The Sunrise Boys

[StandbyRanger]

What was once a home to many of the galaxy's most famous Rebels, "freedom fighters," and the like, Corellia is now under complete Imperial occupation. The citizens have been subjugated, having been wiped of all thoughts of rebellion and insurgency. The iron first of the Imperium holds a tight grip upon the throat of the population.

Inside the limits of Coronet City, a small Imperial outpost provides an unflinching surveillance upon the bustling capital. Like clockwork, the garrison sends fireteams into the streets to remind the civilians of whose thumb they are under.

However, on this day, the Imperials are reminded to never be complacent, as the seeds of rebellion can be sowed in a moment's notice...

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LOCATION: Coronet City, Corellia
TIME: 0730, Local
​

As the last notes of reveille wafted through the air, the gates of Camp Alpha were raised; from them emerged a small squad of black armor-clad troopers, fully equipped. Their destination was the heart of the city, and the squad's pace set them to arrive along with the rising sun. Aptly named, Fireteam Sunrise was the first Imperial patrol to set foot outside the camp. What a prestigious honor...

At the head of Fireteam Sunrise was Sergeant Rasha Almeida; tall, handsome, and fair-skinned, but not like anyone could tell through the standard-issue armor of the 501st Legion. His armor shone under the early bright of the Corellian morning, not because it was newly issued (though that did play a factor in said shininess), but because the Non-commissioned Officer took pride in his appearance. Rasha's blaster rifle also kept a pristine look, being just as clean and taken care of as his armor. If the rifle was slated only to be used for show, might as well make it pretty.

Accompanying Rasha were three other troopers, who he only had the pleasure of meeting just before their departure: Corric Andara, Curtjer Scoiron, and Isaac Stover. Though the troopers were younger than the thirty-seven year old, both Andara and Stover held more experience in the 501st than Rasha. Scoiron was a new addition to the Legion, just like him; Rasha, however, was already a veteran within the Corps. He once held the rank of Lieutenant, but upon his admittance to the 501st, he was bumped down to Sergeant while he awaited his review. It would only take a few missions and a decent beginning to his record before he was back in the Officer club.

By the time Rasha had finished reminiscing about his early career, Sunrise had arrived on Main Street. The streets were already filled to capacity with commuters making their way to work; in the skies, above the domed buildings of Corellian architecture, speeders zoomed by with similar purpose. Rasha ordered the Fireteam to halt, and then opened the comms between them,"Spread out, keep a nice, even view of the street, and keep your fingers out of each other's asses," Rasha was a no-nonsense kind of guy, and no where near a morning person, "And keep your hands off the civvies, no matter how nasty of a look they give you." After closing his end of the line, he sighed. The morning was still young, and he already itched for a good bottle of scotch.

 

[Chask274]

The rhythmic clack and muffled squeak of freshly polished armor punctuated each step as Isaac walked down the bustling Correllian street, his repeating blaster cradled in one arm with the muzzle pointed up and to the right. For once the young Trooper was happy to be wearing a full seal helmet, he knew he looked a bit haggard from waking up well before first light.

Keeping his head on a swivel for anything out of the ordinary, Isaac looked over at his Sergeant when the man spoke up. Switching off his helmet's external speakers, Isaac replied with a tone of slight amusement in his voice. "With all due respect, Sarge, this isn't our first rodeo. We walk the route, make sure nobody gets any bright ideas about jumping us, and we make sure to look as imposing as we can for the civies. I think we got it pretty well covered."

@Oncaro @Tristar @StandbyRanger

 

[Tristar]

"'h want a nice, clean view o' the streets, sunny boyos." drawled the figure from the back swaggering as he hefted a rifle to his shoulders, flipping off a random pedestrian who had been gawking at the fireteam's excessive amount of firepower. "'e f**k you looking at? Move 'long civ, no party where we're going." Corric spat out, the distinct lack of coffee giving him arguably sunnier disposition. He slung his weapon around his shoulders and continued his brisk pace with the troopers.

Why did he have to come here? Several hundred planets in the galaxy and the Imperial administration decided to spit him here like some paperball they decided was right for the environment. Why couldn't it have been Anaxxes? He hadn't been to Anaxxes ever since he enlisted- how long was that ago? He paused his step and brought his chronometer to his helmet. Emerald eyes flickered across the screen before bringing his hand down, grunting.

Seven years. The man was twenty six years old, and he hadn't been back home for seven whole frakking years.

They could have at least given him somewhere nice as a post, rather than slapping him down at a planet where there was arguably a higher presence of public Rebel presence than there was at any open field battle. Half the people gave him the stink eye, two-fifths could barely stand to be within his general vicinity and the rest wanted him dead on sight- an Imperial convoy had been pelted with stones two weeks ago, until one of those stones turned out to be a primed thermal charge. That was when the garrison really kicked it up a notch and decided to tighten security.

So obviously, they had to send the five-oh-first in for f**kin' patrol duty.

Obvious f**kin' waste of resources and manpower; he imagined there was a general out there crying for the blatant misuse of his division's legacy. Corporal Corric smirked and sauntered along next to the other face he recognized in the group, the fresh private Isaac who he absolutely refused to give him the pleasure of calling him 'Blaze'. Private 'Blaze-out' could call himself the biggest, meanest guy in the fireteam but there was an entire galaxy just waiting out there to prove him wrong. Now wouldn't that be an interesting sight.

