Log:First Order: Agent: Missing: Part 1

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The hunt for Neelar Baduk begins.

OOC Date: January 31, 2019
Location: Draxon IV
Participants: GM: Artemis, First Order: Hadrix Rol, Oran Arcantael, Drath, Saanvi, and Emma Starflare

One might be forgiven for thinking that the Lambda class shuttle were coming up on Tatooine, the planet visible through the transparisteel viewports dusty and glowing yellow from the light of a single celestial that's almost too close for comfort. Of course, those with any sort of space faring knowledge will know that it could not possibly be the case for this particular planet lacked the requisite twin sun to ensure that all parts of the planet were never touched by the soothing blanket of night.

The Vanguard, Knights, and associate attendants are riding along in a relatively well-appointed shuttle more often suited for delegates than soldiers. Perhaps Oran's delicate sensibilities have been catered to or the more clandestine vehicle were chosen to obfuscate the travels of those present. Regardless of the motivation, the interior of the craft is immaculate much like the uniform of the presiding intelligence officer.

The man is clean cut and fresh-faced, likely of Corellian stock given the square features and thin brows. He regards those present with a certain nervous energy in the way that he fidgets and moves a little too quickly through the datapad in his hands.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are approaching the planet Draxon IV. Similar to other dessert worlds, it is mostly bereft of water and ungodly hot for most of the day. As a consequence, it is sparsely inhabited." The man's voice is that of the well-educated. His gloved hand sweeps to those present. "You may follow along on your own datapads as you wish. They are located on the underside of your seats in a tiny compartment."

Seated in the shuttle, Drath has his helmet resting in his lap and his F-11D blaster rifle resting against his leg. Occasionally, the man reaches up to lightly scratch at the plasma-scarred skin surrounding the implant on the ride side of his head, the flesh still a bit reddish and inflamed from the recent installation. The Trooper simply listens, perhaps a little out of his depth in such surroundings, and on such things as missions involving intelligence officers of this sort. It's just weird! Silently, he slips his helmet over his head to free up his lap, sealing it before reaching under his seat to retrieve the datapad from the compartment beneath it. Activating the device, he gazes down at it a moment, then returns his attention back to the intelligence officer.

Seated nearby and wrapped in her figure-hugging formfitter armor, EM-1710 rests with her sniper rifle braced against her form. No words, the woman simply listens to the breathing as its given before reaching for her own datapad. Of course she'd listen to his words, but she'd commit the print to memory all the same. The Vanguard officer does spare a glance to the other troopers, but the briefing wasn't the time for socializing and she was certain most knew that already.

Hadrix was in his full suit, head down, elbows on his thighs, hands folded behind his knees. Contained within the plastoid shell of his battle armor. He could be mistaken as a statue if not for the periodic rise and fall of his shoulders. He is silent, for a change, probably much to many of the Vanguard's relief.

Saanvi is settled in a seat and while prone to restless fidgeting or fidding she seems generally relaxed in her armor, meedkit and weaponry. Her gaze moves here and there with interest idly interest. This is far different than most of the shuttle rides she's taken and the care to make passengers comfortable is noted with a detached interest. Gloves are retrieved froom her medic's back and tugged on with a snap of latex before she reaches down to retrieve the datapad.

Oran, like a large black cat, possesses the ability to look both disdainful and completely relaxed at the same time. This is the demeanor currently in place as he occupies his space in the shuttle and reviews the contents of his datapad. "What in stars was our agent doing out here in the middle of an unlivable, unpopulated desert?" he inquires, in a tone that suggest he's holding said agent personally responsible for every physical weather related discomfort here to follow.

Glancing at Oran's question, the agent does not answer immediately but perhaps he has rearranged things subtly to advance the answer to the fore rather than the aft of his preamble. "As per the instructions of high command, and with the assent of the Supreme Leader, you are to retrieve one Neelar Baduk and retrieve any data she may have gathered. A human agent of age 33, a picture of whom is included in the dossier on your datapads, she was investigating the sudden loss of communication of a science vessel in this sector. It is a Sienar Fleet Systems craft the size of a moderately appointed frigate. Its transponder signal will read 'Genesis'," the officer continues.

