Log:New Republic: Fetch

Fetch

OOC Date: March 22-23, 2021
Location: Munto Codru
Participants: Ambrosia Greystorm(GM), Callax Dalso, Merek, B'haav Adasta(as Pvt Jien Ku'Farper), New Republic

OOC: *Warning* Contains depictions of wartime violence associated with vehicular artillery

The plan was this: be in position to receive by 19:00, track the air drop's fall from the sky - hopefully close to mark - load up the cargo into their Trast A-A5 SpeederTruck, and get the hell home.

However.

High above the clouds, transmissions begin to ping between starfighter craft, their escorted transport, and the Republic base. Phrases such as <"Get to the barn as quick as you can"> and <"Emergency crews on standby, coming in hot!"> don't bode well for the day's intended drop going according to plan. Evidently, the GR-75 transport, The Homefront, attracted some unwanted attention after emerging to orbit and the now-visible action punching through the atmosphere becomes very hot indeed. Smoking, in fact.

The Homefront leaves a sickly smoke trail, casting sparks and spits of flame as it lists in the sky and takes a dip toward ground. It is barely able to level out before trimming the treeline of this forest valley and plowing on toward Codru Capital.

That can't possibly be good.

The comms specialist among the group watches the ship barrel on by overhead with a screwed look of confused upon their face. Going...going...gone.

"So..."

They appeared to be on course for a landing at the Republic?' base, not a fly by drop.

"Good work, call it a wrap?" A shrug gets passed around to the others here, except for their scout who's too busy squinting through their macros and jotting down numbers.

"Yeeeeeah I wouldn't congratulate ourselves 'bout nothing yet," they say, still jotting. <"Fetch crew, Fetch crew this is Homefront"> the injured transport heralds them directly on the agreed-upon frequency. <"Sustained critical damage to hull, delivering directly to base for repairs. Homefront is down for the night."> And then some, probably, but Capt Hornus Greystorm was an annoyingly optimistic person.

No doubt grumpy General Ambrosia Greystorm will be /thrilled/ to see him emerge onto the leveled city block they call 'tarmac'. A smile appears on the face of the comm specialist, already looking forward to witnessing a little bit of that aftermath. They could make it, if they hurry...

<"External cargo container ruptured by heavy fire. Some crates lost, unsure of count at this time.">

Well, damn.

Merek is of course settled into the gunnery seat of the BN7 Tank that Sketch is driving. The man takes a look to the controls, then he begins to adjust them to his personal setting. That radar comes up with an HUD upon his goggles within the helmet which he wears, rifle along shoulder. The man taps along the control panel while he speaks to the comlink, "This is Commando Black, I am prepped to fight."

Private Jien Ku'Farper's hand lingers near the ignition. She'd been tuning the A-A5 speeder truck before this mission, and was still babying the engines a little - the tuning wasn't exactly where she wanted it and didn't prefer it to idle too long until she'd gotten it just right. Of course, their rendezvous was clearly shot now, and it was time to improvise. But did she really want to attract the General's attention with the loud ignition of not-perfectly-tuned repulsors? No. It'd start on the first try. Maybe if she asks first.

<"Private Ku'Farper, A-A5 driver. We, uh... I'm guessing we're not loading? Over."> Nope... The hand still lingers. Protocols. She polishes the inside of the windshield with her left, waiting for the order to move out.

The scout stops their scribbling and uplifts a finger as if pointing to the airwaves themselves. It's an I-told-you-so point. <"Copy Homefront, safe landing."> Then "Thought I saw something falling away from The Homefront when the swarm was still in frenzy." He refers to the short-lived dogfight between Rogue Squadron and the TIEs harassing their cargo transport. "I'll bet tomorrow's rations it was some lost cargo. Here's hoping the sails deployed!"

Hopping down off the roof of their Trast A-A5 (surely not an irritant for Pvt Ku'Farper while she took advtage of their idling to do WORK!!!), he shuffles over to Sgt Sketch Hardcastle who's sitting on the hood of his BN7 Light RepulsorTank. The Sgt's been silent for a time, clearly watching the scout do their scribbling and ignoring Corporal Felcar's premature optimism.

