The landing was anything but graceful—a desperate manoeuvre that left the shuttle skidding across the surface like a pod-racer on a bad day.

Jet stood up, feeling the familiar strain in his muscles as he lifted the two containers from the ground, exhaling slowly and deliberately. His grip tightened on the handles of each case, knuckles whitening. He took a brief glance over his shoulder, a silent roll call of faces and forms, ensuring everyone was ready, before taking his first step forward onto the ramp, feeling the weight of the containers shift with him.

The ramp creaked under his boots as he descended, each step a careful balancing act to adjust to the shifting weight of the containers. Reaching the bottom, he carefully set the cases down. With a slight grunt, Jet slid out of the shuttle, lowering himself to the ground, and pulled the cases out after him. His senses were immediately hit with the stench of the planet—a foul mix of rust and decay. His breath caught, [colour=ff0000][i]"Kriff,"[/i][/colour] he muttered to himself, missing the stormtrooper helmet, for the first time, and its filter that had once shielded him from this harsh reality.

Jet’s breaths came in measured puffs, a steady rhythm that matched the relentless beat of his heart. His muscles strained with the effort of carrying the heavy containers, but he embraced the burn—it fueled his drive; keenly aware of the responsibility on his shoulders, not just the physical burden of the crates, but the critical importance of their contents.

The path to the UA was treacherous, a battlefield of twisted metal and shattered remnants. The ground was parched and cracked, yet the residue of past acid rains had left it coated in a fine layer of corrosive dust. Jet’s boots scraped against the dry surface, each step a careful negotiation with the unstable, corroded surface.

He could feel the weight of the containers in his shoulders as he continued toward the UA, each step bringing him closer to the goal. The constant reminder of what was at stake kept his mind sharp, pushing him to maintain a relentless pace.

The UA's silhouette came into view, a stark contrast against the barren landscape. Jet’s heart pounded with a mix of exhaustion and anticipation. The sight of their destination injected a surge of energy into his tired limbs. The path had been arduous, but now the end was in sight.

With a final surge of effort, Jet closed the distance to the ship. The weariness in his limbs seemed to dissipate as he reached the old hull. He carefully placed the crates down and sat on one of them, wiping his brow with his arm. Looking up, he caught Fel's eye and said, [colour=ff0000][b]"That was a tough haul."[/b][/colour] Jet paused to wipe a drop of sweat from his cheek, [colour=ff0000][b]"But we made it."[/b][/colour]

Fel was a dozen paces behind the mechanic, hauling anything not too broken or bolted down from inside the wrecked shuttle. [color=f7941d]“Too tough.”[/color] Fel agreed.

[color=AE91B8]“They may have been on me…”[/color] Aellyn gave a look of resentment as she passed Fel. Perhaps she was a bit harsh on his plan but she wasn’t going to let him know that just yet. 

His dreaded, matted hair gave away the measure of his emotions. There were a lot of things Fel could have added, and might have, were he and Jet alone. The mech knew Fel often used him as sounding board and conscience. Almost as often as Wrench …if they had been alone, and not carrying a boatload of strangers. He might have said “too tough, considering the payoff.” Or that they were taking too many risks, trusting in folks that might just as soon have ditched them or turned on them. He might also have said that he’d be reserving judgment on whether or not they’d “made it” until they’d left this rock, done and dusted. But he didn’t. And for the last bit, Jet knew that was exactly how Galdaart felt, from the look in his eye. Instead, dumping two cargo crates and an armful of Imperial-grade weapons on a workbench in the hold, he raced to the flight deck, barely acknowledging Wrench, and powered up the ship, beginning the quick process of closing her up, and getting airborne. Even without taking visual stock of the beings boarding the UA – the thirty seconds he’d spent getting to this point was more than enough for them to haul ass aboard. If they weren’t hauling ass, they didn’t want offworld, or didn’t mind a firing squad.

Zane had been grabbing everything he could think of that would be of use to himself or the crew - whether it be medkits, repair items, tools, or even the environment scrubbers, putting everything into one of the extra-large bio bags that were normally used for body removals. Grabbing one of the scrubber masks and the attached unit, he masked up and turned on the device. Once he had accounted for everything Fel hadn’t grabbed, he zipped up the bag and hauled choobs to the [i]Unfair Advantage[/i]. The engines were just beginning to spool up when he was fumbling across the entry ramp, taking a moment to look back and see that the doc was coming up behind him, likely to be the final one coming aboard.

The boy stowed his ill-gotten haul in one of the (assumed) cargo bays where Jet had stored the other crates, assuming this was where they were likely to go through all of their “acquisitions” when they were off-planet. The feeling in his gut about his brother hadn’t gone away, and he was wondering when - or even [i]if[/i] he would be able to tell him what was going on.  

Fel didn’t go so far as to remote-close the boarding ramp – leaving that to Jet or the last aboard, but moments after firing up the retro-rockets and repulsors, they were airborne, angling toward the wretched ville they’d left behind only an hour before. Wrench was all over him with warnings about proximity and the percentage chance of enemy interception. But that kolto was worth the risk. Wasn’t it? 

Two minutes later they were slowing to a stop, hovering over the ville at about seventy feet, while Fel angled the deflector shields and flipped on the internal comms. [color=f7941d]“Jet, I’ll need you in the dorsal cannon. Watch for incoming. Aellyn, the ventral cannon. Take out any troops that decide to pay us a visit. Doc – get up here!”[/color] He flipped off the comm and turned to Wrench. [color=f7941d]”Keep us level and low, partner. If things get too hot, you fly us out of here, understand me? When the doc gets here, you centre us over the building he marks for you. That’s our target. I’m going down to secure the load.”[/color]

Jet couldn't help but smirk as Fel's voice crackled through the intercom, taking on that familiar authoritative tone. Jet knew this was Fel stepping into his leadership role once again, as he often did. Even before the orders were fully articulated, Jet was already making his way to the dorsal gun. The clarity of everyone’s positions thanks to Fel's directives was an added advantage.

Jet firmly gripped the ladder and began his climb, the metallic clang of his boots resonating with each step. With every rung he conquered, he felt the weight of responsibility settle more firmly on his shoulders. He swiftly reached the top and secured himself in the turret, ensuring his vision was broad and encompassing. The threat of TIE fighters was imminent, and he knew they could strike from any direction, not just straight from the Basilisk.

As he settled into the gunner's seat, his eyes scanned the vast expanse, his senses heightened and alert. The hum of the ship's engine, the distant echoes of the intercom, and the soft beeping of the radar served as a backdrop to his focused vigilance. This scenario was all too familiar to him. He had spent countless hours aboard ships like this during the Clone Wars. The anticipation of the possible coming conflict brought back memories of those intense battles. This was his element—poised, ready, and determined to protect his crew from any impending danger.