There was little left to say (and Fel hated hearing his voice through Imperial vocoders... felt like the past catching up with him, and he didn't need the reminder) so he simply took a heading, sighted in his T-21 and digitally connected it to the helmet's tac readout, checked the area at the bottom of the ramp for any signs of movement or life, and went back to button up the ship. Jet looked like he had been poured into the uniform, it fit like a glove. Whether he'd ever admit it or not, his physique made being a Stormtrooper look good. And Aellyn? ...Fel stifled the urge to make a joke about needing to run the plastoid plating through the cleaners' a couple more times, gave the thumbs-up, and moved out.

There was an ever-present wind that sand blasted the armour with anything that Lotho could whip up. Fel kept them on their main heading, deviating only to avoid mounds of refuse that looked more like trouble than actual traversable geography. All things being equal, they made good time. More than once, either Fel or Jet spotted something that the UA could possibly use in the future (or six weeks ago...) but they did their level best to not look like kids in a candy-shop, instead marking locations with transponders for retrieval later, keeping on task. Still, it wasn't every day you were faced with a you-pull parts lot that covers a whole planet, and actually has parts for an 150+ year old vessel. Fel was occasionally lazy, often cash-strapped... but mostly, the main reason the UA was always in need of something was that the parts were hard to find, or that more efficient, newer components needed heavy modification (thank you, Jet.)

As they fell into routine (checking heat signatures, moving in formation, double-checking headings, checking the tight spots and possible threats...) Fel thought of the task at hand, Abelene and her people, the promise of credits filling their fuel tanks and bellies. It gave him focus, determination. Time counted on, and keeps countin'. They had covered better than four of the five kilometers in a little over an hour. The terrain was deceptively troublesome, and they were taking every precaution to not be seen, especially as they neared the settlement, and the greater concentration of Imps.

There was as many variations of Stormie helmet as there were hot meals in a month. Most looked indistinguishable from the outside, aside from the obvious snow trooper, and scout troopers, and the paint and unit insignia of individual squads, mostly added in the field. Luckily, most variants did not include a target reticule. (heh.) The helmets Fel had acquired were pretty stripped-down, no datapad uplinks, no vacuum capability... just the standard issue polarized lenses and toxin scrubbers. It wasn't unlike Fel's pilot's helmet. Images of Dantooine flashed through Fel's mind. The fire... always the fire...

Galdaart shook his head to clear the images, steadying his breathing. Calling a halt to the group, he took another bearing and called the others forward. "Settlement's just over that rise, I make it a little over 500 meters. ImpStar is on the far side of the settlement, drydocked in a valley to the East. Fastest route, and best chance of getting our hands on an Imp uniform is to move straight through town. Game faces, folks. Don't feel like you need to quote Imperial regs here... just act like you own the place." Fel checked the load in the T-21, its near-3" bore more than a little intimidating for anyone unlucky enough to be on the receiving end, and moved off toward Derrivan's Point.

Viszt froze as the locals stared him down. He'd have trouble taking one of them down, never mind three. At best, they'd beat him to a pulp and take every possession he carried. At worst, they'd shoot him then and there, taking no risks. Thoughts raced through his head of how he could talk his way out of the alley. He went to speak, but the words caught in his dry throat.

“Do we have a problem here, sir?” a feminine voice spoke, snapping Viszt out of his spiralling inner-monologue.

He glanced up at her, with softened eyes that said: 'thank you'. Again, the words caught in his throat before he could reply.

“This guy cheated in a game of Sabacc," the twi'lek said. The malevolent arrogance he had previously exhibited had been neutered by an armed imperial's presence. "We want our credits.”

“I doubt that is true. I suggest you three leave or I will arrest you. For disorderly conduct against an Imperial officer.. ”

Viszt watched the twi'lek's reaction - his large face contorting as he mulled over whether a fight was worth it or not. Eventually, he seemed to decide upon the latter, glaring towards Viszt and gritting his hideous teeth. “If we see you again, let’s hope this trooper isn’t around.” With that, they scuttled away into the shadows.

It seemed this brush with death was over, thanks to the woman. Immediately, Viszt's mind flicked to the consequences he might face having been spotted by another Imperial gambling with locals. Well, better that than a dirt-nap, he thought.

“Do you need an escort back, sir?” she asked.

Hmm. He was unaccustomed to such deference from troopers. He supposed that his sleek lab-technician uniform could be mistaken for that of an officer's. Her uniform looked a little beaten and tired: she must've been busy across Lotho.

"Yes. Thank you -- really." He exhaled in relief, allowing a smile to happen upon his face. "You must've been sent by Dr. Benaire for me. We'll have to get back quickly, there's been an incident in my department that has to be seen to."

He walked with a hurry to meet beside the woman, who had emerged from the same side of the alleyway he'd come from that led down one of the main streets in town. He poked his head out, glancing around for where abouts the junkers had slunk off to, but saw no sign. He did, however, see more troopers, presumably from this woman's squadron.

"I don't recognise your voice. We musn't have met. Viszt." He extended his hand politely.

The gravelly voice of Wibb brought Zane out of his mind's fog. His head raised up from his hands, and his eyes locked onto the approaching form of the burly Duros. The human male's jaw dropped open, and he started to croak out something, but Wibb promptly interrupted him.

"Y'see...I was pretty sure you were gonna bail - but then I remembered you had that gimpy brother of yours," He gave a lopsided grin, looking around at the others as they all chuckled at his "joke"...Zane wasn't laughing, though, "and I figured even a skid-stain like you wasn't heartless enough to leave him behind."

