When in doubt, break things

[Akrabbim]

After several tedious hours of observing boring little Imperial techs performing even more boring tasks, Akrabbim is pretty sure he's found his mark. It's difficult finding the correct target. If your subject is too low on the totem pole, he'll have no access to get anything truly fun accomplished. If he's too highly ranked, people ask him questions all the time. And after the 800th request for a signature on some mind-numbingly dull invoice, even Jedi patience runs out. Oddly enough, even Imperials don't quite buy your stories once you've beheaded a low level tech.

Some might think him sexist for never impersonating a woman. On a practical level, it's simply not a good idea for a guy to try to look like a woman. The body shapes just don't line up. And girl undies don't fit right. Not to mention requests for dates are FAR more annoying than requests for invoice signatures. After around five of those, Akrabbim goes into beheading mode. Yet again, cover blown. Of course, there's no reason for him to be justifying his decision not to impersonate a woman. It's not like anyone's watching him. He's invisible at the moment! And if he doesn't wanna play a woman, he doesn't have to! I mean, sure, his mom wanted him to go into acting... the money's good and all. But he didn't want to act! He wanted to be a swashbuckling hero, saving the galaxy from evil! But could his mother understand that? NO! It's all, "Your brother has a good job, why can't you?" Look, mom, it's my life, and I'll do what I want...

Akrabbim shakes his head, clearing it of his most recent digression. After being alone on a planet for as long as he had, it's hard to break the habit of talking to yourself. Back to the task at hand. A quick perusal of the work schedule lets Akrabbim know when the man will be off his shift. Time to prepare.

He slips away from Engineering and heads to the medical bay. After some fancy maneuvering dodging the swarming Imps, he makes it. There are a few times when he brushes against someone, but no one seems to notice. It could be the fact that they're in the midst of a battle, of course. Or maybe Imps are just not that bright. At this point, both seem like valid theories.

Once he arrives in the med bay, he gets to continue his least favorite activity: hiding and waiting. Fortunately with the number of casualties flooding in, he doesn't have to wait long. A medic grabs a strong sedative hypo, planning to send an injured man into a coma for the bacta tanks. Akrabbim creates an illusion of the patient thrashing just as the hypo comes close, knocking the hypo out of the medic's hand just as the illusionary arm swings upwards. The medic sighs in frustration, watching the hypo slide across the floor. With a bit more illusionary help from Akrabbim, the hypo appears to slide under a cabinet, out of reach. Because of the bustle and hurry of the med bay, he simply grabs another hypo instead of trying to fish out the missing one. With an invisible wave of thanks to the oblivious medic, Akrabbim takes the hypo and slips away, rushing off toward the patsy's room.

*Operation Sleepytime underway! Hmmm... of course, the sleepy part is only stage one... I guess I could have multiple operations, but that lacks coherence. You don't get a medal with 14 operation names listed on it. That'd be stupid. Maybe "Operation Splode!"... no... too EXXTREME!!! Hmmm... "Operation Screw with the Imps"?... Well, I guess every operation is technically "Operation Screw with the Imps"...* Akrabbim continues his internal monologue all they way down to the crew quarters. When you only have your own company to deal with, you make do. At least it's conversation with someone he likes.

[Rolth Wygraant]

Meanwhile...

Captain Wygraant felt like he hadn't slept in a week, but his wounded pride and wounded ship made certain that his discomfort was, at best, delayed resolution. His ship, Decimator had sprung an impressive trap against a Rebel flotilla, only to have victory snatched away from him by a savage mauling, due to a strong Rebel counter-attack which, in his deduction could only have been aided by a...

"Jedi?"

The Captain was interrupted from his solace at the forward viewport by his XO, and turned to face the subordinate officer.

"Eliminate the probable, Commander, and what remains, even if improbable, must be taken seriously."

"Out here, sir?"

Wygraant nodded.

"If you were hunted by billions of the Empire's finest, wouldn't you go to ground in the most remote and desolate corner of the galaxy you could find?"

The notion of Jedi Knights running amok unsettled the Commander, who was more comfortable with an enemy using conventional tools at their disposal that he could quantify and understand. With a Jedi Knight, the assumptions ran into tall tale territory. That the Emperor and Lord Vader themselves were unmanned in the Death Star of all places, potentially at the hand of a Jedi, was no consolation.

