fastest they had ever seen things get so hostile on a civilian ship.

When they got to the bridge, they had their preventative measures in place. All of the doors were sealed, except the one where they had mounted an E-Web heavy repeating blaster salvaged from the armory of a past target. It laid out a scythe of blaster fire that cut through anyone in its way, leaving smoldering holes in body armor and organic tissue alike. They had the power supplied wired up and the cooler fully operational, they could keep it up until the barrel itself melted. The people scattered off to the sides, staying in the area but not daring to try a frontal assault. The raiders hung back, safe behind the gun emplacement, talking about violent fantasies of what would come next.

The largest group of the mob found itself at a dead end, the only exits being the hallway covered by the E-web and a sealed door to the bridge at their back. People were gathering and getting increasingly desperate as the suppressing fire swept the corridor. The raiders grew more bold and started to throw grenades out ahead, nonlethal ones at the moment, but those were only preparations for the next salvo, which would surely be lethal and let them begin to push back into the area outside the bridge. Their announcements were silent, not wanting to let the rest of the ship know what was happening, even if they did decide to try it, every frequency was mix of panic and desperation from the people of the ship after the last broadcast.

Though his intentions were to escape, Urr'argh had spotted a familiar face in the crowd heading to the bridge. He growled, gripping his shorter slugthrower tighter as he tracked the Mandalorian in the crowd. His duty was to his people, to find them a way out of their plight and free their bonds. But his honour as a Ghorfa sang to him, ringing in between his ears. This was the being which saved him, gave him the chance to save his people. Through his debating, he had lost the surprisingly stealthy reptilian in the crowds and swore to himself. There could be no running away from this fight he instigated, he would have to join, on his honour. His speech seemed to have riled a dangerous mob of both the armed and the harmless, centered around the bar where he made his speech.

It would be good to start there.

Urr'argh shed his cloak, revealing his alien appearance with Tusken clothing and all. A longer rifle was slung on his shoulder, the gaderffii attached to his hip. He pushed past the barefaces in the crowd, including one blindfolded strange human calling out to the rest of them. The Ghorfa trilled and shrieked over the noise, raising his wooden lever-action once more.

"You brave wretches, let us take our hate to the enemy!" He roared, pulling and pushing beings towards the direction of the bridge. There was a brave, if sort of drunk, cheer among the crowd as they started moving as one. The Wanderer pushed through the masses yelling encouragement and insult alike, pointing at any weakling in the crowd who dared hesitate. The sheer amount of social pressure from the riled up mob pushed these weaklings to the front. Once most of the bar had emptied, he went straight to the bartender who started brandishing his own blaster.

The bartender scoffed, pointing his blaster at Urr'argh. "If you think yer gonna convince me of joining yer suicide mob, yer going to the wrong frakker."

Underneath his mask, Urr'argh sneered at the cowardice but outwardly, merely tossed him some of those credits that these civilised folk seemed to love so much. Pushing through the mad mass of sentients allowed him to pickpocket some for their money. The bartender just raised an eyebrow, lowering the old blaster in his hands.

"As many bottles of your strongest liquor as those credits allow, bareskin."

As it turned out, Urr'argh was not the best with money he just stole and managed to get swindled by the bartender, only receiving two bottles. For his part, it was enough for his own plans. After following the greater masses, pushing himself to the front, the Tusken heard the distinct whine of those shiny blaster weapons. He pushed off one of the beings he had been shoulder to shoulder with, throwing himself to the nearby pillar as the blaster scythed through where he just was.

The Ghorfa would not know it but in his hands were two unlit Molotov cocktails. He hastily used his flint and steel to light the white cloth he stole off the bartender, glancing to the raiders far off at the end of the hallway. He timed his throw to the E-Web cooling down, the high-alcohol liquid bursting in flames as the glass shattered around it. Unfortunately, due to how far the Wanderer was from the raiders and how a stun grenade exploded very near him, the flammable cocktail exploded right before the raider position

The stunned raiders recovered and started firing at Urr'argh, causing him to duck behind the pillar cursing all the while. Due to biological differences, a Ghorfa simply did not have the throwing arm to throw it that far and his senses were shattered by the stun grenades. He growled and cursed his luck, glancing towards the human across from him on a closer pillar.

"Oi, human!" He yelled over his ringing ears, raising the cocktail in his hand so the blind being could see. "Throw this at them with it lit, you bareskin!" Urr'argh threw the unlit cocktail towards the yet-unnamed Jinaath, followed by the flint and steel. Unfortunately for him, the stun grenade did enough to the Tusken's eyesight that he did not see the blindfold until he threw the flint. His stomach dropped and he stared, ducking only when the raiders shot at his position once more.