Zane's mouth was clenched now. Few things irked him more than someone mentioning his brother's deformity, especially in this derogatory manner. They could say what they wanted about him, curse him lower than a strill and it still wouldn't bother him. But the moment they mentioned Marcus, they had lost what little grace that Zane was willing to afford them due to his part in what happened to Loz. Zane's dark brown eyes were very intently locked onto Wibb's as his peripheral vision caught sight of the small entourage that followed him up the hill. They were spreading out to the sides, and Zane realized that they were attempting to surround him. There were six - no, wait, seven - of them, all toting some sort of improvised weapon. Zane's tired voice echoed along the walls of the junk-filled ridge behind him.

"...Wibb, I realize that we have some things that need to be discussed between us, but, I'm gonna need you to keep my baby brother's name outta your flat kriffin' mouth, we clear?"

The response got more than a few taunting noises from the small gathering, and Wibb's own smirk dissipated as his voice dripped with venom.

"You've got some stones on you, Skid, I'll give ya that."

There was that name again. They called him "Skid" because they figured it wouldn't be too long before he ended up a bloody skid-mark on the side of some junk heap. Zane knew that he wasn't well-liked around the settlement. His parents barely garnered a small amount of respect among the other Junkers. That notoriety did not pass to Zane, though.

"...I mean, even in the face of getting the beat-down of your life, you still have the gumption to fly off at the gob like that. Stellar, really."

Zane's eyebrows raised slightly at the pointed threat. He slowly rose to his feet, his hands out to his sides in a non-threatening manner, noting the others at his flanks all gesturing toward him with their planks and pulling their chains taut, the rattling links ringing out around him.

"Wibb, you and I both know that what happened to Loz could have just as easily happened to anybody. I'm sorry it went down that way-"

"-'Sorry' ain't gonna cut it, sleemo. Your little 'stunt' cost Loz his shoulder. That's gonna put him out of work for months!"

Zane tried his best to keep his voice calm, but he did raise it a little higher to cut through the echo of Wibb's voice along the hillside.

"Look, they've already canned me and put me on sanctions again - I prolly won't even be able to get work with any salvaging crews for a while..."

"Oh, we're gonna make sure of that, Skid...right here and now..."

Wibb looked to the others and gestured towards Zane with a jerk of his domed head. A couple of them acted on this cue, taking a few steps in Zane's direction. Zane started to back up, nearly stumbling over some of the junk gathered behind him as he frantically placed his hands out in front of him, pleading for them to halt their advances.

"Wibb - guys - this is entirely unnecessary!"

A few of them cackled, and Wibb grumbled a bit before replying. "Oh, no, Skid...this is very necessary. This whole place would likely be better off without you wasting what little precious air we've got left to breathe. Stang, even your brother would, and that's saying something..."

He really was keen on pushing that button, Zane mused, sighing as he looked around at the mob that Wibb had gathered. There was hardly anyone among them that wasn't more capable-looking than he was. The two of them that were any shorter than Zane were still more muscular by far. And with them encroaching closer to him by the second, his window to escape this unscathed was dwindling rapidly. Of the lot of them, Zane figured the Noghri toting a chain was likely to be the "weak link".

"C'mon, Wibb! I know I kriffed up, okay?" His eyes darted back and forth looking through the gaps between them that were closing with every step. Just over the shoulder of the Devaronian of the group, near the forward ridge that preceded the sloping drop-off toward the valley floor, Zane spied a possible means of escaping this situation. "The last thing I wanted was for anyone to get hurt! But, I mean, let's face it..." He gave Wibb a mischievous grin as he spoke the words that he knew would push him over the edge. "Loz had it coming."

The sneer that formed over Wibb's face preceded the deafening howl that issued forth from him as he rushed at Zane with arms outstretched, attempting to grapple him. Zane was expecting as much from the enraged Duros, and ducked beneath his swinging limbs, using the cover of Wibb's much-larger frame to disguise him reaching inside his coat to grip the handle of his modified electro-stunner. It was a sort of short, dark fiberglass club affixed with wiring that had been jury-rigged to a small-but-mighty power source with a diode on the business end of it. Zane had only managed to test it twice, and the one time that he was dumb enough to try it on himself, it worked much like it was about to on Wibb's Noghri goon. Darting out from the side of the Duros, he bolted toward the grey-skinned alien, whose eyes widened as it tried to lift the chain it wielded above its head.

That...was a mistake.

Zane jabbed the stun-stick into the side of the Noghri, and used his forward motion to activate the pressure-switch. An arc of electrical energy surged through its body, causing it to flail about with the chain in its hand. Zane had to duck the sweeping links, and felt the hairs on his neck stand on end as the chain flung past him carrying the powerful electric current. As luck would have it, the chain slapped into the chest of the Klatooinian next to him, and both of them were suddenly at the mercy of the electro-stunner's payload. After a few moments of flailing about, Zane watched their bodies collapse into a heap on the ground in front of him. He didn't waste the opportunity to dart through the break in their "formation", scrambling toward the ridge and his small saving grace - a long, open cask that must have been an old durasteel cooling unit at some point that had the lid torn off it. Zane didn't have the time to check if it had anything inside it as he ran up, and no sooner had he cleared the edge of the cooler than he realized someone must have been trying to use the cooler as a makeshift tub or sled to house parts that they would have likely pushed down the side of the hill; much like Zane was doing now. He planted his weight on the far end of the tub as he used his forward momentum to send the unit careening over the edge, causing it to act much like the sled its erstwhile owner intended it to be. The durasteel cask slid down the side of the hill; a much bumpier ride than Zane might have wanted, but still better than remaining up there where his pursuers intended to do him harm.