"I don't much like it, sir."

The Captain raised his eyebrows, offering an empathetic nod.

"Nor I. But our mission, Jedi or no Jedi, is to make contact with the enemy, and we've certainly accomplished that."

He looked around his bridge, which still had a tinge of ozone in the air from burned circuitry from a few consoles and fixtures, a small sign of the mammoth damage his ship had taken.

"That our nose has been bloodied only gives gravity to the threat we have to report. Our priority, then, is to restore the HoloNet tranciever. I want to establish communication with Coruscant as soon as possible."

The Commander agreed.

"We have our priority repair teams on the task now. Our secondary efforts are to the engine superstructure. Of course, the damage there is extensive and considerable. Our efforts thus far have simply been to contain the catastrophe. Seal the hull breaches and plasma fires and whatnot. At least that has been just about completed."

At the same time, an Ensign approached with a datapad containing detailed repair status updates, underscoring the Commander's assessment. Wygraant glanced over it. The list of sectors and systems in need of repair had been organized according to priority and damage extent. The list was, suffice to say, longer than he'd imagined.




Meanwhile, in the Decimator's main engineering operations station....



"This sector's under control. Have your men get to work re-routing the power grid through the bulkhead superstructure. It doesn't have to pass a beauty contest. It just has to work for now."

Ensign Shrane Nerra peeled the sweat-soaked cap off his head and wiped his forehead with his sleeve, letting the subordinate repair crew get to work on the routine task of cutting away the damaged power conduits at their junctions to install replacements and bypasses. The air here was hot from both the now-extinguished plasma fires, and the body heat of a good 50 people working in an area where climate regulation was a distant priority. The sound of arc welders and rotary saws was heavy on his ears as he took a brief five minutes off the line to go over updated schematics for the repairs. Captain Wygraant, understandably, had pushed his teams to their limits. All across the engineering decks, men were working in huge crews to get things back on track.

"Where's Deran?"

Irritated, Ensign Nerra shouted to a man on his crew, who turned to shout back.

"Infirmary! He caught a small burn from a failed coolant junction. Not too bad, should be back in half an hour, as the bacta goes."

Shrane massaged his temple as he took the news in.

"Fine, fine. We'll wait to go below deck until he gets back. Gives it more time to cool off, anyway. Just find something to square away up here and we'll blow the hatch downstairs when he's back."

It was, by Shrane's estimates, going to be a sleepless night, easily.

[Akrabbim]

Akrabbim sits cross-legged on Deran's bed, still trying to come up with operation names. He realizes that this is not the best use of his time, and attempts to be a bit more productive. He rises, scanning the room once more, but the small quarters aren't revealing anything else of use.

He had rifled through the man's belongings as soon as he entered the room, getting a good history memorized should questions arise. He entered the Imperial academy about five cycles ago, was stationed on the Decimator only a few days ago. Akrabbim would like to claim his own genius in picking a man who very few other Imps would know, but it was nothing more than blind luck. *Of course, there's really no reason luck should be blind. Capricious, maybe, but blindness doesn't really imply lack of choice. A blind man can choose what he wants to eat or where he wants to go even if he can't see it... maybe luck should be non-sentient? No, because then luck would be kinda like a rock, and rocks don't seem to play with chance often... Perhaps luck is like a bantha...*

He is roused from his far-too-common tangent by the sound of the door sliding open. He raises his illusion of invisibility once more before he is seen, stepping off to the side. Deran, his mark, walks in wearily, heading toward his spare uniforms. It would seem that even the engineers don't get off without a scratch in situations like these. As the man removes his damaged tunic, Akrabbim makes his move. One soft stride and he's in position. The man hears the faint sounds of his feet on the ground, but before he can begin to turn, the hypo does its job. Any comments are cut short as he collapses in a heap. Akrabbim catches the man as he falls, guiding him down onto his bed before giving him a final once-over. He notes the position of the man's burns, checking for any distinguishing marks he didn't notice earlier. Once Akrabbim is certain that he has the man's look, he coats himself in an illusion of Deran, once again using light to create it. A change of clothes and he's ready for work.

