Hey all, I’m sorry for my absence here. The last few weeks have been hard on my wife and I and the holidays are keeping us busy now too. I’m still here though and still invested, gonna really try to find time to catch up in the next week or so.
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Flan scrambles to her hands and knees, crouching behind some twisted metal on the underside of the walker, and watches half-hopefully as the watercrafts circle back around. "Maybe they're friendly?" As the strangers approach the shanty boat, she peeks out of her hiding spot with hands raised in a universal sign of non-aggression.
Still here!
Flan rises early in the morning, after a fitful night of nervous sleep in the belly of the walker. She looks a little green, still adjusting to the gentle motion of the craft as it bobs on top of the water, and is relieved to sit outside and stare at the horizon while she sets up the water extractor and takes a long drink. Peeking cautiously over the edge and into the water, she tries to see what could not be seen by moonlight, and prays that she won't have to dive in with whatever horror is surely lurking down there. The aquata rebreathers she pulled from the AT-AT supplies are piled in plain view, just waiting to be used. She eyes them suspiciously, hoping someone else will take the first plunge.
Easily affected by any amount of praise, Flan beams at Ral as he fiddles with the coms. Eager to continue helping, she kneels at the head of the walker, swaying slightly to the sounds of lounge j*@z, and lights the flare, sending the stark, brilliant light shooting out of its cylinder.
"Flares?" Flan digs around in her pack to produce one of the flares she scrounged from the AT-AT supplies, and passes it off for someone to light. "I also found this." Reaching back into the bag, she takes out a small, cone-shaped apparatus. "I think it's a water extractor. Bel Iblis had one with his emergency supplies, so I knew it would come in handy," she adds helpfully.
Flan pulls herself up and out, gratefully breathing in the fresh air. The endless ocean and stars above induce a sense of vertigo, and she has to steady herself on one of the outstretched legs before she can properly look around.
Flan scrambles to her feet, suddenly desperate for a task to keep her mind busy, and begins ransacking the interior of the Walker for anything that might be of use. She finds a jumpsuit, cleaner, sturdier, and more protective than the prison suit she's spent the last few weeks in, and finds a corner to change in; lots of other gear goes in her pockets or her pack. "Down?" Her voice wavers with uncertainty. "We don't even know where 'here' is." She has no more reasoning than that, and abandons the conversation to look for a solution that doesn't involve leaving the surface and diving down into the deep, dark ocean. Clambering back up toward the top of the AT-AT, she tries to open the rope-deploying sphincters that let out onto the legs.
Sorry! I put together my picks and then forgot to ever post them. I mostly tried to grab potentially useful stuff that nobody else really has and that would reasonably be in an AT-AT. Spoiler: Combat Jumpsuit (1500) Pocket Scrambler x2 (800) Water Extractor (400) Flash Suppressor/Silencer (400) Aquata Breather (350) Tool Kit (250) Snap Baton (100) Proximity Flare x2 (100) Power Pack x2 (50) Net (25) Syntherope (20) Mesh Tape (5) Total 4000
Noble 2 HP +4
I'll take a look at gear in a moment.
Flan straps herself in with shaking hands and grips the sides of the seat so tightly that her knuckles turn white. Terrified, but unable to look away, she stares out the viewport as the walker edges closer to the hole in the wall of the Destroyer. She screams as they go over the edge. The noise is lost in the deafening sounds of reentry, but it makes no difference; she screams until her throat is raw and scrabbles desperately at the seat's grips, rubbing her palms and fingers sore on the rubber and metal as she holds on. The beeping panel warning her of the missing leg goes unnoticed as her vision tilts and blurs, and she starts to black out. She comes to, strapped in upside-down in her seat, the harness digging painfully into her shoulders as it keeps her suspended in place. "I'm- I'm- I'm alive, she gasps, her breath coming in short bursts. "I'm alive! Clawing at the buckles of the harness until they give way, she lets herself tumble to the floor — rather, the ceiling — and lays there for a moment while her panic starts to subside.
OOC, the starship is crashing and I'm thinking we can wait until the last second so we're as close as possible and then jump out onto Mon Cala? Like just ride it out until we can shoot a hole in the ship and jump out. And then, y'know, hopefully the walker will have emergency life-preservers under the seats.
"What — What are we going to do?" Flan splutters nervously to Rod as he joins her in the body of the walker. She looks like she might faint, but knows in the back of her mind that she and the clone trooper probably can't pilot the AT-AT by themselves. And that he probably wouldn't approve of leaving the others behind, anyways. She drops to her knees and grabs the deployed rope, trying to haul OOM-93b up with all her might.
Flan flaps her arms wildly, trying to keep her balance as the hangar bay rapidly depressurizes and re-pressurizes, but is slammed to the ground the same as everyone else. She staggers to her feet, head ringing, and with no other ideas, runs back toward the Imperial Walker. She grabs hold of the still-deployed ropes and starts climbing, desperately taking shelter inside the thickly armored vehicle.
Flan leaps away from the console and barely manages to grab hold of the cable as she launches herself out of the walker. She lands clumsily on the floor of the hangar, struggling to get her feet under her, and starts running toward the shuttle. "Wait! Wait for me!" She cries, hoping that everyone can hear her over the noise of the battle and she won't accidentally be left behind.