Wibb and the others approached the ridge, looking down and following Zane's impromptu escape vessel with their gaze as it sped down the hillside. The enraged Duros grabbed one of his goons by the shirt collar, shouting something that Zane couldn't hear before tossing them down the trail that had been semi smoothed out by the passing sled. Their body rag-dolled and tumbled down the hill some distance before crashing unceremoniously atop a heap of trash. The remainder of the group took off down the ridge trail to their right, intent on following the safer path to the base of the hill. Zane, however, was quickly speeding to the bottom. Which would have been considered a boon, but, there was one thing the gangly youth didn't seem to account for - the apparent lack of anything to slow his descent.

The base of the hill was approaching rapidly, and Zane braced himself into a crouch. When it came time for the "sled" to meet the ground before him, he bailed off to one side, jumping up and back as hard as he could to counteract the rate of speed that he was traveling. The chaos that ensued once the crate plowed into the base of the hill was astounding. A cloud of dust kicked up into the air as the tub flipped through the air end over end, sending its contents in each and every direction. Zane was pelted by more than one of the pieces of junk within as he hit the ground rolling, coming to a stop several feet away from the crashed container. The air in his lungs was searing-hot, and he struggled to catch his breath. Pain racked his body as he tried to stand up, and he soon caught the movement of Wibb's group out of the corner of his eye traveling quickly down the trail. He was still out ahead of them by a sizable distance, but, that advantage was dwindling fast.

"Oh, come on!" he yelled as he started plodding down the trail, the muscles in his legs already burning with lactic acid. He wasn't used to this much running, especially on an empty stomach. How long had it even been since he had eaten? He recalled giving his ration this morning to his brother so he didn't have to go hungry. That may have been a mistake, especially after having worked all day in the treacherous conditions of this squalid little planet. The settlement wasn't very far away, but, it might as well have been a parsec. Zane looked over his shoulder to see the group gaining on him by the second. He had just darted through what passed for the "gates" when he heard Wibb's infuriated voice quite clearly from behind him.

"I'm gonna enjoy thrashing you, Corvus! Just you wait!"

Every muscle in Zane's body screamed in protest as he continued running for his life down the streets of Junktown. Darting from alley to alley, ducking beneath fallen beams and jumping over some others, pushing over anything he could get his hands on to try and block the path of his assailants as much as possible. He soon rounded another corner, and saw a ramp that led upward on one of the residential buildings. He ascended the ramp, looking back to see Wibb clearing the corner of the nearby alley as he reached the top. It was a quick moment before the Duros caught sight of Zane again, and began to give chase to him once more. Zane was quickly running out of road.

Once he reached the end of the walkway, all that was left was a guard-rail made of scrap metal that opened over an alleyway. The human was forced to stagger to a stop at the rail, and turned back just in time to see Wibb's screaming, hulking form shoving into him hard, crashing him into the railing behind him and sending him flying through it. The contact with the scrap metal plating knocked the wind out of him, and he felt gravity taking hold of him as his body fell toward the ground, plummeting into the ground from that second story, right in front of and amongst a group of Stormtroopers in the company of a Chiss lab worker. Pieces of metal crashed all around them in a tumultuous fashion from the balcony above. Zane laid there in the midst of them in a daze, his vision blurring from the fall as he groaned loudly, trying hard to catch his breath as his body's pain receptors were on fire. Wibb looked down at the whole scene from the second story, his grimace soon replaced with a look of pure terror once he saw the group of Imperials standing down below.

“Sir…” Speaking to Fel. She paused, she didn’t know what story to come up with, so she improvised. “Found the technician that needed transport back. Believe he got lost.
Aellyn just turned this plan inside out, she hoped that Fel and Jet didn’t mind the small hiccup.

Fel was formulating a response, maintaining composure, trying his damndest not to be done with both their 'officer' and the fireblasted Chiss right then and there. And then a local decided it was time to crash their party. Literally. This was too fracking much. If it weren't for the thin atmo, and the ever-present wind whipping what passed for O2 away, they could have seen steam coming from Fel's ears. The smuggler looked slowly around, making sure that nobody had taken too much undue notice of the activity in their immediate vicinity. Some locals were glancing their way, and the young toughs above them on the upper level walkway looked like they had collectively crapped their pants. In what amounted to miracle #1 of the day, somehow no other Stormies had noted this activity. If they had, the gig would most certainly have been up. Fel was livid. He scanned their immediate surroundings, spotted a door into what looked like a small storehouse. A quick glance at Jet, insinuating the local toughs on the upper landing. "Round 'em up." The young urchin who literally fell into their midst, Fel picked up by the scruff of the neck, drawing the hand blaster from the small of his back, letting the T-21 rest on its sling. This he pointed in the direction of the door. "In. All of you."

His forearm threw the door open, into the storehouse, revealing a pair of older locals piling and filing different bits of crap and salvaged useful parts onto shelves, and into crates. There were no windows. The faceless Stormtrooper dumped the wheezing urchin on the floor, bringing the T21 up to point loosely at the two workers. "Take a break." They stood, struck dumb and immobile, not comprehending the order. The vocoder barked once more. "Frack off! Out the back!" They took one look at each other, dropped what they were doing, and fled. Fel held them all under the barrel of the long gun for a few moments, until Jet arrived, several young street toughs in tow. Fel counted six. He looked to Jet, who held up a lone finger. Fel winced.

He regarded the Junktown toughs for a few moments, watching their actions. They were all looking to a Duros to see how to act. Fel regarded this Duros, and the human crumpled on the floor that he had carried in here mere moments before, who seemed to be recovering, slightly. He stooped to face the human kid, all skin and bones, greasy hair and sunken eyes. It was like looking into a fireblasted mirror at himself, fifteen years ago. "My partner says one of the guys chasing you got away. Which one -- and where do I find them?" There was no hesitation in Fel's voice. No room for dodging the question. It was heavily implied, there was only one way this could go. Truth, or there would be consequences.