He heads down to Engineering straight away. When he arrives, he starts to do... absolutely nothing. *Idiot! You're a Jedi, NOT AN ENGINEER!* Mentally yelling at himself for forgetting this minor piece of information, he improvises. Grabbing the nearest unattended datapad he can find, he starts wandering around the Engineering department, attempting to look as though he knows what he's doing. If he can just make it through this shift, he'll be good to go. He can finish his sabotage and be gone like a puff of wind. Which gets him thinking...

*Operation Puff! No, that's stupid. Who would sing songs of the glorious Operation Puff? Then again, no one really sings songs about any operations. Do they even call them operations any more?...*

[Rolth Wygraant]

"Deran! Well, you're not barbecued yet, so might as well get back to it."

Shrane gave him a clap on the shoulder as he caught the crewman on his way back to his post.

"You can still hoist a plasma cutter, right? We've got a lot of durasteel between us and the next job. Two more relays gotta be respooled below deck, and we're not really sure how cooked it is down there."

They walked along a corridor filled with the cacophony of dozens of tools being used. Shrane hefted a heavy plasma cutter for himself and passed one along to the junior officer to use.

"If we keep it going at this rate, we might actually get backup hyperdrive restored by morning. It'll be barely classed lightspeed, but it'll get us to the nearest port in a week rather than three months."

[Akrabbim]

Akrabbim nods sagely at the man's words, trying desperately to figure out something to do that won't get him caught. When he is handed the plasma cutter, however, he relaxes a bit. He's seen these things before, enough to get close to using them. If nothing else, he can always pretend to burn himself to get away.

He holds up the cutter, fiddling with it the best he can. When it doesn't look like Shrane is going to give him any further orders, he ventures a comment. Though he can bend the light around him to fool holovid recorders, he can't do the same with his voice. That will have to be modified with the normal sort of illusions. Hopefully no one's listening too closely to them. He tries his best Deran impression anyway, just in case, and augments his attempt via the Force.

"Sure thing, Sir. Where do you want me to focus first?"

He nearly has to bite his lip to make sure he doesn't keep talking. After so much solitude, he'd love nothing more than to keep chatting. But the more he says, the more chance he has for misspeaking.

[Rolth Wygraant]

Shrane gives him a bewildered look, and then shrugs it off as a joke.

"Nice one. Had me going, too. I think I've been up long enough to put my sense of humor to bed."

The Ensign knelt down to a service grate that would carry the team down to the lower deck. There, he checked the grating with a temperature probe.

"Ambient temp is back down to 40 celsius. It's gonna be hot and uncomfortable, but it won't kill us at least."

With a nod to another crewer, the grate was pulled back with a grunt.

"We'll work in shifts of two. Two men on, two men off. If you get woozy, take a spell. We don't need more people up in the infirmary, right Deran?"

[Akrabbim]

Akrabbim chuckles, shrugging off the comment as if he truly had made a joke. If he'd have been thinking more quickly, he could have made the thermometer look as though it was showing a much higher temp. Too late for that now. He gestures the other crewman forward, following behind him.

Once in the lower deck, he follows the other man to their work location, feigning slight disorientation from his previous trip to the medic. The man shrugs and leads the way, allowing Akrabbim to follow. When they arrive at their location, all thoughts of faking it evaporate. He can figure out how to use the cutter, but can't even hope to match the precision of his co-worker. Time for Plan B. B for "Boom". And for "Better to try this than cut off my own foot with a plasma cutter", but that doesn't roll off the tongue quite as well.

He starts to hoist the cutter into position, doing so more rapidly than is necessary. He smacks the cutter against the wall, knocking it out of his hands. He stumbles back to keep it from hitting his feet, pretending to ram into a bulkhead behind him. His coworker looks down, checking on him.

"You ok?"

"Yeah, yeah... just not watching what I'm doing... I'm good."

He turns around to a kneeling position, as if working his way back to his feet. As the Imp goes back to work, Akrabbim reaches into his uniform, pulling out another of the thermal dets he had "requisitioned" earlier. He quickly sets it for 60 seconds, and tucks it into an alcove. As he stands again, he creates a small illusion. He replicates the same leak that caused the real Deran to go to the infirmary in the first place. Seconds after the junction appears to rupture, he creates an appropriate warning klaxon. His eyes go wide, feigning alarm.