"Look imposing? Private f**kin' Stover, we have one-hundred percent permission by the good folks in the heavens above to beat the absolute living crap out of anyone who thinks it's wise to whisper the word, Rebellion. Raise your chin up big boy." he drawled, looking at his cigarette holster longingly. This was one of the biggest downsides to their armor: you couldn't smoke while having the protection of the helmet. Cursing the designer of his armor the radioman hefted the rucksack on his back, noting the slight rustling sound of mechanical parts shifting about. A little 'gift' that he had absolutely no right bringing out on their little walk this morning, but he figured if they were called in for baby sitting duty, no one was going to mind him bringing a little bit more additional . . electronic-countermeasure, right?

"Think of it like. . .we're walking through an entire city. Y'know? Just, every face is a big, painted f**kin' tar-Hey! Hey! What the f**k d'you think you're doing you little sh*ts!" he shouted, raising his weapon at a group of hooligans huddled up ahead defacing an entire wall claimed for Imperial propaganda. Spray cans littered their section of their street, and when one of them spotted the four black commandos walking towards them they immediately leapt to their feet and dashed away, scurrying about like cockroaches. "God f**kin'. . " grumbled Corric, taking his finger off of the trigger.

Imperials they go to place called Home!​

What an absolutely sh*t piece of graffiti if Corric had ever seen one. The rest of their artwork was sprawled over the posters, exaggerated mustaches and penile drawings here and there. One with an impressive girth, but Corric's priorities did not include phallic artwork. Instead, he bent down and picked up a spray can. Shaking the can, he felt that it had just enough juice in it for a few modifications. Ignoring whatever his squad leader had to say, Corric set about to fix the wrong doings.

Imperials they go to place called Home!​

"Much better." Corric looked back at his squad and shrugged, kicking aside a can as he fell back in line. "What?" he questioned cheekily, amused by his own actions. "Don't look at me like that, if you're going to do something do it right. And that means you gotta do things by yourself." He chuckled to himself, tossing the empty spray can aside. Sometimes he wished the officers knew that.

 

[Oncaro]

Private Curtjer Scoiron had been born in Coronet City, and his earliest memories were of the place before his younger sister Aylles had been born and his family had moved to Anaxes. And now here he was again, over a decade later, back in his hometown and wearing the armor of the prestigious 501st... In the middle of a nest of rebellion.

Honestly, he mostly hated the idea of having to hurt those he considered his countrymen, rebels or not. That wasn't to say he would refuse to do so-- he'd absolutely shoot dead anyone causing too much trouble. But he hoped he wouldn't have to. And on top of that, Corric's sour attitude and gleeful threatening of locals was really getting to him.

"Was that really necessary, Andara?" he asked through his comm and shaking his head, frowning behind his helmet. "I'm pretty sure we're supposed to be better than graffitiing on walls."

 

[StandbyRanger]

"Two privates have more gotdam' sense than you do, Corporal Andara," in an instant, Andara did more to land himself on Rasha's sh*t list than the 'funny man' in his last squad; if the squad wasn't attempting to maintain an image of oppression on the populace, Rasha would have been in his right mind to smack the corporal upside his head; plus, Rasha found the corporal's grammar joke to be somewhat amusing. Rasha fell in beside Andara, "If you don't want to end up cleaning latrines with the scrub-brush held between your teeth for the next month, I suggest you don't leave formation again." An old piece of advice offered by his father came to mind: The joker in the squad presents the first challenge to your authority; silence the nonsense quickly, or be prepared for the squad to never take you seriously again.

Rasha then though, Probably easier said than done, father...

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Unknown to Fireteam Sunrise, on the street connecting the Blue Sector of the city to the center, an armored convoy drove through the streets; an odd sight in an era of repulsor craft, and aerial transport. In the lead, flanks, and rear of the transports were a pair of speeder-bikes each, driven by mean-mugging security personnel; they all wore standard armor for a civilian security force, and on the shoulders of each man bore the insignia of the Corellian Arms and Technology Corporation. (CATC) In the middle of the CATC convoy was a luxurious repulsor limousine, with a chrome black finish and completely tinted windows. Within said craft was the president of CATC, Jahtod Bolhar, and his daughter Margo Bellbri. Mr. Bolhar was busy chatting on his communicator with an aide situated at his headquarters, while Margo slept peacefully, sprawled out on the larger of the seats.

"Look, I understand that such a move would place the company in a much more unstable position, but if we're not able to push the product out by the end of the quarter..." Bolhar paused as chatter came through the other end, "It's only logical that we push for an immediate roll-out; else our competition do so before us. If we're not able to be the first on the market then we might as well flush the fiscal quarter down the drain!"

While Mr. Bolhar worried about his competition, and Sunrise strolled the sprawling city, neither party would be prepared for the dangers that the rooftops above harbored...