"I was able to do a quick mark of distance and elevation but factors of Homefront's speed, direction of travel, and shifts in wind speed'n'resistance, could've altered this presumed trajectory. It's an estimate, see." Punctuated with a shrug.

Hardcastle blows a low and slow sigh through his nose and rubs a knuckle across the side of it. "It'll be my ass if the Order gets hold 'fore we do, y'know that?" He slides off the hood and barks out his decision.

"PREP FOR TRAVEL! We move in five." And then he's patching through to their base. The General's tent. There's an exchange of words, mostly from the General, and most of /those/ unfit for her grandchildren to hear.

"Yes Ma'am." And that's that. "Looks like we may need your preparation yet," he sidenods to the CDF manning his turret after wriggling on inside and starts to buckle himself in accordingly.

Meanwhile, the foot patrol is scrambling to get aboard the Trast and snap in for a bumpy ride. Not because this thing touches ground but because sometimes the ground touches it. Or trees. Lots of trees to be nudged between here and there - a solid 20 km away to the south-southeast.

Merek keeps checking the weapon while he takes the time to begin adjusting. The man speaks to the comlink, "Alright, I am ready when we move." Then he takes the time to lean back, waiting for them to begin.

Private Ku'Farper withdraws her hand from the hover-by-the-ignition position to pound twice on the roof of the cab - if she drew the short straw back in the vechicle depot, she'd have to buff any scuffs out. There were other privates, but the Dressellian felt that it was her sort of luck. The call comes out, moving in five. It's an excuse to ignite the engines, even if the loud growl before the smoother hiss makes her visibly wince inside her helmet - visor's up, so it's noted if anyone's looking. Not that anyone is. She leans out of the window.

"We taking the straight line point-to-point, or does someone have a route brewing?" She doesn't want to go right through trees and cliffs, but... If that's what the job takes, she knows the truck can do it. It's got a great mechanic.

Alas, it was not a smooth operation by any standard; too hard coming in, too skilled the pilots of the TIEs that harassed the transport as it came in out of orbit. Callax was a part of the Rogues who kept it from a bloody death, but did not keep it from spilling some of its precious cargo - and as someone who has fought too hard on the surface alongside the Republic troopers, along side their own forces, the androgynous pilot breaks off from their comrades to return to the surface and assist.

From out of the forests that blanked the crash area, a lone, encoded transmission is emitted: a Rogue cipher, the pilot likely well known to at least some in the encamped Republic ranks. The Perlemian Rangers have fought alongside them often enough, and their Commander does not cut a subtle figure.

<< THEATER COMMAND || LOST CARGO, TRNS HOME FRONT, DETECTED || MOVING TO SECURE, DETAILS TO FOLLOW || -- CMDR C DALSO, P RANGERS/ROGUE 10 >>

Coordinates follow this transmission. Dalso's teeth are stuck in and worrying, it would appear.

Somewhere far from here, that Theater is hosting a lively show. The Home Front, horrendously damaged and unfit for flight, manages to come careening to a somewhat steered halt without smushing friendlies and only taking out one portable latrine. Capt Hornus Greystorm got skills. Fire and emergency response crews are rushing to put out literal flames while a gaggle of other troops are following along in the tumultuous wake left by the old Battleaxe Greystorm to tend more figurative ones. If needed. Hornus hasn't opened his mouth yet.

One such trooper comes running toward the convergence from the communications tent, shouting as she goes. COORDINATES!! THEY HAVE COORDINATES!!! NOT ALL IS LOST!!!! (please don't murder someone)

Before long, these coordinates are patched through to both the A-A5 and BN7, becoming an instant beacon in a dense overgrowth of possibilities. Sgt Hardcastle is quick to respond to Ku'Farper's query.