Flan manages to hold herself together long enough to shout harried advice across the Walker at Zel.
Flan, steadily deteriorating into a nervous wreck, can barely even type with her hands shaking as they are, let alone help Zel pilot the Walker.
Flan's face is pale and her forehead clammy as she digs deeper into the computers, looking as if she might keel over at any moment. Her many days spent organizing the senator's computer files into increasingly esoteric categories is her saving grace, as she continues to decipher the Imperial system and nervously relay all information on Walker piloting to Zel. When the first shot hurtles away from the Walker and into the ray shield, she shrieks in surprise. "Aim for the shuttle! Hit them!" she calls desperately, unaware that it was a purposeful warning shot and unlikely to see the merit of such tactics while under the pressure of battle.
"Oh!" Flan starts when she finds the walker already occupied by Dara. "Hello." She falls upon the computer controls, hurriedly trying to find her way around the Imperial restrictions and gain control.
Flan is too tightly wound at the moment to notice Dara sneak up the ramp and into the AT-AT. She does, however, note that it's probably the safest place to be in the hangar bay, and crouches near the edge of the catwalk, ready to make a mad dash for it as soon as Zel turns the lights out.
"His order was to destroy the ship as soon as his launch is confirmed," Flan hisses, obviously eager to get out of here before that happens. She points down from the catwalk at the second shuttle. "We have his codes, right? If we get out of here first, his own people will start to fire on him. At least we'll have time to get away while they sort it out."
Flan muffles a shriek as a man is cut in half before her, unable to look away from the grisly scene before her, and unconsciously reaches down to grip one of her own legs in sympathetic horror.
"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."
"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.
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.
"Right, of course," Flan titters nervously, and pulls up the security camera feeds from the bridge.
Suffocating/freezing everyone on the bridge is probably decidedly a dark side action; Flan is okay with that, but before she goes ahead and presses the button, OOC is everyone on board with that/do we have any other ideas?
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."
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.
Hey, IDK what y’all are talking about, Flan clearly has the strongest noodle arms of the bunch... Somehow.
Flan freezes as the section of ceiling falls atop the alien, staring blankly as Dara, OOM, and Rod all try and fail to lift the debris. Then, as if suddenly realizing she should try to help, she pulls the prison jumpsuit’s sleeves down over her palms and awkwardly tries to help.
Maybe she remembers to lift with her knees, or maybe it’s all the boxes of paperwork she’s constantly lugging around: whatever the reason, she gapes in surprise as she manages to budge the piece a little more than the others.
Flan accepts Zel’s hand and pulls herself off the floor. ”I can shoot. I was just... preparing myself,” she insists, coughing a little in the smoky hallway. Eager to prove herself useful, the former-senatorial-aide grabs the med kit they’d found in the officer’s quarters and begins to patch up Rod’s blaster wound, crinkling her nose at the smell of burnt flesh as she does so. ”I had to go through extensive training to become a Senator’s Aide. Bel Iblis said I was an invaluable help when the Senate was attacked,” she assures him.
”See?” She smiles smugly.
Flan drops to the floor and scoots along the wall until she reaches a doorway to take cover in. ”It’s okay, it’s okay,” she says breathlessly, partly just to reassure herself. ”There can’t be many of them left!”
Flan shrieks at the sound of blaster fire and flattens herself against the wall. “Just let us pass! We don’t want to fight,” she echoes Zel. “You aren’t soldiers! You don’t have to die for the Empire!”
"That's forty-thousand Imperials who were holding us prisoner and want to kill us," Flan objects shrilly, though she looks troubled by the implications. "Why risk our lives for them? We aren't responsible for what the Grand Moff does."
"For us," Flan corrects Zel, worrying her blaster between both hands. The news of the impending firestorm weighs heavily on her decision making. "Let's just find a shuttle and get out of here. We can get the launch codes from another console along the way," she says assuredly, though she knows little about the ins-and-outs of flying a shuttle. "We don't know anything about the mutineers," she pushes. "They might not want to align themselves with Rebels and then everyone on the ship will be after us."
Flan shudders, glad she missed that particular view, but keeps it to herself as she accepts Ral's hand and hauls herself up off the floor. Seeing her companions draw their various weapons, she fumbles around until she finds her blaster pistol and holds it at the ready. "Well? What are we waiting for?" She tiptoes vaguely towards the escape pods, not really making any progress forward and obviously waiting for a braver soul to go first.
Flan regains consciousness slowly at first, looking up groggily at the ceiling of the Star Destroyer, and then all at once. She sits straight up, hyperaware of her surroundings, and winces at the sudden head rush that comes with it. "We made it," she gasps overdramatically. "Was it bad?"
"Oh, well." Flan considers the men, feeling a little surprised but overall pleased with herself. "Good." She ducks into the officer's quarters and helps to search methodically for trauma kits, eyeing the droid suspiciously as she shares space with it. She's never actually seen a B1 unit in person before today, but her short stint in the senate during the Clone Wars managed to drill a healthy distrust of all things Separatist into her.