The woman depicted is in First Order dress with acquiline features and generous lips. Her burnished, braided hair is matched by similarly hued eyes. Standing proud in her photo, it is clear that it was taken at a ceremony or some other military venture given how immaculately it has been framed and how carefully the woman's pose, with her cap under her arm, has been carefully crafted.

"Your point of contact will be a Faust named Grelin Plag. He runs a small research station and is funded primarily via private donors. His main research focus is on refining a rare sort of crystaline mineral that appears to be only found on this planet. At one point this minernal was of interest as a potential stepping stone in synthesizing fuel for space craft but it has proven too inefficient at this point. You will note on your geological surveys and satellite maps that there are a number of inactive mining installations. Intelligence has projected based on Agent Baduk's last transmissions and the position of the ship before it lost contact that it would likely be in this vicinity." The datapad glows red in a given section of the map for those that are following along. The agent at the fore of the shuttle helpfully lifts his datapad and shows it to those who aren't although the details are too small at a distant to glean anything particularly useful.

"We will be landing at Grelin Plag's research base. Unfortunately, there is a curious EM effect produced by the mineral lacing the planet that makes it difficult to land or fly in atmosphere at points that are not near the magnetic poles of the planet. Any questions?" With that, the agent clasps his wrists behind his back and offers an impish smile. The datapad is cradled between both of his palms.

Drath follows along well enough, glancing between the agent and his datapad at pertinent points in time. The Trooper merely listens to the briefing until the end, and once it's completed, he browses through the datapad for a moment in thought. His head raises as he turns slightly to glance outside, then looks back to the agent when he manages to come up with a question. "What sort of transport are we taking from the pole to the potential crash site?" It's an important question. He's not sure about the rest, but he can't exactly fly a speeder very well!

The agent brushes wayward strands of his burnished hair to one side with a gloved hand. "Intelligence has been given assurances by Dr. Plag that suitable transportation will be provided to allow for your safe arrival. Our understanding is that it will be a single, more conventional personnel carrier type unit thus you will likely not have to rely on a specialized skillset. Regrettably," the man frowns with the veracity of a crocodile and casts his eyes over those present, "it may not be as well-appointed as this particular craft. I do apologize for any undue hardship that may be endured as a consequence but time is of greater importance than comfort in this instance."

They've been through worse, or at least most of the Vanguard has. Emma simply nods her head at the talk of flight difficulties and then turns her gaze towards the officer briefing for the answer to Drath's question. It was valid enough, but even if they were walking the distance they'd still have to make do. "We will get this done," she finally speaks in her accented tones, "hardship or no."

Hadrix's head comes up at the mewling apology for less than 'cordial' provisions. The expression on his face concealed. Looking to Drath, then to Emma, nodding in agreement to the sentiment. His externals click online with a single question, "Are there any particular weaponfire types inadvisable on the surface of the world?" you never know.

The agent shakes his head gently, taking care to not muss up his immaculate coif. "No, there is no reason to believe your weaponry is susceptible to the EM field. You will have to contend with the usual environmental difficulties." He humms thoughtfully, a hand coming to the fore to tap on his chin. "It is advisable that explosives be avoided in the vicinity of the 'Genesis'. It would be unfortunate to lose access to its contents.

Saanvi's gaze sharpen on their host with an abrupt interest "Is this electro-magnetic interference likely to affect the reliability of our gear or our comms?"

Saanvi gets a similar shake of the man's head. "Intelligence does not believe it interferes with relatively simple electronics. It is primarily a difficulty for repulsor based technology and more delicate instruments."

"Scientists." Oran already sounds aggrieved. "So condescending, and never a straight answer when you need one." The cognitive dissonance there is amazing, but the Coruscanti Knight either is blissfully unaware of it, or enjoying the joke enough not to let on. "I suppose we're lacking intelligence regarding suggested causes for the crash of the Genesis? No matter. We'll determine what we can."

"Very well," the agent notes with a nod. His knuckles wrap on the door that separates the passenger compartment from that of the pilot. The individual behind the figurative wheel nods and the shuttle begins its rapid descent. "We shall arrive shortly."

