Better the Devil you Know...

[Stormthroe]

The Spine, 100 Kilometers Outside of The City of Bones
Zonju V​

Of all the places one does not want to end up on Zonju V, The Spine was among the worst. While nowhere near as fatal as the heavily irradiated wasteland known as The Desolation, nor necessarily as unforgiving as the empty desert, this massive mountain range stretched for thousands of miles across the barren surface of the harsh planet. Few choose to traverse its bandit-infested ridges and windswept crags, instead choosing to brave the darkness of the tunnels that stretch beneath its peaks in a hint of general safety. The caves, cliffs, and sparsely-vegetated valleys also served as the roosts and hunting grounds for many of Zonju V's various fauna, giving it one redeeming quality; it made for excellent hunting if you had the gall to brave it.

It had been three days since Vash had departed from his shanty on the outskirts of The City of Bones to go hunting in the valleys of The Spine on the antiquated track-bike he'd rented for the hunt. It'd cost him 50 Credits per day, 200 in all; over three-quarters of his savings. This hunt needed to go well, or else he'd have come out here and risked his life in the wastes for nothing.

The first day had simply been the hard ride out, the solar-powered, jury-rigged track-bike barely holding together as Vash pushed its capacitors to the limit trying to beat the light and avoid notice from the roving gangs that patrolled The Spine's ridges. He had been lucky, never encountering any of the raiders on the trip out and managing to steer clear of any No-man savages. However, seemingly having spent his reserves of luck during the ride, the second and now third days had passed with no result save for dusty trails long since blown away and the occasional cries of Gormong who made their nests in the cliffs above Vash's perch.

Vash spat in the dirt to his right, his face obscured by a leather slit-visor that helped block out the glare of the sun, and his bare face covered by a loose wrap to keep his skin from burning. Laying flat on his chest in a prone position, the body of his modified 6-2Aug2 Slugthrower Rifle propped against a makeshift bipod made by his bedroll with the barrel pointing down into one of the sparsely-vegetated valleys of The Spine, Vash's loose clothing flitted slightly in the wind that swept through the crags. His cargo trousers were tucked into his combat boots to keep them from moving too much, preventing them from producing enough noise to alert the nonexistent prey that Vash hoped would eventually come into the valley, while a loose-fitting, olive-drab shirt protected his torso from the gritty breeze of Zonju's desert wind. Despite the wind, the dog-tags Vash wore were pinned to the dirt underneath him, preventing them from clinking in the wind.

SCREEE!

Vash glanced up, hardly moving more than an inch as the piercing cry of a Gormong reached his ears. Although the carrion-beast was out of sight, Vash was half tempted to brave it and take the shot if it came into view; at least he'd have something more than his dwindling reserves of protein-block rations to eat, even though the meat of the vultures was hardly a worthy substitute for the greasy, foul-tasting ration blocks he'd packed before departing the City of Bones.

Vash considered trying to pick off one of the high flying creatures a minute longer, before sighing quietly to himself and shifting into a slightly more comfortable position to allow sensation to return to his resting arm that had fallen asleep. Looking back down to the valley, Vash smirked to himself wryly; not only would the rounds used to bring down the vulture be worth more than its hide, he'd likely miss to begin with given the aerial acrobatics of the creatures and simply have to buy more ammo. Top that off with the fact that the various gun runners in the city charged a premium for their goods, and Vash might as well be shooting rocks.

Vash's thoughts were broken by the audible 'hrumph hrumph' of a Nerf echoing on the wind. In an instant, the young man's eys darted to the valley, where sparse grass grew in small, rugged tufts to find the source of the sound. It was why he'd chosen this spot to stake out; there was little else in The Spine besides the predators above and below the surface that could be eaten, and Nerf meat and hide was a premium.

Hrumph, hrumph, hrumph! Hrrrrr...hrumph, hrumph, hrumph.

"Gotcha," thought Vash as the herd came into view; it wasn't more than five of the beasts. From his vantage, Vash saw four females and a calf, each malnourished. Their slightly woolly hides blew in the harsh desert wind, and as the small group of beasts closed the distance with the rough patches of grass they needed to survive, Vash's pulse began to pound as the excitement of the hunt came over him. Slowly, his barrel moved to intercept the path of the middle-most female, her form somewhat emaciated but also healthy enough to provide some decent meat. The calf was the first to reach the hardy grasses, and as the rest of the herd slowed, the largest of the females stopped, standing tall to watch for predators as the rest of the herd began to graze.

Vash licked his dry, cracking lips as he gauged the wind, adjusting his aim slightly to accommodate for its speed. He only had one shot given the bolt action of his rifle. By the time he could chamber a second shot, the herd would have bolted and he'd be left in the same situation he had been before the herd stumbled into the valley.

"Easy now," Vash thought, "Slow breaths. Fire at the bottom of the exhale. Pull the trigger, not squeeze. Slow is smooth, smooth is fast." The small little monikers of the various hunters and gangsters who'd taught him to shoot began to flow through Vash's mind, calming his heartbeat as his breathing began to slow. The cross-hair of his scope led the female he'd chosen by millimeters, beginning ahead of her and waiting for the nerf to stroll into his round's path.

"One more step...," thought Vash as the beast stepped forward just barely behind his target point. His finger tightened on the trigger as the Nerf's knee lifted for its final step, even as his breath stopped and held, steadying the sway of his aim.

CRACK-AH-CRACK-AH-CRACK-AH-CRACK-AH-CRACK-AH!

"Fethin' hell!" Vash cursed as the sound of an anti-air battery erupted in the silence of The Spine, causing him to jump and in the process pull the trigger of his Aug-2, the crack of its retort answered by the zip and puff of dust where his round went low and disappeared in the sand of the valley floor as the nerf herd bolted. A moment later, the sound of a small explosion resounded through the valley, and Vash scurried back, stripping his slit-visor from his face to get a better view of the sky as a plume of dark black smoke streaked overhead.

Squinting, Vash could just barely make out the form of some sort of shuttle, obviously the source of the smoke trail as it drifted lower. Even as he watched, the shuttle emitted another loud boom as its main propulsion gave out on the port side, and the ship veered a hard left before disappearing behind the far ridge.

Vash didn't wait for the WUMPH of the shuttle hitting the sand before he'd begun gathering his blind and sprinting back to his track-bike. Quickly, he strapped down his gear onto the small all-terrain vehicle, shouldering his rifle and leaping into the seat as soon as he was ready without packing up his tent. There was no time to lose; there was no way he was going back to Sathad'Ra empty-handed, and with his hunt ruined and any game-animal within kilometers in any direction now on the run, his best bet was to reach that wreck, strip it, and be gone before the roving bandits and No-mans in the area could get to it. There might be survivors; Vash checked his boot to make sure that his combat knife was secure, before starting the engine of the track-bike. The exhaust coughed dark, acrid smoke from its combustion engine, and before he shifted into gear, Vash patted his hip to make sure he hadn't lost his hold-out blaster in the sprint.

Satisfied that he was ready, Vash replaced his slit-visor, tying it behind his head before grasping the handlebars of the track bike and gunning the throttle, his efforts answered in tow by the roar of the engine and dirt spraying behind the tracks as the small vehicle jolted to life. As he began to descend the dune, his brown locks whipping behind him as the rags he had wrapped around his face danced in the breeze, Vash scowled and leaned into the bike to help improve the aerodynamics as the overpowered, ramshackle vehicle careened through the sand, a large dust cloud marking his track back to his small camp.

"Well, this day's gone to druk," thought Vash as he roared his way over the rough grass where the Nerf had been grazing only minutes before, the tracks of his bike ripping the scant, hardy tufts from the barren sand and tossing them into the air behind him. Vash hit a small dune, the bike going completely airborne for a moment before slamming back into the sand as he rocketed towards the pillar of smoke that marked the location of the wreck, beckoning to the various marauders that called The Spine home.

"Let's hope it don't get worse."

 

[Livgardist]