He reached into his pouch, throwing sand in the air in frustration. "WHY IS A BLIND CRIPPLE IN THE MOB?!"

Shortly after Jin’s arrival, a fully concealed being showed up, insulted them, and urged them to move on – given how everyone was riled up already, they followed eagerly. Still, Jinaath wouldn’t have been surprised if their passions had also resulted in a bar fight at that point. But it seemed they were united in purpose, for now.

The gathered defenders then made their move, including Jinaath. A few others from all across the ship joined them as well, though most of the populace ignored the problem or was even starting to run away. That was unsurprising.

Given the crowd that had gathered, the lone guards stood no chance. Of course, the bridge was protected behind sealed doorways and a heavy repeating blaster. The ship’s mob was easily reduced by the blaster fire, suffering quite a number of casualties just from that. The rest, who’d been quick enough, or far enough behind, remained, and scattered to the sides, where the fire wouldn’t reach them.

The raiders were already throwing grenades at them, nonlethal for now, but that was sure to change. Jinaath sneaked close to one of the walls, hiding behind a pillar as he focused his Force Sight in an attempt to find a keypad. It’d likely be close to one of the doors – if there was any at all. If there was, the scramble key from Tisok may come in handy. Unless the old Chiss hadn’t given him an unfunctional one, that was.

Before Jinaath could confirm the presence of an electronic lock, or even a panel concealing electronics connecting to the doors, he was interrupted by an object being thrown his way. He’d heard the shout, certainly, but hadn’t realized it was meant for him. He was not a human, for one, and for another, it was rowdy enough to ignore any and all shouting. As the projectiles closed in on him, however, he instinctively extended a hand, and channeled Force to slow them down until he could easily pick the things out of the air.

That was how he found himself in the possession of a bottle of alcohol with a rag in it – someone had been smart enough to think ahead and bring some molotovs, apparently – and a flint and steel. Cradling the newly gained items, it was simple to discern what the other person wanted him to do with it, even without him shouting at Jinaath as if he were some imbecile. Thoroughly confused and also offended at the stranger’s insults, Jin’s first thought was What the hell is he talking about?!

What he said instead was, “Have you never heard of the Miraluka?!” Then, he turned his full attention towards the E-web. His timing of lighting up the Molotov was precise, and so was his throw – unlike the Tusken’s, Jinaath’s attempt would hit the enemy manning the mounted weapon. This action exposed his position, though, and he had to flee and hide elsewhere.

Roak Vano Resol

Roak only cut down one pirate that was not quick enough to get out of his way while the others were overwhelmed by the growing mob behind him. Rage like this in a mob couldn’t last forever and it was a miracle they got them to keep going at this point. Still, with the level of confidence that these pirates took the ship he knew they had to have something other than small arms that would make them think they had even the slightest bit of hope to pull this job off.

Rounding the last corner towards the bridge he was met with the reason for their confidence and immediately reminded him on why he always had to be careful no matter the enemy. An E-web, the portable heavy machine gun capable of rendering even the best soldier’s useless if they got caught in its sights. Diving to the other side of the corridor with only a limited space between him and the heavy blast doors to the bridge.

This position was bad everyone could see it. The rage of the mob now floundering into fear as half of the mob left found itself tucked behind a cover pinned down by grenades and laser fire. He didn’t have any grenades on him and his one rocket was too explosive to use in this close of an environment. Taking a moment to take in his surroundings and the others trapped in the hall with them he took notice of a few individuals.

A Tusken raider that spoke in a way that he found familiar, throwing Molotov’s toward the turret and failing. What looked to be a blind man that seemed to change the physics of another Molotov that was tossed toward him and the resulting frustration from the Tusken. the man he tossed the bottle too seemed a little strange but he couldn't tell exactly why he felt that way, the blindfold itself was even a bit odd. these were individuals he would do well to at least talk to.

He could see what the others were attempting to do so he decided to help in the only way he could at the time. Covering fire. Shifting from his cover slightly he began to lay down sustained fire with his blaster rifle first at the pirates and their barricades then at the turret itself to draw its fire. He could only hope the others capitalized on the opening he was giving them. Roak wasn’t an idiot though, once the turret turned its gaze back to him he would retreat to cover only returning to open fire when the turret was either incapacitated or distracted once more.