Star Wars: Escape from the Empire

(Following the title crawl, the view pans down to an ailing battle between seven Imperial star destroyers advancing on three Rebel cruisers, blaster fire spraying between the ARC fighters of the Empire, and the ragtag metal salad fighters of the Telosian Resistance.

It isn't long before one of the cruisers is finally disabled, escape pods ejecting en masse while the remaining vessels move to cover.

A side swipe brings the attention to the Singebog Cantina on Telos IV, alive with activity as the patrons try to ignore the increasingly grim reports streaming in from the battle...)

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"Sabacc, I believe."

All eyes turned to the attending droid, who scanned over each of the cards played for a few moments before raising its arms. "Confirmed. Congratulations on your good fortune." It placed the pot down in front of the winning Ithorian, who looked back at the droid briefly.

After a moment, he spoke. "Again!"

"As you wish, sir." The droid promptly redistributed the credits among the eight patrons according to their original funds. By then it had stopped counting just how many times it had gone through the process of declaring a winner only to hand out all the money again to keep it going. It wasn't programmed to seek distraction from misery after all, nor was it programmed to actually gamble. Understanding the rules of the game was all that had been required.

Not far from the gambling corner, three tables of dejarik were running concurrently in a sort of informal tournament. The leading game was being played by a Rodian drug merchant, staring right at his opponent, a human mechanic, without a flicker. Both had a small group of avid supporters by that point, cheering them on as the virtual battle continued on.

It was to the dismay of the young Mirialan on the table to their right, who had yet to achieve a win ratio that even qualified for the tournament. Her current Twi'lek opponent wasn't very good at the game either, though did seem to have some real understanding of how it actually worked, unlike herself, but had rather poor reflexes that inhibited his ability to play well.

Further around the room lay the sitting lounge, where most of the humans in the cantina had gravitated towards, not just for the pair of Twi'leks who spent their time caressing the faces of anyone who sat by them. They all knew there was a slowly growing resentment between their kind and the non-human, spurred by stories of the wildly varying attitudes of the stormtroopers depending on race. Banding together didn't help to drive away the resentment, but it did cut down on the snide remarks.

Past the entryway from there was the dancer lounge, a few scattered tables generally milled around the band filling the room with their music while the third Twi'lek woman and her two back-up dancers gyrated to whatever worked with the band theme. It was the other largely packed area of the cantina, by music-lovers and gawkers alike.

On its left, the bar sprawled around a full quarter of the round room, the bartender making whatever idle chit-chat came to mind while his assistant continually scrubbed saliva and bile off the counter, a frown etched onto her face by that point.

The back rooms were surprisingly lacking in traffic, virtually all of the patrons using them to sleep in rather than for their intended purpose. When one weary soul did eventually wander in, another soon left to return to the bar more often than not.

Everyone else was crowded around the circular table that took up the centre of the room, craning to watch and listen to the garbled transmissions from the blockade lines. A series of hisses, grunts and other non-descript sounds would follow whenever another Rebel fighter was brought down, increasing to much louder exclamations of concern when a cruiser was hit.

Such was the view of one of the gamblers, the eyes peering out from the black veil pulled across their face constantly observing, waiting until they spotted someone of interest.

Outside the cantina, one of the few droids that still walked the silent paths around the town began his standard patrol, tasked with cleaning up anything out of place. More often than not, it would involve carrying another unfortunate soul to the desolate surgery, where other droids did what they could with no actual supplies.

The tall structure of what had once been a hotel was quiet as ever. On occasion, the droid had noticed eyes watching from the upper windows, though it had been for brief moments at a time. It had been told that it was not to attempt entering the building, and thus went about the routine without stopping to look back at the observers.

Around the corner to its left was what the droid had more and more often heard described as the death run. Alleyways dotted the outer edge of the path, at the end of which was the spaceport. It didn't take long to see another victim of the run, shot in the back and completely still. Another body for the freezer room

"Dear oh dear, when will they learn?" The droid approached with caution until close enough to lift the body up. There was some surprise as it turned out to be a human, seeing as they stayed in the cantina more than other races, though it was of no consequence to the droid.

It continued on the designated route, passing around the next corner without further incident. Nothing else was stirring in the village, at least as far as it could see anyway. The only sound came from its moving joints, and the half-closed door of the cantina.

"I do hope the Empire appreciates the efforts I've made to clean up all this mess."