Jaron flipped a switch on the ceiling part of the dashboard, and a light switch turned on. Almost mechanically, he said; "ECS activated. Heat sinks are engaged. Process at 25 percent. Estimated time of completion, five minutes. We are ready to enter Sathad'ra airspace." The two mercenaries in his company didn't reply; the trio were too well trained as a team to require confirmation after every process of maneuvering the reconnaissance stealth ship. The vessel was an Imperial ship designed for space flight, but specialized in atmospheric stealth reconnaissance. Its job was to gather not only aerial photographs in the regular and IR spectrums, but also signal intelligence; everything needed to gain a good understanding of Cartel defenses around the City of Bones on Zonju V, and its illicit production of skollium, that was then refined into the drug crudax. That was in all likelyhood the main reason they were there; the recent arrival of crudax to Imperial space by the hands of stealthy Cartel couriers. Jaron didn't care much; he was given a job, and he did it. Imperial law enforcement wanted everything they could get on Sathad'ra, and the Imperial Naval Intelligence sent Jaron and two others to get a first look with the help of the stealth reconnaissance vessel. It was by all accounts a routine assignment, but one that each of them took most seriously nonetheless; after all, should anything happen and they were caught in TMC territory, they would be in trouble - big trouble. "Taking her in over Sathad'ra now." The pilot said. Jaron looked at his screens, seeing the IR spectrum image of Sathad'ra passing them by below. He saw military - a lot of military. Armored personnel carriers, tanks, soldiers, mercenaries, and more. The TMC and Cartel defenses in the city were most impressive. Next to him, the third merc was sitting with a headset on his head, listening on encrypted military communications channels. Everything was recorded in a secondary "black box", allowing for salvage even if the stealth ship should be blown to smithereens, so as to ensure the survival of the intelligence material. That was the way operations like this worked - the personnel were expendable. The intelligence was not. "Reaching the edge of the city. I'm taking her in a loop outside the city, and then back in for another passover." As promised, the ship began to move out and away from the city. In the distance, they saw a set of massive, towering, and terrifying looking crags, a labyrinth of spiring stone spears, sharp and wicked looking, reaching towards the sky like claws. Jaron shivered at the thought of getting caught in the labyrinth they created. He tried to judge the distance to them, and decided that it was at least a couple of days away from Sathad'ra on the ground - yet their size even at this distance was awestriking, and he came to the conclusion that they had to be truly massive to seem so large from so far away. "What are those things?" He asked. Wizz Kairel, the merc by the Sigint system, whom had grown up on Zonju V, replied without looking away from his instruments; "That's the Spine. Massive mountain range, and one of the most dangerous places on Zonju V. It's a haven for bandits and other freaks of nature. The local sand farmers like to hunt there, but few of them ever return. Pray that you never end up there." Jaron was about to reply when a sharp whistling sound reached their ears. All three looked at each other with apathetic shock in their faces, as each one of them knew exactly what the signal meant; they were being painted. "Paint! Paint!" The pilot shouted as he yanked the rudder upwards. The other two almost fell in their seats as the ship began a violent curve upwards to gain altitude. "Initiating evasive maneuvers! Hold on to your seats, gents!" "Kai! Ready countermeasures!" Jaron growled to the Sigint man. As he did, he flipped several switches on his own dashboard, gritting his teeth as he buckled up. "Countermeasures ready!" Kairel replied after flipping another switch. A second violent turn by the pilot almost threw him across the cabin. "Altitude, 75 000 feet. Incoming projectile. We are still painted!" "Activating paint breaker!" Jaron said, slamming his hand on a red button that initiated a system intended to break any target locking of the ship. It rarely succeeded in breaking the target lock of any projectile already fired - but the system did what it was intended, which was to break the target locking of the firing platform itself, disallowing for any secondary volleys fired towards it. This meant that if the ship survived the first volley, usually it would survive the encounter. "Paint broken. Projectile incoming at 2000 feet distance. ETA, one minute! Prepare for evasive maneuvers, prepare countermeasures!" "Countermeasures ready." Kairel replied from his position. Jaron gritted his teeth hard, bracing his body subconsciously for impact. "Thirty seconds. Twenty. Ten. Countermeasures, now!" The pilot shouted. At tht very moment, Kairel flipped a switch, and a thousand flares were let out in a beautiful cascading plume of smoke and lights behind the ship. At the same time, the pilot pushed the control sticks forward, forcing the ship into a downward run. Gravity took over, increasing the speed of the ship at an exponential scale. Soon, they were moving so fast that the ship was shaking from the sheer speed, and the wind rushing through its wings made a roaring sound. "Report!" The pilot barked. "Countermeasures unsuccessful!" Kairel cursed. "They must have PCC! Shit! Where the hell did the Cartel get this kind of tech?!" "Focus!" Jaron snarled. "Brace yourselves for impact!" There was no way they could outrun a missile equipped with Projectile Countermeasure Countermeasure (PCC) systems. That was the latest in surface-to-air missile technology, meaning the missile itself would be fast enough to catch up to any 21st generation starfighter or equivalent vessel, like their own. Quickly the realization dawned on each one of them; they were going down, and going down fast. Suddenly, there was a violent explosion behind them. A spray of shrapnel ripped through the side of the ship, hitting Kairel in the torso and splattering his intestines all over the opposite wall. The ship jerked violently, throwing Jaron around like a ragdoll. The pilot gritted his teeth as he tried to maintain a steady downward path. He shouted; "We're going down! I've lost maneuvering ability. We're going to hit the Spine! Shit!" Moments later, the inhabitants of the Spine, both sentient and non-sentient, were reached by the horrid screeching echoes of a starship crashing, followed by a violent series of explosions. And then, an eerie silence spread across the mountain range. * * * * *​ Jaron slowly opened his eyes. The light blinded him, and he groaned as he was struck by a violent throbbing pain in his forehead. He felt something warm and sticky run down the side of his head. As he tried to move, every muscle and joint in his body groaned in protest. He looked over to the pilot, and grimaced. A sharp rock, protruding from the mountainside, had barreled its way through the windshield of the reconnaissance ship, and literally crushed the pilot to death. It was a grisly sight. The disgusting smell of iron (blood), and death had spread in the cabin. Jaron coughed. Blood came up. He fumbled with his combat knife, pulling it out of his belt, and cutting the safety belt across his chest, letting him free of his chair. As he stumbled to his feet, he pulled up his combat vest from the ground and pulled it over his muscular, T-shirted frame, buckling it in the front. He pulled out his backpack and his assault rifle as well from the rack on the wall, moved up to the door, and kicked it, hard. It didn't budge. As he kicked it again, the echo seemingly reverberating throughout and to the very edges of the Spine, it flew open with a loud bang. Jaron jumped out into the desert sand, and took several steps away. His head was pounding, he was dizzy. After about twenty feet, he collapsed, face down into the sand, and fell into unconsciousness. He remained still for more than an hour before any form of life spotted and approached him. Unfortunately, it wasn't a human, but one of the monstrosities of the planet, lured there by the smell of death and meat. Sensing an easy meal, it began to sniff around the ship, and then the unconscious body outside, prodding it with a clawed paw. The human didn't move.

 

[Stormthroe]

Vash's track-bike carved through the dune's of the spine like a razor, casting a dust trail behind him as it sped through the desert winds. He'd been riding for nearly an hour in the direction of the dark plume that marked the location of the wreck, and as he rounded the base of a massive red stone pillar, carved from a once-great stone by the pummeling sands of the wastes, the wreck he'd ridden so long for came into view.

The ship had carved a 400 meter trench into the desert, already beginning to drift into a pair of parallel dunes by the desert wind. Debris, mostly hull panels and stray substructure, lay scattered half-buried in the sand. Vash grinned; he'd managed to beat the marauders to the crash-site, and if he was quick, he'd get the choice salvage stripped and loaded before they could arrive. The track-bike skidded to a stop in the trench the ship had carved through the earth 100 meters away, and Vash quickly leapt from his mount as its engine began to tink and groan, cooling in the stiff wind as Vash unshouldered his Aug-2 and began to carefully approach the smoldering wreckage.

Vash knelt low as he closed with the ship, listening for any sign of marauders or survivors. He paused as he reached the corner, peering around the side with the corner of his eye; only to rest his eyes on the juvenile Krashmaw that had come to inspect the wreckage, hanging its long talon-limbs over a corpse.

"Feth," cursed Vash, quietly leaning his head back against the still-warm panel of the starship crash. The crash must have disturbed the young female beast's nest, drawing it out. Vash checked the chamber of his rifle as stealthily as possible as he reached into his pocket, feeling for the long, mid-caliber rounds the Aug-2 could cast out at even long range.

There were seven. Seven rounds left before he needed to purchase more. Vash chambered one of the long rounds, clicking the bolt into the firing position. There was the sound of a dull huff at the sound of the round falling into place from around the corner, followed by the sound of sand being disturbed by spindly, stabbing claws. Vash took a deep breath as he turned the corner.

At this range, Vash barely needed to aim to hit the Thrashmaw, the retort of his hunting rifle answered after a small zip by the sound of the round splashing into the leathery flesh of the desert predator, spraying a black, ichorous blood onto the red sands of the desert. The creature had been evidently surprised by the young human who'd spun from behind the wreckage, scrambling back a few feet on its spindly, claw-like legs with a piercing screech of bestial pain as the slug tore through its forward-most shoulder. Vash didn't wait for it to retaliate before turning away from the creature, back around the corner of the wreckage to try and get out of the way of the sudden spray of webbing that spat forth from the injured animal's thorax, narrowly avoiding entangling him as it snagged and hung thick on one of the rent-open panels that had been pulled loose by the crash.

Vash quickly chambered another round, letting the brass from the previous one shoot out and clink against the starship hull as he circled around, his back close to the shuttle's shattered hull as he heard the limping Krashmaw approaching the corner he'd ducked away from. Vash readied his rifle for a second shot, preparing to squeeze the trigger as soon as the beast's distendable jaws rounded the corner of the exhaust ports. However, he didn't get the chance as a long, spindly limb slammed into his chest.

"Umph!" groaned Vash as the Krashmaw's remaining front talon-limb swept him from his feet, throwing him several paces away from the wreckage only to slam into the small dune of the crash-trench, knocking the wind from his lungs. The juvenile predator had went over the shuttle instead of around it, and it threatened in a high-pitched, insect-like growl as it dropped, stumbling slightly as its injured forelimb hit the desert, causing it to whimper slightly.

Vash's head reeled, but he was aware enough to realize his rifle had been knocked from his hands. He looked up as the Krashmaw lunged, and wide-eyed, he rolled to the right just in time to avoid the razor-sharp tip of its talon-limb moments before it slammed into the desert sand just next to Vash's head, severing the chain of his dog tags and ripping them free from his neck it was so close a blow. As the dog tags flew free, the beast screeched, its talon-limb rising and falling twice more as Vash continued to roll. The Krashmaw moved, skittering to the side like a crab to cut off Vash's path, and opened its distendable jaw, raising its forelimb menacingly. Time seemed to slow as the beast apparently savored the anticipation of the final blow.

"Feth you!" In the beast's hesitation, Vash lunged, drawing his weather-beaten combat blade from its boot-sheathe and clumsily lashing forward, roaring out his curse as he slashed at the Krashmaw's low-hanging ribcage. A second later, Vash released his knife to cover his ears as the predator screeched in pain, thrashing wildly and in the process, smashing one of its spindly legs into the side of Vash's face and throwing him clear of its stamping, stabbing legs.

As he hit the sand, Vash rolled on his shoulder before slamming hard into a piece of debris lodged in the sand, his ears ringing from the impact. He looked up just in time to see the beast reel back, scrabbling in vain to remove the seven inch blade from where Vash had lodged it in between its ribs. The same black ichor poured from the wound, and with each pulsating surge of vitreous gore, the Krashmaw sank a little lower to the sand. Vash sat up as it fell to the sand, wheezing with the pain from the impact; more than likely, he had a cracked rib.

For a moment, the Krashmaw struggled to rise, before its spindly limbs went limp. Vash blinked, pulling his slit-visor from his face and leaning back against the panel he'd been thrown against, pushed himself to his feet. Vash stumbled over to the Krashmaw, searching the desert sand that had been upturned around it in its death throes. There, a few feet ahead of its limp jaw and half buried in the sand, glinted the dog-tags that had been torn from his neck in the fight. Vash snorted, spitting onto the corpse as he bent down to pick up the tags. The chain had been broken, but luckily had held the pair of tags together as they were thrown into the dirt. Looping the chain around his knuckles so that the tags would hang loose below his fist, Vash reached up and tugged on his blade, still embedded in the beast's ribs. It took some effort, and with a grunt, Vash pulled it free, wiping it on his sleeve to clean its already rusted length before slipping it back into its sheathe. Vash spat again, before limping away to find his rifle.

After finding the Aug-2 laying nearby the wreckage where he'd first been hit, Vash used it as a crutch as he walked around the side of the ship. Immediately, Vash moved to close with the most obvious scrap; the body the Krashmaw had been inspecting when he'd arrived. Leaning down, Vash rolled the man over, revealing his scarred and cut face and a tribal tattoo up his neck. The man was built like a rancor, that was for sure, and had he been alive, Vash would definitely not have wanted to tangle with him nor the fancy looking rifle laying next to him. Vash smirked as he began to pat down the front of the man's combat vest, searching for anything of value, only to jump back as the man winced, his head lulling weakly to the side.

The schutta was alive after all, having survived the crash.

Vash had instinctively reached for the holdout blaster on his hip as he fell back and away from the man laying in the dirt, and for a moment debated shooting him then and there, taking his fancy blaster and everything else he could find, and high-tailing it back to the City of Bones for a drink and some tobacc. However, there was a dust cloud in the distance...heralded by the sound of roaring engines. Vash scowled; that cloud was a little too close for comfort.

Vash cursed, getting to his feet and holstering his pistol, before leaning down and snagging the backpack of the man. It was heavier than it looked, but not overly so as he slung it onto one shoulder. Grabbing the assault rifle from where it rested in the sand, Vash slung it over the other shoulder before fighting to sit the man up enough to get his arms under his massive bulk. Using his own rifle as a pole on the man's front since he was far too broad to allow Vash's hands to touch, Vash heaved with the effort of dragging the man back to the track-bike, all the while cursing and muttering to himself. After a rather hilarious attempt to get the man on the bike, Vash finally gave up when he could start making out the flutters of marauder banners waving on the horizon and tossed him across the rear rack like downed game and tying him into place with a few bits of cordage. After squeezing between the man's bulk and the handlebars, Vash revved the throttle and got the engine going, before spraying dust behind him, hoping he could outrun the oncoming gang of cutthroat raiders and they would view the wreck as more valuable than his life.