After Zane spilled, Fel looked once more to Jet, jerking his head. The inference was plain. Go get him. Bring him back. They could have no loose ends if this was to work. Fel checked his chron. Looked to the Chiss. "You. How long till your transport arrives?" Five standard minutes. Kriff. This was going to be close. He cast his gaze around the storehouse once more. Saw his method. He moved over to a series of small interstellar-grade cargo containers, opening them. He turned back to the urchins that had been chasing Zane. "Get in." He could see the hesitation writ large on several faces. He primed the light repeater. "I'm not asking again. Get. In." It was tight, two per container, packed like sardines. He sealed them, setting the lock to release in an hour.

Turning back to Aellyn, the last remaining urchin, still recovering on the floor, and their Chiss guest, Fel removed his helmet, dropping it on the floor. The sweat had matted his hair, ran down his temples. The rage was etched onto his features, his mouth pulled back into a snarl. His eyes bore into Aellyn's. "You may not have liked the plan before, might have thought it was overly simple. But if you add any more twists and complexity to this little caper, I swear I will bury you under the Basilisk." The door opened, and Jet entered, carrying a young, unconscious Snivvian over his shoulder, nodding at Fel. Galdaart looked to the youth on the floor for confirmation. Once received, that was the one... he jerked his head to illustrate the cargo containers. Turning back to Aellyn, there was still a fire in his eyes as he continued. "So, what would you have me do here? You want me to shoot this Chiss bastard and hope we don't spill any of his blood, so you can have your gorram officer's uniform? Or are we taking him with us? You just developed a sixth sense for trusting people you just met? What's it gonna be?"

He figured they had two minutes to make a choice, and meet the transport. Whatever the choice was, it was going to be swift, decisive, and there was no going back. As far as the street urchin at his feet, Fel had made his choice. The ones giving chase would sweat it out for an hour. This one could beat it. He had done the kid a favor. The Chiss? He wanted to hear what Aellyn came up with, right here, right now. "No. More. Surprises."

Viszt stood by the side of the female trooper, soothed by a renewed sense of safety. He watched her regard what seemed to be her commanding officer, only he lacked the regalia of anything more than a common grunt. Odd, but unlikely anything to worry about. The Basilisk wasn't exactly running at peak efficiency, Viszt reasoned, and thus it was to be expected that cutbacks across the board would leave some squadrons understaffed, perhaps forcing some lower ranked troopers to step up in roles of leadership. The explanation that Viszt conjured in his mind was enough to banish his concerns. However, the prolonged silence from the 'officer' was a little concerning, though it was soon interrupted by --

CRASH.

With a great scattering of scrap, an urchin tumbled from a balcony and thudded down onto the dirt not a meter from Viszt. His heart skipped a beat, not immediately registering what exactly was happening. Still shaken from the twi'lek's intimidation, he visibly recoiled in shock. Were they back to finish the job? No. Just some street-fight it seemed. Either way, it was further evidence that this town was no good at all. Within moments of escaping one cloister of dangerous junkers, they were now raining down onto Viszt from the sky.

The 'officer' grabbed the flying urchin and dragged him into a nearby building, blaster at the ready, gruffly commanding one of his colleagues to pursue the rest of the street-fighting junkers, and the other to follow him into the building. Viszt supposed he was safer with the troopers, and followed without dispute. The 'officer' barked at the room's occupants, forcefully evicting them, with a pointed blaster as incentive. A feeling of unease returned to Viszt, with the hairs on the back of his neck prickling up.

Something was not right...

As the 'officer' interrogated the junkers in a perculiarly highly-strung manner, Viszt found a stool to sit down on. He wasn't concerned with petty crime, so paid little notice to the rabble, but peered up at the female trooper. "Some town... Even if I had gotten out of that alley, I'm not sure I'd have got back to the Basilisk with all my internal organs intact." He exhaled. "Thanks again."

"You," the 'officer' barked abruptly in Viszt's direction, cutting short any immediate response. "How long till your transport arrives?"

Not right at all...

He glanced up at the trooper with narrowed eyes. What a strange question to ask if they'd been sent to retrieve him. After all, they would be the ones transporting him back. If they hadn't been sent to retrieve him, why had they gone along with it? The alarm bells were well and truly ringing now. "Five minutes." he replied, estimating based on how long the transports usually took to be prepared and dispatched. The 'officer' quickly turned away. It was unclear if he was aware of Viszt's suspicions, but when the troopers began to shepherd the junkers into storage containers, it no longer mattered. This was very blatantly not Imperial procedure, and whoever these people were, they were letting their masks slip.

The 'officer' tore off his helmet, revealing a flustered, sweating human. He glared at the female trooper. "You may not have liked the plan before, might have thought it was overly simple. But if you add any more twists and complexity to this little caper, I swear I will bury you under the Basilisk. So, what would you have me do here? You want me to shoot this Chiss bastard and hope we don't spill any of his blood, so you can have your gorram officer's uniform? Or are we taking him with us? You just developed a sixth sense for trusting people you just met? What's it gonna be?"

Out of the frying pan, into the fire.

"No. More. Surprises." The man stared forward, waiting for the female officer to decide Viszt's fate. But if this was a life or death moment, he wasn't going to leave it to a stranger to decide. He wasn't sure who these people were, but clearly they were headed to the Basilisk, and not for a friendly visit. They must be rebels -- and if they had no use for him, he'd be heading for a dirt nap.

"Kolto," he said calmly. He was scared, but he didn't have time to indulge in self-pity at this moment. He needed to figure a way out.