Through the viewports, the white-hot rage of the atmosphere can be seen grating impotently against the reinforced, ceramic plating of the ship. Then it gives way to clear blue skies and sandy dunes. From this height, the research base can be seen clearly emerging from a spec to be a relatively sprawling complex occupying perhaps a quarter of a kilometer. It is a bustle of activity, especially for a space that has apparently not gleaned much in value for its patrons, and shockingly shiny. The equipment looks nearly new and save for the walls surrounding the base to protect it from the rolling sand, barely anything looking decrepit or beaten back.

The landing is smooth and without issue but when the shuttle's landing ramp opens to reveal the clime, oppression begins.

Dry heat rolls in to the climate controlled space quickly, shoving the cool, comfortable air out on to the planet like a bully shoving a scrawny nerd in to the dirt. The agent immediately puts on a pair of sunglasses and marches out to survey the expanse.

"Lovely," the agent muses sarcastically before straightening and clicking his boots together. "Follow me, please." WIth that, he marches towards a pair of guards flanking an entrance to the complex.

Many crates are stacked here and there. Workers appear to be loading various piece of machinery and other gadgetry in to the containers before sealing them up.

Thank you, First Order, for providing this absolutely wonderful Stormtrooper armor to at least /help/ shield Drath from the heat. Unfortunately, said armor is black, so that's unfortunate. Drath returns that look to Hadrix and Emma, though he doesn't respond. Considering the usual job description of a Stormtrooper, some discomfort is generally expected. This happens to be the nicest shuttle he's been on in a long, long time.

The door opens, and the oppressive heat rolls in, causing Drath to squint a bit behind his visor while his eyes adjust. At least he's perpetually wearing a pair of sunglasses! Grabbing his rifle, he stands from his spot near the ramp, and shoulders the weapon as he strolls on out into the heat. <<Thankfully our armor is black. I was worried it wouldn't be hot enough already.>> he declares over the closed helmet communications, perhaps unaware to those without them who might be about. Following along, his rifle is adjusted once he gets outside, and his gaze travels over the operations nearby.

Fortunately, Formfitter armor -did- offer some head protection, as rarely as she wore it, for combat missions. Adjusting the visor, there was a moment of exhaled breath. The trooper armor might well have been more comfortable, but she'd made her choice and she'd have to deal with it! Rolling her shoulders, the woman gives one last check to the fastenings of her holstered weapon and exhales a breath. <<Consider it character building trooper. I imagine your underwear is less blaster-resistant.>> Following along, she lets her eyes sweep over the research facility and suppresses a shudder. The last one of these had some...less than pleasent memories about it.

Lumbering to his feet as well, Hadrix unslings his newest toy... which would explain his helmet. He isn't wearing the standard issue, nope. Our boy has a flametrooper helmet. A plasma flamer. Someone gave him a flamer. Moving to get into formation with the others, he grumbles out <<"You two wear underwear?">> a genuine question? Hadrix being flip? A mystery!

Saanvi follows the agent, adjusting her pack and noting, <<If any have kidney or cardial disease this trip is likely to be particularly unpleasant for you. Do make certain your affairs are in order.>>

Oh gods, the heat. Oran is... not necessarily dressed for the heat. The robes of the Knights of Ren have protective properties of unknown nature and mechanism, but whatever else they may have going for them, air conditioning isn't part of it. He lifts dark goggles to protect his eyes, retreats into the shadow of the cowl, and then steps out unhappily into the elements.

Receiving comms through an earpiece, the Knight is treated to insight into Hadrix's underwear situation, and Oran snaps back into the comms, "Pay attention or I'm putting you on datawork duty until you've passed your useful expedition lifespan and your only remaining function in service to the Order is to retire into more datawork duty. The elements should have blasted this compound into miserable wear and tear if it'd been here for any reasonable duration and yet every corner is sharp, every painted wall is fresh." He turns his attention to the Agent. "How long has Draxon IV supposedly been host to these research operations? Either not long, or these are suspiciously generous patrons as regards the funding for infrastructure alone, never mind the bloody science."