What a fething lovely day.

---

Vash's legs were shaking due to the vibrations of the track-bike as he held the throttle, the veritable belch of the greasy combustion engine rattling his bones as he tore across the desert with the limp body of his take. He had half expected the marauders to pursue him in favor of salvaging the ship that the man who took up a majority of the room on his seat had touched down in upon Zonju's surface so gracefully, being the psychotic murderers they were, however it was over half an hour into the trip and there had been no sign of anyone tailing him. Despite his frustrations, Vash silently thanked the Crying Maiden, the tribal deity who controlled the rains and fate, for his luck, and he only hoped that the desert wind would mask his tracks before the marauders could finish stripping the wreck.

The rest of the race back to his small hunting camp passed quickly, and Vash surmised that he had shaved a quarter of the trip's time off even with the added weight of the rancor-man behind him. After climbing up the dune, the engine protesting the added weight and steepness of the incline, Vash steered the track-bike into the small alcove along the ridgeline that served as his camp. As he cut the engine, Vash slowly stood up from the odd, uncomfortable position he'd been forced to sit in for the duration of the ride due to his newest tag-along. His legs had cramped, and his back was sore where the man's high-tech weapon had been pressed between Vash's spine and the man's wide bicep.

"Druk, my back is fethed," cursed Vash, stretching before taking off the face-wrap to reveal his handsome, youthful features. Anywhere else besides Zonju, and his sailor's tongue would have been chastised given his young face. Vash snorted, feeling his back as he reached for the cave ceiling, inhaling deep in the somewhat less dusty air given the modicum of shelter the alcove provided. Glancing back at the man who laid loosely tied to the rack of his track-bike, Vash spat into the sandy floor before approaching the man's prone form.

"I hope you were worth the trouble, buck," grunted Vash as he tossed the leather cordage that had held the man onto the vehicle as they raced from the marauders away, before grabbing the man under his arms and pulling him form the back of the bike. The stranger was much larger than himself, and Vash cursed as the man's legs dropped limply and the unconscious man's weight shifted and nearly knocked Vash into the cold firepit that sat between the two of them and the rough, woven synth-cloth tent that Vash called home out in the wastes. After a moment's struggle, Vash had managed to get the man into the small shelter, and within a few minutes managed to get him onto his bedroll.

After getting the man settled, Vash turned and got a small fire going; enough to keep the desert chill out of the alcove when night came, but not large enough to cast more than a mild light out of the blind in case the marauders came looking for him. After propping up the man's backpack against the side of the track-bikes axle to serve as a rest and leaning his rifle, loaded of course, next to it, Vash leaned back and pulled one of the last two protein-blocks from his pocket, stripping off the wrapper and biting into the bland, oily block of gelatinous rations that served as a cheap food source. As he chewed it, Vash stared at the dark-colored food, pondering how exactly the mass-produced and insanely cheap (unless the Hutts were involved) foodstuff was made.

Getting somewhat queasy from the thought, Vash quickly scarfed down the rest of the rations without a second and fished in the small trail pack strapped to the front of his track-bike for the nerf-leather bag that held his crude canteen. Gulping it down thirstily, Vash stopped; half a bottle left for the two of them. Vash took one last swig, before standing, striding over to the tent where the man still lay unconscious. Warily, Vash hung the canteen satchel from the tent pole, and forced the last protein-block in alongside the tin flask that held the remains of his water in case the man woke up. Satisfied, Vash turned away and returned to where he'd situated the man's pack, leaning back on it lazily. Despite the fact he sat on the sandy cave floor, Vash sighed, situating in the general comfort that the fire offered. Lazily, he pulled the hold-out blaster from its holster so it wasn't prodding him in the back, resting it barrel first in the direction of the man he'd pulled from the wreckage.

For a few minutes, the bruises that the Krashmaw had caused throbbed, causing Vash's eyes to water as he watched the stranger carefully. Although only a few moments passed, for Vash, it felt like an eternity before his lids grew heavy and he drifted off to sleep, lulled by the sound of the wind picking up as dusk approached.

 

[Livgardist]

Jaron woke up with a throbbing pain in his head. He groaned as he opened his eyes, and they were blinded by a harsh shimmer of sun. Slowly, however, they adapted, and he found himself in a small hut. Outside, he could see the sun, its harsh rays showering the desert in their light. He closed his eyes hard in pain, and slowly, began to remember what had happened. The mission, the AA position and the crash. Then, nothing. He surmised that somebody must have found him, and dragged him into shelter. He had gotten lucky - without help, he would have definitely died at the hands of the desert or its many predators. He crawled up into a sitting position, every muscle in his body protesting the motions, and leaned against the rock wall just behind the wall of the hut behind him. As he pulled a knee up foot to the floor, his stomach rumbled. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes from one of his cargo pants' pockets, put one in his mouth, and lit it up. After taking a breath, he felt the pain in his head diminish, and his stomach muffling. Now he could finally focus, and his eyes looked around the small hut, seeing various pots, pans and furs, but nothing of much interest. Whoever had saved him had left a nasty looking ration and a canteen with some water on a hook by the entrance. His own backpack was nowhere to be seen, and neither was his rifle. Fortunately, his leg holster still held his slugthrower pistol, and his combat vest still his knife. He enjoyed the cigarette for a few minutes, the coarse feeling of the smoke barreling its way into his lungs waking him up, and the high of the nicotine removing some of his pain. Then, after finishing the cigarette and killing it in the sand, he stood up on a pair of unsteady feet. Supporting himself against the wall, he moved towards the exit, grabbing the canteen and the ration on the way. Outside, the sun was up, though barely, and there was still some residues of the nightly desert chill in the air. He looked around, and quickly spotted a man half-sitting by an old makeshift looking track bike, using his own backpack as a pillow, and his own assault rifle nearby. The man, no doubt his rescuer, was young, with an innocent and quite handsome face, his clothes indicating he was one of the local "sand farmers", a somewhat derogatory term used by offworlders for the hunters and farmers of the planet. His body size made Jaron wonder how the heck the man had managed to pull him away from the wreck, and marked it down as a compliment to the man's tenaciousness. The fire wasn't completely dead, and Jaron stirred it and put some sticks on it. It soon flared up again, chasing away the morning's chill. His stomach rumbling again, Jaron threw a glance over to the backpack. Carefully, and without disturbing the man sleeping on it, he managed to open it and pull out a couple of field rations of Imperial type. He boiled some water in a pan, mixed it with the rations, and poured them, together with the one left for him in the hut, into a frying pan over the fire. He stirred it a few times, and soon, a pleasant smell began to spread around the tiny camp. Jaron was no expert cook, but any mercenary worth his gun powder knew how to make field rations taste alright, and Jaron had long since perfected the technique of turning them into real food. He pulled out a couple of tiny packs of pepper, salt and other spices from his combat vest, and poured them into the food. After this, he removed the frying pan and put it on a stone to cool off. The rations had turned into fried rice with ground meat and vegetables, a decent breakfast considering the location they were in. He drank some water from the canteen while waiting. When he saw the other man stir and come awake, he made a gesture of greeting. "Good morning. Name's Jaron. Thanks for saving my bacon. Breakfast? It's the least I can do." He offered a wry smile as he made a gesture towards the frying pan. He looked up to the sky, and grimaced at the harsh sun. It would be a rough day. It wasn't made better by the fact he knew that he wasn't in good condition - the blood on his face had coagulated and wasn't any big problem, but he also had throbbing pain in the right side of his torso, and the fear of internal injuries was weighing on his mind. He shrugged it off, though. There was no help to be gotten here, so, as always seemed to be the case, it was do or die. Worrying about possible injuries wasn't going to get them out of there alive. "This is quite the hellhole. The Spine, right? I don't think I've ever seen such a hostile, alien place as this. It makes the Shadowlands of Kashyyyk look like Alderaan." He muttered in the direction of his rescuer, referencing a planet that was once literally blown up by the Imperium durng one of its many wars with rebels and the Galactic Republic in its various incarnations. As he spoke, he poured the food onto two plates, and offered one to the young sand farmer, while pulling out his combat knife and starting to eat his own food using it.

 

[Stormthroe]

The sky above was cloudy, dark with the rolling, thunderous cumulonimbus that always heralded the storm. Vash looked up, grinning as the first drops began to fall and paint the red sands of Zonju a darker shade of scarlet. The smell of wet sand began to flood his nostrils, its musty scent welcome after so long without a good rainfall.

Children began to flood the streets, playing in the fat drops that hit the sandy streets of the City of Bones, leaving tiny craters like miniature bombs where the fell on the soft soil. Out of pourstone apartments, crawling from beneath weather-beaten shanties and out of rickety shacks, the people began to spin and dance and laugh as the downpour picked up. Vash smiled, looking around at them as he lifted his head to taste the mineral-soaked pellets of rain.

As Vash looked around at the joyous celebration, his eyes rested on a young child separated from the rest, standing off on his own in the shadow of an alleyway. The young, somewhat gaunt boy's brown hair was matted-down by the rain, and his dark eyes met Vash's own. A bolt of blinding lightning struck, causing some children to scream, and as Vash's vision returned, the other people of the City of Bones were gone and only the boy remained, now only a few meters away, staring back at him.

The boy's eyes seemed to pierce through Vash's very soul, and slowly, the rest of the scene seemed to slip away save for the patter of the rain on the now-muddy street as Vash stared back into the boy's icy stare. The buildings fell away, and the dark clouds that brought down the Maiden's Blessing of rain. The rain became a downpour, drowning out all other sounds as the boy's dark eyes seemed to draw in Vash like a grav-well, drawing him into their dark irises.

And the thunder rolled.

---

Vash stirred slightly, his groggy eyes flickering slightly as he was pulled from the world of dreams by the delicious smell of the stranger's cooking, his mouth starting to water simply from the scent. Vash looked at the stranger for a moment, not moving an inch as he regarded the man he'd pulled from the wreckage with a cool eye.

Lunging for a weapon would be useless; the man had had enough time to feed the fire and get the delicious-smelling food started without harming him, so he didn't seem a threat. However, now that the man was upright, his already massive bulk seemed even larger, easily dwarfing Vash's smaller frame even had he been standing.

"Good morning. Name's Jaron. Thanks for saving my bacon. Breakfast? It's the least I can do." The man greeted Vash with gusto, gesturing warmly to the food that now popped and crackled over the fire. Vash glanced at it; it looked, and smelled, a hell-of-a-lot better than the protein-blocks he'd grown accustomed to eating. However, Vash didn't move at first as the man poured the food onto a pair of plates, continuing. "This is quite the hellhole. The Spine, right? I don't think I've ever seen such a hostile, alien place as this. It makes the Shadowlands of Kashyyyk look like Alderaan."

The man brought over one of the plates, and Vash took it without looking away from Jaron, although he nodded his appreciation tentatively. As the man turned, taking a seat away from Vash and pulling out a newer, sleeker combat knife than Vash's own and used its flat edge as a form of food.

The feth is this guy talking about? thought Vash as the man spat out the names of worlds and places he'd never heard of. Off-worlders. Always talking like king-druks.

