Though he continues to push on as best he can, Zel is clearly struggling. He breathes heavily, as if simply breathing has become a battle for him. His skin looks considerably less healthy than it did a few hours ago, and portions of the uppermost layer are peeling or otherwise beginning to come off. "Come on," he urges as they come in sight of the computers, his voice hoarse and pained. He moves quickly to the terminal. "I'm not going to last too much longer down here. This is so not how I plan to die."
He reaches for the controls, but recoils immediately from the heat. "Scum-sucking son of a Hutt..." The smuggler trails off in a barely audible string of curses. He reaches for the controls again and begins working, though clearly in pain.
Flan peers at the computer over Zel's shoulder and does a little backseat driving, both pointing out the most efficient procedures and correcting his spelling.
While waiting, the noble starts going through any available doors, panels, emergency access hatches, supply belts on enemies - whatever he can find - looking for bottled water.
Dara attempts to remain stoic against the smoke and heat.
As her allies try to breach the computer banks, she keeps her blaster rifle ready and remains alert for danger.
"Hold still." Rod instructs Mith. The clone takes one of the Medpacs he's carrying and tends to the injuries Mith sustained from the earlier wall collapse.
"When we get those codes-" Rod begins, while picking bits of plasteel out of Mith. "-Which shuttle should we move on? Hanger bays and vehicle storage are still about a klick and a half away, by my reckoning. But Baldwin's personal hanger-" Rod sprays a layer of sythflesh over some burns. "-Is much closer, up on the command deck. Only takes one turbolift ride and a much shorter walk than a kilometer and a half and we're there." Finishing up the first aid, Rod wraps up Mith's injured leg with bandages. "Problem is, the command deck is populated by possibly hostile mutineers and definitely hostile Baldwin loyalists."
"I still vote we go for Baldwin's hanger, though. Not only does it save the lives on this ship, it's the shortest route and we know what's up there. A lot can happen in a kilometer and a half."
Ral wanders off in search of water. In an abandoned office- maybe the foreman's? -, he finds an insulated canteen and a hefty stash of 800 credits. Though the outside of the canteen is blisteringly hot to touch, the water inside is both cool and refreshing.
It takes a little maneuvering (and a little help from Flan), but the dehydrated Mon Calamari manages to slice into the engine core and retrieve the codes from the flight computer. It'll take time to decrypt, but he is confident in his skills. He can do this. Dehydrated or no, he could do this with his feet if he wanted to. It would just be harder.
Your mind races with possibilities. Full access over the engine core itself is quite a lot all on its own, but even partial command for cameras, artificial gravity, communication, personal logs, door locks, security-
You barely make it halfway through the list before Zel accesses the flight computer. Remarkable possibilities. The right person could cripple the ship with what you have. You could even cut life support to the whole command deck! Execute one little subroutine and bye-bye Baldwin.
Dara stands at full attention, rifle ready and alert to any movement or changes in their environment. Twice she threatens Ral with her blaster as he comes and goes, but thankfully she holds her fire. No new threats appear under her watch.
Mith gladly accepts Rod's help. He winces as he cleans the wounds, but shows few signs of pain otherwise.
As a soldier, you are conflicted. Mith is the closest thing to a CO in this outfit, but he is also very much not that. For however brief a time, he was still your jailer, your interrogator. Do you owe him your discretion? Do you owe him anything?
He clearly kept this a secret for a reason. Perhaps he worries that disclosing this information to the group could discredit his authority, or that the others would view him as a liability now that they have what they needed.
But his leg is still broken, and as well as he's done so far keeping pace and hiding his pain, you worry his condition might worsen.
After the codes are set to decrypt, Flan practically throws herself at the computer. Her fingertips grow sore and red against the blistering heat, but for once she doesn't complain; she quickly backs out of different programs until she comes to the page that she'd caught a glimpse of while Zel was accessing the engine core.
"Look at this," she breathes, running down the list of commands. "We have access to a dozen essential systems from here! We can turn off the artificial gravity, or lock all the doors between the command deck and the docking bay, or..." Her finger hovers nervously over the execute command key. "Cut off life support on the bridge."
The noble returns with a canteen of water and offers it to Zel. "Found this. I know it's just staving off the problem but maybe it'll help for now. Careful, the container's hot but the water inside is cool."