<"Lookin' at terrain now..."> after punching in the given coordinates. The options...they're not great. <"Time's not our friend, anymore'n the topography. If our eyes in the sky were able to mark its location, I reckon unfriendlies' were, too. We're going direct.">

And so they lumber on...Not too bad....yet

Merek listens to the communication, while he takes a moment to nod, speaking into the comlink, <"Alright, the turret is all prepped. I imagine we will need to use it, even if we don't want to, not been a clean patrol yet.>"

Private Ku'Farper double-taps the comms, wordless indication of understanding as she prepares to fall in behind the BN7. <"Sergeant Hardcastle, I'm planning to be in the rear, but if you want me breaking brush, the A-A5's good for it. Armor integrity was five-nine at inspection this morning. Over."> Five-nine, that near-mythical score in a land where less than one one-thousandth of anything can't be called perfect. It's a magical place, but the Private shoots for it. And her maintenance is second to none. Inside the cab, she turns on rain sounds - not regulation, but she's alone for the moment, who's going to notice? It helps the Dressellian focus. She's ready to chew the terrain, one way or the other. She settless for worrying her bottom lip with her teeth - another non-regulation ritual for focus.

Meanwhile, Dalso has landed. The flyover that detected the ship also detected a suitable clearing in the forest some three or four miles from the cargo site; settling the E-wing on a patch of open ground, Callax makes to cover the ship with a camouflage drape removed from its little cargo compartment and secures it with mag-bolts before swapping out their flightsuit with a more protective suit of void sealed armor. Clad thus in the colors of the Rangers, the red, gray and black, Callax fits their gear taken from survival supplies and makes off for the target location.

The time spent securing the ship is made up for in spades by the jetpack Callax has built into the suit. They fly low, banking between trees and over ridges, hurtling across the landscape - and soon they are nearly there, ready to prepare the site for dfense until the patrol comes.

<"15 kilometers"> The scout seated somewhere behind Ku'Farper is tracking their progress while the communication specialist tries to send out a transmission of their own to Dalso's ship once those details were confirmed. Little do they know the E-Wing is tucked in for sleep.

"Bloody...fluxin' drek" Sgt Hardcastle does not like what he sees evolving on his navigation grid. <"Ku'Farper!? You seein' this?!"> he comms to the truck behind. The terrain takes a suddenly steep slope down and he guides the BN7's descent more gradually, having to maximize its elevation capabilites at one point to avoid falling through a hole in the earth. <"Looks like....three degrees north outta clear it.">

Barely.

The man's still hellbent on taking the most direct path possible, so the next five kilometers get a little bit rough for he and Merek. Stubbornly, he keeps the heading and plows down a little vegetation for the larger craft behind.

Merek seems to be content to place all of his attention into the weapon, watching the place with the full radar. <"Looks all clear, for the moment,"> he notes. There's a check of that weapon with him taking a drink from the flask with him of milkshake. There's nothing quite like it in war.

Private Ku'farper did, indeed, see it. She's able to pull up before the world drops out from beneath her, but navigating the terrain is definitely not straightforward (pun intended). <"A-A5, Three degrees North, confirmed. Over."> Rain sounds patter in the background.

She follows the Sergeant's lead, taking a little risk due to her confidence in her own work, to stay just in close enough range to give the BN7 a little bump if necessary to keep it in line. She'd really rather not make work for herself, but it beat losing the equipment, or the Sergeant and the CDF gunner. Inside the cab, she takes a moment to change the speakers to play a babbling brook - oddly, she has never found the water sounds very suggestible. Instead, the Dresselian finds the irregular burbling sounds help her screen out the distraction of anything that wasn't in the path of her vehicle.

It does not take long to get to work, once Callax has descended; the rocky hills have given the area a sheltered aspect, not easily seen from the ground, and in a shallow valley between sevral rills of hard, flinty rock the crates have landed. Callax steals swiftly between each, long legs propelling them gazelle-like among the armored boxes; dented in places, one is entirely intact, though the other has been ruptured from the fall. << Damnation, >> they mutter in their husky, contralto voice, and before going to see just what can be salvaged moves to begin securing the location.

Which means trapping it.