Unfazed by the banter or just focused on his duties, the agent approaches the pair of guards flanking the entrance. The two heavily armored mercenaries appear bored but attentive, their heavy repeaters pointed towards the ground and supported by a mounting brace that links with a reinforced pack slung on their backs. There's an exchange of words, a flash of a document, and then they are waved through without any apparent difficulty.

"Come along now," the agent requests, leading the group to the largest dome in the middle of the facility. When they pass through in to it, they find themselves in an airlock-like room before the door seals behind them. With a rush, a mist and an aggressive current of air replaces the dry, hot air with something more temperature and mildly moistened. Coupled with being out of the sun it's quite pleasant by comparison. The next door opens in to a large foyer.

"Yes, yes, what is it? I am quite busy," a high-pitched and nearly squeaky voice protests the disruption one of at least six guards has made to garner the attention of their apparent master. They emerge from a doorway on the opposite side of the hallway as a tandem. The other five guards in the room look up but otherwise don't bother reacting in any meaningful way.

Doctor Plag is a thin, pale blue skinned humanoid with an overly long neck and a shape that could otherwise be described as a soda bottle. With long gauntleted glvoes, a lab coat, belt and goggles, he embodies the stereotypical cast of an academic more concerned with experiments and note taking than managing logistics or the comings and goings of various visitors.

The door closes behind him and his escort, shutting out a view of various beakers and other lab equipment. Much like the exterior of the building, everything is immaculate and hardly worse for any wear at the behest of time's scrabbling claws.

"Who are these morose looking beings and why should I care? This is what I pay you to deal with," the doctor questions, eyeing the agent that lies at the fore and the rest of those following with a critical gaze.

"Approximately ten years," The agent answers Oran before turning his attention back to the Faust. "Doctor Plag," the agent intones in both greeting and explanation. "Looking as spry as ever. My understanding is that you had been informed of my arrival."

"Ah, yes, yes, uh," Doctor Plag pauses and glances to the floor and then through to the north side of the building as if he could peer through the dome. "First Order types was it? Your transport is waiting for you outside. Happy hunting or whatever it is you say to each other before flopping about in the muck." He waves dismissively and pivots to walk back towards the lab.

Drath snickers at Hadrix's response, though he keeps his comms off while he does so. Snickers don't belong on the channel like dry sarcasm does. Walking along into the facility, he'd sigh at the sudden relief from the heat, if he'd been able to feel it through his armor. Coming to a stop a short distance behind the agent, his head cranes as he takes in the facility around him, glancing about with mild interest until he's told where the transports are being kept. Adjusting his weapon, the Stormtrooper relegates himself to silence for the time being, standing somewhat menacingly in the background as those more in the know than himself converse about the mission details.

Clearly, the First Order's scientist contracting practices were nothing if not consistant. Outside of two medical officers, Emma was begining to wonder if she'd ever meet any of the 'scholar' sorts she actually liked. No comments, no words, just silent waiting till they're directed to the vehicle and the relief that is the promise of action towards a goal.

Biting a tab to bring his comms to Vanguard/Knights only Link, Hadrix's voice is rocks tumbling in gravel, irritation clear in his tone - if you're familiar with him at least. <<"Floor turrets, pop-ups. Approximately four, possibly more, full numbers unknown. Tagging for HUDs. Likely patterned">> blink selecting the aforementioned emplacements and then tight-beaming the data as he speaks.

Saanvi's had tilts and watches the doctor retreat, <<Were we chosen for this assignment because this intelligence asset is very important or because one or more among us has angered someone?" She turns to face the others and hazards a guess "The biodiversity on this planet might be promising at the very least. I imagine there are a wide variety of parasites to observes.>> Her head turns and she looks around for what Hadrix just observed.

Whatever answer Oran expected from the agent, '10 years' isn't it. "Interesting. 10 years in the sand, wind, and unrelenting sun, for failed fuel efficiency research in the middle of nowhere, and everything around us is dripping money." His tone is as dry as the hostile environment outside, and he doesn't seem to care if the Faust heard him say 'failed research.' The mercenaries are getting a long look, as well, especially when Hadrix comms some interesting information regarding floor turrets, and then he turns a smile on Doctor Plag. "I must insist you come with us, Doctor. I'm afraid I won't take no for an answer, but I'm sure you're every bit as eager as we are to see the safe return of our comrade, and to answer on the way our relevant questions such as pertains her unfortunate and untimely disappearance?"