The droid moves towards the console. "I'd say vent the bridge and close all doors, except the ones towards the big Hangar Bay. I suppose we're going to try and save our enemies, after all." It glances towards the clone trooper. "And tell the gunners that if they don't leave, we'll lock them inside." Pointing the blaster towards the ceiling, it adds. "Ideally, that'll let us intercept the commander at his dock, and escape in his shuttle while everyone else fights over the other ones. It's a win-win-win, if you ask me." It gestures sarcastically. "Even if it'd be more tactically advantageous to let the bridge crew suffocate and we steal Baldwin's shuttle under his nose, while everyone else is trying to get to the hangar bay." The glimmer in its photoreceptors is almost malicious. "Organics can't give orders to shoot down shuttles when they don't have air to breathe."
Zel nods gratefully to Ral, accepting the canteen. He ignores the heat as he takes it, popping it open and gulping down its contents eagerly. He pours the last few drops of water on his head before tossing the empty canteen aside. "Thanks," he croaks out as he continues to work. "Remind me I owe you a drink some time."
Once the code decryption is set, the Mon Calamari moves to one side as Flan and OOM discuss the options available to them from this computer. Zel remembers that he had indeed gained access to many of the ship's systems, but he'd been so focused on accessing the flight computer that it hadn't really registered to him. He finds it harder to concentrate than usual. Blasted heat.
"We could even just lock every door except the ones we need," the smuggler adds in, his breathing still heavy, his voice strained. "I don't know. We've got five minutes till the decryption finishes, so let's figure it out by then."
"I won't mention this to the others but if you keep acting like this leg isn't broken, you're just going to do more damage to yourself." Rod quietly whispers to Mith. "Slow down or limp if you have to." Mith had kept Rod's Force sensitivity secret so the least the clone could do was offer a measure of discretion in return.
"We have access to these systems but wouldn't command and engineering still have their own access too?" Rod asks, joining the conversation. "Do we have a way to shut out their commands? Because if we don't, couldn't anything we do be reserved as soon as it's noticed?"
Mith nods his silent and tight-lipped assent to Rod.
He stands with a groan and edges his way to the screen.
"This is Engineering," claims the man, waving his three-fingered metal hand at the burning wreck surrounding them. "And I imagine Command has their hands full already, with the battle inside and out. They're unlikely to notice any changes unless we draw attention to ourselves. Which is an option, I suppose. Being loud has its advantages, hides our true intentions, maybe even our presence."
He glances at Flan and OOM, wary but appreciative of their willingness to suffocate the bridge. "Lots of options."
"Decide fast. We can't stay here," Dara declares, her attempt at stoicism betrayed by the obvious quaver in her voice.
She wipes away the sweat running down her forehead and into her eyes with the sleeve of her prisoner jumpsuit. It does nothing to relieve the sting upon her eyes.
"Please," she pleads after a moment, sounding very much like a child desperate to go home, "just do whatever you have to so we can get on a shuttle, or whatever, and get down to the planet."
"Cutting life support to the bridge is strong start..." Rod squirms ever so slightly, clearly not comfortable with the idea. It was the most efficient solution to the Baldwin problem, but something about the impersonal nature of it set the clone of edge. It certainly didn't feel very Jedi-like. Or maybe it was just the fact the the clanker was so enthusiastic about it. "...But we should be ready for Baldwin to survive it. He did seem to have a way off the bridge."
"Speaking of which, we should probably see if we can't spread Baldwin's incriminating messages to the rest of the crew again, now that we have better access to communications. As for getting to shuttles, I say we keep it simple and subtle. Connect our datapad to the security cameras and use the feed to avoid anyone between us and shuttles. As long as we're quick and stay focused, we should be able to avoid any danger."
"If we can just escape without mass murder that would be great," opines the nobleman.
"One thing just to escape, another to go out of our way to kill everyone else," Zel chimes in. "Besides, you might wanna check that anyone's still on the bridge to begin with."
"Right, of course," Flan titters nervously, and pulls up the security camera feeds from the bridge.
The bridge is in a state of complete disarray. Only half the crewmembers are at their stations; the rest are either busy defending a partially destroyed blast door, or dead.
On the other side of the wrecked blast door, the mutiny isn't faring much better. They've built barricades out of wrecked computer terminals and a few cargo crates, but their only escape route is blocked by a ray shield. Whether that was their choice or the actions of the bridge defenders is unclear.
Mith confirms that Grand Moff Baldwin is not at the scene.
"If the Moff isn't there, then it's not worth it to purge the bridge," says the nobleman.