 

[Chask274]

Glancing over at Corric, Isaac snorted at his friend. "Be that as it may be, it doesn't mean go ape shit at the slightest provocation. In case you haven't noticed, some areas of this city have turned into fekking powder kegs. One errant blaster bolt or punch thrown, even just the wrong thing said at the right time, and it's going to be just us four against a very pissed off crowd of people."

Just a moment later, as if on cue, Corric pulled his gun on a group of youngsters armed with spray cans. Rolling his eyes, Isaac held his tongue as Corric then broke formation to improve upon the graffiti, leaving it to the squad leader to reprimand him for it. As Rasha laid into Corric, Isaac had to suppress a chuckle. Even though he respected Corric for his experience and expertise, it did amuse Isaac a bit to see the sarcastic trooper knocked down a peg by the CO.

Returning his focus to the crowd around them for a moment, Isaac glanced over at the other Private in their squad. "So, Curt, how have you been liking life in the 501st so far?"

 

[Tristar]

"Speak for yourself, Sar'n." quipped Corric with a cheeky grin under his helmet. Stick-up-the-arse-titis was Doctor Corric's diagnosis on their fireteam leader, probably caused from Rasha's demotion. Nothing too serious unless their sergeant got too uppity about his spot; the barracks would turn into a thunderdome if the rest of the company so much as smelled an uptight NCO. So far Corric's plan to break in the new sergeant wasn't going so well, but it wasn't his fault.

The stick must've been jammed up further than he imagined.

"Two privates don't make a corporal, nor a captain makes a sergeant, Sarge." The corporal continued, picking up his pace and leaving their squad leader at the rear of the squad. He really didn't want to continue their shift with a squad leader trying to climb on top of him. Who did Rasha think he was anyway? Matter of fact, who the f**k sent Corric here? Shouldn't he be out somewhere in some ass-end of the galaxy with an operation so black you couldn't even use bleach? Either command thought he was due for some normalcy in his life, or this was just another very well-hidden black operations and Corric was just about to step into one of the biggest sh*tfest he had ever seen.

Thank god they were wearing black. "And no, it's not necessary Private Scoiron, neither was it very smart, Private Stover but I suggest you keep those deep dark thoughts to yourself. .ahh. . put it on a 'stove' if you will. Otherwise none of us'll 'scoire' any with the ladies by the bar tonight." he gave a very dark laugh that petered off into silence as they continued their patrol. The silence did not last very long; in the cold morning air, muffled by the helmet of an imperialist government, someone sang the song of a rebellious spirit.

But it could be worse. The squad could have been shot at.

 

[Oncaro]

Curt, still frowning, tried to suppress the odd sense of satisfaction he got from watching Rasha lay into Corric for his very much un-soldier-like posturing. He wasn't very successful, though this was lessened by Corric's utterly horrid puns.

Keeping his eyes up front and his body from cringing, Curt regarded Isaac's question and shrugged.

"Didn't think I'd be good enough to get assigned to the Five-Oh-First, in all honesty," he replied to his squadmate. "Even gruntwork in a tinderbox like this place is pretty neat. Well... sorta. I dunno. I lived here in this city till I was six, so this is a little awkward for a homecoming, y'know?"

And indeed, it was awkward, he thought. But, at least they weren't being shot at.

 

[StandbyRanger]

Rasha pursed his lips behind his visor while he held back every urge to dropkick Andara from behind; if news got out that the newly transferred Sergeant and (hopefully) soon-to-be Lieutenant Almeida beat down his first NCO in the Legion, he could kiss that promotion goodbye. A snot-nosed punk is what Rasha's father would've called the insubordinate corporal, and the junior Almeida was inclined to agree. Luckily, this was a one-and-done squad make-up, so all Rasha needed to do was babysit for a little while longer and he could drown this crap assignment out of his mind with some cheap booze.

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An exaggerated yawn echoed through the repulsor-limousine as Margo awoke from her nap. The twenty year old Arkanian had been out partying for the majority of the previous night, and was thus still clad in her evening wear; high-heels, a tight, yellow pencil-skirt and similarly tight blouse. The young woman was proud of her figure, and the attention she garnered from it. Jahtod did not appreciate her sense of 'style,' but he loved his daughter nonetheless. Margo, with hair somehow still in perfect shape, rose up to a sitting position. She rubbed her eyes with a childlike style, "Could you keep it down, daddy? I know business is important, but it's barely past eight in the morning..."

Jahtod, mouth open in mid-sentence, nodded before readdressing his subordinate over the communicator, "I've given you all you need to get this done properly, Bolla. Get it done." He closed the line and pocketed his communicator. There was no sense in arguing with his aide any longer, and if Bolla wished to keep his job, the Rodian would have his orders completed by the end of the day.

"I apologize Margo," the heavily bearded man said humbly, "But, a raised voice is sometimes the only way things get done, you understand?" In actuality, Jahtod knew that Margo didn't understand at all. The two were complete opposites in terms of personality; Jahtod was old-school with how he dealt with people, using a brash and bold way of speaking, and imposing on others with a large stature. Margo was understated. Though she dressed lavishly, mainly for attention, she was humble in dealing with others. She was courteous, and unassertive. Margo only nodded in response to her father, but only because the repulsor-limousine came to a sudden stop, which lurched both passengers forward. Margo almost fell out of her seat, but Jahtod managed to brace himself in time.