"Lovely," The agent responds, pivoting on the ball of his foot about-face to come to a halt with a smart click of his boots and a straightening of his posture. Parade form incarnate. "Everything appears to be in order so I will be returning to the shuttle and we shall wait in orbit for your return where we are more likely to receive a transmission if things end up going sideways. A reminder that the EM field will limit your range so you must return to here or somehow make your way to some other point where the field is weak to communicate with us." Clearing his throat briefly, the agent draws in a deep breath and nods deferentially. "I shall be available to answer questions remotely until such time as you enter the field's full influence. Good luck." With that, he goes to skitter away but Oran's outburst stops him in his tracks. Immediately, he goes in to damage control and surreptitiously sidles up to the Knight.

Doctor Plag leers over his shoulder, scrutinizing the Knight. He snaps a finger and all of the guards hasten to attention, their weapons levelling on the group. "Please do not make me regret my generousity. I do not have time to play games posturing with children when I have much work to be done." There is steel in the Doctor's voice: this is a contingency he had prepared for on some level.

"Apologies, Doctor," the agent raises his hands defensively. "My companions are not used to the heat and are on edge." He leans in and whispers to Oran. "This is ill-advised, sir."

The pip indicators popping up on his HUD have Drath sharpening his attention, and the Trooper takes a few steps to the side, perhaps instinctively (If casually) placing himself at the side of the group between the indicated hidden turrets and the rest of the group. There's a few turrets, of course, but he can block at least one of them if it comes to blows.

Then the tension is kicked up a notch with Oran's words, and even yet another notch at the response: Weapons pointed in their direction. Long hours of training cause the knee-jerk reaction of raising his own blaster rifle up to aim back at the mercenaries, and the Trooper's heartrate increases, as though preparing himself for combat. Then of course, there's having been on missions enough times with Hadrix to know /his/ kneejerk reaction, <<Easy, Nine Oh Four.>> is transmitted lightly over the comms in his calm Coruscanti accent.

There is no need to aim, not with a weapon like he has. Hadrix just shifts, interposing himself between at least one of the mercs and Oran. The barrel of his flamer lifted ever so slightly and the pilot light allowed to flare. The flame dances, causing ghostly reflections in the black plate of his armor. His entire body is tense, coiled, still for the movement of his breathing.

Saanvi's lips press and her steely gaze levels on the Agent with unabashed accusation. Her hands lift slowly and placatingly <<Indeed. There will surely be consequences. Let them be paid for by someone other than us>> she notes the tension <<I cannot help observing it seems as if we were were not provided all relevant facts prior to our arrival.>>

Whatever she'd missed, frustrating as it might be to have missed anything at all, it was clearly setting her own troopers on edge. With her mask-obscured features carrying a frown, she speaks calmly over the comms. <<Whatever it is, we will have to deal with it. Cover each other and work together. This isn't the time for a fight, we'll deal with things when it is.>>

Oran laughs. "You imagine it is remotely within your authority to point weapons at us? At US? You imagine the consequences would favor you if you did? Don't be stupid," the Knight scolds the Doctor and his mercenaries, before he turns a cool look to the agent. "There is one man I answer to in this galaxy and he is demonstrably not you. If you wanted a chance to clear this without dramatics, you should have done your job well before I got here. I do not answer to you, nor are you above my suspicion."

Back to the Doctor. "Joining us at the site of our comrade's unfortunate crash is not a dire request. We have not asked you to undergo harm. We have not arrested you... although we could. We have not interfered with your research, beyond the span of a short duration of hours requisitioned to aid our humanitarian search. For you to respond to this simple request with weapons drawn, at a facility that I already have reason to find suspicious? Badly done, doctor. Badly done. Now get in the transport before I break you in half by means you'll die wishing you could have studied. Bring your hired goons if you want."