"If the Moff isn't on the bridge, maybe they're on their way to their shuttle?", the droid replies snappily. "I agree, there's no tactical advantage to decapitate the bridge now.", it shrugs. "I say we double-time it for the Moff's shuttle bay. Hey! You two do computers well!", it blares out at Flan and Zel. "Could you re-route the controls for here on someone's datapad and we could leave? I'm not an expert," it points towards Zel, "but that's not a healthy Mon Calamari colour. So let's blow up the comms array and get moving!"
Rod inwardly breathes a sigh of relief knowing that they wouldn't have to vent the bridge and that they avoided taking so many lives by acting hastily. That sense of relief is very quickly replaced by an urgent need to act. "The shuttles then. Hate to say it, but I'm with the droid on this one. We don't have the time to wait around for the decryption to finish and trek out to the standard hangers. Baldwin will have killed us all by then."
Dara's mind, inexperienced and overtaxed, has been in no state to analyze the situation. Still reeling from her first contact with strangers, she could scarcely even understand the concept of potentially dooming unseen lives off on the bridge. However, when talk turns to this officer, this "Moff," her mind refocuses.
She turns to Mith, her face set in grim determination.
"Baldwin? Did he execute my father?" she demands of Mith. She does not even wait for a reply before she casts her vote: "We have to catch Baldwin. We'll take his shuttle. We'll, we'll..."
Dara leaves the thought unfinished, unspoken. She simply checks her blaster rifle and waits for someone to point her in the right direction.
"Baldwin signed the order to kill him, yes," says Mith. "Sometime last week, before my arrival. The interrogation team believed they had gotten everything worthwhile from him, so the Moff instructed them to-" he stops, believing continuing to be pointless, cruel and unwise.
Just then a datacard ejects from the console, rescuing him from the awkward moment. The codes have finished decrypting.
"Now to get out of this dreadful heat," he says, pocketing the datacard.
The noble holds his hands up in a conciliatory fashion - letting the fire extinguisher dangle from his thumb in one case - and says to Dara, "Hey - hey. I see you have a lot on your mind. But we need to get out of here. We'll try to stop him - Baldwin's a real piece of work and needs to be stopped - but we still need to figure out how to keep ourselves alive, too."
He offers a gentle smile and says, "C'mon, we're in this together. I know I can count on you, and I'll do my best to make sure you can count on me. Deal?"
"Hey, even you don't have to hate reason!", the droid dramatically shrugs as Rod agrees. "Now, the posh one is correct. Vengeance goes after survival in the list of priorities. If we come across the Moff, I don't mind putting a blaster through him, but if you want to chase and get killed, don't expect me to join in."
Seeing the card in Mith's hand, the droid nods, then starts heading for the door. "Let's go before the Mon Calamari becomes jerky!"
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"Hold on," Zel says, steadying himself by the console. He attaches his datapad, then begins working on the console in a quick, furious burst of activity. When finished, he detaches the datapad and steps away from the computer, laughing hoarsely. "All right, let's go."
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Flan gladly gives up responsibility to the Mon Calamari. She wipes her forehead with the sleeve of her jumpsuit as she steps away, silently chiding herself for being so easily paralyzed by indecision, but laughs it off and recommends a raunchy pop single performed by Mermeia.
Zel clicks away on the computers, chuckling to himself as he forms a devious but ingenious plan. He takes the pornographic datapad from Flarb's bag of loot and uses it to upload a suggestive song by noted singer and burlesque dancer Mermeia (famously the face and voice of the Mind Evaporators). After a few decisive keystrokes, the music begins playing- on loop and at high volume, all over the ship. With the damage to the deck as a whole, it sounds vaguely like it's coming from underwater or the next room over.
That's all that's immediately evident, but he is more than sure he's made the Moff's journey a difficult one.
Mith directs the crew to the closest turbolift, and up, up, up they go. The song quickly grows grating as it plays over the speaker. What is this, the fifth time already? Oy.
The air grows wetter and cooler the farther away you climb from the hell that was Engineering.
You exit to the command deck, so far unnoticed by the Storm Troopers running by- traitors or loyalists, you do not know. From your view of the schematics earlier you know that there is vent access straight from here to the private shuttle pad.
"Just around the corner," says Mith, wincing as he crouches down.