Callax has become something of a master of impromptu explosives. A pack worn across their armored belly does not contain survival supplies - well, not entirely - but several bars of plasticene detonite, which they quietly form into lumps the size of a baby's fist and set around the site. Fragments of the second, shattered cargo crate are pressed into these, making them lethal (if short-ranged) fragmentation and pressure bombs. Quick, dirty. Saturi would call them vulgar, as she tends to do. But Callax grew up a terrorist, and so a terrorist's munitions they employ.

Once that's done, it's just a matter of finding a proper place from which to set up a sniper position. Climbing beneath one of the rills they lie there, sheltered by the darkness of the shadows cast from the noonday sun. Touching a few controls on a gauntlet, the armor hums softly as the stealth field generators worked into the suit's structure engage, harnessing that darkness and deepening it even more around them. With their rifle unslung and at the ready, they wait for the Republic to arrive - or the enemy. Amusing that they use a First Order sniper iron for their work.

<"Great, this is /just/ great"> Hardcastle grumps both in the cab of their BN7 and over comms between the two vehicles as he hasn't bothered to disengage his. What's so great, you might ask? The increasingly angular climbs and divets that the small caravan is forced to navigate in their quest for lost goods. He was being sarcastic, of course.

It's not great

Fortunately, for the remaining 10 klicks or so, The A-A5 only had to give his armored posterior a nudge ONE time and that was after a sneeze jolted one of his arms and thusly hand, on control. The Sergeant sniffs noisily, juicily, and here's hoping that whatever he's caught - a Codru cold - isn't contagious. Poor Merek.

The truck and its guardian tank are soon trundling into view of Callax's scope, painted up with a pair of Starbird Sigils. <"This is...should be just ahead!"> The scout gets excited, hollering over the suggestive sounds of trickling water. <"Maybe behind that jagged mess.">

Sgt Hardcastle makes a sound like he isn't thrilled. <"Black - what can you spot up around those rocks? I'm gonna take us in a little closer then hold. Put a team on foot."> And that's what he does. The craft hovers hesitantly. Idling. A handful of troops spill out of the A-A5, rifles at the ready.

Private Jien Ku'Parfer smiles a little at the thought of tapping her Sergeant - you know, because it was a job well done. That's all! That smile follows her the last 10 clicks to the estimate the Scout had put together for them. She pulls the A-A5 near the BN7, but leaves room for evasive maneuvers for either. She's not really the combat type, though she'll defend the equipment and the people in her squad - well, the whole military in practice, but everyone has favorites. <"A-A5, in position. Mostly a barricade as needed, but ping the cargo and I'll have the truck ready to load before a brook can burble."> Okay... That was unnecessary. But true. The Dressellian is ready for anything.

The armored vehicles aren't exactly hard to miss, nor are the troops emerging from the cargo truck turned APC. /Just like the days of the Rebellion,/ Callax muses with a smile hidden behind their helmet's sallet visor. /Or the Resistance, I suppose./ The troops spilling out are noted for their Starbirds and their gear - but this is war, after all, and that panoply could have come from dead soldiers and worn by First Order troops. Not likely, given the arrogance of that ilk, but Callax did not survive this long by being cautious.

So instead, swathed by the shadow-field and with rifle brought to the ready, they quietly sweep the rifle's advanced scope to each face in turn, looking for details that will confirm their identities - or betray any sign of deception. Have a plan to kill anyone that you meet and all that.

<"Definitely our stash!"> The scout enthusiastically pipes a verbal thumbs-up over comms after having a looksee through those ever-scanning lenses held to face. The haven't led the foot patrol more than eight strides in though before the first OHNO is spotted protruding out from between stoney heaps in the earth. The small, almost spritely man raises a fist on high and just flattens himself out on ground. Bit dramatic, perhaps.

"COMMANDER DALSO!?" Corporal Felcar calls out soon thereafter, having taken only a knee rather than become an armored carpet. Their rifle is raised at the ready, possibly pointing back into the crosshairs of Callax's own as they scan to and fro.