Vash, his knife filthy from age and the tussle with the Krashmaw, elected to hesitantly pick up a glob of the meal between two fingers and a thumb after wiping them somewhat clean on his cargo trousers. Popping the food into his mouth, he closed his eyes; it was the best tasting food he'd had in, well...ever. He chewed quickly, swallowing and helping himself hungrily to another bite like a ravenous, starving hound, before finally speaking, his cheek full of the rice, reconstituted meat, and vegetables he'd never even seen.

"Vash," he said, holding his plate close to his mouth as he continued to wolf it down between words, thumbing to himself. His mouth was full as he spoke again, "Yeah, this is The Spine alright, but feth space-ace, you landed on Zonju."

Vash smirked slightly, swallowing before he finished as he pointed out Jaron's status as both an off-worlder and his unfortunate arrival on Zonju. A slightly chilly morning breeze blew through, tousling Vash's hair slightly and causing a small amount of dust and dirt to puff from his dark locks.

"Entire planet's one big hellhole."

Vash's eyes drew to the labels on the ration packaging that had held the food Jaron had made, even as he scarfed down another glob, licking his fingers tentatively to make sure he didn't waste a single bit of the rice and meat. On them, Vash could only somewhat make out the writing; he could read well enough to know it listed some of the ingredients and directions for making them, but he couldn't read everything. However, he knew what the hexagonal seal and six point cross that divided it into sections meant, even out here in the Rim.

"You a boy-in-white? Imps don't usually come this far out." asked Vash, suddenly a bit more wary of the man who'd cooked him breakfast given the stories. While he had no qualms about the Empire, Vash knew their reputation...especially regarding backwater locals. Honestly, Vash had no idea what the Empire stood for or where they came from, only that spacers who drifted through Zonju always brought stories about them. He'd never seen a stormtrooper, but Jaron's massive frame and the gear he'd had on him would certainly fit the bill of 'soldier.'

 

[Livgardist]

Jaron smiled slightly as his new friend spoke. It was true, the stories he'd heard of - and experienced himself - Zonju V confirmed Vash's tale of it being one giant hellhole. There was no central government - heck, barely any governments at all - and thus no control, no protection owed to citizenship of any form. It was a dog eat dog kind of world, and in the universe they lived in, that was the worst kind of world. Jaron would take even the lowest kind of dictatorship before living on a world without any form of government at all. Anarchy. That was what Zonju V was. "You a boy-in-white? Imps don't usually come this far out." Jaron wondered how he had figured that out. The shield shaped patch on the chest of his vest said MERCOM (Mercenary Command), and held the profiled silhouette of a fiery red lion with a sword, on a yellow background - but it didn't indicate anyhing about his Imperial allegiance. But then he noticed the boy studying the field rations casually while wolfing down the food - that made Jaron smile even more - and he realized he was dealing with a very intelligent young lad - uneducated, perhaps - but intelligent. He shook his head slowly. "I'm not a stormtrooper. Private military contractor for the Imperial Army Mercenary Command." As the wind stirred up some dust, Jaron pulled out a sand colored shemagh from a leg pocket of his cargo pants, and wrapped it around his neck, having no doubt as he looked up at the sky slowly turning browner and browner, that he might need it soon. Haboob. A sandstorm. "We were sent here on a reconnaissance op against the Hutt Cartel - you probably know them as Troika Mining Company - they're a front for an off-world, Huttese crime syndicate. They blew us out of the sky, though." He shrugged, but on the inside, he felt a pang of sadness for the death of his comrades, Kairel and Woodall. The trio had served together through many missions, all the way back to the Battle of Naboo, but now both of them were gone. He remembered an old saying; "In war, you die like a dog for no reason". The truth in those words rang harsh this morning. He ate some more food in silence, quieting his growling stomach. It was nice, being able to enjoy his breakfast for once. Usually, his breakfasts were rushed, to be able to make time for all the rest of the day's activities, both in the field and when on base or in camp. He shoved another knife full of food into his mouth, and washed it down with some water. Soon, he had finished his meal, and put the plate down. He brought out his cigarettes, and lit one, offering another to Vash without thinking about it. As he took a breath on his tabacc stick, he motioned with his head to the sky, and said; "You're the local expert here, but from what I remember from survival training way back when, that sepia brown sky is the first indication of a haboob, a Class 1 sandstorm. We might want to break camp and try to find a better shelter somewhere. Maybe a cave or something. I'd say we've got at least a couple of hours, but... We don't have a lot of water, so it'll be rough nonetheless." He shrugged, and then asked; "How far is Sathad'ra? Any villages or towns nearby?"

 

[Stormthroe]

Vash listened as Jaron explained how and why he'd come to Zonju, finishing his food quickly in the process. While he didn't understand every word that Jaron used, he got the gist.

Yepp. Definitely an off-worlder.

However, Vash eyed him curiously when his explanation cut out, taking the silence to swallow the last bite of his plate before licking it to clean away the faint streaks of rice-cream and broth left by the meal. Something was on the stranger's mind...probably best not to ask what it was. Wasn't his problem anyway. However, as the man pulled out a pack of tobacc and took one for himself before offering one to Vash, the young waster grinned and happily took one, lighting it with the campfire as he scooted forward to take it and puffing on it with fervor.

"Always knew the TMC was trouble. Most off-worlders are...especially mercs," breathed Vash, exhaling a small stream of smoke as he spoke. It was true; anytime any corporation turned its eye on Zonju, problems followed. Mercenaries had taken over villages, smugglers and pirates created hidden bases out in the desert...and powerful corporations always tried to take over. Legal or otherwise. "Not that its worth the trouble of pointing out," Vash smirked wryly.

Vash turned, looking out on the horizon as he brought the cigarette to his lips at Jaron's gesture. The sky was getting dark, and within probably two hours, the swirling sandstorm would make it so that even as close as the two were to one another they'd barely be able to make each other out.

Vash spat in the sand.

"Fething great," he muttered, puffing on the cigarette again before turning to face Jaron, scratching his dark hair with his free hand and shaking loose dust and sand free in the process, to be blown out of the small alcove in short order. For a moment, Vash sat in thought by resting his elbows on his knees, grabbing the wrist of the hand that held the remaining bit of tobacc with the opposite hand and looking into the fire. He sighed a bit before speaking.

"Sure, you're welcome to go into the caves Jason," he said solemnly, not aware he'd made the mistake in Jaron's name, "But that's more likely to get you killed then any ole' dust storm. Zonju's got more beasties in the dark than any world you been on, I reckon. Some are scared off easy 'nough, but others ain't. There's some that look like people with no face, called Grays. Pack hunters...big groups, like," Vash gestured with his hands, spreading his arms in a wide circle and flicking his wrists a bit.

"Spacer's call 'em monsters. We call 'em neighbors. 'Sides, I don't have any chem-lamps or fusion lanterns to let us see, and its hard to shoot a rifle when you're holdin' a torch." Vash took another puff of the cigarette Jaron had offered him. He looked back at the sepia-colored sky with a furtive brow, sucking on his lip to create a soft clicking noise.

"But you're right, I reckon," said Vash, turning back to Jaron as he stood up, dusting himself off before reaching into his pocket to pull out the dog-tags he'd tucked away. He locked the chain around itself to mend it, before dropping them loosely over his head and tucking them into his shirt. Vash looked out to the desert; the view from the bluff where he'd made camp was awing in the morning sun, even with the rapidly approaching storm. That was Zonju alright; a desert rose, filled with all kinds of fething thorns. Without turning back, he continued.

"The City of Bones is a day's ride south from here, along the spine. All kinds of places to lay low, between the failed minds and tribal villages. Thing is, most of 'em are run by folks half-likely to eat ya' as much as look at ya'. Then there's the No-mans...I don't wanna be tanglin' with those creepy fethers during a storm," Vash paused, shifting his weight onto one foot and putting a hand on his hip, pulling the cigarette to his lips while he went back over the mental map he'd built up over the years of the canyons, valleys, runs, and ridges that led back to Sathad'Ra. After a deep inhale, finishing off the tobacc, Vash flicked it over the ridge and watched it tumble away on the wind until it was out of sight, before turning back to the man he'd saved.

"If I remember right, there's an old land-train your friends at Troika had been usin' to run between the City of Bones and Rorn, likely pushin' weapons and crudax up to ole' King Ark up that way. Got hit by some raiders, guards killed to the last man, goods stolen, an all that druk. If you help pack up, we might make it before the sands start getting nasty." Vash reached over to his rifle, picking it up from where it leaned before placing it on the front rack of his track bike, strapping it down with a nerf-leather strap to keep it in place. He turned back to Jaron, smirking roguishly.

"You good riding Bith, Jason?"

 

[Livgardist]

Jaron smirked as the sand farmer talked about the monsters on the planet, realizing the kid was right. He nodded, listening to their various options, none of which sounded very tempting, until the kid mentioned the TMC train. It sounded perfect. The irony of a TMC train saving Jaron's life after it was TMC that left him shot down in the middle of the desert in the first place, wasn't lost on the merc. Regardless, it sounded like the best option, and he nodded his agreement to the young sand farmer, already busying himself with packing up his gear. "I'm good to go." He said. "Better than I will be if we stay here, at least." He added with a smirk. During the next few minutes, the duo worked hard at dismantling the camp, including the hut, and packing the track bike with it. Jaron's own gear, which was limited to what he carried on his body and his backpack, was easily stacked as well. He retrieved his assault rifle, checking it quickly and making sure it was good to go, before planting it on his back with the butt folded. Within ten minutes, what had once been an active camp, was all but gone, aside from an old fireplace. Jaron used the frying pan to pour sand over it, until the fireplace was completely covered up by a large pile of sand. No doubt the sandstorm would take care of removing any traces of it as well, but it never hurt to take some extra precautions. "Good to go. Let's haul ass." He said when he finished his work. The duo then got on the track bike, Jaron taking a tightly fit position behind the kid, and with a slow, groaning start from the weight, the bike soon built up its speed. Jaron threw a glance over his shoulder and up to the sky, and grimaced. His estimates had been off - now, the sky had taken a definitely brown tone, and the wind was starting to yank at their clothes, not just from the speed. Sand was being stirred up, and it was getting harder and harder to do anything without getting a mouthful of sand. A rumbling sound above them alerted them to the definite impending arrival of the haboob. Jaron pulled his shemagh tighter over his face, and pulled out a pair of black lensed goggles from a pocket, which he placed over his eyes, allowing for some protection from the sand. "You still good?" He yelled over the engine sound, at Vash. He didn't hear the man's reply over the wind, but assumed that everything was a-ok so far, since the man didn't make any move to slow down. Shit. This is a big bloody storm., Jaron thought as the wind took to even more intensity and he looked back, seeing what looked like a gigantic wall of sand without end either in height or width, following in their wake. It was a terrifying sight, and he felt an icy feeling in his stomach. After about an hour's ride, fortunately, they reached their destination. The train looked pretty rough and banged up, having been stripped of everything of value a long time ago. When they reached it, Jaron could barely make out a couple of the closest carts from all the sand in the air, sand that made it almost impossible to breath without inhaling dust. As they slowed downJaron almost jumped off before the bike had slowed down, and unholstering his pistol, ran up to one of the nearest carts, grabbing the door on the side and pulling it open. He leaned inside, ready to open fire, but there was nobody there, and he sighed in relief. Letting out a loud whistle, he waved for Vash that everything was alright. They worked quickly, moving all their equipment into the cart before following it inside, and pulling the door shut behind them. The contrast between the constant roar of the wind, and the deafening silence when the door shut, was most welcome. Even so, sand still leaked in through cracks in the door. Jaron yanked a cloth from his backpack, and used it to seal the door. Then he leaned against the cart's wall, and sighed. "Well... I guess we're stuck here for a while." He muttered. Almost automatically, his hands searched his vest for the pack of cigarettes, brought one out, and lit it. He tossed the package to Vash, and then said, the thought of what would have happened to him with the haboob had the kid not found him, close in mind; "You really saved my ass yesterday, sand farmer. Thanks a lot. I owe you." He leaned his head back against the metal wall, exhaled a cloud of smoke in a sigh. Then he thought of something, reached for, and pulled something out of his backpack, and tossed it to Vash. "Have you ever had chocolate? That there's Corellian milk chocolate. The best chocolate in the galaxy. The Imperial Armed Forces issues it to their soldiers in the field rations. The glucose in the chocolate is good quick energy when you're tired out in the field." He offered a bright smile, totally out of place considering their current situation.