"For Force's sake," Jahtod muttered as he fixed his tousled hair, "Did they not teach you how to approach a stop sign properly in whatever bargain school you were sent to?" The window dividing the front of the limousine to the back rolled down so the driver could address Mr. Bolhar personally.

"I apologize for the sudden break, sir," the Duros expressed, "But it appears as though there's some sort of roadblock up ahead, perhaps a wreck of some sort? The lead vehicles are already investigating."

Outside the cushy, private vehicle, a wreck had indeed occurred; a large cargo rig had speared a smaller personal speeder, and now sat askew in the middle of the intersection. The driver of the rig stood beside the vehicle, hands nervously tugging at his short-cropped hair as he looked upon the accident he had caused. The speeder had been rammed into a warehouse upon the west side of the intersection, with the driver presumably mangled inside the wreckage. Bystanders and first responders were already on site attempting to traverse through the rubble to get to the driver. The lead speeders of the armored convoy approached the scene themselves as the armored transport parked itself further to the right of the intersection.

The next few minutes were spent by the head of the convoy arguing with whoever was in charge of the first responders; they needed the rig moved, but the leader of the emergency services would not budge. While the lack of security was present within the convoy, the driver of the rig (another Duros) approached the limousine and gathering traffic (those with the capability to subvert the traffic with overhead flight were already doing so), speaking in his native tongue. For those who understood him, he was apologizing profusely, spouting that the accident was not his fault; he claimed that he didn't see the speeder trying to enter the intersection. However, unknown to the gathering populace, the Duros was distancing himself away from the wreckage and closer to the limousine. When within a decent range, enough to make out the marking upon the hood that was made by a fellow conspirator earlier that morning (something small enough not to draw attention to it, but unique enough to identify), the Duros grinned and keyed his ear piece, <Target identified.>

At that time, one of the convoy's bike riders had spotted the rambling alien and pointed him out to his CO.

"Hey, HEY! Step back from there! HE-!" Before he could finish his exclamation, the rig (which had its insides lined with packs of detonators) exploded, taking the lead of the convoy and all those in the vicinity with it.

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A few moments before the explosion, Rasha had fallen into silence, listening to the idle chit-chat of his fireteam. Though it had been some fifteen years since his induction into the Imperial military, he remembered this time fondly. He cradled his rifle in his arms as he marched idly, and reminisced once again about his younger days: about how proud his parents were upon his graduation from the academy (both of which were similarly military, with his mother being a Captain of a patrol corvette in the Navy, and his father the executive officer of the 212th Imperial Legion), his first mission into Hutt Space during the campaigns, as well as the invasion of Coruscant. He could've spent the rest of the patrol in this state of bliss. It was only when the ground beneath his feet began to shake, and the rapports of gunfire echoed through the streets.

"What the frak...," Rasha wondered as he tracked the billowing smokestacks above his head, but didn't waste time beginning to give orders, "Andara, contact Camp and report we've got explosives set off and shots fired near our position, Sunrise is moving to investigate! Fireteam, check weapons and ammo, prepare for possible combat! I've got point!"

The ambush site was no more than a few klicks away from where Sunshine had been, thus it did not take long for the four man squad to approach the scene. Rasha had led his men to one of the connecting streets of the intersection, using one of the buildings as cover. Rasha leaned around the edge to survey the scene; further down the street, a smoking carcass of a cargo rig blocked the north end of the intersection, with similar vehicle carcasses littered about it. An overturned armored vehicle lay just before the intersection with a garbage truck just beside it; someone had used the truck as a battering ram to disable the comparable military vehicle. A few bodies inhabited the area, with only a few being civilians. The majority belonged to a private security company's members, along with unidentified soldiers. Many of their bodies were still smoking from where blaster bolts hit their marks. If the squad paid close attention, they could see that the fighting had migrated into a nearby warehouse, with flashes of laser fire lighting the place up like a nightclub. Outside of the warehouse, a squad consisting of six unmarked soldiers guarded the entrance, dispersed in various positions around the front.

"Andara, inform Camp that we have militants, possible Rebel presence, on the intersection of 4th and 10th street; Sunrise is moving to engage." The sergeant could feel his adrenaline beginning to course through his body. Actual combat, he thought gleefully, These Rebels, militants, whoever they are, picked the wrong day to spring an ambsuh. With that, Rasha performed a series of hand gestures, ordering the squad the fan out behind the cover of whatever they could find, and await his signal to engage. Rasha chose to take cover behind an abandoned speeder, just within range of his rifle. He waited for the rest of his squad to be in position before taking aim at one of the militants on his own. Rasha took a deep breath, and squeezed the trigger, sending a bolt of energy careening towards its intended target. The shot did not end up being fatal, but pegged the militant in the arm. The militant cried out in pain, and, in conjunction with the blaster rapport, alerted the rest of his squad to the presence of the Stormtroopers who then swiftly moved to engage their new foes.

