- Joined
- Aug 17, 2014
- Messages
- 1,736
- Reaction score
- 163
A shot rang past his head, so close that it nearly burnt the paint off the helmet's sides. The man clad in slim black armor turned around and dropped to a knee, raising his weapon to bear and pulled the trigger. The compact gun burped several rounds back, catching a pursuer off guard and downing him with a weak yell in pain. Calico had no time to finish him off, letting him go to his own devices as he continued running down the alley way. Heavy boots thudded on a path lesser walked but completely trashed with various types of litter- sweet wrappings, leftover food from a nearby restaurant and even what looked like a trashed speeder. All these and more, made for a very unpleasant get away as he dashed into an alcove and waited with ragged breaths.
When another one of his pursuers came into view he tripped the Rodian and fired a shot at the back of his head when he was down- purplish blood flew back to splatter his visor in retaliation, revenge from the afterlife as he wiped it away with the palm of his free hand. More voices yelled out down the alley, giving Calico further motivation to keep running. Was it the fifth? No, that was an outdated count of his 'simple runs'. This was probably the eleventh simple run that turned out to be anything but simple. Oh on paper it was a very good job- run into a warehouse, locate the crates with the appropriate markings and then place the ditrium charges on them. That part he got well covered. The problem was when the explosives were triggered remotely when he was in the process of sneaking out- the unexpected interruptions of the night's proceedings surprised him so badly that he lost his footing and revealed himself to some of the fellow smugglers operating in the warehouse.
One look at their cargo they were in the midst of packing showed how badly screwed he was- spice. Of the most expensive kind. You could tell by the shine it gave off. Their off-planet look on their clothing was the final click in his mind: This was nothing more than the local business's owners way of pushing out foreign competition who were intruding in their territory. He cursed and grumbled and was determined not to die. So one thing lead to another (One involving him toppling more spice crates down on top of several workers) and he was running for his life from the men he had pissed off by blowing up their way of life. With his armor and a jetpack combined he was lugging almost 60 pounds worth of gear on him, making him significantly slower than he was if he was running bare-clothed.
Why didn't he use the jet-pack? No reason really, except he wanted to put some distance between himself and the men who wanted him dead before he flew off, flipping birds as he did so. Such a happy thought crossed his mind, eliciting a smile from the disheveled looking man as he turn around the corner, upturning the trash cans as he did so to slow down his pursuers. The end of the dark, smelly alley was a bright light- quite literally. From the city district's maps he had pulled up he was running into an open street where he could easily lose the bastards in the sea of many faces. He redoubled his efforts and barreled his way through the last few meters until finally-
-he crashed into a group of tourists, accidentally ruining their trip by being there- him, a washed up mercenary and mandalorian fighter in armor that reeked of something bad from his escapades in the dark pits of the city. Of course they weren't the only people he had ruined their normal evening stroll. Calico's wandering eyes spotted a familiar face in the crowd. Someone used to dismantling weapons on the spot- at least once. He pulled out the very same blaster pistol she and him had played a game with before and tossed it to her, expecting the teenage girl to catch it with deft hands. He turned around and spotted the first few angry faces after him, all with malicious intent on their faces.
"Rancor in a crap basket."
When another one of his pursuers came into view he tripped the Rodian and fired a shot at the back of his head when he was down- purplish blood flew back to splatter his visor in retaliation, revenge from the afterlife as he wiped it away with the palm of his free hand. More voices yelled out down the alley, giving Calico further motivation to keep running. Was it the fifth? No, that was an outdated count of his 'simple runs'. This was probably the eleventh simple run that turned out to be anything but simple. Oh on paper it was a very good job- run into a warehouse, locate the crates with the appropriate markings and then place the ditrium charges on them. That part he got well covered. The problem was when the explosives were triggered remotely when he was in the process of sneaking out- the unexpected interruptions of the night's proceedings surprised him so badly that he lost his footing and revealed himself to some of the fellow smugglers operating in the warehouse.
One look at their cargo they were in the midst of packing showed how badly screwed he was- spice. Of the most expensive kind. You could tell by the shine it gave off. Their off-planet look on their clothing was the final click in his mind: This was nothing more than the local business's owners way of pushing out foreign competition who were intruding in their territory. He cursed and grumbled and was determined not to die. So one thing lead to another (One involving him toppling more spice crates down on top of several workers) and he was running for his life from the men he had pissed off by blowing up their way of life. With his armor and a jetpack combined he was lugging almost 60 pounds worth of gear on him, making him significantly slower than he was if he was running bare-clothed.
Why didn't he use the jet-pack? No reason really, except he wanted to put some distance between himself and the men who wanted him dead before he flew off, flipping birds as he did so. Such a happy thought crossed his mind, eliciting a smile from the disheveled looking man as he turn around the corner, upturning the trash cans as he did so to slow down his pursuers. The end of the dark, smelly alley was a bright light- quite literally. From the city district's maps he had pulled up he was running into an open street where he could easily lose the bastards in the sea of many faces. He redoubled his efforts and barreled his way through the last few meters until finally-
-he crashed into a group of tourists, accidentally ruining their trip by being there- him, a washed up mercenary and mandalorian fighter in armor that reeked of something bad from his escapades in the dark pits of the city. Of course they weren't the only people he had ruined their normal evening stroll. Calico's wandering eyes spotted a familiar face in the crowd. Someone used to dismantling weapons on the spot- at least once. He pulled out the very same blaster pistol she and him had played a game with before and tossed it to her, expecting the teenage girl to catch it with deft hands. He turned around and spotted the first few angry faces after him, all with malicious intent on their faces.
"Rancor in a crap basket."