Sgt Hardcastle remains in the BN7 for now, not wanting to prematurely abandon their post in the event of ambush. <"Keep your radar sharp, Black"> he advises. <"Don't much like these rocks."> Or any of the planet, for that matter.

It's a tense moment, this. Friend? Foe? Deep breaths are had by all. One nervous slip of finger and their future - if existing at all - will be full of incident reports.

Merek takes a look into the sensor while he takes a moment to begin adjusting the position to take a look to rocks. Well, that's all the man seems to be watching, rocks. You know, he might be happy that there's not a lot to do. Because that usually means people are being fired upon.

Should they move? Yes. Suitably convinced, at least for the moment, Callax deactivates the field - emerging from the darkness like a wraith, melting from it into the open sunlight. << Present, >> Callax chimes, their rifle slung, hands lifted a bit in indication of peace. << Good to see you lads. Alas, it looks like we'll be pulling partial salvage duty here. Who's your commanding officer? >>

The party's field scout peels off the ground and flashes a 'thank goodness' sort of smile before gesturing to one of the explosive greeting cards wedged nearby. "I see you've had some time on your hands." But the Rangering Rogue is cutting straight to business. "That'd be Sgt Hardcastle!" with a gesture back to the tank.

Said Sergeant slowly worms his way out after instructing Pvt Ku'Farper to <"Back 'er up. It's load time.>" One of the offloaded troopers assists the truck in this endeavor by guiding it through the field of hazards into safer turf. "You must be Dalso," Hardcastle states after striding on up, left hand never straying far from his sidearm. "Many thanks on spottin the spill." His right hand goes out for a proffered clasp of good will. "Been quiet till we arrived?"

Merek watches rocks. That's all he does, while he speaks to the comlink, "Nice to see ya again, Dalso." That's a voice that he would recognize, while he begins checking that weapon.

Hard to miss that voice. Callax smiles as they wave, not knowing which armored trooper is Merek. "Merek, darling! Good to.see you again. Now look, Sergeant, while you were on the way I set of fragmentation traps around the vicinity. Transmitting their locations to you and yours...now." Callax taps a few controls on their right gauntlet panel, and location data is sent across the local tactical subnet. << Now it isn't much, only three kilos or so of plasticine detonite spiked with fragments, but they'll be at least some kind of antipersonnel defense. Get your lads inside the circle and we can start this salvage operation in earnest. >> An armored finger points to another, more distant rill. << I'll continue with overwatch, shall I? >>

Sgt Hardcastle gives an appraising lift of brow around after the chimes of freshly arrived data cues up in every HUD around. "You've been here awhile," said with a crooked grin. "I'm not opposed to having a little overwatch, no," he motions at Callax to have at it before touching fingers to comm and instructing Ku'Farper to come <"ALL the way in..."> "I'll squeeze the tank into whatever space is left. Turret'll have to limit its rotation till the Trast is loaded and outta the way, but it can safeguard a decent wedge of this rough circle." And so back he goes to said tank and climbs inside.

"We're aiding with perimeter defense," he informs Merek once inside the cab and powering it up to follow the A-A5 in. "S'hope it doesn't come to that."

The SpeederTruck, meanwhile, is rooting on through to its final position and the troopers scramble to offload hovercart and do some team lifting to heft the crates - one at a time - onto the cart. From cart, to truck.

Maybe it will be a fairly routine pickup afterall? With just a minor detour prolonging the job?

Merek seems to think about it while he watches the sensor, <"It looks like there is a signature, about five kilometers away."> The man keeps the weapon spinning up while he takes the time to aim that way, <"I am gunning in the tank."> That's for Callax, while he takes the time to think about it, <"We have company!">

While the troops work to load cargo, Callax jets over them in a tall parabolic leap to the top of the next rill, keeping watch as declared. They lie up there atop the rocks for a while, keeping their sharp eyes on the landscape. And then...ah.

< I don't mean to alarm you, >> Callax calls, << But the First Order is imminent. Looks like a A-A5 of their own and an Imperial L-1 light tank. Sergeant, have your tank maneuver to this location, so you can get the drop on them as they come within your gun range. I am sending my recommendations now over tacnet. >> And warming up their rifle; the moment some idiot pops a hatch or opens a vision slit, Callax will be ready.