 

[Stormthroe]

Between the faster-than-expected storm, and the uncomfortable position he'd had to take to accommodate his passenger, Vash took Jaron's suggestion and made it a reality; the track-bike's engine was running hot due to the strain of maintaining full throttle for most of the ride, its fossil-fuel engine coughing black smoke to keep it soaring across the dunes in an attempt to beat the approaching wall of sand and dust.

However, despite pushing the machine to its limits alongside the feeling in his groin due to the reverberation of its loud, constant burp through the rough patched seat, Vash and Jaron still had ended up caught in the forefront of the massive cloud that heralded the fatal dust storms that stalked Zonju's deserts. By the time they'd reached the wreck of the land-train, half buried in the sand already from previous storms, the roar of the wind had already drowned out all but the constant bawl of the track-bike's engine and even then it was just audible over the storm. Even without being able to hear each other, as soon as they'd arrived, Jaron had hopped from the bike and disappeared into the swirling sands as Vash slowed down, and only became visible again as Vash pulled the bike up alongside the wreckage and cut the engine when Jaron emerged from an open hatch. With a gesture that he only assumed meant nothing was inside, Vash got to work unloading the track-bike and hastily getting the gear inside.

The sand roared as the storm began to pick up, and even with the face-wrap and slit-visor that covered his face, Vash could feel the stinging grains on his cheeks anywhere they found a gap to slip through. Minutes passed as the duo unloaded the bike, and before he climbed into the hatch of the land train, Vash had used his tent-cloth to try and wrap the track-bike's body to try and help prevent it from getting too clogged with sand before climbing inside.

Vash's eyes didn't even need to adjust to the darkness as Jaron pulled shut and sealed the ruined hatch of the wrecked land-train, the sand already choking out most of the light outside by the time they'd gotten into the shelter of the abandoned cart that once held the cargo of the Hutts before the roving gangs of The Spine had stripped it of everything of value.

"Well... I guess we're stuck here for a while."

Fishing in one of his satchels, Vash pulled out an unbroken glow-rod and snapped it, shaking it vigorously to get the chemicals mixing and soon the synthi-plas stick began to cast shadows in a soft, dim orange orange over the interior of the car. Vash smiled sheepishly at Jaron; in truth, he had a few more of these lights. He just really hadn't wanted to take the caves.

The light illuminated Jaron fiddling in his pockets to find his tobacc, which Vash caught awkwardly when the hulking man tossed it his way. Quickly, Vash took one of the small, thin cigarettes from the package and lit it after tossing the pack back to Jaron with a match he'd produced from his pocket.

Vash grinned as Jaron thanked him, puffing on the tobacc held within his lips as he rolled his shirt to reveal the bruise from where the Krashmaw had swatted him like a plaything, a faint but evident welt visible in the orange light of the glow-rod. Holding his shirt up with one hand, Vash pulled away the cigarette with his other to respond.

"You've no fething idea," he smirked, before dropping his shirt, gesturing that it was alright by waving his hand as if to say don't worry about it. "It was nothin' really...you fed me, smoked me up, and now you're givin' me pleasant company. I'd say we're even, space-ace. And I ain't no sand farmer," Vash remarked sarcastically, leaning back against the bulkhead of the land-train as he took another drag on the cigarette.

Looking around the interior of the train, Vash took in his surroundings; despite Jaron having sealed off the hatch they'd entered, small holes still allowed some sand to whistle through, although it quickly fell once the wind carrying it was cut off by the train's hull. Looking closer, Vash touched the ring of one of the small holes, trying to discern what had made them, then looked down and found his answer.

Slugs. In patches over the floor, mostly rolled against random corners in small piles due to the uneven angle the car had come to rest on the desert floor, sat dozens of empty shell casings from slugthrowers of various calibers. As Vash continued to look around, he noticed the tell-tale sign of carbon scoring from laser bolts on the walls and floor as well, even in the dim light of the glow-rod. He knew the raiders that had hijacked and crashed the land-train had killed over a dozen men, but damn...that was a lot of ammo for one train.

Vash suddenly jumped as a small sealed package fell onto his lap, caught off guard during his observations as Jaron tossed the candy to him. Shaking his head to answer Jaron's question, he peeled back the wrapper and sniffed the chocolate, his nose scrunching at the smell of how sweet it was and making a sour face. Tentatively, he bit off a corner of the small, druk-colored food, half expecting it to taste like the protein-blocks he usually had on the trail.

Vash wasn't accustomed to sweet things; he'd subsisted off of scavenged food, tough game meats, and worse as far as he could remember. To him, a shot of shine from the local cantina was about as sweet as it got. However, Vash's stomach wretched, causing him to go into a bit of a coughing fit and drop his tobacc as he swallowed the small piece of chocolate, nearly vomiting from the sweetness of it. It wasn't that his body couldn't handle it, but more that it was both shocking and unusual for him.

"Druk..." he grimaced, his eyes watering a bit as he laughed to himself from where he'd had to sit up to clear his throat, returning Jaron's smile a moment later. "Don't think it agrees with me, I reckon," he finished, still coughing slightly as he wrapped the majority of the bar back in its package and set it aside.

Vash picked up the cigarette he'd dropped during his bout with the chocolate, pulling it back to his lips to try and get his breathing back under control. He cleared his throat a moment later before speaking.

"I'll stick to the fething protein-blocks, I think. Goes down better," Vash joked, puffing once more on the tobacc that was over half-burnt. Of course, the chocolate was significantly better than the gelatinous sludge he was passing off as food. After a moment of silence, save for the whistle of wind through the bullet holes in the train's hull, Vash spoke up again, suddenly sounding incredibly curious.

"What's it like out there?" he asked, almost awkwardly. As charming as he could be when he wanted to be, Vash wasn't accustomed to small talk-nor people for that matter. He gestured by glancing to the ceiling as if looking to the sky and pointing at it with his cigarette as he added, "Out there I mean, in the Galaxy?"

Vash looked back to Jaron, the huge man who'd come from the sky and leaning forward, almost childlike. "The spacers that drift through The Port back Sathad'Ra tell all kinds of stories in the cantinas. That for every star, there's a world and more. Of ships bigger than The Spine, and of cities larger than planets."

Vash paused, listening expectantly despite himself. He'd always been fascinated with the spacers' stories, but never really had the chance to talk at length. Nor did he usually remember those conversations, because he usually ended up running from them after snatching a credit pouch, or cleaning them out in a game of pazaak.

 

[Livgardist]

Jaron laughed at the boy's reaction to the chocolate, but there was seriousness behind his laughter. How rough a life did the kid have to have lived to never have tasted chocolate - to not even be able to stomach one of the best culinary inventions of galactic civilization? He could only imagine what the young hunter's diet looked like, compared to his own. Tough predatory meat versus Imperial field rations. Gooey brown gel rations, versus Corellian milk chocolate. Moonshine, versus Tarisian ale. Jaron realized, he had no frame of reference when it came to the kind of life that the kid had lived. The opposite was true as well, he found out, when suddenly Vash asked; "What's it like out there? Out there I mean, in the Galaxy? The spacers that drift through The Port back Sathad'Ra tell all kinds of stories in the cantinas. That for every star, there's a world and more. Of ships bigger than The Spine, and of cities larger than planets." Jaron's face went still as he stared distantly at the glow from his cigarette, thinking about how to answer it. "Scientists say..." He mumbled. "...that the universe is endless, eternal. That there is no edge, no end to it. Even the galaxy we live in is so big, you can not describe it with words. Hundreds of thousands of worlds, if not millions, each with their own people, society and culture." He shrugged. "It's not that different from Zonju, however. Wherever you go, there is war, strife, starvation. Violence and bloodshed is the history of the world. I've been on hundreds of worlds out there, and fought a battle on every last one of them. You can never escape it. It's like a curse." He closed his eyes for a second, and then continued; "No, that's not true. There was a place. A planet called Endor. Well, its moon, really. It was a lush, beautiful moon, with endless green forests, beautiful oceans and lakes. The forests were inhabited by short, furry, but very intelligent creatures called ewoks. They were a friendly group. Treated strangers with respect, with open arms and hospitality. Treated them to good food, drinks, entertainment." A slight smile spread on Jaron's lips, as if he was remembering a past memory from long ago. "And the world was beautiful, peaceful. A place where a man could find solace in the closeness to nature. No deserts, no monsters to worry about. No wars." He opened his eyes suddenly, shook his head as he killed the cigarette, and immediately brought out and lit another. "Anyway, Endor is far away. At the very edge of the galaxy. People like me, dogs of war, we don't belong there." He motioned his head towards Vash, and added with a smile; "You'd probably fit right in, though. If we survive, I'll take you there." He listened to the roar outside for a moment, and then looked back to the kid. "I'll give you a tip, kid. If you ever leave Zonju, remember one thing; be humble, no matter what. There's a million jackasses out there who think they're the biggest kath hound in the pen. But the biggest kath hound doesn't bark. He doesn't need to. You can get far in this world with a loud bark, or with force, it's true. A lot of people do. But nothing will get you as far in this world as humility. Backed up by muscle. Out there, in the galaxy, humility is a commodity; one that will keep you alive far longer than force, or the threat of it. Say less, not more. It'll keep you alive." "Anyway, what about you, kid? What do you do for a living, if you're not a sand farmer?"

 

[Stormthroe]

Vash listened intently to everything the mercenary had said, enraptured by Jaron's description of the galaxy at large. Playing it off with a slight smirk, Vash leaned back, eyeing the ember at the end of his cigarette a moment with a feigned interest as Jaron continued.

It was unfathomable for the backwater waster to grasp everything Jaron had said. The size and scope of the galaxy...endless. Vash thought that the desert was endless, so endless that if you got turned around and lost out in the dunes, your bones would be bleaching in the sun within days. However, Vash looked up with a raised brow as Jaron spoke of how he'd been on hundreds of those worlds out there, and been fighting on every one.

"Its like a curse," he'd said. Inwardly, Vash shrugged slightly at the thought.

So is being born on Zonju.

Vash continued to listen as the older mercenary weaved a picture for him of the forest moon, suddenly fascinated once more. Entire oceans of water...and forests made of trees.

