The desk jockey Lieutenant Targon was more than pleased with
himself. Things had been moving along quite well since his initial
contact. The first shipment of medical supplies had been delivered,
making it past the Imperials without problem, just a check mark on a
screen from the Imperial Security Bureau. Now he would finally get
the names to show this new ISB sector commander. He could smell
the new wooden desk and leather chair that he would acquire with his
upcoming promotion. It had him whistling a nameless tune on his way
to a local cantina for a meal, and then onto his apartment to end
Trooper Ravenor cast a bored look around the area. By the Force he
despised escort duty. His hand came up to adjust the helmet that
clung to his head. Midnight black boots, which were polished to
perfection, falling instep behind the desk jockey Targon. A scowl
fixated on his rugged features. That chest armor clung to his tall
and muscled frame as he adjusted the blaster rifle in his massive
grip. The thing damned well looked like a child's toy that he was
carrying. But the bodyguard was very accurate. Now just to get this
whoreson home and he would be off to the cantina to watch the lovely
Lieutenant Valo Revan was indeed tired of constant escort assignments but
he could not complain. Bringing his blaster rifle to his chest, he
scoped out the area around him. The armor was grueling and he just
wanted to get out of it. But he had to escort this jockey around
like he was someone important. Even if he was, it did not matter to
him for this assignment was just like the other previous ones. He
looked to the other trooper who would be his support for the
escorting of the desk jockey. At least he was not alone for this.
Sergeant Evan Teague found himself in another well crafted costume,
courtesy of the folks in the espionage division, and on another
extraction mission to kidnap a certain ISB officer. He was
already at the bar when the trio arrived, dressed as the typical
underpaid, overworked, and overall disgruntled employee common in
these parts. He spared one look towards the bar at the tender and
scratched the back of his head to signal the entrance of their
target. Putting on his game face, he waited on the side for the men
to be seated before edging towards them. He had a sweeper in one
hand and casually cleaned the floor around them. It was always a
waiting game, timing was everything.
Trooper Zeth Torg stood in relaxed form, washing and cleaning an
empty glass from a previous order. His eyes gently glanced toward
the cautioned sight of Evan. He did not wish much attention to
be forwarded toward behind the bar counter, Torg positioned himself
closer toward the disclosed weaponry hidden under the cantina
counter. Torg in a valid attempt to not reveal his true intentions
for this night, turned his full attention to the ISB officer.
Torg casually let the words escape past his cold lips, "a cold
Trooper Corbin Sloan took note of Evan's hand signal as well, seated
in one of the tables as a very obvious and unhappy patron. It was
then that Evan turned his sweeping towards Corbin, whose rather
large mug of alcohol sat on the edge of his table. Using fine tuned
acting skills, Evan tapped the mug over with the end of his broom
and watched in horror as it splashed all over Corbin's clothes.
Almost instantly, Corbin was on his feet, cussing loudly for
everyone in the building to hear. "What in the hell?! You're going
to pay for that," he yelled, showing Evan the two ruined datacards
in his pocket. Gritting his teeth, Corbin continued his verbal
onslaught, beginning the second part of their trap.
''Darius,'' Trooper Ravenor said reading his counterpart's nametag, ''guard Targon while I go take care of this trouble maker.'' The bodyguard
who stood at nearly six foot seven and was massively muscled,
usually made anyone quake in there boots. Lazily he glided over
towards the man that was shouting. What could he say? The man had a
very paranoid streak ... and had a high number of shootings on his
record. A meaty fist grabbed the whoreson by his shirt and pushed
him hard against the wall. ''Here is what your going to do,
pilgrim,'' he said imitating the word pilgrim from some holovid he
saw during his childhood. ''You're going to shut your fat hole in
your face. Otherwise I am going to blow your reproduction organs
off. You understand me?'' he said pressing the muzzle of the blaster
in the general direction of the man's groin, ''now sit down and
finish your drink.''
Torg saw the actions that were occurring in front of his counter, he
hit the silent red switch under the bar counter that locked
Cantina's doors shut.
Revan gave a nod to his trooper watching him go to stop the
dispute. Standing behind Targon with his blaster rifle at this chest
in a guarding formation. If a fight were to break out he had to make
sure that Targon was not to be harmed.