 

[Chask274]

Isaac winced behind his helmet visor. "Oooh, yeah, I can definitely see how this could awkward for you. Look at the bright side though, at least you're back ho-" Isaac cut himself off as the distant explosions rang out. Tensing up, he carefully listened to the sound, "Sarge, that sounded like it was a baradium charge, and a big one at that. Might be an attack." The Strike Trooper's hunch was proven right when echoes of gunfire rolled up the street soon after the detonations' own echoes had begun to fade. As soon as the order came, Isaac set off down the street, falling in behind Rasha. As he ran along, he checked to make sure his spare powerpacks, explosive goodies, and sidearm were secure, and primed his repeater. He was as ready as he'd ever be.

After the Sergeant had peaked the corner and got a look at the ambush site, Isaac moved up as directed and took position behind a mailbox near the intersection. He watched as Rasha hit one of the insurgents and as the wounded man's comrades began returning fire, Isaac leveled the E-98 and squeezed the trigger, sending a flurry of plasma bolts into the enemy's positions and forcing them into cover. "I've got them suppressed, move up!"

 

[Tristar]

The explosion was a wake up call to the sleepy morning patrol; it was the last thing anyone expected and the one thing [he specifically wanted. To shoot, vent some frustration from his system. Time for speculation was later, as his leader barked out orders surprisingly eagerly. So he wasn't the only one who wanted to shoot a local dead. Wonder how Curt would take that to heart then, as he pinged headquarters through his helmet. "Mama Bear this is Sunrise, explosives and small arms near our AO; moving to investigate, over."

The curt voice that replied sounded groggy, a little bored even. "Sunrise, Mama Bear acknowledges. Probably another local insurgency, you know the drill, over." Corric smirked, charging his rifle and patting his pockets, full of magazines and a grenade or two clipped to his belt. Oh yeah, he knew the drill. "Shoot first, ask questions later?" he asked, jogging to catch up to the squad.

"Won't be the Imperium if we didn't."

* * * * ​

Corric didn't waste a minute to take in the view, simply sprinting to cover to one of the wrecked cars and sliding to safety. He understood that he was being shot at, that there were other friendlies taking fire as well. The salty NCO was aware that one of their squad members was also firing back, yelling for cover, that their leader was yelling at him to report back to headquarters again.

Didn't really get why though.

Was it a simple VBIED, why were the rebels trying to stave off any attempts from the nearby security personnel to reach the least damaged car? Who was inside it that it warranted the rebels resources they were bleeding for day by day? He pressed his back against the wrecked car, peeking to soak in the environment.

The air was filled with the heated bolts as blasters fired rapidly back with no real accuracy. The stormtroopers and security personnel was trying to match the enemy's fire superiority through accurate fire, but the suppression effect was far too little to match them. He watched as a Gramorrean took a bowcaster to the chest, falling back with a squeal. Tearing his gaze away from the scenery, he opened the channels back to headquarters. "Mama Bear, Mama Bear this is Sunrise, how copy? Over."

A different voice replied this time, someone who sounded more professional with a little. . .western drawl. "We read y'all Sunrise; What's the situation?" Corric didn't think twice to judge the person based on his voice: Probably someone from Dantooine, outback folk. "Confirmed insurgency presence on the 4th and 10th street, we have engaged. Multiple local security forces present as well. Plenty of CIVCAS, MASCAS, you name it- need local precinct to block routes from the main square, medical personnel to move in and assist." he ducked further into cover when a bolt came closer to grazing his helmet.

"Get us some goddamn back up, four men ain't gonna cut it." He paused his report and turned around, mounting his rifle on the hood of the car. He took a random shot back, then three more before returning to cover just as the channel flared to life again. "Sunrise, Mama Bear confirms: CCPD acknowledges and is moving to set up, and an EMS team is enroute."

"That's great but what about back up?"

"We can only send a single speeder unit to assist, all other units are currently tied down elsewhere- Sunrise isn't the only stormtrooper patrol taking fire, multiple insurgent outbreaks are occuring at the same time throughout Coronet City damn it." They were? That's news. "Captain Radevsky and Lieutenant Horst are enroute-"

"Two men!?" he paused, returning fire at his persistent shooter. He heard the dull cry in the background but couldn't celebrate as the voice in his head continued their chatter. "-ou that it was all we could scrounge up. Make do, clear the rebels. Over and out." The radioman swore out loud and tried to pick out his sergeant from the mess he was in. The black armor configuration was intimidating and all, but it was pretty damn useless when you need to quickly identify your chain of command. He eventually spotted the squad leader though, and when the fire over his cover weakened by a fraction he took the chance and sprinted over to his side, sliding in with the grace of a bull in a china shop. "We have reinforcements-" he said, scrambling to cover by a mound of debris that afforded him even less cover.

Dust showered over the corporal when an explosion reverberated across the street- someone was playing with dangerous weaponry. "But it's a whole two damn men, a goddamn speeder unit. Roads are blocked, EMS are enroute to handle CIVCAS- EY STOP THAT YOU CU-" The words were drowned out as he returned fire through volume of fire, the blue bolts contrasting the green and the odd red that flew back.

 

[Oncaro]

An explosion was all it took to shatter Curt's fragile hope that his first day on patrol in the 501st would be without major incident-- and what was worse, his own squad leader was gleeful at the thought of combat; but his emotions took a backseat as his elite training kicked in and he moved off with the rest of Sunrise toward the epicenter of this event. His mind was working in tandem with his eyes, memorizing every single detail he was able to see; though admittedly, he'd have probably had an easier time of it without his helmet obscuring his peripheral vision.