While Vash didn't care much about hearing about short, fuzzy creatures, he'd always wanted to see a tree. Not the wiry, half-dead spindlewoods that grew short and tangled on Zonju either, but one of the big ones out there, with green leaves and that smell good when it rains. An old spacer had once given him a leaf from one of the real trees on some world called Telos in return for him swiping the key to a local garage, smushed inside a book to keep it preserved. For the few days that the pressed foliage resisted the desert before being dried out too completely by the hot Zonju winds, Vash had enjoyed running his finger along the pseudo-waxy surface of the leaf, tracing the veins and stem with his childish fingertips.

That had been ages ago, and Vash smiled as his thoughts slipped back into the present, nodding to the mercenary as he puffed on his cigarette to accept the offer. For a moment, he savored the memories of his youth, still fresh in his mind from Jaron's story. However, as Jaron's tone took a more serious note, Vash listened to what he had to say about humility.

"I'll keep that in mind, space-ace. Maybe crash a few ships when I get out there too," grinned Vash, breaking the tension of the man's advice with a wry joke. Vash took a drag from the cigarette, before putting it out on the bulkhead, then using its butt to plug a whistling hole just behind his ear, where the sand had begun to annoy him.

In his mind, Vash knew Jaron was right. He'd seen it a hundred times back in the City of Bones; a young, upstart ganger runs his mouth to the quiet veteran, only to end up soaking sun with a new hole to breathe through. The brash swoop racer takes a bet he can't afford in his cockiness, and gets dragged away by some enforcers when he cracks under the pressure and loses. The list went on and on.

As Jaron questioned him, Vash snorted and spit to the side, aiming for the gap of the train corridor where the light from the glow-rod pettered out. For a moment, he leaned back without looking back at Jaron, debating how best to answer the question.

"I do what I gotta," he finally sighed, slumping back a bit more before looking back at Jaron, focusing on the MERCOM emblem on the front of his vest instead of his face. Vash sniffed, playing it off coolly with all the swagger of a seasoned smuggler and a grin, "Life's hard out here in the wastes...you could say I'm a bit of a drifter. I tried workin' as a miner for a spell, but," Vash smirked slightly, "My back couldn't take it. Don't have the know-how to be a mechanic, or the mean-streak to be a ganger. So I drift around the desert, doin' what I can to get by. I hunt nerf, mostly, but I salvage what I find when I can for some spare creds or supplies, or a rowl down at the brothel with Mkoll when I get a good haul."

Vash smiled sheepishly, knowing that Jaron would figure out why the young spacer had really ended up finding the merc. Shrugging, he continued with a bit of roguish charm to wave off any feelings of guilt, "Some hunts go better than others though, I reckon," Vash paused, smiling for a moment before suddenly jumping at the sound of metal grating against metal.

"Ahhhh feth!" he cursed as he realized it'd been the track bike getting tipped against the side of the land-train's hull and pushed by the hard winds. The durasteel tube that blocked out the wind groaned in protest as the sandstorm buffeted it, the sand polishing its external surface to a near-mirror finish. Vash groaned slightly, letting the crown of his head fall back against the bulkhead.

"Triz is gonna kill me if I lose another bike," he muttered to no one in particular, before grinning. For no real reason, he began to laugh, chuckling at first before snorting and laughing out loud as if someone had split his sides with a good joke. Vash looked at Jaron, wiping his eye as if whatever he'd been laughing about had caused him to tear up and grinning.

"Maybe if I say less, not more, the schutta will let me leave without a boot up the loadin' ramp, eh?," he sarcastically sputtered out before chuckling again.

Slowly, the light shining through the scattered bullet holes seemed to get brighter, bit by bit as the storm began to let up. Within the hour, it'd lift and they could go unbury the bike and get on their way back to the City of Bones, but for some reason, Vash was beginning to get the nagging feeling that something wasn't right. Despite wearing a smile, he peeked out of the nearest bullet hole, looking out into the desert.

A chill ran up his spine as a sudden break in the storm's wall showed The Spine, outlined like a jagged, dark caricature against the sepia-coloured sky. There, for less than a second between gusts, Vash barely thought he made out the outline of a tattered banner flapping wildly atop one of the ridges, colored scarlet and bearing the motif of a skull merged with a fist for a lower jaw; the symbol of the Fehl Hellion Hun-clan that preyed on this area.

"Feth," breathed Vash quietly, the color draining from his face as the winds rapidly hid again what they'd only just revealed. He pulled out his blaster, the small hold-out weapon purring slightly as its mag-clip charged to cock it. He looked to Jaron, all humor faded from his face and a look of dead seriousness in his eyes.

"Call home, space-ace. I think we gon' be late for supper."

 

[Livgardist]

The conversation the two men, from two completely different worlds and walks of life, had, was a pleasant one. Jaron laughed with Vash when he talked about his salvage work, connecting the dots as to why the young kid had found him in the first place. Of course he didn't hold it against him. Life for a mercenary was rough, but life on a planet like Zonju V, was rough in an entirely different way. A mercenary, at least, had the credits to buy his way into a different walk of life if he wanted to. People on Zonju were poor, and had no way out except by sheer luck. And Lady Luck didn't usually hang around on planets like this. The grating sound of the bike falling over upset the young man, and he started swearing, worried about what the bike's owner would say if he returned with it broken. Jaron grimaced as he peeked out through one of the bullet holes, and saw the bike fallen over. "Maybe if I say less, not more, the schutta will let me leave without a boot up the loadin' ramp, eh?" Jaron gave a wry smile, and replied; "Don't worry about it, kid. One of the benefits of the Imps is, they pay their dogs well. I'll cover it for you when we get to Sathad'ra." The wind outside was starting to die out. Jaron peeked outside, and saw that the sepia in the sky was slowly dissolving, though it was still heavily present. He guestimated that they had about another twenty minutes or so before they would be able to head outside and get going again. Figuring time was a-wastin', he picked up his assault rifle, removed the magazine and checked it for ammo. Satisfied, he returned it to the weapon, and pulled the maneuvering handle back only slightly, to confirm that he had a round in the chamber. After making sure the weapon's fire selector was on "safe", he leaned it against the wall, and went on to check the rest of his gear. As a professional - one of few in his line of work - he took good care of his gear, and everything was in top condition. Then, a strange series of events took place. At the same time that Jaron heard Vash swear violently next to him, he had an odd, alarming feeling, as his skin turned to goosebumps, and a shiver ran up his spine. An icy feeling, at the same time, spread in the pit of his stomach. Instinctively, he knew something was very wrong, and his hand reached out for the assault rifle as he peeked out through a bullet hole. Like Vash, he managed to make out a couple of flapping banners through the sepia haze of sand. Worse, they were fast approaching. "Call home, space-ace. I think we gon' be late for supper." "Not if I can help it." Jaron muttered. "Throw me my backpack." As the kid tossed it to him, Jaron put his rifle aside, and rifled through the bag until he brought out a strange object, shaped like a small metal plate, but thick and dense, and vaguely bent in a slight C shape. On one end, the text "This side towards the enemy" was stenciled out. He placed it on the floor, directed towards the door, and pulled a string from it, attaching that to the door. He used two bolts to attach it to bolt holes in the floor as well, making sure it was firmly placed there. "Here, take this. Just in case." He added, unholstering and handing the kid his automatic pistol. "If they get too close, drop your rifle, and use that instead. It reloads faster than a bolt action rifle. Worst case, if you run out of ammo, shove the barrel of your rifle into their faces. It'll take out any man." He tightened his ballistic vest, quickly patting down his pockets to make sure everything was where it was supposed to be. Then, he stood up, and opened a hatch in the ceiling of the cart. After throwing his rifle and backpack up, he grasped the edges, and slowly, with bulging muscles, heaved his own frame up through the hole, and out onto the top of the cart. He lay down, partly to avoid being spotted, and partly to reach down and offer his hand to the shorter Zonju V kid. Once he had pulled him up, he leaped down into the sand on the other side of the train, where he shouldered his rifle, pulled his shemagh up to cover the lower part of his face, and turned to face the kid; "Without questioning your skills, kid, there's a few things you should know about combat. First rule; it's better to do something wrong, than do nothing at all. Second rule; if you're not shooting, you need to be moving. If you're not moving, you need to be behind cover. Third rule; When I'm running, you better be firing. When you're running, I'll be firing. We need to always have lead in the air, to keep the enemy occupied and pinned down. Fourth rule; Aim for the broadest part of the body - and aim low. A shot to the chest will kill a man straight on. But a shot to the stomach will leave him screaming in pain. That will take away the enemy's resources when they need to drag him into cover, and/or treat his wounds. And if nothing else, the screams of their dying comrades will demoralize them. Last rule; Talk to me. Tell me when you're in cover. Tell me when you're reloading. Tell me when and where you see enemies. Tell me everything that is happening. Questions?" He peeked around the corner of the cart, and saw the approach of a group of silhouettes through the sepia haze of sand. "And remember." He added. "I'll be here, watching your back." He patted the kid on the shoulder, his confidence shining through. This was his game. It was what he had done for the last twenty years of his life. It was what he was born to do.

 

[Stormthroe]

Vash should not have been surprised as the mercenary sprung into action immediately, yet the young waster was almost dumbfounded as Jaron began setting to work prepping a defense. The engines of the Hun vehicles weren't even audible yet, and already the door was rigged with some kind of booby trap Vash hadn't seen before.

As Jaron handed him the automatic pistol, Vash holstered his own hold-out blaster in the boot not holding his knife and placed Jaron's weapon in the hip holster where he normally kept his own; the smaller blaster didn't have the same punch, and he wanted the heavier caliber of the pistol easier to reach. Nodding, Vash reached over and picked up his rifle, the round already readied from when back at the camp before following Jaron up through the roof hatch. Vash smiled as Jaron coached him on the art of combat, a somewhat amused and cocky grin on his face despite the anxiety he felt with the oncoming gang of murderers, thieves, rapists, and cannibals.

"You got it, teach," he grinned, laughing slightly. Reaching down into one of the cargo pockets in his trousers, Vash found the slit-visor and facewrap he wore to protect him from the sand, slipping them over his head quickly. His face disappeared, becoming an emotionless swath of cloth even if behind it Vash's breathing had gotten hot against his face.

The sun had begun to shine, the wind oddly still following the dust storm. Even without his vision completely clear, the dog tags around his neck clinking, Vash looked at Jaron and spoke again, his voice distorted into a muffled shout.

"But this ain't my first rodeo, neither," he said as Jaron patted his shoulder, patting the merc's arm. As he turned, expertly vaulting a piece of debris and disappearing into the sands as his matte fatigues hazed his outline against the sands, Vash smiled beneath the cloth. That had been the first time in a long while someone hadn't used that motion to insult him. With a bit of a squeeze, Vash slipped under one of the repulsorlift chutes that hung under one of the train cars, pulling his rifle with him as he slipped into position like a ghost.

Vash spat as he settled on one of the metal panels, invisible from all but the keenest eyes as he uncapped the sight of his rifle, putting a spare round in his teeth as the rumble of dirty fossil-fueled engines reached the land-train's hull and reverberated through its empty chambers. The tattered banners of the Fehl Hellion Huns became just visible as Vash looked into the scope; torn and shredded canvas that had once been a bland beige, dyed red by being dipped in a vat of blood. The skull-fist emblem of the marauders was painted on in black tar or oil; the same sludge that fueled the careening, ramshackle half-track and buggies that barreled their way across the desert towards them now.