<"Well, well, well..."> Sgt Hardcastle intones and flashes a thumbsup over/behind his head to Merek. <"I hear that. Repositioning now."> And they do, slooowly edging out of the uncomfortably narrow gully to come up over the next rill, eyeing those new coordinates being transmitted. <"Black, you may get to earn your pay today.">

<"Pvt Ku'Farper, armored thieves inbound, 5 - now 4 kilometers to north. Remain inside defensive perimeter. Get that last bit of freight on board NOW and be on alert."> The A-A5 continues to load the final crate while the BN7 comes roaring /softly/ into position.

<"The moment they fall into range, you hit that enemy tank and you hit it hard, copy that, Black?">

Merek waits for the 1-L tank to come into range, while he speaks to the comlink, <"Alright."> The man takes a look along all of the controls, then he begins to aim it. The turrets then will fire on the repulsor tank, blasting into it while he speaks along up into the comlink, <"Direct strike! I will be able to keep them away until you all load up probably.">

Ahhh, yes. Having directed the lads into the right place, there's a distinct sense of satisfaction as Merek sends a bolt down across the way into the tank's armored flank. << Good hit, Black, >> Callax calls over the commnet. << First head comes out of the hatch I'm going to pop. You lads get ready to recieve unwelcome guests. >> Then, after a moment, Callax remembers that these aren't /their/ troops and adds, << Sergeant, please let me know where I can be most helpful for you and your troops. >>

Whoops. Slip of the tongue.

<"You just keep pickin off the buckets as they bail out,"> Sgt Hardcastle requests of Dalso from inside the BN7's cramped cab and continues to keep the tank pacing, subtle shifts of their position to be a first line of defense between their A-A5's stash and inbound thieves. He almost chokes on his next breath as a returned volley of turret fire narrowly sweeps past the little tank's nose.

It's too late to warn Ku'Farper about it, so hopefully the Dressellian has got things under control back there.

<"Fire at will!""> he encourages Merek to keep the heat on. Meanwhile, the First Order's A-A5 is slowing its speed, diverging from current head-on course a bit to put a little distance between itself and the 1-L currently under fire. A few viewing slats start to pop open and white armor-clad elbows pooke out behind the barrels of carbines and rifles.

• pew* One of the Republic troopers lets loose a preemptive shot and it deflects harmlessly off the truck's heavy plating.

Merek looks to the sensor while he waits for the spinning up turrets to charge, then he begins to fire onto the tanks again while he takes the time to aim. <"I will try and keep them away from the loading."> The man aims for the turret, because that might be the best way at that range.

Jien Ku'Farper, the private at the wheel of the A-A5, takes a moment to turn up the babbling brook a little bit. She's never really been a fan of the sounds of war, and she has an urge to massage her wrinkled scalp as she waits for the loaders, but leaves the helmet on. Any other scenario and she'd be out helping them get it all loaded up, but - just as the Sergeant had done only a moment before - if fire comes for the truck, she has to be ready to evade, or all of this is for nothing. She checks her reflexes as she sees the shot streak past the BN7 and internally orders herself not to move the truck. "Watch that one," she yells out the window, giving what forewarning she can.

Don't get jumpy. Not when it risks the soldiers behind her. Not when it risks the very thing that they came for. "Not coming all this way to do it for nothing," the Dressellian says to herself, just audible in the cab over the sound of the babbling brook. Brook's not right. She taps the pad beside her and ocean waves begin breaking on rocks, finding a natural rhythm which she matches her breath to. The mechanic is odd, but she's still effective. Hands on the wheel, she's ready for it.

The Imperial class 1-L will not be deterred! While its own charge (that Trast) goes ambling off on its own to begin dumping a few stormtroopers, the Repulsortank endures another pretty hefty hit from Merek's blaster cannon. The hull acquires a heavy score near the base of the turret and somewhere within the little compartment there, the gunner is sweating profusely beneath that cool, calm facade of mask. It tries a little repositioning of its own before belting out another PEWPEWPEW stream.