"We gotta get outta here!"

Akrabbim starts running, yelling to the other Imps in the deck...

"Junction failure! Run!"

He high-tails it back through the gate, beckoning to the rest of the Imps to hurry. He should be well out of range of the det by now. Hopefully it will cause enough damage that the thermal det's work won't be obvious. But even if it is, any blame should fall squarely on the shoulders of poor Deran.

[Rolth Wygraant]

"Go! Go! Go!"

Shrane bolts up to his feet, not even worrying about the plasma cutter as he pulls another tech along with him. The half dozen workers mob the ladder well to pull themselves to safety. The last man barely makes it clear before Shrane slams the hatch cover down. A mammoth shockwave belts everyone to their feet, buckling the deck plating as the lights go out. The detonation, confined to a relatively small area, is catastrophically loud, and in the chaos of the aftermath, all the Ensign can hear is a muffled ringing in his ears.

"Another leak?!?" He overcompensates his voice to offset his temporarily overloaded ears. The crew is completely dazed, and he crawls on his hands and knees to check a readout.

"We shut the valve off! How the hell was there enough tibanna in there for a blowback?"

[Akrabbim]

Akrabbim affects a panicked look, grabbing at Shrane, taking hold of his uniform.

"Sir! We have to get out of the section! Seal the place off and flood it with an anaerobic gas, to keep any more explosions from triggering. We can send in some droids later, but for now, this place is just too dangerous! Hurry!"

[Rolth Wygraant]

Wordlessly, Shrane follows Deran's heed rushing out of the compartment along with his crew as he slaps down the controls to have the emergency bulkhead seal off the area they were in previously.

"Deran, I've got to tamp this hell fire down again. Get up to deck 205 and report to Lieutenant Gryer. Commo's still in the soup, so we can't patch anybody down here."

It didn't help that Shrane worried that Deran got a little sloppy with the plasma cutter, and needed him elsewhere while he regrouped. They were all running a little threadbare right now.

[Akrabbim]

Akrabbim nods, saluting Shrane before jogging away. He does his best to suppress a smile, barely succeeding. *Akrabbim 1, Engineering 0. Now, to continue the fun...*

He heads up to a higher deck, but not 205. Instead, after a bit of blundering around, he arrives at the supply depot. He steps up, looking haggard and weary, placing his borrowed badge on the desk.

"Hey... I'm here to pick up that set of det charges, along with the other sundries."

He leans heavily on the desk, trying to make this transaction look as routine as possible. Not surprisingly, the clerk finds no reference to such an order. Akrabbim sighs dramatically, running his hand through his hair. He plops his datapad down onto the desk, pointing at what appears to be an authorization.

"Look... we just had a major collapse down there... comms are down, fires are up, you get the picture. We gotta have these explosives to get back TO the engines so that we can fix the things. Either gimme the stuff, or get out and push. I'm running on no sleep and pain meds, so I really don't have time for this. You got any questions, ask Ensign Nerra."

After a couple moments pondering, the overworked clerk shrugs and walks to the back, coming back with several det packs and various grenades and timers.

"Here's your stuff, Sir. But be careful. You've got enough stuff there to breach the hull several times over. Why do you need so much?"

"There's a LOT of high-grade metal down there blocking our way. We've tried every form of cutter we can find... even used a couple blasters, and we're barely making a dent. Relax, we'll put this stuff to good use. When the comms come back up, ask him."

Akrabbim hoists the bag of goodies up on his shoulder. With a wave over his shoulder, he heads out, entering the nearest turbolift. He had planned to head to the remaining hangar bay and be done with it when inspiration strikes. *I wonder how effective a ship like this would be if you had to climb ladders to get between decks...* Covering his actions with illusion, he reaches into the bag, removing one of the det packs. Eleven remain. *Hmm... I want to save at least two to make sure I can take out the hangar, in case no handy piles of torpedoes are laying around this time. So... I can take out ten... better pick good ones.* He arms the device, opening the top hatch of the lift. The pack is attached to the roof, the hatch is closed, and Akrabbim exits the lift humming a merry tune. He continues to other lifts, heading first to the lifts connecting the main bridge from the rest of the ship. *Lets see if I can decapitate this behemoth. Man, when these go off, the look on their faces will be PRICELESS...*

[Rolth Wygraant]

"Captain, we have a problem."