Skidding to a stop and huddling behind and overturned speeder, Curt checked his position relative to his squad; all four of them seemed relatively evenly spread out with overlapping fields of fire on the insurgents, with Curt being closest to the least damaged of the cars, roughly thirty meters away, or so he figured; it might have been more. Seeing that the local security was in dire need of assistance, Curt peeked over the speeder and began firing in short, controlled bursts, taking care to avoid hitting any friendlies; whoever those guards were trying to protect-- or rather, get back to, as it looked like the insurgents had a decent hold of the immediate area around the vehicle-- as far as Curt was concerned, they were on his squad's side now considering their common enemy.

 

[StandbyRanger]

Rasha cursed under his breath, damning the luck he was gifted on this day. Two men for reinforcements? What was this, an Action Holo-flick? He peeked slightly above his cover, only to be met with bolts of plasma coming within inches of hitting their marks; he ducked back down and raised his rifle to fire a few shots blindly.

"Alright, even if they're on speeders, it'll take a couple of minutes before they can reach us," Rasha advised Corric, "Best thing for us to do now, is try and thin out the enemy; find an opening to link up with whatever forces are left from that bum-fracked convoy. Corric, I want yo--" As he was about to give out orders, Rasha took another peek over his cover, and noticed something that made him stop in his tracks: the door to the relatively untouched repulsor-limousine in the middle of the street was creeping open.

From the vehicle popped out the head of a young woman with hair tousled, and an expression of death on her face. She was searching the immediate area, using the door as cover from any stray blaster bolts that whizzed by. From behind his visor, Rasha's brow furrowed and his mouth fell agape at the absurdity of her actions. Rasha opened up his helmet's speakers and called out to the suicidal civvie, "Hey! Hey, you! The frack are you doing!? Get back inside!" It was no use, as the sound of battle drowned out his voice.

Then, defying all accounts of decent reasoning and rational thought, the young woman took a step outside the safety of what appeared to be a blaster-proof haven. Oh by the Force, what the absolute frack..., Rasha thought to himself. Fearing for the safety of the civilian, and still taken aback by the absolute stupidity of her actions, Rasha did the only thing he could do: Give orders, "Sunrise, new priority! We've still got live civvies in the area, inside the limousine! Move to protect, I'll cover!"

A plasma bolt whizzed past the open limousine door, and Rasha could see the color drain from the young woman's face. At that moment, a rather manly arm wrapped around her waist from inside the vehicle to pull her back inside, and the remaining hand of whoever the man was grabbed the door handle and slammed it shut. Rasha placed suppressing fire on the Insurgents, tagging the same one from earlier (who had managed to get back up) in the same shoulder in the process.

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​

Inside the limousine, Jahtod held his daughter close; Margo was beginning to hyperventilate, tears were flowing down her cheeks, and her shoulder length hair now an absolute mess that obscured her panicking face.

"What the hell were you thinking!?" Jahtod yelled out in anger.

Margo was clinging to her father's arm for dear life, "I don't-I-I-I don't know! Father, I don't want to stay in here! I'm so scared! I'm so scared! Pl-please, I don't want to die!"

Jahtod remained silent as he cradled his sobbing daughter in his arms, for it was all he could think of to do, "By the living Force, someone please save us..."

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​

One of the Insurgents must have noticed Margo attempting to make an escape from the limousine, as he moved his obscured, masked face closer to his collar. He keyed his commlink, directing the Insurgents to begin making their way towards the vehicle. From inside the warehouse, which still echoed with a firefight of its own, emerged three more soldiers; one dragged the soldier Rasha had wounded back into the warehouse while the other two took positions about the street, bringing the active amount of Rebels to seven.

The layout of the battlefield remained the same, with the street in front of the warehouse containing the majority of the fighting. Sunrise, positioned at the south end of the street, was further from the limousine, which was at the epicenter of the vehicle graveyard. From the west end, alongside the warehouse, the Rebel squad was carefully making their way to their target; their movements were cautious, as they were still unsure of how many Imperial combatants they had to contend with, and from trying to avoid Rasha's blaster fire.

If they wanted to make it to the civilians first, Sunrise would have to move faster, and more reckless than their opponents...

 

[Chask274]

Once the insurgents had found cover and began returning fire in earnest, it seemed like all hell had broken loose to Isaac. A myriad of colored plasma bolts had filled the air, with many of them pointed in Isaac's general direction. Tucking his body in closer and lower to the mailbox, the Strike Trooper had been in the process of reloading when movement at the undamaged limousine caught his eye. As he slapped the fresh powerpack into place, he spotted the a blonde-haired young woman peak out from her now open door. 'What in the nine hells does she think she's doing?!' He'd been about to call out to her when a insurgent breaking for new cover pulled his focus away. Pivoting his weapon on top of it's bipod, Isaac made sure to lead the moving rebel, then squeezed the trigger. A trio of red bolts arced out and slammed into the rebel's unarmored side and arm, sending him sprawling, dead before he hit the ground. Isaac shifted his gaze back to the limo just in time to see the girl get pulled back inside.