This could go on awhile.

Behind the protective outcroppings within the rill, the handful of Republic soldiers are assembling to join Callax in providing anti-personnel suppressive fire. They dare not emerge far around said rocks yet, because just on the other side lies the perimeter and that perimeter is rigged to blow and explosions that shower body parts are messy. A fingerbone can easily become as lethal a projectial as much as a foot, so sheltered they remain. Mostly.

Merek looks to the targeting sight while he takes a moment to adjust a few settings, then he will begin pulling the trigger on the machine. The turret launches along into the well-maneuvering about tank. The man doesn't like missing the strike. <"Another strike.>" That vehicle looking to shake a bit with the blast of the turrets from the tank doesn't seem to bother him while he will position the weapon.

<"Sergeant, if you need a tune-up, I'm not above climbing on the side and doing it on the fly. Looking a little touchy over there, over."> The Trast, with the thickest armor, remains untouched with Private Ku'Farper at the wheel. She taps repeatedly at the wheel with one hand while she pulls out her toolkit with the other. At the drop of a hat, she can throw the speedertruck in lock, be out the door, and shoring up systems on her sergeant's tank, all in less than one crash of the waves.

"We nearly loaded back there? Sooner we can get this on the move, sooner we can get all of us out of stationary fire!" Her reedy voice has to cut through a little - the sound of the active combat making it an effort to be heard without the comms.

<"LOADED UP!"> Somehow, the scout is the one left inside the truck, tightening down straps while his comrades piled out to join in the welcoming committee. Not one to miss out on a good time, they are about to hop on out the side....

<"BLAST!"> Sgt Hardcastle grumps when the BN7 rattles a little under the grazing strike. A little flash alights on screen to inform him of the hit, but he dismissively grumbles a "Yeah yeah.." and pushes the throttle forward, then lurches a few degrees aside. <"Still runs like a dream!!"> he swears to Jien. "<You keep that c--HEADSUP!"> because another volley is arcing through the space he'd /just/ occupied. <"Nice work, Black, keep it comin!">

While the vehicles have it out in this apparent battle of attrition, the troopers have unleashed a firestorm of their own down upon the emerging stormtroopers. One of them is blown back a few feet by the powerful blast that leaves a smoldering hole where their shoulder used to be. The arm lands not so far away. Most others are able bodied enough to press on up the hill, however, 'storming' along stubbornly. There's a lot of them.

<"You say the word and we'll load back up!"> the Republic Corporal announces over comms. <"If we leave them an opening here, they'll take it and Dalso's incendiary gifts'll slow'em down.">

Merek watches while tne cannon begins to charge lower, and it looks like the blast goes a little bit wide. He does try to bring it back up while he takes the time to adjust the console, <"I will keep on the tanks!">

Jien Ku'Farper beams. Sure, maybe the Sergeant's just trying to make her feel good... But it's working. She's still going to be spending tonight in the pool tooling that tank back into a proper state of repair, even if it's just reinforcing and realigning panels. She looks to the soldiers running out to engage and turns back to see the scout preparing to scuff the side of the A-A5. "With all due respect, sir, THERE ARE ENTRANCES AND EXITS TO THINGS! Moreso, why don't you wrangle the rest of them into the back? This truck's got more armor than all of you combined, and you don't know that those field charges aren't going to boom a lot bigger than you expect." She's calling over the thunder crashes coming from within her cab, and the munition fire whining and exploding all around them, the most volume she can manage naturally.

<"Sergeant, sir, can we consider a calm and liesurely dose of getting out of here in our near future?"> Better if they're more on the move and maybe stringing pursuit back to some friendlies instead of a bareknuckles game of Hutt of the Hill.