The lieutenant in the crew pit caught Rolth's attention, and he frowned darkly.

"If you haven't noticed, we have no shortage of those, lieutenant. Come on then, out with it."

"We've had another explosion on one of the engineering levels."

The Captain waited for the other shoe to drop.

"We've had several secondary explosions, haven't we?"

"That's not it, sir. The tibanna shunt is the only possible cause for an explosion at that junction, and all engineering teams confirm that the valves had been shut down and the remaining tibanna purged."

"Then what caused it?" Although, the Captain was starting to think ahead already.

"Not sure, sir. There's a lot of damage down there. ORD depot checked in to say that engineering requested several det packs to clear the bulkheads to get at the scene, though I haven't been able to find anybody in engineering to confirm it."

Wygraant's jawline tightened, and he looked to a subordinate captain, clad in the black uniform of the Stormtrooper officer's corps.

"Captain, deploy a platoon to engineering, and post triple patrols."

The Stormtrooper captain, naturally paranoid, seemed to gain Wygraant's line of though through empathy.

"Saboteurs, sir?"

Rolth turned to face the viewport, clasping his hands behind his back.

"I don't believe in coincidences. Either the Rebels somehow slipped an agent onto our ship unseen, or..."

He turned back with a grave expression.

"...we have some kind of fifth column of Rebel sympathizers working from within our ranks. Either way, I want this problem solved, Captain."

The Stormtrooper officer clicked his heels and gave a curt nod.

"At once, Captain Wygraant."

With that, he left the bridge, to carry out Wygraant's command.

[Akrabbim]

Akrabbim continues his circuit of the ship, tossing a det pack on the top of several major lifts, including one of the major cargo lifts. With two more packs remaining, he heads toward "his" quarters.

He makes a small detour to the remaining hangar bay, scouting about. He modifies the illusion covering him slightly, making it appear that he is simply wandering about the hangar aimlessly. Fortunately, the bay is relatively empty. All hands are probably dealing with the remains of the previous hangar. Masking illusion in place, he makes a bee-line to a very lovely little ship off to the side.

Akrabbim's never been much of a pilot, but he knows quality when he sees it. He slips aboard, admiring the craftsmanship and... well, downright spiffiness of the whole set-up. *Oh yes... this is DEFINITELY the escape route for Operation Bad Guys Go Boom...* He wanders forward, finding the main cabin of the ship. Peeking through, he sees the pilot's chair occupied by a shiny new droid.

*A pilot droid! Even better! The Imps don't DESERVE a ship like this. No... this ship is destined for Rebel service. And by Rebel service, I mean Akrabbim service. Ahhh... flitting from planet to planet by my trusty sidekick, righting wrongs, all while looking stylish in the process...* He shakes his head once more, snapping back to reality. *Finish the set-up, first. THEN it's off into the wild black yonder.*

He exits the ship, heading over to this hangar's stockpile of torpedoes. *Wow, they never learn. I mean, you could cut them some slack because half their ship is on fire, but still. This is just shoddy...* He places the remaining det-packs under the torpedoes, arming them as well. He merges back with his illusory self, and heads back to the quarters.

Now, for the grand finale. He's made sure that Deran's face was seen by virtually every recorder and low-level functionary around. It shouldn't take them long to realize something's up. Once he verifies that Deran is still out cold, he starts packing the man's belongings in a hurried, disorderly fashion. Let them think he was ready to jump ship. Then, he takes out a datapad and composes a message, mentioning his work for the Rebels, describing how he sabotaged both hangars, with more tricks to come. He stops the message near the end, leaving it un-finished and un-sent. Now, all he has to do is wait for the Imps to figure it out. He sits back to wait, daydreaming about the soon-to-be-acquired ship in the hangar...

[Rolth Wygraant]

"You there."

The Stormtrooper Captain was no smiles when he and his platoon met up at the ordnance depot, and the crewman manning the station certainly felt the gravity of the situation. Calling the corps on board an Imperial warship never meant good things.

"I assume you're here to ask about the det packs, sir?"

"Indeed I am, out with it."

The crewman gulped.