Sighing in relief that the civvie was safe for now, Isaac suddenly found that his cover was getting shot full of holes as the rebs poured the heat on him in vengeance for their dead friend. Cursing louder than a pirate, Isaac bolted for the relative safety of the nearest trashed speeder, which placed him just inside40 meters from the limo. From there, he heard Rasha's order to protect the limo, and spotted the approaching rebs. He pulled a frag from his belt, pulled the in, and lobbed it at the trio.

 

[Tristar]

Corric gritted his teeth and hid back into his cover as the smell of heated plasma wafted up, making him feel lightheaded. His sergeant had the right of things, there definitely was something worth not-killing inside that limousine that the rebels wanted so much. He watched in muted shock as Stover chucked a grenade no more than 5 meters away from the VIPs- the explosive sent shrapnel flying everywhere, tearing the insurgent retrieval team for sure; it also rocked the car and damaged the exterior. VIP cars tended to be bulletproof but they didn't count on them lasting through an entire firefight; the guarantee only worked so much under constant fire. "STOVER!" he yelled through the squad intercom.

"NO MORE EXPLOSIVES GODDAMN IT, WE MIGHT BUST THE CAR AND THE VIP!" he picked up his rifle and dashed through the wrecked cars and debris, ducking under the stray bolts. The trooper nearly reached the safety of Curt's car when the gravel cracked in front of his feet; compared to the whine of blasters , this was a harsh, odd and almost barbaric snap. Corric nearly lost balance as three more cracks broke the chain of hisses and whines, splitting the road around him. "SNIPER!" he called out, possibly deafening anyone near him. The soldier simply sprinted away from Curt's position.

This of course as any sane man knew only drew more fire to his position but adrenaline had a funny way of making one feel omnipotent. With his heart pumping and blood rushing to his muscles Corric sprinted past his intended destination and continued through the hail of bolts, each seemingly missing him by a mile. Of course from the eyes of his squad mates, Isaac or Curt or even his sergeant Rasha, each of those shots were near by-the-skin grazes; that was a fact little known to the sprinter who kept on running, his mind only solely focused on one thing.

And that was to not present a sitting target to the sniper. Every muscle in his body told him to keep running, zig-zag and advance- part of his training as an urban trooper was to keep on moving and pressing the advantage; what advantage he had was unknown, but he kept on running. Eventually his sprint came to a halt as a sharp pain stabbed him in the side and he collapsed at the base of a pockmarked building, heaving in pain. "Ah-ah-ah. .sh*t runner's cramp!" he spat out, crawling towards the door. His feet found purchase and the lone stormtrooper scrambled into the building, barging the door open with his shoulder. He heard a crack, but only assumed it was from that sh*t-shot of a sniper and continued.

The interior of the warehouse was an assortment of shipping crates lined horizontally to the entrance, with stacks of crates 2 stories high and some even threatening to tip over. The inhabitants, remnants of the security detail had constructed a makeshift barricade it appeared, only to be battered down by a desperate stormtrooper who had five guns aimed at him at the present moment. "Wait wait wait!" cried out a voice from the 2nd level catwalks, a human contractor with singed hair and the faint smell of plasma emanating from him. "That's imperial trooper, hold your fire! Hold your goddamn fire!" he yelled tiredly, waving his hand to get the message clear. The ground floor detail stowed away their weapon and returned to cover, looking slightly dejected and disappointed.

Well, Corric never liked independent contractors anyway. "You here to rescue us?" asked their leader. The 2nd story catwalks had three other guards by the building's windows, firing an odd assortment of blasters randomly. Their only concern at this moment was instinctual survival- perhaps they were overpaid. Corric replied, snapping out of his reverie. "Uh- yeah! Yeah- well I mean I'm just- uh. Hey, where's the VIP?"

"You kidding me?" said the man, bewildered, pointing back out at of the warehouse. "You sprinted a f**king street past the VIP and into our holdout! I thought you were here to establish com-HEY WAIT!" Corric didn't let the man finish, cursing himself as he ran out of the door. The leader ran out after him but stopped by the steps, firing pot shots back at the insurgents who were currently dealing at two fronts. "Get the hell back insid-"

So he sprinted again, through the fire and smoke and the bodies of rebels who were absolutely terrified at the charging trooper, yelling defiantly against his stacked odds. Corric's muscles this time were burning, aching as his feet pounded the road and kept on running. The trooper ran past the VIP, a streak of black that scared the occupants inside.

He ran past Curt, flying at breakneck speeds, a trail of curses following right behind him. Past Isaac, Past Rasha and back into the open street where they had arrived from. He only stopped when the two speeders turned into the street, two scout troopers with urban camouflage painted on their armor riding their vehicles. "Woah there!" barked Captain Radevsky, leaping out of the speeder with the ignition still on. His partner drove his speeder to a stop by Rasha, drawing out a blaster pistol and knelt by the sergeant. Corric skid to a stop, his heart in his throat and his lungs begging for air. "Where the hell you running to trooper?"