Targon moved from his post at the door, and sat at the bar, ordering
a strong drink to wash down his excitement. "What a grand day ...
glory to the Empire!" he was not concerned in the least with his
surroundings, only bubbling with the joy of what was moving in his
Corbin allowed himself to be pinned roughly to the wall, it was all
part of the plan. Evan took a few steps back and apologized
profusely as he hurried away from the scene in a brisk sprint. Boots
still wet from Corbin's drink, he finished up the final touches on
it and gently slide it down the counter toward the direction of
Targon stumbled and collided directly into Darius, left shoulder
first. Pressing all of his weight on that one shoulder, he had
intentions on knocking the second guard over and pinning him to the
floor. "Whoops," he declared half assed, weight still pressed firmly
on the other guard. "Damn drink got me," nonchalantly, with his free
hand, he reached into the back of his own uniform, hand settling on
the barrel of a hidden blaster. He gave the sign, now it was show
Torg glanced back toward Targon as he prepared the Imperial's valued
drink. Torg, quickly on his wits activates the door locks and drew
out his blaster rifle from behind the bar counter ready for war, "yee
hay!" Torg used the bar counter as quick cover, and quickly scanned
the small bar for Targon.
Revan stood up from being knocked down looking around at the
cantina. He brought his blaster rifle in front of him with the
sights focusing at the different people surrounding him. Stopping at
the one who knocked him down, he slowly squeezed the trigger which
would send a bolt of laser towards Evan's torso.
Evan was up on his feet as soon as possible, but he was not fast
enough as the bolt lanced into his side, sending him sprawling on
the floor. He winced and rolled to one of the tables, kicking them
over and using it as a makeshift shield.
The Lieutenant dove over the bar at the first shot, not so much from
tactical savvy, but more concerned with keeping himself away from
danger. And he fumbled with his blaster on the other side, peaked
over the bar, and leveled the shaking weapon on the man his guard
had already fired on. He did his best to fire his first round into
the Evan's chest, seeing the damage already done.
By that time Evan had been tucked behind the stone table, using his
feet to prop it up as the blaster bolt cut into the surface but
Corbin took this time to slam his head against the forehead of the
distracted guard holding him and roll away. He drew his blaster and
effortlessly fired a shot at the Ravenor's legs.
Sizzle! The wet smack of a blaster round striking Ravenor's leg
guard, rang in his ears. ''Prick!'' he grumbled out towards his
Zeth Torg kneeled down behind the large bar counter, perfect for
duck cover, run and gun tactics. Zeth scanned his green eyes back
and forth across the bar. Finally Torg saw Targon with in sight of
his vidroblade. Zeth Torg slashed upward at a sixty degree angle, as
he slashed upward he thought to himself, "what a fool this man was."
The cut was deep, too deep. It turned into a stab, and into Targon's
lung. No scream, no gurgle, and little blood. Only a sagging desk
jockey, and a soundless death.
Evan gritted his teeth as the ISB officer hit the floor, dead as
a doornail. Right, so much for their extraction. Now would be an
ideal time to call it a day, he raised his hand and signaled towards
the window, considering the doors were locked. Exit time.
Well, his career was in the toilet. Thanks to that fragger with the
sword. It would be ironic if he met a similar fate. Ravenor slid the
blaster back into its holster, the vibroblade screamed to life. He
covered long strides in that moment as he headed for his target. He
leapt over the barrier that separated him, the vibroblade hissed to
life. He struck right towards Torg's skull, intent on splitting it
like rotten fruit.
Zeth Torg saw the attack from the crazy loon charging at him with
vidroblade. What a fool, with quick on his intents. Torg slid his
legs almost completely flat into a split that resembled a butterfly.
''Grr!'' You gakking, fething, fragging bastard with no scrotum!''
he screamed. It was the only explanation a man could bust a move
like that. Well whatever ... Ravenor chopped at Torg's head with the
Zeth Torg's short life had finally came to terrible, fatal end at
last. The fatal cut to the head caused death almost immediately.
Torg slowly fell to his knees and slowly arched backward as his eye
reflected that empty death look in his green eyes. Blankly staring
upward to the ceiling of the cantina.
Raven watched the dead motionless desk jockey fall to the ground.
He looked to his trooper kill the man with his vibroblade. There was
one more target that needed to be dealt as his gaze was locked on
the last person other than his trooper. "Screw this...," he said as
he brought his rifle up to Corbin's head. His career was finished
regardless since the jockey was dead. With a squeeze of the trigger,
a laser bolt flew out of the rifles barrel flying towards the man's
Corbin recovered from the brutal death of his comrade, spinning to
dodge the blaster bolt meant for his head. He took his commanding
officer's orders without question, rushing towards the window to
make a prompt exit. The damage had been done.
''Fething gakkers!'' Ravenor screamed after the retreat ambushers. He
then glared at the lifeless corpse of the desk jockey. An insane
light dancing within those twin brown pools. ''Fragging prick,'' he
said kicking him. ''Do you know how much paperwork I'll have to fill
out now?'' he yelled at the dead desk jockey. His blood began to
pool around him as he gave another kick towards the corpse ... he
needed a drink. Luckily he was in a Cantina, so he obliged himself.