The room stared blankly at him, clueless.

"It's a medicine. It's mostly been supplanted by bacta nowadays, but has its uses, especially for when noxious substances have been inhaled." He gulped dryly, composing himself. "It's rather allergenic, hence why it has been widely superseded. -- The cooling system is down in the Basilisk's medical bay, so we've had to move any refrigerated medical goods into a container in a storage facility just a street over from here." He looked directly into the leader's face, holding his eye contact, keen to prove his worth. "I maintain the personnel's medical records. The Admiral has a rather severe allergy to kolto; deathly, even."

The room was silent for a moment. He'd played his hand. He just had to hope it was enough. As the silence prolonged for a beat too long, he realised he may have misjudged. A horror dawned on him that they mightn't even be rebels.

"I'm not willing to die for the Empire," he said, this time, his voice shaking slightly. "Let me live and I'll forget I ever saw you."

Jet had just finished loading the Snivvian into the cargo containers when the situation began to escalate. The air was thick with tension, and the atmosphere crackled with unease. Fel was visibly furious, his face a mask of barely contained rage. The plan had gone awry, and now they were surrounded by a multitude of witnesses—or hostages, depending on one’s perspective. The room was filled with a chaotic mix of fear and uncertainty, each person a potential threat or ally.

As the Chiss spoke up, Jet’s eyes darted around, assessing everyone in the room. He observed Fel’s intense contemplation, noting the way his jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed in thought. Fel was seasoned in these things, but even he seemed momentarily at a loss. Jet then turned his attention to Aellyn, whose calm demeanour was a stark contrast to the turmoil around them.

Simultaneously, Jet attempted to piece together his own understanding of the situation. The stakes were high, and the margin for error was non-existent. He knew they needed to act quickly and decisively, but the path forward was fraught with peril. The Chiss was an unknown variable, and Jet couldn’t shake the feeling that any misstep could lead to disaster. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for whatever came next.

“Let me live and I’ll forget I ever saw you.” the Chiss pleaded, his voice tinged with desperation.

Jet was about to interject, but Aellyn spoke first. He held his breath, weighing the potential consequences. Taking the Chiss as a hostage could jeopardize the entire operation, but what other options did they have? The room was filled with tension, and Jet could feel the weight of the decision pressing down on him. He knew that any wrong move could lead to disaster. The Chiss was a wildcard, unpredictable and potentially dangerous. Yet, leaving him behind wasn’t an option either. The stakes were too high, and the margin for error was razor-thin. Jet’s mind raced through possible scenarios, each more perilous than the last. He glanced at Fel, whose anger was barely contained, and then at Aellyn. They needed a plan, and they needed it fast.

“If he thinks about double-crossing me, I’ll shoot him myself. What about the kid?” Aellyn asked, her voice steady and cold.

“Alright!” Jet barked, his voice gruff and commanding, cutting through the tension like a knife. He jabbed a thumb back at the containers holding the thugs, his eyes narrowing with disdain. “These lowlifes can rot here. They’re useless, know nothing, and are worth even less.” He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in before continuing. “As for the Chiss, we’re stuck with Aellyn’s plan for now. We’ll use his transport and get onto the Basilisk.”

Jet pulled off his helmet, revealing a face etched with weariness and a hint of determination. His eyes, though hardened, softened slightly as they fell on the kid. The kid was a local, a product of this harsh environment, and Jet couldn’t help but feel a pang of pity and a sense of responsibility.

“And the kid’s coming with us,” he said, his tone firm but not unkind. “He’s a local; he knows things this guy doesn’t.” He nodded towards the Chiss, who sat silently, observing the exchange. “He’ll either prove his worth or I’ll personally toss him from a height much higher than that damn balcony.”

Jet’s mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, but his resolve was clear. The mission had taken an unexpected turn, but he was determined to see it through. He glanced around at the rest, his expression one of steely determination. With a bit of luck and a lot of grit, they might just make it work.

From the time that he hit the ground, the world around him was a spinning, blurry top. His lungs could barely fill with air once it had been knocked out of him. He couldn't maintain his focus for more than a second. Even when the Stormtrooper had nabbed him up and tossed him inside the storage building, he felt like he was outside of his own body for most of what was going on. The small bits that he was able to piece together were barely registering, right up until he saw the blaster pistol being shoved squarely in his face. It brought him back to the present in spectacular fashion. His adrenaline surged through his system, and he clearly heard the trooper ask him which one of the group chasing him wasn't presently in the room after his little romp through Junktown.

"U-Uh...S-Snivvian! There was a Snivvian. Not sure where he'd be heading, prolly in one of the alleys nearby-"

There was some sort of exchange between two of them after that. His eyes lost their focus again. Just how hard did he hit the ground?

And that was when he saw the trooper remove his helmet. He blinked his eyes a few times to make sure he was seeing what he thought he saw. This wasn't a Stormtrooper. The words he was harping at his fellow "soldiers" was evidence of that much. Zane tried hard to focus on what was being said after that, although only a few of the words were registering. Something about a plan, and then he mentioned the Basilisk...wait. Were they planning on making some sort of move against the Empire? What did he just manage to land himself in the middle of, literally?

Just then, the larger trooper walked back in carrying the Snivvian under one arm. It was then that Zane realized just how tall the white-clad warrior was. Far bigger than many of the troops he had seen around in the past few months. Wait...why was Zane still thinking of them as Stormtroopers? It was quickly becoming obvious that the lot of them weren't Imperials, at least not now. It was then that the blue-skinned one spoke up, and Zane was able to pick up a few things from his short speech. He was smart enough to know how to make the best of a bad situation. The mention of whatever this "kolto" stuff was might be enough of a bargaining chip for him to make it out of this debacle, if he was keen on not ending up in a ditch here in Junktown. Oh, kriff... Zane thought, I'd better figure out how I'm gonna be useful, if I expect to walk out of this shack alive.