<"That's a biiiig Roger, roger, Ku'Farper."> The Sergeant is in agreement, it would seem, whilst Merek keeps the cannonfire flowing. The enemy tank is spared, as is their transport it was in the process of re-guarding, but one of the Stormtroopers charging alongside the vehicle is...well they simply /aren't/. Anything, anymore. <"'stead of leisurely though, I'd like to see a fast dose of GET YOUR HIDES BACK ON THE TRUCK, PRONTO!">

Here's looking at you, eager riflemen. No need to add to the killboard today, if they don't have to.

The Republic troopers make with their withdrawl, keeping low and scurrying back to the shelter of their vehicle.

<"Nice doin' business with ya, Commander, but it's high time we get these back to the General. You're free to fly outta here at your leisure...">

Or not, if they wanna stick around and see what ugly business their little pretties can do. Hardcastle's leaving that decision to Dalso. Not his man! Er. Woman? Person. Not his person.

<"Cargo, you haul out ahead soon as our boots are back aboard and Black'll cover your six.">

Merek sweeps along with the weapon and begins firing along upon the tanks while he takes a moment to check on that sensor, <"Alright, we should be able to escape the fight."> The man watches that place while they begin their way back to the General.

See, Private Ku'Farper could have asked for the fast dose of getting the kriff out, but she's the private and she doesn't have a COMMAND voice. The Sergeant does and she grins readily, already itching to get the terrain moving beneath the repulsors. She's feeling good, the engagement's gone clean, the storm on her pad is really starting to pick up, and they begin to get underway. She's clapping her hand on the side of the door out the window, encouraging the ground troops to get on board quicklike. "Move-on's coming, get in and strapped down. You can still shoot your shooters from the back, yes?" Her hand itches over the throttle.

Secured cargo, loaded with troops, the Trast A-A5 backs immediately out of the circle on the matching reverse course with which it had entered, dodging any buried doodads and turning about to give her a clear sight as she makes for the swiftest exit she can. The boom of the 1-L's fire sounds in chorus'd response to the storm track and she moves laterally as the ever-forward path closes on the trees. One, two, three, all shots going wide. But the fourth... That one times itself just wrong and a thunderclap covers up the thing she should worry about. It's coming right for the truck and that Sentient instinct has her turn a little so the cab is protected. Too late, she realizes what that means. Private Jien Ku'Farper tries for one more major maneuver to protect the men in the back - whose charge she had taken when she took the wheel - and the A-A5 spins around sliding into a few trees and wingjawing into the trees following a strike. Jien doesn't know what got hit... But... she strikes the datapad and turns off all the sound in the cab. Something didn't go right, and it's no longer a pleasant day for a drive.

Especially for Corporal Felcar and the woman who was in the process of strapping in alongside. For Felcar, the moment is never realized when he transforms from eager Phoenix to...ash. Not really ash, but more particulate than defineable parts. For Private Festow, the moment will never be forgotten. Ever. She cannot scream, cannot get a sound to escape past the twisted gasp of horror frozen on her face.

In a way, Felcar's had the last laugh here because there are bits of his DNA inextricably spattered allover her uniform, her visor, pieces of her hair, and that's closer contact than she'd have ever allowed him before.

The First Order's 1-L tank enacts this last token of revenge before the BN7 eradicates its turret and punches a driver-sized hole through the weakend hull. The vehicle is reduced to a useless heap of scrap in a matter of seconds. And without that cannon? Their A-A5 will not be pursuing the coveted prize today.

<"HELL!!!"> Sgt Hardcastle had a front-row seat to Cpl Felcar's obliteration and his left eye twitches. His hands, however, keep on performing their tasks with the numbed muscle memory that all hardened soldiers possess. <"KEPP MOVIN', KU'FARPER. Don't look back.">

At least, not until she goes to give the interior a little TLC. :/

<"Fetch to home, Fetch to home...We're inbound with the lost goods."> A heartfelt pause. <"One man short.">

Some of the stormtroopers have reached the perimeter, not yet recalled to the truck, and it's likely just a matter of heartbeats before Commander Dalso's secret surprises are put to the test for a finale act. The Fetch crew? They won't be sticking around to see. The unwelcoming terrain never looked so good as they go racing for safer ground.