Let's dance, fethers.

---

The barrel chest of Rax, champion warrior of the Fehl Hellions, was bare to the desert sun as the haboob passed, his tribal shoulder pauldron bearing the fresh, reeking trophy of a krashmaw head he'd found salvaging a shuttle that had been downed the day before in the desert. The wind whipped at his dreadlocks as he sat in his makeshift throne atop the belching half-track as it sped through the desert, and his sun-baked skin studded with bone piercings made from the remains of the men he'd killed. Beside him, anxiously peering over the side of his ramshackle steed, his pet Anooba bayed its grating voice at the nearest sand-skiff, hung with chains and carrying the banner of the clan.

The skiff howled back, but not the howls of beasts; men, and a few women, dressed in tattered leathers and with tattooed, pierced, and otherwise decorated skin bellowed back at their leader's beast, hooting and hollering profanities in their tribal tongues as the whipped around all manner of clubs and cleavers. A few even carried slug-throwers, shooting into the sky as the convoy of violence raced to close with the land train.

Rax glanced to his right, his gaze answered by the cold, black eyes of his lieutenant; a smaller, lither warrior of the tribe named Aak. On Aak's hip sat one of the Waste Ranger pistols; a large, heavy-looking revolver, taken as a trophy when the man had led an ambush on a Ranger patrol. Just ahead of the storm, Aak's scouts had reported a lone vehicle heading towards the metal-snake they'd raided months earlier, and like the desert winds that had passed over the area, Rax had called his warriors together following on the coattails of the haboob to take whoever and whatever had taken shelter there.

Rax grinned a revolting, terrifying smile; his teeth had been filed into points and his tongue was split to resemble the desert serpents with whose venom coated his weapon's edge. Admittedly, the two dozen or so tribals he'd taken with him were a bit overkill for a lone waster; however, their last raid had been over a month ago, and his people were restless.

Besides, everyone wanted the choicest of meats.

Standing up, his Anooba turning to sit at his heels, Rax turned to look at the sand-skiff running alongside him, then to the two sand-buggies trailing his own half-track thrown as it jarred and jaunted, slamming through and over the dunes. A single lone track-bike raced after the buggies. This was his warhost, his band of merry men as it were. Rax reached to the side of his throne, removing a huge, hammer-flattened blade that had once been a panel taken from one of the many wrecks buried in the desert. On its iron-pipe pommel, hung a man's skull on twine braided from human hair.

Despite the roar of the engine's, Rax's whooping war cry echoed over the sands to his warriors, and they answered in return as he raised his blade to the sky. The small convoy curved to the side as the land-train wreck grew close, their banners and chains and trophies whipping in the wind as they began to circle the quarry they knew was inside, although they'd seen no sign of the waster besides that the track-bike was laying overturned near a closed hatch at the rightmost cart.

"MUUAJI!" bellowed Rax as his half track swung a hard right to join the circling vehicles, his Anooba barking alongside him as three of the skiff's warriors dropped from its side, their primal movements softening the blow as they puffed into the sand at high speed and began to rush the hatch nearest the abandoned track-bike.

---

"MUUAJI!"

The order to kill. Vash heard the warcry loud and clear, and watched as three of the marauders dropped from their vicious, speeding mount and hit the sand. Each rolled expertly with the momentum, sprawling onto all fours before rising like expert sprinters towards the car where his track-bike had been blown over and he and Jaron had waited out the storm. His pulse was pounding, his palms sweaty from the now sweltering heat of the breezeless desert. He traced the path of the three tribals, his scope making them seem extremely large at this close a range, until they disappeared beyond the field of vision allowed by his chosen blind in the wreckage.

His scope swiveled as he shifted to lead the lone marauder who was riding a track-bike not unlike his own, that is, if he had decided to use human skin as a seat cover and mount all manner of bones to Triz's rack-bolts instead of a utility frame.

Three seconds seemed to pass as Vash slowly began to pull the trigger of his 6-2Aug-2 bolt action hunting rifle, the mechanism creaking almost inaudibly as it neared firing position.

POWSHHH!

The sound of the claymore erupting didn't even cause Vash to jump as he had squeezed his trigger at the same time, the sound of the explosion easily drowning out the retort of his solid slug rifle. The round missed the speeder marauder, flying just a bit too far to the left. Vash had led too far.

However, that wasn't to say the shot had been a waste. A split-second later, the track-bike the marauder had been circling on careened first right, then suddenly left as the tribal operating it overcompensated to try and keep his vehicle under control as its internals hissed and spat. The leather-clad man was thrown from the vehicle, his body slamming into the sand hard as his bike suddenly overturned and rolled with the momentum. Once...twice the rickety looking vehicle bounced, trailing acrid black smoke from its crude, diesel engine, before suddenly erupting into flames and spraying the area with shrapnel as its fuel tank ruptured. Vash shrunk away from the entrance as the skiff, the half-track, and the buggies continued to circle he and Jaron's position, spraying random fire to try and flush out their targets. Though none of the shots were near his position, Vash scooted back into the wreckage just to be safe, turning around in the prone to intercept the enemy as they came around the backside of his car.

He hadn't even noticed the three charred, smoking bodies of the tribals that lay in scattered pieces nearest the hatch Jaron had rigged with the claymore. But feth, he could already smell them.

 

[The Mild Mannered Robot]

"Better, but it doesn't solve the power problem...

Tez's inherent tinkering had taken hold once again, almost too quickly for him to do his morning tune-up (or what passed for it on this rock) before he sat himself down in the shade of his workshack to fiddle with another idea that might lead to his big discovery, he'd just barely managed to keep concentration long enough for a morning tattoo-check. Now he sat at his DIY desk, laboring over a new maniacal pipedream that might lead somewhere. Hopefully, eventually, possibly.

He was quickly interrupted, however, by his astromech hurtling inside, working itself into a jam about something that Tez himself was at a loss to make out.

"Hey, hey. Sage, slow down, what is it?" he asked, and then reached out and held the Astromech by its head to steady it. Sage wrenched himself loose, but did settle. The droid set about explaining what had worked it up, and Tez's eyes widened as the droid relayed its findings.

"You detected a Ship's ID signature as it crashed in The Spine?" Tez reiterated, partly in disbelief. To drive the point home, Sage displayed a hologram of the vessel's signature suddenly showing up in the atmosphere before crashing down in the unforgiving Spine.

Tez studied the recording carefully, pondering with a finger on his chin.

A ship crashing there was a death sentence, at least so he'd been told, a number of times since he arrived on Zonju. Any survivors, if there were any, would need all the help they could get if they were to have any hope of getting to The City of Bones or anywhere else with at least three limbs still attached. As a Ranger, Tez knew what he had to do.

But as a techmeister, something was off about this...

"Wait... so this ship's signature just showed up like that and then crashed? It doesn't make sense, unless..."

"Unless the signature was undetectable before, and it suddenly wasn't anymore, like a... a stealth ship that suffers a mechanical failure."

"A cloaked ship crashing... or getting shot down in The Spine... then someone must've known the ship would be there"

Tez was an auditory learner!

"Whatever it is, I say we check it out" Tez announced as he stood up and moved to grab his desert gear. Sage chittered in contented approval as he ran a short diagnostic on his systems.

After getting properly dressed and equipped, Tez and Sage headed out through the streets of Zonju in search of the necessary supplies for a few days excursion into the wastes. Through the slit in his desert wrappings, Tez navigated the streets leading towards the outskirts where he could pick up a cheap transport.

The Xexto he ended up having to bargain with was clearly not a big fan of the saying "the customer is always right". After screaming his throat as dry as Zonju V itself, Tez could finally set out on a rental Track bike with enlarged cargo capacity for both Sage and potential salvage from the wreckage. It set him back 90 credits.

Guiding the bike to the gate, with Sage cooped up in one of the cargo canisters at the back, Tez stood there for a moment to contemplate what he might be excpecting, and how prepared he was.

This is probably what dad would've done... he thought. Someone's life was very possibly in danger, and even if not, the chance to salvage the wreckage of a stealth ship was... just outrageously tempting, he had to take a look.

Striding onto the bike, he took a deep breath. He dragged the air through the cloth covering most of his face, sending it flowing into his lungs and puffing up his chest, clearing his sight... and he was off.

A small streak against Zonju V's featureless canvas, Tezlo Varrik zoomed across the sand.

 

[Chask274]

It had bee a week or two since Aaron had returned to Zonju V from the fiasco on Naboo. He'd taken his time coming back, but had finally came back to the Rangers and the Saloon. Deciding that a bit of a 'road' trip would do him some good, the Mandalorian loaded some supplies onto a speeder bike, and clad in his armor and duster, had set off for the distant mountain range known as the Spine. There was all sorts of stories about them, and Aaron had always wanted to visit, so that's where he was headed. He'd made it most of the way there when the haboob rolled in, and Aaron had taken shelter in an abandoned shack next to the remains of a homestead he'd passed. As the storm cleared, he dusted off his stuff and set out again.

Cresting a ridge about a mile from the base of the Spine, Aaron heard a thunderous boom from just ahead, along with the crack of slugthrowers. 'Well, looks like somebody's in trouble, probably the one of the damn Hun clans again. Might as well check this out.' Adjusting his course to head for the source of the gunfire, Aaron gunned the throttle and took off at max speed.

 

[Livgardist]

The explosion from the Claymore by no means instigated the battle, but the violent spray of shrapnel that Jaron knew ripped at least three bodies to pieces on the other side of the train cart, certainly set the standard for things to come. He took up a prone position behind a rock, back to back with Vash, and soon heard the younger sand farmer's old slugthrower rifle crack. He gritted his teeth, annoyed that the kid hadn't given him any target designations for what he was firing on, but quickly dismissed the thought, reminding himself it was a dilettante, not a professional mercenary like himself, that he was working with. As the enemies began to circle around them, Jaron raised his assault rifle and opened fire. He fired several rounds just in front of the first of the enemies leading the encirclement, and watched with some satisfaction as the man fell off his vehicle. A spray of bullets took away any time for Jaron to relish in the victory, however, forcing him to pull his head down. A group of the Huns slowed their vehicles to a halt and took cover behind them in front of Jaron, at a distance of about 40 yards, intending apparently to besiege him and his comrade. A smirk spread on Jaron's face. He had some time now, and he bided it. He crawled backwards, out of sight of the enemy, and crawled up to another cover farther to the left. He pulled out a couple of his magazines and placed them in front of him, together with a couple of fragmentation grenades. Then he picked up his rifle again, and took up fire once more. His rapid fire kept the Huns from getting up, and though a few of them tried, they were quickly dispatched by the mercenary's rapid and accurate fire. His brain was in the zone now; effective, vocal, professional, and relinquishing most of the control over his body to his muscle memory - and his muscle memory had done this a million times before. "Reloading!" He shouted to Vash as he ejected an empty magazine from his weapon, and slapped a fresh one in. After firing several rounds, he shouted; "Ready!" to signify he had finished reloading. "Hostiles approaching, four o'clock!" He called out then as several of the Huns began to approach at "four o'clock" using the clock method of target designation. After firing a few rounds at them, felling one, the others hastily threw themselves to the ground in a nearby ditch. Jaron took the opportunity to move backwards, out of sight, and then relocate once again. He picked up a frag grenade, and shouted to Vash; "Readying frag. Frag outbound!" He pulled the pin and tossed it as far as he could. The grenade landed slightly in front of the Hun vehicles, and exploded, tearing up metal, sand and rocks, and sending it flying like shrapnel towards those in cover, shredding flesh and bone with its sheer kinetic energy. The violent explosion was followed by wailing screams of pain and agony. Jaron ignored them. None of them got up to pick up fire once more, and Jaron took the cue. He picked up his magazines and grenades, returned them to their pockets, turned around and crawled up next to Vash. "Rear is secure. Get ready to move out. We have a better chance if we are on the move." He said. He stared ahead at the Huns that had taken up firing positions in front of Vash's firing position. There were a lot more of them on this side, he realized, and for a moment he felt a cold hand grasp his stomach. But then he focused, and opened fire again, just a short series of rounds to suppress the enemy. He pulled out a cylindrical can from his vest, looked over to Vash, and called out over the thunderous roar of the gunfire; "Throwing smoke in three!" He pulled out the pin, and then tossed the canister. It landed almost exactly between the two groups, and immediately began to spew out thick, tar like black smoke, which quickly filled the air and blocked out any view of the enemy. Jaron crawled to his feet, and patted Vash on the shoulder. "Go!" He said. "I'll cover you. Twenty feet, then firing position. Move!" He took up a standing firing position between the repulsor locomotive and its first cart, firing randomly into the black smoke. After a short while, he ejected the magazine, slapped in a fresh one, turned around, and with his assault rifle staring straight up into the sky, started into a run to catch up to Vash. They were on the move now. This meant they were no longer sitting ducks - but it also meant they would very quickly get exhausted and overwhelmed by the Huns if there wasn't some kind of deus ex machina happening, and fast. They needed to sort out the battle, quickly.