That was when Zane heard the female voice speak up. His eyes got a little wide as she removed her helmet, realizing that she looked incredibly Imperial. While she was speaking her thoughts aloud, Zane's eyes narrowed. Why were they going on about this "plan" they had with such little regard for who was in the room? That didn't bode well in Zane's mind. Still, Zane had to focus on what was being said if he hoped to get a glimpse of some way to get out of all this with his eyes still in their sockets. The woman mentioned a "smuggle job" - stang. That wasn't good. Now he knew of some kind of thieving plot along with seeing their faces.

Then the large "trooper" was suddenly back among them, and the feeling in the pit of Zane's stomach was suddenly cold and gripping his insides. Kriff me runnin'...I did not see this coming. This has been a truly kark-tastic day. When the big guy removed his helmet, Zane got a good enough look at him to realize that he was the military type, for certain. And when the man's eyes fell on him, Zane recognized the look that he regarded him with. It was one that he had become increasingly familiar with, ever since his parents died. He'd seen it in Parlo's eyes, too. Pity. It was almost enough to make him retch.

Then the man spoke some more, and Zane realized his words were regarding him...

“And the kid’s coming with us,” he said, his tone firm but not unkind. “He’s a local; he knows things this guy doesn’t.” He nodded towards the Chiss, who sat silently, observing the exchange. “He’ll either prove his worth or I’ll personally toss him from a height much higher than that damn balcony.”

And there it was. The threat was hardly veiled. Zane believed that the hulking male would definitely carry out his statement. He felt the adrenaline rush through his system again as his mind struggled to figure out something, some way that he might be able to wriggle his way out of this. His "fight or flight" response was in overdrive, wrestling against the sheer amount of fear that froze his legs in place as he sat curled up on the filthy warehouse floor. Those thoughts were intermingled with something that Zane couldn't quite get a grasp on. He almost felt envious of the group. Here they were, seemingly just the three of them, talking about attempting something that Zane had only scarcely imagined in all of his years; the sheer excitement of it all grabbed his attention like nothing else.

As all of these different notions swept through his mind, he started to formulate a few thoughts that prevailed against the others. He spoke in a low mutter, barely registering against the rattle of the warehouse walls being shaken by the wind outside.

"...This just ain't my kriffin' day..."

When he looked up to see that a couple of them had looked in his direction, he finally piped up.

"Look, I barely understand half of what you guys are wrapped up in, but, it seems like it's gonna get a lot more complicated here in the next few minutes. Tossing me in the mix prolly won't do you any favors, honestly. And thank you, y'know, for dealing with those guys. Sorry for, uh, 'dropping in' on you like that." Zane swallowed hard, the dryness in his throat becoming more and more apparent following his chase through the valley. "I dunno what I'm gonna be able to do to be 'useful' to you - I might be able to get you through town without much incident, but beyond that, the Imp over there is probably gonna be your best bet on the Basilisk."

Zane couldn't really understand why he wasn't trying to upsell his worth to the group, but, he figured that trying to do so might just end up putting him in a worse spot than he was already in with the Dorbeks. Which reminded him...

"Oh, by the way...those crates in the back have an internal release lever. It's one of the first things we learned about as kids. You may wanna just stun the whole lot of 'em before you walk outta here." He realized he was likely saying way too much at the moment. "--Sorry. I'll shut up."

Fel was already on the move. He picked up the helmet, and looked down to the local urchin as he slid the mask back in place, his voice now issuing from its vocoder. "We got a bus to catch. And you heard my partner. You're comin' with." He considered the cargo crates. Considered how many of the assembled locals had likely made their containers stink of urine and shite. Also momentarily considered taking the time to do exactly what the urchin had suggested. But it would take too long, and ultimately, he knew even the hour-long lock he'd imposed wouldn't hold water. The workers would come back. The workers would let out the kids. And then -- then what? They'd go complain to a local Imperial peace officer that some troopers they couldn't identify assaulted them? They'd retaliate in some way? The thought was laughable. "Your buddies got nothin' on us. I couldn't care less if they popped out and danced a jig right here, right now."

As he spoke, he looked around to make sure the rest of the team was gearing up from their little vacation in the storehouse. Fishing in the two rear pouches of the Trooper's utility belt, Fel fished out what he was after: binders. Clapping them on the urchin's wrists - tight - he spoke once more to the assembled group before moving out. "Transport. On the double. This one's under arrest for *attempting to pickpocket* our lab tech here." Fel shouldered the T-21, and held the kid under threat of the EC-17, held loosely but ready. The kid didn't need to act much or put on a performance. Fel was moving at a fast march, and the kid... well, if he kept up, fine. If he didn't, Fel dragged him. If he stepped out of line, or moved in a way that was anything other than exactly where Fel's hand wanted to be, he was jerked back into line. It looked the part, and they covered ground in a standard cover formation, Jet leading the group, Fel & Aellyn trailing the Chiss and to either side.

The transport arrived at what passed for the town square, a small squad of 'clean whites' -- four of them -- spilled out the loading door on the flank of the K79-S80 ITT, which was about the size of an armored car. Fel spoke up. "RT-774, escorting this tech back to base. This one --" he tossed Zane to the dirt in front of him "was trying to relieve the tech's pockets of his creds. I'm taking him in." The lead trooper, wearing the shoulder epaulet of an officer, and carrying an E-11 with the stock extended -- not something you see too often -- replied. "You're late, 774."