"Man ID'd as Ensign Deran, and said he had authorization from Ensign Nerra."

The Captain's countenance darkened.

"Yes, we've had words with this Nerra. He works with Deran, but was adamant that he'd given no such authorization. Said Deran was sent to the infirmary in a tibanna blow-back."

The Captain looked down to the desk, picking up a dataslip.

"Is this the authorization?"

The clerk nodded nervously, and the Captain passed it along to his second.

"Don't leave your post, clerk. I may have other questions for you."

He looked to the rest of his men.

"I want to find this Deran. Check the ensign's quarters and the infirmary."

Without pause, the stormtrooper squad hurried off.

[Akrabbim]

Akrabbim starts checking on the real Ensign Deran... if he's found in a drugged state, it'll make this cover story that much harder to sell. Fortunately, it looks like the guy's starting to come out of it. Akrabbim's not the best mind reader, but with direct contact, he can usually get at least some images. Though the man's thoughts are still hazy, they're a heck of a lot closer to being coherent. In another few minutes, a good shove should wake him up.

*Well... soon our little sleeper should be up and going. I kinda feel bad pinning this on some poor grunt, but he's an imperial grunt, so he's fair game. In a few hours, there won't be anything left of me here but a rumor... hey!* The name "Rumor" triggers yet another tangent, but seeing as there's nothing to do now but wait until someone comes to pound down the locked quarters, he might as well...

[Rolth Wygraant]

The Stormtrooper detatchment made haste, arriving promptly at Ensign Deran's quarters. The chime buzzed...and buzzed again. No response was given.

"Open it."

Being more or less responsible for matters of security aboard ships of the Imperial Navy, the Stormtrooper Corps could certainly override a ship's lock with little due process. Within seconds, the door was opened, and four troopers poured in, along with the Captain.

"Looks like he's out of it. Wake him."

Deran was brusquely roused awake by a stormtrooper.

"Ensign Deran, I'm Captain Brols of the Stormtrooper Corps. Come with us, I have questions for you."

[Akrabbim]

Akrabbim backs up against the wall of the small quarters, remaining invisible. As the Trooper reaches in to wake him up, Akrabbim adds a quick illusion. He covers Deran with a slightly modified image of the ensign trying to rapidly delete the message on the pad. After a moment, Akrabbim makes it appear that the pad has been knocked out of his hand. At that point, using the tip of his sword, he flicks the pad onto the ground, right at Borls' feet.

*If he's too oblivious to see that, I may as well sneak onto the bridge and pilot this thing into the sun...*

[Rolth Wygraant]

"What's this, then?"

Brols stooped to pick up the datapad, giving it a quick once over. He then pauses, taking time to go over what he just read again, to be sure.

"You mind explaining to me what this is?"

Of course he could very well see what it is, but Deran was now dead to rights. Anything he said could potentially seal things up that much more. His hand clenched on the datapad, waiting for the Ensign to come up with something - anything. When he denied any knowledge, still under a bit of shock from seeing armed guards, Brols's eyes narrowed.

"Sergeant, place this man under arrest. I believe we've got our saboteur."

Deran shouted and moved to stand, but was quickly put into binders. In a few more moments, the utterly shocked crewman was led away, with Captain Brols leading up the rear.

[Akrabbim]

As the merry little party of shock troops (escorting one not-merry-at-all ensign) wanders toward the brig, Akrabbim follows, invisibly. After several minutes, they near the turn to the surviving hanger, and Akrabbim finishes his game.

When Brols nears Deran's side, he creates a small illusion of the man smirking, along with the sound of a whisper, just loud enough for Brols to hear.

"You may have caught me, but you're too late..."

Just as Brols starts to react, Akrabbim hits the first detonator, blowing all the det packs left in the lift shafts. He sprints off toward the hangar bay, still invisible, cloaking himself in light in order to avoid any recording devices.

He slips into the hangar, glad to find the bay nearly empty.

*I guess having most of your lifts suddenly turning into... well... NOT lifts... made them a bit skittish.*

Akrabbim rushes up the gangway to his new ship... only to find one tech dutifully checking out the ship. He applies a quick illusion, changing form into a man similar to Captain Brols, but not quite. The uniform is the same, but the face is markedly different, yet not <i>entirely</i> so. That way, if the man is questioned later, he won't be able to tell exactly who ordered him out. After creating an illusion of the false officer storming into the hangar and into the ship, he puts on an authoritative stare and effects a booming voice.