Alegran sat at the edge of the group watching the news table, trying to keep an eye on both it and the dancers as much as he could. He wasn't as hopeful for the rebels as everyone else, but he wasn't about to let it show. A particularly tall individual took a position between him and the dancers, forcing him to choose. He might see if he got up, but standing for a long time on his bad leg wasn't really high on his list of priorities. He stared intently at the back of the man's head, wishing he'd move out of the way, before gesturing at him with his drink. A bit of Force-induced suggestion made what had been indecision between the girls and the bar become a definite interest in the bar.

Alegran leaned back and sipped smugly. Having things both ways was easy when one had the Force and nobody telling you what was and wasn't appropriate.

Raan sat, staring intently at the display of war high overhead. Truth be told, the victor didn't matter to him, merely that someone won, and he could get off of this planet, and collect on a debt. By this point, his means of transit was long gone, stripped for parts, or some wreckage in the no holds barred contest for the control of Telos IV. The man who was supposed to pay for a bit of 'work' must have left when the imperial blockade arrived. Or, as Raan mused, whatever entourage was supposed to double cross him had. Either way, he was out time, work, and credits meant to be received as compensation, and to top it all off, he was stuck.

Every turnabout in the battle brought Raan minor discomfort, he just needed a victor long enough for any of the grounded ships to be clear to run out to the fringe. And while he had no specific love for the empire, they were probably the only chance Telos had to avoid a repeat of this blockade, any rebel victory would only last until the nearest imperial fleet finished tying up separatist remnants further down the hyperlanes, and warped back into the system to start the contest anew.

It had been at least an hour's worth of poorly played games. Too much, but the lack of things she could do with her time had kept Mavra's attention from wandering altogether. The mutterings of her opponent in native Twi'lek weren't easy to follow, but she gathered enough to understand that he was equally frustrated with the game.

"Schutta!"

Mavra leaned back a bit as he finally got up in frustration, wandering around the room to the bar. He quickly vanished behind the small crowd gathered in the centre, what she liked to think of as the 'doomwisher' group.

There wasn't really anywhere else in the place she felt comfortable in sticking around. While she appreciated the humanoid form, there really wasn't anything more to that, and her experience with the beverages of the place had encouraged her to keep away. And she wasn't one for long conversation.

With no opponent, there was little reason for her to stay there. That in mind, she tugged her long dress up along with her bag and began making her way over to the band side of the bar, so she could at least avoid the heavier drinkers.

There was one set-off corner of the cantina, though not particularly less populated than any other section. There sat one man, beside other humans, with a hand held computer in front of his face, and the distractions of the many games and even the lovely dancers did nothing to grab his attention over his own affairs. Brows creased with frustration, perhaps in addition even intrigue. Those observant enough may see inverted depictions of starships and freighters from behind the glass. His finger continuously swiping the screen, it looked as though he was unable to find what he was looking for. His business here was beginning to feel futile. Back on Nar Shaddaa, you couldn't trust the spacers to sell you anything better than a junker that could barely get you off the space docks. Likewise, other Hutt-controlled planets and moons bared the same problem - such as Tatooine, but there, you ran the risk of some two-bit mercs recognizing your face and try to turn you in for whatever paltry bounty the Hutts suckered him in to.

Those poor mercs didn't know what those gangsters put them up to.

On the other hand, Imperial-controlled systems had security measures in place, such that it made it nigh impossible to get any trade through all of the bureaucracy. Especially now that they caught wind of the word "rebellion" being whispered by spacers across the galaxy. In some respects, there was profit to be found in war. What with one side being distracted by the opposing force. But in others, it was a headache. It also meant more frequent occupation of systems. The Imperials especially, and the inevitable monitoring of vessels. It could become difficult to get much smuggling or plundering done.

The once-Captain thought he may be able to find something in the Telos IV station. Busy traffic of mostly-legal traders and civilians. But even here, the end product was either high-class and out of his price range, or were simply overpriced for the pieces of boma dung they were selling. He felt like giving up on this system, until he flipped to a page that caught his interest.

It was an old YT-1760. He swore that most of these have been traded in as shipyard scraps by now. Notoriously high maintenance and often didn't come with the essentials (proper shielding and defense comes to mind - he had tore down many of these back in his hay day, and they were easy marks). But this one had been modified with standardized shielding. It wasn't obnoxiously priced like the others.

The seller's name... "Alegran Stonick". What kind of name was that? One of some Dantooine mud farmer?

"Let's put a face to this name..." he muttered as he put the name into the Telosian database.

'Huh... well blast me and call me schutta... the looks' familiar...'