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"Oh, great.", remarks the droid as the song begins tearing down at its audioreceptors. Turning to Flan, she almost feels as if the droid's tilted head is judgementally pouting at her, despite the lack of mouth or lips. "Just when I was about to say how impressed I was by Republic public workers.", it blurts out, before.
Despite itself, however, one could hear the droid's low-definition humming along the tunes of the popstar. As Mith displays the vent, OOM-93b nods. "Roger, roger.", it replies, before poking its head around the corner.
The Mon Calamari moves next to the droid, datapad in hand, poking his head around the corner.
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Rod looks around incredulously as Flan's song of choice starts blaring all around."Mermeia? Really? You can't be serious." He says to no one in particular. The clone immediately clears his throat unconvincingly and avoids eye contact. "I mean, I have no idea who this is- I mean... what is that music? Never heard it before. It's terrible."
Rod hangs back from the corner to avoid revealing himself, instead relying on the Force to sense if anyone was around.
And senses nothing, distracted as he is by Mermeia blasting into his ears.
"I once planned a name-day party for the junior representative from Malastare. He loved Mermeia," Flan mutters distantly on the long ride to the command deck.
She bops along to the muffled song, trying to let it calm her extraordinarily frazzled nerves, to no avail. The cramped quarters in the elevator fill her with a sense of dread, and she scurries out as soon as the doors open.
"A gran loved Mermeia?" Mith scoffs. "The galaxy possesses endless wonder."
As the doors open and Storm Troopers rush by, Flan scurries out into the open.
But thanks to Mermeia, she goes entirely unnoticed. The seven of you rush into the access corridor and out of sight.
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"You'd be amazed the kinds of things people enjoy," Zel says. "And how much they pay people like me to bring it to them."
The scoundrel kneels down by the vents. He tries simply pulling at it. He sighs when it refuses to budge, then begins to work on undoing the restraints securing it in place. He tries to balance working quickly with working quietly, but it's a difficult balance to strike, particularly when Mermeia is constantly blaring in the background.
Zelarean removes the restraints with stealth and skill, but when he makes to remove the vent cover itself, the thing drops to the floor! Luckily, the Mon Calamari catches it before it can make a whisper.
Mith squats down besides it, wincing and gesturing for the others to come near. "After we kill or capture the Moff- and we must kill or kidnap him -, we will meet with my contact at the Roche asteroids in the Mid Rim; he should be able to get us safely into the Rebellion. Now let us go. We don't want to mistime this and end up rubble."
As you climb into the vents, the endless stream of Mermeia's 'This Minute' settles into the humming and whirrs of fans and machinery. It grows quickly dark and the cramped space presses into you on all sides. With a few glowrods lit, you won't lose track of the person in front of you, but the feeble light provided cannot defeat the oppressive dark.
The conversation about the joys of pop music causes OOM to audibly groan, its head tilting backwards in what would've been a neck-breaking eyeroll, were its photoreceptors mobile. "You. You are all terrible people. Pop music is harder to scrub from memory banks than literally ANYTHING! It's basically a virus.", it comments, before it tilts its head at Zel. "You know what? Could we keep those things a mystery?"
The droid quickly leaps into the vent, its collapsible limbs used to being folded in cargo mode. "Oh, this is great. I love how my restraining bolt is locking my olfactory detection to 100%.", the droid's hushed mutters are barely overheard as it does its best to clamber down the vents. "So.", it chirps out a moment later. "Boss? Vat-job? What's the plan for taking out the Moff? Let's start working on that before planning our Rebellion acceptance speech."
"I know I'm a terrible person," quips the Onderonian. "If you want someone to scrub the music from your memory I'm sure that can be arranged once we're out of here."
"Wasn't really planning on being a 'Rebel' per se, but I suppose that decision has been made for us." The nobleman brushes back his hair as he moves quickly through the cramped vent.
"So.", it chirps out a moment later. "Boss? Vat-job? What's the plan for taking out the Moff? Let's start working on that before planning our Rebellion acceptance speech."
"Shoot him," grunts the blue man, keeping weight off his so-called "good" leg. "And hope we don't die."
"Wasn't really planning on being a 'Rebel' per se, but I suppose that decision has been made for us." The nobleman brushes back his hair as he moves quickly through the cramped vent.
Mith chuckles to himself. "It was either recruit you lot or leave you all to die. And now it's either be Rebels or fugitives. One of those is much easier."
"Were we supposed to be planning those speeches? I was just gonna go up there and wing it and see what happens."