"What in blazes are you still doing in here, man? Don't you know we're on lockdown?"

As the man nearly jumps out of his boots in shock, Akrabbim's face turns suspicious.

"Unless... you know, we have a saboteur on board... you look awfully suspicious just wandering around..."

He slowly reaches for the illusory sidearm in its holster, stepping back a bit. The tech's eyes widen, hands coming up in front of him.

<i>"N-no sir, no sir! I... was just doing my job, sir! I'll... I'll get back to my quarters now, sir, on the double, sir!"</i>

The tech rushes by, never looking back, running headlong out of the bay. Grinning, Akrabbim drops his illusion, and takes a seat in the co-captain's chair. The shiny new droid next to him speaks up.

<b>You are not authorized to be in this vessel. In accordance with Imperial Boarding policy number 9.553, subsection 7, I cannot allow your presence. You must be accompanied by...</b>

Akrabbim sighs, already bored by the droid's droning. *Had to be a rule-follower, didn't it?*

[Akrabbim]

After what seems like hours of Imperial regulations spewing from the droid, Akrabbim motions for the thing to cease its chatter. It promptly ignores him, and starts making comments like, "...alerting the proper authorities..." and "... penalties including execution...".

At this point, the more direct approach to negotiations becomes clear. He speaks up, talking over the droid, causing it to, finally, be silent.

"Wait wait wait... before we go on, I have one question. You do have a self-preservation protocol, right?"

The droid pauses a moment, then replies.

I do. All FEG-series pilot droids are trained to calculate the optimum course of action to ensure the safety of themselves and any passengers they should be carrying. Should a situation arise in which the survival of the passengers would require the destruction of the droid, then in all cases...

Akrabbim starts drifting as soon as an affirmative answer is given. Instead of waiting for another lecture, Akrabbim whips out his belt dagger, the point of the blade hovering directly in front of the droid's photoreceptor.

"I'm no FEG-series, but I'm pretty sure the correct course of action in this case is to pilot me outta here. How's that sound?"

The droid once more ponders, but comes to a conclusion much more quickly.

That... sounds optimal, sir. Leaving now.

As the pilot droid rapidly goes through the pre-flight checklist and readies the ship for takeoff, Akrabbim covers their escape via illusion. As they exit the hangar, leaving the ship in the chaos of the previous sabotage, Akrabbim gets to know his new pilot.

"So, tell me... what do I call you, anyway?"

I am FEG-27, sometimes referred to as "FeeJee-27", if you prefer.

He shakes his head, muttering under his breath for a moment.

"Nahh... I'll never remember that... need something snappier... with more oomph... speaking of oomph... I feel like I'm forgetting something... oh yeah!"

He presses the button on the final detonator, reducing the remaining hangar on the Star Destroyer to... well... something not very useful. *Wow, I gotta get better with this inner monologue...*

"Hmmm... how about... 'Sparky'?"

The droid lets out a small sigh, but wisely determines that disagreeing with a heavily armed man who just blew up a large chunk of his previous employer's ship would not be conducive to a long existence.

... ah... well... Sparky it is, then, sir.

Akrabbim grins, leaning back, feet up on the console as they speed away, heading toward what he can only imagine to grand adventures of heroism and do-gooding.

[Rolth Wygraant]

Just as Captain Brols was returning to brief Wygraant on the state of the saboteur aboard, a larger explosion shuddered the ship. Alert klaxons blared, a sound that was becoming annoyingly common.

"Major explosions in the hangar bay, and secondary explosions. We've had to blow atmosphere to remove the ordnance, and seal the deck!"

So now they were blind, crippled, and had limited support measures, aside from the auxiliary control. All in all, it was a humiliating stroke, and they had been just on the cusp of a fantastic victory.

With a weary look on his face, Wygraant spoke to Brols.

"This Mr. Deran. Interrogate him. Damage this heavy, he must have accomplices, perhaps still aboard."

The stormtrooper captain saluted and exited, leaving Wygraant to his own increasingly-frustrated thoughts.