Once the trauma kits are found, she looks at Rod and tries to keep the apprehension she feels from creeping into her voice. The Corellian woman has never been good at giving up control, let alone trusting complete strangers to carry her unconscious body safely past a big hole in a ship, but she doesn't exactly have a better idea. "So, how does this work?"
Flan glances around at the others, hoping someone else will volunteer, but after a moment of hesitation, she sighs audibly and resigns herself to the task. The former senator's-aide summons up all her people skills and years of diplomatic training, and conveniently ignores the many, many failures that went along with those. She takes a few steps toward the other prisoners, hugging the wall and staying as close to the rest of the group as she can. "Hello, fellow Rebels," she calls, giving them a little wave. "We mean you no harm. We have a way off this cruiser, which you may have noticed is rapidly losing orbit, if you'd care to join us."
Flan nods hurriedly in agreement, not particularly thrilled about either prospect, but decidedly queasy at the idea of being exposed to the hard vaccuum of outer space. At least her fellow escaped prisoners seem to be fairly competent with guns. "Yeah, we're all Rebels," she chimes in with a sideways glance at Mith. "We can deal with some troopers."
Flan hasn't spent too much time on starships, and space travel in general makes her rather nauseous, so she isn't exactly an expert on blast doors. She cracks a glowrod and holds it out in front of her, illuminating the worried expression on her face. "We're not going that way though, right? Come on, let's keep moving," she chatters nervously, taking a few steps toward the hallway opposite the blast door.
Flan misses the exchange between the droid and its master, remaining intently focused on clinging tightly to the ladder and forcing herself to not look down. She looks up instead, which is almost as intimidating as the former. She hisses her concern to Mith. "Exactly how far do we have to climb?"
Janara edges toward the door and peeks over the edge of the shaft, her stomach turning at the sight of the long, dark drop. She hesitates until several others have made the trip to step through the door, acutely aware of the gulf below her, and hug the wall tightly as she makes her way across.
Flan's breath catches in her throat and she presses herself back into her hiding spot, not one to start a confrontation.
Flan hops through the doorway inelegantly, looking up at the ceiling as if she expects the shield to suddenly come back on. She harries their liberator with questions as they hurry towards the armory, though from the rate of fire it's unclear how she expects an answer to any of them. "Shouldn't we have a map or something? Where are we anyway? Where are we supposed to escape to? Who's attacking the ship? Is it the Rebels? Do they know I'm here? This is minimum security?"
Flan picks up a blaster pistol, holding it somewhat awkwardly, and fiddles with it in a very worrying manner. When asked about computers, she looks around self-consciously, and then puts her hand up.
After the blasts to the ISD toss her from the bunk, Flan takes to pacing anxiously in the contained room, catching herself on walls or beds or people, whichever is closest, when movement from the battle throws her off balance. She talks to no one in particular, speculating wildly. "Do they know we're here? Is this a rescue?" When the agent appears and deactivates the ray shield, she makes a dash for the door, but stops just as suddenly. She stares blankly at the alien and the droid from just inside the arched metal opening, and in her bewilderment, only manages to come up with a single word. "Why?"
Flan smooths the rough Imperial prison jumpsuit over her knees, a hint of self-importance evident on her face. "I suppose at one time I was well-connected to high ranking members of the self professed Rebellion, and the Empire now believes me to be some sort of rebel leader on Corellia." "And you?" She asks, side-eyeing Ral.
"Where are we? I don't understand any of this. What's the Empire?" she demands. "The Empire replaced the Galactic Republic at the end of the Clone Wars fourteen standard years ago," Flan chimes in helpfully from her bunk. She sounds bizzarely chipper, though her voice bears a slight tremor of anxiety. "We're on an Imperial prison ship because we're threats to the Empire."
Interrogation:
Flan’s heart races as she is ushered her from her cell, and she walks clumsily, bumping into the troopers surrounding her more than once. They continue to ignore her, but she mutters nervous apologies anyway. ”Sorry, sorry.”
By the time she takes a seat across from the intelligence officer, she looks positively ill, and refuses any refreshment. ”I’ve already told you everything,” she blurts out before the alien has even begun to speak, but resigns herself to shifting nervously in her chair as he begins his questioning. She pales when the Storm Trooper sets the tea in front of her, a sheen of sweat visible on her forehead as she glances between the familiar beverage and the man on the other side of the table in abject confusion. The entire scene is a complete departure from what she’s come to expect from the imperials, and the deviation from routine leaves her floundering. ”What is this? What’s going on?” As the officer begins to describe her accomplishments over the last decade, she stares hard at the floor, looking uncomfortable in a different way, and only returns her eyes to him when the subject returns to Bel Iblis. At his final question, she can only gape and shake her head. ”N—None. I don’t even know what a ‘Fulcrum’ is.”
Janara hovers near the door for a moment, familiarizing herself with the new faces and surroundings. ”Hello, I'm Flan,” she tries, giving a little wave and smiling nervously at each of the other prisoners as if she's hosting a spectacularly uncomfortable party. She walks self-consciously to one of the bunks and takes a seat, smoothing the thin sheet beneath her.
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