Zel chuckles in turn in response to Mith's statement. "As someone who's actually been one of those things, I'd agree that one is easier, but maybe not the one you think. Still, not like I can do a lot in a boosted Imp shuttle." He sighs. "I gotta get my ship back."
During the exodus from the fiery engineering section, Dara remains almost constantly distracted by the music pouring out around her. Her eyes scan the walls and ceiling as she follows the party, as though expecting to see the face of the woman singing. She no longer looks like a filthy urchin playing at soldier, but instead her face betrays youthful wonder.
"Is this...is this that thing called music?" she asks, her voice hushed in awe.
The sight of hustling storm troopers briefly reminds Dara of the dire situation unfolding around her, but once the group climbs into the vent, her mind returns to the music. In the vent, she tugs on Zel's leg and quietly asks him, "Do you, um, do you have more of that music?"
"Depends on what you mean when you say 'easier'. Easier if your only goal is survival, I suppose." Rod chimes in on Zel's assertion. "I don't think I could ever stand to go back into hiding again after this. I don't plan on spending the rest of my days constantly running in fear or holed up on some isolated backwater world. Rebellion is the easier choice, at least for me."
"Hey, if anyone wants notes on being rebellious or a fugitive, I've got databanks full of 'em.", the droid snarkily replies as it clangs down the shaft. "Mostly the latter, thanks to the Jedi Order's amusing lack of perception."
"Rebellion is the easier choice, at least for me."
A strange noise blurts out from the droid. Perhaps a chuckle, a laugh, or even a chortle, though the low-ish quality vocabulator makes it hard to discern. "And the award for 'being the last to realise how bad centralised power is for those outside it' goes tooo..." The droid's head turns around, its colourful 'ears' twisting around its neck. "It's you. You get an award.", it chirps out, before hanging its head in surrender. "Though, a decade and a half late's better than never. I'm completely with the vatjob on this one. Rebelliousness is part of my programming."
Zel laughs and turns his head to look at Dara. "Yeah kid, that's, uh... that's music." He struggles to get the sentence out. "There's plenty more music out there. Tell ya what, we get out of here, I'll get you some actual good music. Let you listen to some of my playlists. Or more Mermeia, if that's your thing. But I have great taste, just ask the clone."
"Shoot him," grunts the blue man, keeping weight off his so-called "good" leg. "And hope we don't die."
"That's it?" Flan blurts out incredulously, apparently judging Mith for his overly simplistic plan. She tries to think of something better, but it proves difficult while she struggles to ignore the strain on her hands and knees and keep pace with the others. She isn’t built for crawling around in vents on burning starships. She should be somewhere more important, far away from the front lines, organizing other people’s risky actions.
Meanwhile, the conversation has passed her by, and she feels compelled to rectify that. "Being a Rebel takes risk and sacrifice," she says, as if she's an authority on the subject. "I lost everything when the Empire discovered I was in contact with Garm. But it'll all be worth it once we find our way back to the Rebellion."
After traveling for about fifteen minutes with only the chatter between you and the hum of the vent fans to listen to, 'This Minute' by Mermeia floats gently back to your ears. You must be getting close.
Mith urges the party to hush and to turn off their glowrods. Light comes from somewhere ahead of you.
The vent ends in what would be a vertical ventilation shaft, but someone has closed the security doors on the floor and ceiling. The room itself is just large enough for each of you to stand but as you crawl out of cramped space, you see the familiar boots of a Storm Trooper pacing by the end of the vent.
As you gather together to work on a plan, a blaster goes off! An electrical whining gives off from one of the speakers, the music puttering to a halt.
"Reality is sweet, this minute/Can't we repeat and repeat, this minute," sings Mermeia as the Storm Trooper continues to shoot the speakers. "Why can't it be always/Right-" another blaster shot, and there is silence.
"Come!" calls one Storm Trooper to the first. "We have to make ready the Moff's shuttle." The sound of clanking boots indicate their departure.
Rod bites back an annoyed retort to the droid as he hears the Stormtrooper outside the vent. The clone goes entirely quiet and still as he tries to read the flow of the Force outside the vent.
Zel begins chuckling quietly as soon as the footsteps disappear. "They're just shooting the speakers now. Beautiful." He grabs his datapad and taps it a few times, finding the screen he's looking for. As he flicks rapidly between a few different feeds, he stops suddenly as if an idea just came to him. His hands begin working again, and he mutters, "I wonder..."