Too familiar. Didn't he see a guy something like that coming into the cantina at some point? You don't get to be a human with a hardened face like that on a civilian station without getting noticed. Eyes of a man that's had shit to see. Could be nothing, maybe some merc or bounty hunter... or storm trooper. Folks these days, folks like himself, they had to play it safe. But Barry needed a ship of his own to get back on his feet. As soon as he gets that, he can make a straight line to Mandalore to resupply on the mother land. Worst comes to worst, Barry could just blast 'em and try to hijack a shuttle out of here. Now where was that bastard...?

His eyes looked around the cantina to try to spot that familiar face. Confidant look of a man like that, where would he be? He checked out the dancers for a moment, then at the rows of seats in front of them. Matching collar and hair, skin color. Not much to go on, but Barry suspected that - even if this wasn't his man - he'd find him soon enough.

He stood himself up, his burly frame uninviting disposition convincing most of the patrons to make him his own way to wherever it was he wished to go. His boots thudded against the floor with each pace. As he inched closer, he began to find that his initial suspicion was incorrect, and the man who had turned around to see whoever was approaching was frightened to find the sudden appearance of Barrigarter's mean face staring him down. Uninterested, Barry scanned the crowd once more.

He found that he had just walked past him.

The device he was holding before was promptly dropped into the stranger's, Alegran's, lap. Barry found himself a seat beside him, and quickly made himself comfortable crossing a leg over his knee.

"Found your ship." He stated, skipping all of the bluster and feigned geniality. But he didn't look particularly excited. "You're selling it at a pretty generous price considering the work put into it. Old model YT, with shielding. It's your ship, right?"

Alegran looked up at the man who had just dropped something into his lap. The ad he'd placed for getting rid of the stolen ship... He knew it wouldn't take long, but he'd expected a response a little more remotely. He looked up, tossing the viewer back onto the table.

"Generous?" he said, cocking an eyebrow. "I just want to be clear that you saw, that's a down payment. Price also includes passage for me offworld as well, and then a reasonable installment with interest after that." He nudged the viewer back in the man's direction.

"The way I see it, I'm selling a working ship on a planet that people are trying to actively flee. Demand is at an all time high, though solvency in these situations tends to be subpar. Lump sum is at the bottom if you have the credits."

He'd set the price at times and a half what he guessed the value to be during the Clone Wars. The multiplier had probably gone up a bit in the intervening years, but this was a planet of beggars, not choosers.

"That's the way you see it, is that right?" Mused the potential buyer. He made incredulous grin and turned away to shake his head. Readjusting himself, he turned back to look at Alegran, now reaffirming himself in a much more serious disposition, and started staring him down.

"The way I see it, some sweaty work has been put into an antique you can't get anymore, and you're selling it at price I can afford, which is more than what I can say for all the fancy trophy ships I'm seeing, or overpriced trash heaps..."

Barrigarter leaned forward, his uneven fingernails combing through his wiry facial hair. "...But that's because there's money to be made in war. What it boils down to is that I don't get your offer. Some genuine work made on the ship, with a firefight overhead, bein' sold... eh, low - low enough if you compare to all the other offers. I ain't about to ride off short a few credits on an outlier that may be missing its hyperdrive, or could even be hot property. I'd wager no fool would."

Truth be told, stolen property didn't matter much to him. It may be unwise to let it get to him, but the difference in situation he's found himself in was something of an outrage. Perhaps this was all he could do to revitalize some semblance of power or control he once had. The fact that part of the deal was to escort this man made him feel somewhat disempowered - couldn't see why he couldn't shoot the man once they're in space. Though he had a suspicion that'd be found out. This man could afford to keep his clothes clean unlike half the spacers in the known galaxy, had a nice looking cane. Someone might look for him, and Barry didn't have the right ship to defend himself. He might tolerate this position a little longer.

"I might be more foolish than fools, though, if we lower the price a touch more." Barry said thoughtfully as his eyes scanned the room. "Nothing major, just... a few hundred credits. We might even have enough for guns, after."

Here, the veil of civilization stretched mercifully thin. Consider the hairless yet exquisitely on-balance dancers - try to ignore the modern form of combat above, injury and death inflicted on metal shells poorly-fitted to flesh bodies, spitting gouts of burning air into the void instead of rich blood onto the earth...

Morana strides past the dancers' lounge, past the bartering Humans. One wounded, one ragged. Morana's face is stowed in its pack, because its bone-white talons are distinction and observance enough right now. Its eyes are black, except the dark brown irises. In this light, getting close enough to be certain is awkward at best.