Fel smiled behind the visor, as the eyes of the other troops looked to their squad leader, and then back to their assembled group of misfit toys. He didn't skip a beat. "Take it up with greasy here, LT. We were on schedule till he tried lifting the man's wallet. May we?" He insinuated the ITT, and the Lieutenant nodded. He had superiors to answer to as well, and being behind schedule was as good a reason for an ass-chewing as any. Fel could see the response coming before it had arrived. In a culture of fear-based paranoia (which the Imperial regime certainly was) the fewer waves made, the better. So it followed that in certain circumstances, the fewer questions asked, the better. Fel dragged Zane back to his feet.

They piled into the ITT, and Fel was pleased to find there were no further troops inside, only the driver and his co-chair. Happily, the Chiss didn't seem to need direction, and merely took a seat close to the driver's compartment. Fel locked Zane's binders above his head at one of the rear-most seating positions, locking eyes with the kid for a short second and giving him a barely-perceptible nod. Turning back to face the cabin, he noted that one of the LT's troops had occupied the roof turret, while the rest were ranged amongst Fel's group, their stark white plasteel in sharp contrast to his team's own dirty, worn gear. It imparted the right feel. Fel's squad had seen a lot of action, had been on assignment a long time, whereas these squeaky-clean bucket-heads seemed like they spent their time marching in formation, being good little imps. Fel appreciated the implied superiority that imparted to them. He even caught one of the subordinate troops surreptitiously knocking some of the local dirt out of the tread in his boot.

Stormtroopers were a dime a dozen. And they knew this. Anything a trooper could do to individualize themselves, or stand out in a crowd of identical buckets was quietly encouraged among the legions, so for the 'clean whites' here, Fel knew that he and his squad looked like combat vets. And that was where he wanted to be.

The ITT began to move, the inertia letting them all know that the thing wasn't as dumpy and slow as it might have appeared. The Lieutenant spoke up again, from his position sitting beside Aellyn. "ETA three minutes to the Basilisk... so, how long you three been on LRP here?"

As they clambered into the cramped confines of the transport, and the doors slammed shut, any prospect of ridding himself of these charlatans escaped Viszt. He was a part of their game now, whether he liked it or not. Perhaps he could spin things somehow, get the jump on them. Outsmarting them would be easy enough, by the looks of things, but the practicality of an escape attempt was questionable, especially when dealing with the swashbuckling type. Yes, he could wait until they arrived at the Basilisk, bide his time, and yell out for help the moment they became complacent — but if their cover was blown, they'd have nothing to lose, and shooting him dead would be a formality and nothing more. Perhaps, he considered oncemore, perhaps it was the excuse he'd been looking for. He'd grown to despise his work in recent months. Maybe, just maybe, these scoundrels would thank him for his obedience, pat him on the head, and drop him off in the next spaceport. No, he reconciled; truthfully, it was far more likely they'd simply shoot him in the back as soon as their business here was done. He'd have to make a bold move sooner or later. For now, he sat politely.

"ETA three minutes to the Basilisk... so, how long you three been on LRP here?," the Lieutenant asked, interrupting Viszt from his thoughts.

Having seen their methods once before, he imagined that if his captors' cover was blown now, they'd probably do something stupid, like shooting everyone else on the ITT and then attempting to commandeer it. He'd be shot by a blaster, or die in a fiery wreckage. Either way, not ideal.

“I asked them the same thing when they caught this womp rat sniffing around my chit card," Viszt said promptly. For now, he'd swallowed his fears, and he was able to speak without a shudder in his voice. “Can you believe the lengths these people will go to for a few credits?," he scoffed, hoping to appeal to typical Imperial sensibilites of aporophobia.

His deriding tone was met with silence by the uninterested Lieutenant, who didn't indluge the smalltalk; seemingly still waiting for his question to be properly answered.

“They told me it was need-to-know," Viszt said with faux-confidence. "Admiral's business. You know how Kara is. He could have us scooping bantha filth, and he'd have you thinking it was a matter of Galactic importance."

"You can say that again," the officer replied with a dry chuckle, seemingly buying Viszt's explanation. Thankfully, like just about everyone else on the Basilisk, he too detested Kara. "Don't get me started," he said — and he meant it. If he got caught talking ill of the Admiral, he wouldn't be an officer much the longer.

With that hazard neutralised, the conversation petered out. Silence fell over the ITT, save for the humming of its engine, and before three minutes had passed, they had arrived at the Basilisk.

The transport slowed to a stop, and the door slid open with a hiss. Fel was the first to disembark, pulling Zane along with him. Viszt glanced around, assessing the concentration of the others; but found that they were very adequately focussed. Everyone filtered out, the fake troopers' boots clanking against the metal floor as they stepped into the bay. Despite being a little flustered, they seemed competent enough — every time one of them averted their gaze from him, another seemed to have sights trained. He found it extremely doubtful that he would have an opportunity to run unless they were caught unawares by something else. For now, at least, he had some insurance. They couldn't just shoot him dead for the sake of it, so he had at least a modicum of power to exercise. And exercise it he would. Might as well try something. If he could get them split up, he might have a shot at survival.

“I truly appreciate your assistance," he said with a vacant smile. "Am I right in saying that you'll be accompanying me to the med bay?," he peered at Aellyn. "And I suppose you'll be headed to the brig?," he said, turning to Fel.

While he considered that this gambit might enrage the trio, these were issues they were going to be faced with regardless. He was throwing this problem at them hot — and seeing if they could grab ahold without dropping.