The agent blanches as Oran remains steadfast in his desire to pull the feisty Faust along with them for the ride. "B-b-but sir, I am not trained for combat!" The man visibly shakes, his hair no longer adjusted as strands of hair work their way out of position and drift in the current of air conditioned drafts.

The doctor is in his domain and is as cocksure as can be managed with the expensive collection of guards and the myriad layers of technology between him and his would-be captors. "My timeline shall not be interfered with." He pushes a button on the computer on his wrist and the interior of the foyer whirs in to motion. The turrets burst from the ground, shielded and blinking as they sight their targets. Behind a blast door, the doctor vanishes.

Oran promised the doctor things he'd wish he could have studied. It's a shame the Faust disappeared behind the blast door before that could be properly witnessed or explained, but it's clear that despite the simple request, things are going south, and fast. He sighs. "I hope your affairs are in order," Oran informs the agent, and then there's a crash as the world shifts.

Every possible scrap of physical object, whether table, desk, crate, or other, suddenly sheds the bonds of physics as anyone else knows it and raises up to form a barrier around the Order team, shielding them from as much mercenary or turret fire as possible. There's no reason it should do that. But under command, so it goes. "He's already fled and left you to this," Oran warns the mercenaries. "His money is not worth your life, and you're up against something above your pay grade. Stand down."

Kriff! At least it wasn't a Trooper that set this one off. He can at least say that in the report, if he survives. Drath curses under his breath, and opens fire on the nearest merc to him as the confrontation becomes inevitable. The shot goes wide, but that's likely due to the Trooper turning and motioning to the others. <<Noncombatant, open the door!>> he calls back over the helmet comms, taking a skidding step backwards as he starts to tighten the formation around the others to try to squeeze them behind the makeshift barrier Oran has erected. This isn't something they can win standing in the open, which he hopes the others realize as well. Hopefully Oran can get them to stand down, but if not, there are contigencies.

Apparently the mercenaries have been extraordinarily well paid in keeping with the decor. Even the hovering tables, crates, and vent coverings don't seem to rattle them much although a few are distracted enough by the wonder to slow them down by comparison to those more familiar with the arcane working of The Force.

"Kriff you!" Kiky is snaps out of her daze and pulls the trigger of her cannon. The barrel whirs and the first to fall is the fresh-faced agent. Shock is painted on his face, a fruitful career wasted on air-conditioned duracrete.

Turning, mechanical, snarling just loud enough for his helmet vocoder to emit the sound like some cybernetic predatory hiss, Hadrix shifts his weapon to belch a gout of hell over the wall erected and presses the stud on his rifle. It doesn't throw fire, not really... It throws liquid fire. Plasma from the canister mounted to the side. <<"Vanguard, staggered fire formation, I'm point, flank posture, shield Knight asset.">> he puts words to action, even as poor Kiky is set alight, especially all of that long hair. Shouldn't have long hair in a desert anyway, kriff-head.

Talan the Rodian does not like Emma's slinky armor, its form-fitted, glistening exterior an afront to his conservative values. As his cannon whirs up, it centers on the woman and discharges its lethal burst. Oran reflexively sets a table in the way and it splits in to splinters that scatter like rain on those nearby.

Of course it had to be close quarters and in-doors. Here Emma thought she'd be out in the desert with her sniper rifle as she had time before. With the sniper rifle in her hand and no chance to draw her sidearm, the blonde woman of offending 'slink' lifts the weapon and fires her rifle before dropping down to a crouch and backing up. She didn't mind Hadrix yelling orders, the team was a unit and he had the right idea. The Vanguard was to be a well-oiled machine regardless of who was at the helm.

Her bolt hits the rodian hard in the chest, but instead of only blasting through, a secondary erruption in the center-mass bursts forth, setting the Rodian ablaze. Apparently Hadrix wasn't the only one who liked a little 'flare' in their life.

Saanvi's hand snaps down thumb snapping off the catch on her holster allowing her to yank out her pistol which she raises and fires at the first unfriendly she trains on-Hiram. She misses but she keeps moving to shre up the numbers of her companions. There are a few shots fired her way but only one lands causing her to stumble back with a sharp grunt but apparently it's not enough to knock her off her feet or keep her from trying to get a better shooting vantage.