Consider the stakes at the tables, another simualcrum of life and death (and what would that be without rigged odds?), but with more of the feeling and less of the finality. Consider the inevitable intake of drink and output of bodily fluids. The barter of (others') goods and services, any unenforcible promises - read, inspiring insufficient fear, - soon to be reneged upon.

Morana is too big for the room - nobody has taken up the issue yet, - and brushes past a Mirialan heading the other direction. The brief contact is electric, perhaps due to static discharge from Morana's black shagginess.

The combatants above were bound very well. The consequences, not least the shame, of desertion... compared to awaiting the next gouge to be torn open on your hide. Maybe it'll expose your particular organ-chamber - certainly, if you're in a fighter, - or maybe the lifepods will be too far, your death in fire instead of ice...

Morana settles on its haunches by the news crowd, next to a mercenary expressing relative interest in the raw pieces loosely qualifying as coverage. Morana has circled around, and is not far from the dancers. Listening.

Maybe you're one of those too weak to escape the games. Can't afford the lump sum. Can't afford the blowback of a murder. No shame in admitting it. Every step forward leads to one grave or another, regardless.

Alegran's face belied nothing. His more recent meditations may have put him more in touch with his emotional side, but he could still have the practiced evenness that came from the Jedi lifestyle.

"I'll be up front, it is stolen, but it's... shall we say, not going to be reported any time soon. I have the owner's ID's, which can be counterfeited well enough for your average dockmaster. I'll even do that myself as part of the package. Should hold you until you can get more in-depth documentation - not that it'll matter for getting off planet. If the Imperials shoot at us, it won't have anything to do with stolen property."

He paused, eyeing the messy-looking pirate, tapping his cane on the ground, and getting a read on his emotions through the Force - which mostly just confirmed what he'd thought before. The stolen property wasn't so much the issue, as trying to save some money. This guy was almost certainly a spacer, and if he was buying a ship on a planet like this, he was without a livelihood and operating on a fixed reserve. Alegran understood that; he was doing the same from having sold the less useful cargo. The man was strong willed, so he wasn't going to take the ship without at least some way to save a bit of money.

"Maybe we both get what we want. The ship seats probably seven or so, and we're just two. That's five people who can pay quite a bit in total for a dropoff on the nearest rock with a spaceport and no active sieges. That'd be quite a bit more than a few hundred credits, and I'd be open to taking some of my payment from there."

Raan's silent near meditation on the battle overhead was perhaps too focused, the myriad discussions between patrons drinking their woes away passed by him unprocessed. He simply didn't have time to eavesdrop on every pirate disowned by his gang so they could fit one more of the wealthy fools trying to leave. The passage of a large... creature, through the section of the tavern shook him from his thoughts, however, fighting to resist his usual impulse to reach for a weapon. He was used to seeing alien species he'd never seen before, but sometimes it was always a little jarring.

Still, calming himself, he rose from his chair, clearly getting too invested in the view for his own good. This wasn't his business, this wasn't his fight, and nobody was paying him to make it so. He just had to wait it out, and staring at it wouldn't make it finish any faster. At least, unless he had some secret force abilities he'd never known about.

Pacing through the 'fine' 'amenities' the cantina had to offer, he sighed at how they were barely above the potential threat of violence outside. Still, in his movements, he overheard perhaps, a few choice words, that sped his step towards a few curious looking men. There was the thug, a man of his own cloth, and a man whose cloth appeared a cut above, far too impressive to be caught in the middle of nowhere, under siege, far too... vulnerable.

Walking towards them, he asked a simple question, frustration and boredom increasing his willingness towards attempting to run the blockade.

"And, exactly, how much were you looking to ask for?"

Barrigarter crossed his arms and looked at his seller's face with narrowed eyes. He was awfully up front with him about the stolen property. With any other deal, that might not have been a slick move. In this case, it didn't really matter. The man was smart, needless to say. Maybe too smart for his own good. But that is a moot point.  Barry needed a ship, he needed money and to get off somewhere, and he had quite the juicy plan for the two to both get what they wanted. Being an inter-system taxi was sort of demeaning, but it works. Perhaps one of the passengers might have some stones, and would be the first step to rebuilding his crew. The Cannibal of the Outer Rim was still alive, and that must be enough to keep him going for the time being.

"You're a smart one, ain't ya? Okay, we'll try it your way. That does mean finding a couple of more foo--"

"And, exactly, how much were you looking to ask for?"

Oh mother of moons, how embarrassing for this piece of fodder.