"Oh lord thank f**king heavens we got back up," Corric said without acknowledging the Captain's question. "We got a sniper down the road, believe its in the third story building, middle window but I can't tell for sure. He's f**king up the formation and pinning the VIPs inside, can't make it over there and we need him dead." He pointed out the building, snapping the officer's attention away from the rogue trooper. He nodded urgently and jogged back to his speeder. The Captain ripped a marksman rifle from the side holster and got behind a concrete block, resting the rifle barrel on the edge. Corric didn't remain, sprinting back past his squad and dove into cover ten meters away from the limousine, the body of the car resting on its side, the remains of Stover's kills plastered on the back of the vehicle.

 

[Oncaro]

Damn! We're in a tight spot!

Curt was seeing all that was going on, memorizing every moment, but he still found it utterly chaotic. Corric was running around like a madman, going in and out of the warehouse, sprinting past Curt himself at least once, and somehow not getting a scratch on himself. Curt watched in awe for a few moments, before a bolt whizzing dangerously close above his head snapped him out of it.

He huddled further behind his cover, glancing around; it seemed Rasha and Isaac were attempting to provide cover fire for Corric and the limousine; he hadn't been able to get a good look at the kerfuffle there from mere moments ago, as he had been ducked down behind his car, but he had heard Rasha's orders clearly over the comm.

Get to the limo, protect the civvies.

This mantra repeated over and over in his head as he vaulted his cover and began to sprint from cover to cover, trying to get to the limo as quickly as possible before those insurgents did. He attempted to drive them back, and at least one shot hit his target, but he hadn't been able to see if it were fatal. As he jumped the last hurdle, a blaster bolt that came from the warehouse and narrowly missed his foot caused him to trip through the air and flail a bit, landing comically on his face.

Groaning, he slowly picked himself up and shook his head, stumbling a bit as he moved toward the limo's rear doors. Fumbling his grip a bit, he managed to open the door with his blaster-free hand, using it as a shield as he crouched.

"Hey, you guys are gonna be oka--"

 

[StandbyRanger]

So much had happened within such a short time that Rasha was having difficulties keeping tabs on... well, just about everything; Andara ran around like a madman, Stover was being liberal with his use of explosives, and he wasn't even really sure where Scoiron had ran off to. It was like babysitting toddlers...

To try and calm his mind, Rasha inconspicuously poked his head just above his cover to attempt and count the remaining enemy; by focusing on one variable in this hodgepodge of combatants, Rasha hoped to find that the odds had turned in favor of the Imperials: there were seven insurgents to begin with. Stover took out one with his rifle, and another two with his grenade. Looks like he's got the only confirmed kills so far. That leaves four...

The sudden appearance of one of the scout trooper reinforcements knocked Rasha out of his trance. Their bike skirted to a stop as its driver stacked up next to Rasha. The sergeant's IFF tag marked as Lieutenant Horst.

"Hell of a party you've got going on her, sarge," the lieutenant's voice had too much familiarity to it, "Where's the keg at?"

"Blown sky high," Rasha gestured to the still burning tanker, "Rebels weren't too happy with the brand."

Lieutenant Horst peered over their cover, whistling at the carnage laid out before him, "Rebs sure don't like you 501st folk, do they?"

"Sure as phrik don't," Rasha agreed, "Ambush would've happened regardless of us being here. We believe their real target's holed up in their limo over there." Rasha hooked a thumb in the direction of the limousine, then took advantage of the lull in combat to look over his rifle.

Lieutenant Horst continued to study the field for a few moments longer. His scanning stopped abruptly, however, "Ummm," he began as he tapped Rasha on the shoulder, "Do you let all your men run around like womp rats without their heads on?"

"What're you talking about?" Rasha followed Horst's gaze, trying to figure out what he was talking about; it didn't take long, as private Scoiron came barreling past the two. Luckily for the private, the sniper was busy duking it out with Captain Radevsky to notice the green Imperial soldier making a beeline for the limo.

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​

Margo and her father continued to panic as the loud crack of sniper fire continued, and explosions rocked the car. At this point, Margo had become hysterical; it was her first time in a combat zone, and she definitely wasn't handling it well. The culmination of everything around her resulted in her conviction to beat the piss out of whoever or whatever came for her and her father.

Unfortunately for the rookie, Curt turned out to be this exact target. Upon opening the door, Curt received a frighteningly hard kick to the face; their was an audible crack as Margo's heel broke the well-built visor of Curt's helmet. As the trooper began to recoil from the blow, Margo let out a yelp as she tackled Curt out of the limo and onto the asphalt.

"Nooooooo!" she screamed, as she laid into Curt's armored figure with all the strength she had, "Stay away from us!!!"

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Rasha's mouth sat agape as Scoiron stumbled his way to the limo unscathed, only to be pegged in the face with a heel on his arrival. Rasha suppressed his laugh, despite how difficult that turned out to be. It turned into pfffft, which would've sounded really strange to those who caught it over the radio; he knew the private was safe, as his health monitors barely dropped, but seeing as how hard he got kicked in the face and the subsequent beating by a small woman he was receiving, Rasha wouldn't be surprised if Scoiron ended up with a light concussion.

Tapping Horst on the side Rasha spouted, "cover me," before dashing for the limo.