 

[The Mild Mannered Robot]

Even when rushing across the sands of Zonju V at high speeds, with the trail ends of his wrappings flapping in the draft created by said speed, Tez still felt like it was too warm for his tastes.

Out here, the air was either hanging practically dead in the air or whipping up large torrents of sand that could trap an unlucky soul and skin them alive within the minute.

Squinting against the harsh sunlight, Tez had been making almost a straight line of bike tracks in the sand dunes, leading towards The Spine. With his locator phoned in on the coordinates of the downed ship, and Sage on the lookout for any possible distress calls or signs of life, there wasn't much else to do but pass the time while the day dragged on.

It probably couldn't hurt to consider his plan of action for when he made it to the wreckage and/or the survivors

1. Locate either
2. Aid in salvage and/or rescue attempts
3. Somehow leverage either into personal merit or gain, assuming survival
4. SUCCESS/PROFIT!?

Tez sighed, this wasn't working out how he hoped at all. Then again, it was kinda early to make that call. He decided to reserve judgement for when it was actully called for, and sped onward...

---

As the sharp teeth of The Spine began to fill out the horizon before him, Sage piped up behind him to get his attention. After blinking through the dust his sudden stop had whipped up around them, Tez twisted around to acknowledge his astromech in the back, who had picked up something.

"What's that?" he asked "you got something?"

The droid "nodded", and gestured with its tiny arms to a sand dune that had now risen up beside them, like a massive hunchback was bending over.

"What do you-" Tez didn't get any farther, because now he also heard the explosions, plain as day, and they weren't too far away now.

"Alright, up we go" he said simply, and guided his bike into a turn to climb up the sanddune...

 

[Stormthroe]

Vash was proud of himself for his shot, taking out the lone savage by destroying his bike, but before he could gloat he had been awed by the way Jaron had set to work, putting down Hun tribals with regimented firing discipline and seemingly relative ease.

Tough fether, Vash grimaced inwardly. While the young waster should have felt relieved that he had such a professional looking over his shoulder, but his young and somewhat arrogant demeanor felt slightly outclassed as he circled back to catch the speeding sand-skiff, its repulsor jets humming as it set down to let its remaining two passengers disembark.

The first hopped out on the backside, taking cover behind the vehicle's bulk, but as the pilot herself leapt from the wheel with a feral growl, Vash had already chambered the round from between his teeth. His brow furrowed slightly in annoyance as Jaron's shouting distracted him from his shot, but that didn't stop him from sighting the scantily clad tribal in before she hit the sand. The retort of his rifle caused his ears to ring as he squeezed the trigger, and a second later the woman's body collapsed on the dune, spraying crimson as her torso fell backwards with the momentum and staining the sand red.

"Feth, space-ace!" cursed Vash as a sudden explosion jolted his blind, causing him to drop the next round into the wrecked machinery below him and lose it. Jaron's grenade and the resulting concussion of an exploding vehicle caused a fine layer of sand to fall into the space Vash was hiding, blinding him momentarily. Vash nearly drew his pistol on the mercenary that had crawled up next to him and told him it was time to move.

Gritting his teeth, Vash nodded, waving the dirt from his face and pulling down his face wrap as he coughed.

"Yeah, got it," he shouted as another spray of gunfire caused him to duck, this time several of the rounds skitting and sparking within the confines of where he and Jaron were taking cover. The Huns had found their attackers, and were putting down fire to try and force them to go to ground. As Jaron called out his intent, pulling a small cylinder from his vest, Vash nodded, crawling backwards quickly.

In his head, Vash counted to three before dropping out of the back side of the blind into the sand, and began to sprint as he heard Jaron's rifle open fire, the steady drone of automatic fire louder than the loud, shorter bursts of the Hun slugthrowers. Vash saw one of the Huns Jaron had shot crawling away from the smoldering wreck of a buggy, and drawing the pistol Jaron had lent him as he neared it, he put a round in the man's back; or rather, two and one skitting into the dust beside the man's body as the automatic pistol's rapid fire rate surprised Vash, causing his hand to jump with the recoil and miss the final shot.

"When I'm running, you better be firing. When you're running, I'll be firing. We need to always have lead in the air to keep the enemy occupied and pinned down." Jaron's half-threat, half-advice ran through his head, and in response, Vash turned to take cover behind the wreckage of the sand buggy, tossing his rifle down and drawing the hold-out blaster in his boot quickly. Vash stood, standing over the corner of the buggy's twisted chassis and leveling the two pistols to point at the near corner and glancing just in time to see Jaron slip from the land-train's underbelly. He smirked as his view turned back to the corner before he began to shoot at the Hun warriors circling around to the mercenary's flank.

The automatic pistol's steady burp was broken by the metallic retort of the smaller holdout blaster in Vash's off-hand, his rifle abandoned in the sand behind him. The first Hellion that had rounded the corner had made it two steps in Jaron's direction, snarling as he waved a wickedly serrated blade with a war-howl, before he cried out and tumbled, mowed down by the borrowed-pistol's slugs. The next only made it one before taking a laser bolt to the shoulder and reeling back behind the corner, crying out in the uncivilized tongue of the marauder clans.

Vash continued to shoot until Jaron reached the wrecked buggy as well, spinning down into cover The hold-out blaster had jammed, its weather-beaten frame unaccustomed to being fired for more than a round or two. Vash sighed as he tossed it aside, instead dropping the clip out of Jaron's pistol; roughly half a clip remained.

"Feth," he smirked, slamming the clip back into the weapon just as he'd seen in some old holo-vids about Jango Fett before he'd sold them for some spare credits, "This thing eats through the rounds. You're gonna be charged a fortune to reload once we get back to the City of Bones."

Vash kneeled, moving to the other side of the chassis before leaning out, extending his arm around the corner to pop off a flurry of shots at the corner where the Huns were taking cover, and seeing a lithe warrior vault over one of the more forward cars to his right, Vash tried to lean out a little more to spray in the black-eyed raider's direction and pin him down even as the man raised a large revolver to point in his direction.

BLAM!

The Ranger revolver retorted with the sound of the monsoon season thunder, and the heavy-caliber slug ripped into the burning buggy chassis, spraying metal shards from the pieces it shattered before sticking fast in the remaining bit of engine block. Vash scrambled back into cover, moving back to a spot closer to Jaron. He flinched as another slug from the revolver tore into the buggy's body, followed by a small chattering of other slug weapons and the stinging sound of laser hitting metal as the other Huns found their strength now that the lieutenant had stepped into the fray.

Vash didn't even look at Jaron, a bit ashamed and a bit angry that he had let himself look weak in front of the more seasoned mercenary. Vash stayed low as suddenly the shooting stopped, glancing up as he listened for some kind of gunfire, before glancing at Jaron.

"Why did they stop shooting?"

---

Rax held his blade out to the side, his pet Anooba snarling in a low stance next to his heels, as he gave the silent order for his warriors to cease the attack. He'd already lost 10 of his Hellions to the wasters, of which they had found there were only two. There was no reason to continue to lose bodies to their fire.

"Bwana, kutunza," said Aak, the dark eyed lieutenant watching the buggy wreck where their prey had gone to ground as he warned his master to be careful, reloading the Ranger revolver with measured movements. Rax stopped just behind his most trusted warrior after lowering himself from atop the land-train, shouldering his massive warblade as his Anooba whimpered, cowering away from its master slightly.

Aak turned, his brow furrowing inquisitively to see why his master had hesitated. His eyes barely had time to widen as Rax's massive, rusted warblade bit into his shoulder, cleaving him to the hip. The blood hissed on the corrosive venom on the blade, and the Huns nearby backed away from their angered chieftain. With cold fury, Rax cast the body of his lieutenant to the side as if it were little more than a doll. His Anooba looked at the body with a whimper as Rax stood tall, pulling his dreadlocks back behind his ear before shouting out to the two wasters.

"The prey is strong," he bellowed, his rough-hewn voice cutting through the desert air and reverberating through the red-rock pillars of The Spine. Raising his blade to point at the buggy wreckage, Rax challenged his opponents, and in the process gave the silent order for his warriors to spread out to either side of the buggy like wolves circling the prey, "The prey has earned fast death for that strength."

 

[Chask274]

As he rode along, Aaron finally spotted smoke rising into the air 'Ah, they're at the land train. Figures, its about the only shelter around here aside from Hun camps and the caves.' Coming within sight of the Huns, he stopped on the other side of the train from them, hopped off the bike, and climbed on top of the train. Taking aim wih his blaster rifle, he shot three of them before they even saw him. and as the rest started angrily snarling at him, he shouted to the two wasters hiding behind the wrecked buggy, "Looked like you fellas could use some help!"

With that, he leapt off the train, rifle in one hand, beskad in the other, and charged the nearest Hellion.

 

[The Mild Mannered Robot]

It was an appaling sight!

Three poor souls, holed up around an old, abandoned train, with rows of Huns bearing down on them. Tez felt his stomach turn just thinking of what might befall those three if the Huns got to them. He had to act straight away.

The desert raiders were between him and the other three. He couldn't just charge in, that'd be a death sentence, and to fire from where he was would just leave him to fend for himself, he had think of a plan.

He pulled his bike back, behind the cover of the sand dune, now invisible to the Huns.

"Sage, open a comlink, see if we can contact those guys" he asked the droid, throwing shifty glances over his shoulder at the top of the sanddune they were now covering behind. Had the Huns seen them? He kept one hand close to his weapon, just in case.

Sage obliged, a small dish popping out of one of the droid's ports. Tez grabbed his communicator and spoke into it.

"Hello? Besieged fighters near the train, can you hear me?"