The once-been captain swiveled around in his chair and looked at the man that had approached them. "500 credits," Barry quickly answered, "might strike that down for anyone who could be a crack pilot and can maneuver through heavy blaster fire."

He shrugged and look back at Alegran. "If not, I can fly the bucket just fine."

The density of beings inside the cantina meant she wasn't really bothered by the occasional bump or jostle, though an unexpected jolt did catch her attention briefly. When a look around didn't reveal any being that was chuckling over the use of a stun stick, she tightened her grip and pushed through to the bar at last.

Her intention for some peace from the yelling at the game tables was left unsatisfied, as the drunken ramblings of those to her left proved to be even more unappealing. When one unwittingly backhanded her in the face during one such rant, she made a quick departure from the bar before even getting the chance to order a drink.

Now turned back to the main crowd, she recovered her composure and began slowly making her way around the place. Her hearing was alert for mention of ships, whether it was for getting off the planet or transport to one of the hideouts. As she felt something lightly tug at the strap of her bag, she pulled it up and wrapped both of her arms around it.

The tools were probably of some value, but would be pocket change in comparison to the narcotics and strong medication stowed inside. Being overly protective of the bag made it look like a better target for thieves, but at that point, people were likely to steal anything that looked like it had any sort of value.

It didn't take long before she found a place to discreetly stop and pretend to watch the band and dancers. The group that had formed nearby were clearly discussing passage, which was quite a good thing. There was absolutely no way she would open up a bag filled with drugs in the establishment however, and asking to go outside to prove she was quite solvent would end with her getting shot. Her ticket out would have to be handled at a different time.

It was Raan's turn to fold his arms, frowning as Barrigarter implied the need for a pilot. That wasn't particularly reassuring, but he could try to spin that in his favor. He'd never flown a clunking freighter before, but with luck it wouldn't be too harder than flying his old Z-95, which had likely experienced violent reentry to Telos by now, considering the caliber of the men who probably stole it.

"500, huh?" he began, rapidly adjusting his clothes, a front for checking his inner pockets to gauge how much money he had left. He could afford it, but he wouldn't like it. "I'd say, if I'm flying whatever bucket of rust you've commandeered, 250 is far more reasonable. Tell you what, I'll even throw in my... services, until we make port. It's dangerous out there, and I imagine it's going to only get worse the closer we get to the spaceports. So unless you, or perhaps far more importantly your friend there, want to get there sporting a few more blaster burns than is safe, you're going to need a professional."

Alegran took a sip of his drink, the giant creature passing through briefly catching his attention. He'd made it to and from the docks several times this far unscathed, so he didn't see any particular reason why he should need someone playing hired muscle. He didn't want to show his hand, but he also didn't want to fall too far to the other side and project weakness.

"Now I'm not the one arranging the tickets, but making sure the people with the ship don't die on the way to the docks seems like it goes without saying. Besides, the violent types out there are predators. They're looking for defenseless stragglers, not groups. If we make sure our next ticket is someone intimidating, we shouldn't be bothered en route."

"Intimidating... right." Barrigarter responded with a measure of blasé. Who did he have in mind? Did he seriously suggest hiring someone on Telos IV, who, what? Had a nice jawline? To defend them from who? Frightened migrants and refugees? Barry felt he had that under control himself, but he wasn't about to argue over the trivial details right now. He turned back to Raan with a fairly smug look on his face.

"Hey, I'm just buying the ship from him and letting on board some passengers for some credits. If I take a pilot on board, that gives me the opportunity to buy some dual laser cannon turrets to upgrade us with and pick off any strays that follow us. With our friend here... the way it seems to me, if he's... uh, met his end by unfortunately being next to part of the hull that got blasted by laser fire, and subsequently dragged out through the vacuum, there's one less thing I have to do later." 

The pirate, after a brief pause, widened his eyes and casually shifted his head back to Alegran. "No offense. I ain't expecting our cruise through the black to be anything but bumpy."

Barrigarter was contemplating the best course of action once they finally decide to take off. Being a captain did much for him - whether it be attack plans or escape routes. He looked again at Raan. "Our best bet is to circle the surface of Telos before we break atmosphere. Find a spot in the sky furthest from a starfighter and hit warp."