Fire is exchanged between the two groups with the Knight ensuring that the fight is a very lop-sided affair. Tables, crates, and chairs bear the brunt of blaster bolts hurled from turret and mercenary alike sending splinters and fragments of metal about like dust blown off of time forgotten surfaces.

Kiky screams and covers her face as fire rolls towards her in an avalanche. Lurching back, she pats down the flames that devour the fabric about her armored plates. Her burning hair fills the air with an acrid, acidic scent that seems to shunt aside even the ozone of the blasters to invade the nostrils of everyone in the room.

"Our timetable has just been forcefully accelerated by our guests," Doctor Plag notes over the intercom. "Please destroy the shuttle they have arrived on and leave anything that has not been packed behind. Launch immediately."

An explosion rocks as a hyperdrive motivator implodes, its shockwave causing even the durasteel dome to ripple as it displaces the kinetic energy along its length. Following that, another tremor floods the ground. The noise is familiar to all: craft lifting off.

Oran continues the maintenance of his object-shield, though it's an effort that requires enough mental attention to keep him from launching attacks of his own - it's a project, sensing the fire and moving the objects to block it. "Bloody hell," the Knight hisses as the doctor launches his own orders. "Are you kidding me? What IS this? The bloody hell did we just break open that has them wanting to kill our shuttle? Prevent this escape and save the craft! I can handle myself, but not if there's no way off this rock."

And the noncombatant goes down. Great. Drath barely takes direct notice of it, and instead turns his full attention back to the firefight, squeezing off another round at Talan after seeing Emma's shot careen into the merc. <<Can someone please open the kriffing door?>> is managed over the comms, as he keeps up close to Hadrix to ensure the spearhead stays intact. Hadrix is the front of it, after all, and they move as a unit.

Kiky flails at herself in a panic, padding out the flames and cursing with every single slap of her scorched flesh. Her weapon remains idle, hanging from its support strut limply.

Talan rocks back, his skin still smoldering, and his rage for the woman rising even more as he takes the shot to the gut. He grunts in a shrill clarion through his tiny mouth and vocal chords not capable of uttering Basic. The return volley goes wide, slicing overhead of the sniper's form.

A bolt slamming into his right arm, Hadrix's aim on Kiky is pulled away as his body twists and he shifts his leg to maintain his posture. Muttering battle doctrines, focusing his mind away from the pain, Hadrix's eyes turn to the figure firing at his CO. Dropping to a knee, shifting his aim once more, Hadrix sprays liquid fire once more, ignoring the turrets raining down around him, moving to the next target as he expects Starflare to be able to handle herself for the moment. The arc of liquid flame like a solar flare, illuminating the trooper ghostly orange. <<"Oran! Can you spray all this debris out like some sort of flak-blast?">>

Fire, blaster fire and shouting fills the space, and they may well be about to get stranded on this hell-hole of a planet. Emma didn't fancy a desert vacation in an old lab anytime soon. With her next shot missing the flaming merc in such tight quarters, the woman ducks as she hears Drath's call and she yells back over the violence. <<We'll need them dead to slice the door, unless the knight can open it.>>

Oran skillfully sends the remaining debris careening in front of Drath, saving the trooper the pain that he now experiences as a blaster bolt finds its mark on his right leg. No good deed goes unpunished.

Saanvi moves forward trying to shore up Oran's flank leaving the business of opening doors or chasing down transports so we're not all stranded here to the action team of Drath and Hadrix.

Saanvi moves forward trying to shore up Oran's flank leaving the business of opening doors or chasing down transports so we're not all stranded here to the action team of Drath and Hadrix. Her forward progress is halted by a shot to the leg which sends her down to the floor with a pained cry. On the plus side she IS now a harder target to hit!

Hiram guffaws at Kiky's plight but then he is experiencing the dragon that is Hadrix's new toy. It seems it isn't so funny when you're being made BBQ and the gruff looking mercenary shrieks like a girl despite his burly appearance.

Oran's telekinetically elevated toys are mere splinters now and not worth anything more than hovering confetti.

Muted turbolaser fire can be heard pummeling a vessel. It may be too late for the shuttle they arrived in.