Fel nodded at both Viszt and Aellyn. There was nothing left to be said. An hour was plenty. Any longer, they'd be putting down roots. Or they'd be dead. An hour it was. An hour was about the outside edge of how long Fel gave them before something went sideways. Too many questions, a pass-code that flagged them, a fatal mistake. He watched them depart, moving into the belly of the beast, before turning back to face his 'captive' and Jet. Moving closer to Zane, he disengaged the binders on his arms which had been hanging above him, affixed to the seating compartment itself, forcing the kid to essentially hang from his wrists for the ten minute ride. The spacer felt pretty bad about that. It would have been excruciating as the blood left his extremities. He thought back about Imp protocol, which dictated the prisoner should have been stunned, but that did nothing for them but create dead weight to carry. Instead Fel looked to Jet, nodding slightly, and prodded the kid ahead of them, toward the sec checkpoint. At the same time, he input the sec link from Aellyn's datapad.

At the security checkpoint, two black-clad officers held up hands. "State your duty and destination." Fel responded as blandly and matter-of-factly as he could, as pain etched itself onto the kid's face as his arms throbbed with the return of sensation. "RT-774 and RT-717, escorting this local prisoner to cellblock 3-13 for immediate interrogation." The addition of that last bit of information should have been enough to answer the Imps next, as yet unasked question, about why the prisoner was conscious. If he was scheduled for interrogation, they'd need him alert. "what are his charges?" one of the sec troops asked. He was Coruscanti, the thin, wiry, angular features denoting the lineage of a core worlder. You didn't get to be a sec officer in the Imperial Navy without being a 'true believer.' Fel's face scrunched into a disgusted sneer behind the mask. Fel shrugged. "From us? Petty theft. But the local elected magistrate suspected he and his cohorts of being a possible Rebel cell. We're just the escort, sir." The security officer looked to his counterpart, who seemed bored and disconnected, likely thinking of his next shore-leave. He sighed. "Fine. Let me see your ident-tags."

Fel and Jet held out their wrists, and the sec officer scanned their ID chips, which came back with the clearances Aellyn had uploaded. "Alright. Get him outta here -- he stinks." The officer saluted. "For the glory of the Empire!" Fel had never wanted to smack the shit out of anyone so badly, but he returned the salute. "Long live the Emperor."

They moved through strange, but familiar halls. Fel had never served aboard an ImpStar, but the similarities to the Venator were obvious. Even so, they paused at a holo kiosk a deck below their entry point to download tracking and navigation data. Fel spoke in a low tone to Jet. Other troops and officers were moving about their assigned tasks, but nobody took undue notice of them -- yet. They couldn't walk aimlessly with a prisoner for too long without attracting the kind of attention they didn't need. "There. Cell blocks are on decks 67 and 68. Our target is just aft of the main shuttlecraft hangar on deck 77. But this..." he tapped the display. "This is what we're after." It was only 700 yards off. On the same deck they were on. (deck 55.)

They moved off, and kept their 'prisoner' in front of them. As they neared the compartment in question, Fel took the lead, and scanned his access ID chip at the compartment access door, which opened immediately. His hand tightened on the grip of the T-21. But the lights were off. The room was empty. About 100 feet long, with consoles at one end, and what looked like tool and repair bays aft of the consoles. and along one wall, lockers, as far as the eye could see.

Fel spoke to Zane, as he removed the binders. He knew the Stormie vocoder wouldn't impart much sympathy, but he did his best. "Sorry, kid. Had to make it look good." He inclined his jaw at the lockers. "Maintenance. Get yourself a uniform and an ID tag." Zane looked confused, but game for the big show. "C'mon, kid. Time's tickin'."

From the time the binders had been slapped on his wrists until this moment, Zane felt like he was walking around in a fever dream. How did he get himself into an even worse situation than dealing with the kriffing Duros?! So much of his life was a mess already. Adding onto it with this whole debacle wasn't likely to create an upward trend anytime soon. He'd had a little time to process his thoughts, although most of it ended up revolving around saying several expletives and inwardly cursing the shorter Stormie for not giving him ten seconds to process his thoughts or offer up a protest. But once the binders were clapped and the barrel of a blaster was pointed back in his face, he tended to grow a little tight-lipped. But now that the cuffs had come off, Zane found the zipper that had kept it all shut in.

"'Sorry', he says..." he mutters to himself as he rubs his wrists, walking down the aisle of lockers to look for the stuff Fel had mentioned, "Sticks a gun in my face from the word 'go' and just now gots the stones to say 'sorry'?"

He finds a rack with several maintenance jumpsuits of various sizes hanging on it, and starts going through them, checking the tags to see if he can find one that would fit him.

"What the kriff am I even doing here, anyway?" He continues to whisper to himself as he pulls one of the suits down that he thinks will work, pressing it against his body to see if the length is similar enough to cover him. "I'm pretty sure I laid it all out there when I said 'I ain't gonna be much use on a kriffin' spaceship', but by some mysterious sort of frack-my-life magic, here I am!"

Frustrated, Zane slung the jumpsuit he chose over his arm as he quickly strode down a few lockers and opened up a random one to see if he could find some boots that would fit him. No dice, those looked like they would fit on a toddler. After a few more tries, he seemed to locate some that looked around his size, if not a little bigger. He sat down, placing the boot sole-to-sole to confirm as he finally addressed the two men, keeping his voice low, as he noticed the sound tended to carry through this flying metal triangle.

"So...any chance I can maybe get the 'skinny' on what the kark is actually going on here? Also...a little help? What's a 'ID tag'?"

There were likely a billion other questions that he wouldn't have minded the answer to at that moment, but, the situation called for discretion, whether Zane knew what that really was or not. He was already in the thick of things, and there really was nothing else he could do now except try to make the best of a bad situation. Which required him to be immensely less-ignorant than he was right now. He started untying his boots as he sat on the bench in front of the lockers, looking up at the two armored men questioningly.