"Now, I don't normally plot my own courses, but we can't just warp out of here with our tails between our legs and our fingers crossed. I'm going to need to dance around a pretty tight section of space, far enough from the planet's mass shadow, while someone astrogates a course for somewhere; or you're going to need to hope to hell the starport is still willing to broadcast them." Raan say, frowning at the suggestion that they try to go to warp as soon as they find an opening. "I can keep the blaster fire from hitting us, but I can't keep us from getting shunted out of warp too close to a neutron star." he finished, offering what two credits he had on the subject as he looked around. He didn't trust the buyer, any credits he paid for a lovely driver's seat would hardly buy a dinky blaster, let alone a proper turret.

Alegran didn't seem to react to the pirate's insinuation that he hoped he'd get vented into space; he was a little busy gesturing under the table at the quadruped, Force-suggesting that someone had called its name. When it inevitably looked back in his direction, he gestured it (him? her? he had no idea) over. "I've had bumpier before, but thanks for your tender concern," he said sarcastically. "We'll also need to hope neither side decides to send in reinforcements in on top of us. If we try to keep to the rebel's side of things, they're the least likely to try to shoot us down, I should think."

Throughout the conversation, she maintained the deception of being completely oblivious to it. Things were already beginning to look up, relatively, as while she didn't like or trust the look of anyone associated with the pirate so far, they did seem to know what they were talking about. More importantly, they were looking to take on passengers.

The issue came back to how she would guarantee her place on the ship safely. She had the cold look of someone who didn't need a moral compass, and the recital of medical information that could only come from training. What she didn't have was credits for whatever down payment they would demand.

"I appreciate your concern for a clever tactical retreat," Barry added, so far unconvinced of Raan's proposal, "but our first priority is to not get to your destination, but to stay out of the way of their war. We go on the side of the planet opposite of all the battles, warp out of the system into safety, and then we can scurry back to your home rock... or is that not dramatic enough?"

All these years of evading and navigating around Republic and Imperial patrols, and he's still being questioned! What a headache. He hoped the pilot was worth what he was boasting, and understood he was still a customer. This ship was ultimately going to be his, and he didn't intend his authority over it to be revoked before his customer even payed. He looked back to the seller, Alegran.

"We should hope." He replied. "Show me where her hangar is, I'd like to take a look about her before we start flying off."

A niggle at the front of Morana's mind, an eye-of-the-beholder ploy. The name had no syllables, the sign held no substance. Someone trying to be sneaky, and who  else but- no, not the dead-eyed two-leg woman, though she would yet flee.

The one Morana sought. The young-but-old three-leg man already arranging the transit, and beckoning it over. An ironic ploy, for its contractor/cutthroat held already an inkling of its grim future! Morana could leave the matter to him and have it brought about, sure as any human guarantee.

But there was letting two firaxa fight, and then there was which - if either - won.

The ursine introduced itself. Interposed itself, rather, between the group and the door. The sound of a cheap soundfont through a resonant vocabulator, - low-pitched, too-round, too-harsh phonemes, - came faintly from an object clutched in its right hand.

Morana rolled the protocol droid's disembodied head (all bulging eyes and greening copper, a nasal bone bottoming nearly straight into barely-a-chin) over to face its addressees. It proceeded, from the floor, in a monotone suggesting no particular sophistication.

"Master Morana wishes to join your endeavor. This unit's access to imperial comms will secure our passage." Morana added in a brief growl, translated improbably as, "Unless you mean to risk everyone on a crapshoot, monsieur?"

Circle wipe to the Rebel fleet...

"Forward shielding won't hold out much longer, and the hull armor isn't any better off. This is it."

The Ithorian admiral nodded his head slightly, looking to the crew around him in a moment of defeat. "We retreat, to fight the Empire another day. Send the signal to-"

A volley of blaster fire from two new destroyers tore up the length of their vessel. The bridge itself was saved from destruction only by their secondary shielding, but that wouldn't last long at all.

"Get that signal out and evacuate the ship! Tell Commander Rakarin to head for the next rendezvous!" He gripped onto the railing as the ship shook again. Secondary explosions were tearing through the hull in front of them. Two fresh waves of bombers were headed in their direction as well.

There would be no time to reach their escape pods. "Has the signal been transmitted?"

"Yes sir!"

"Then we have done all we can... Telos is on its own now."

Three minutes until the warning hits Telos.

Alegran nodded. "No problem, I'll show you to-" he was then interrupted by a large furry body and the thunk of a severed droid head being placed on the table. "Greetings then. I'm Alegran, that's the captain, and that's the pilot. Congrats on being the first to bother telling me their in reasonable time of throwing something on my table.

Imperial comms access sounds useful to me, though I'm not the one arranging tickets." He looked at Barry with a raised eyebrow, shifting in preparation to stand.