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Planet Mandalore
Mirci'Cerar- House Vizsla Gulag
1850 local time
"The Gulag"
"Uh, everything's under control. Situation normal."
"What happened?"
"Uh, we had a slight weapons malfunction, but uh... everything's perfectly all right now. We're fine. We're all fine here now, thank you. How are you?"
"We're sending a squad up."
"Uh, uh... negative, negative. We had a reactor leak here now. Give us a few minutes to lock it down. Large leak, very dangerous."
"We don't even have a reactor! Who is this? What's your operating number?"
"Uh..."
Mikha'el blasted the console with his stolen carbine.
"Boring conversation anyway... Caed, we're gonna have company." the mandalorian said into the short range comm link the crew had smuggled into the prison. He pulled of the silly looking Mandalorian guard helmet he'd been wearing, glad to be rid of its stink, and dropped it to the ground next to the still twitching body of the man who was supposed to have been working at this console. "How long do you think they'll give-," the question was cut short by a blaring alarm as emergency lights flashed red around the corners of the room. "Well, osik. Suppose luck couldn't carry us forever, eh?"
The plan had come off surprisingly well thus far. The stolen access codes had secured them a landing zone, and the stolen guard uniforms and ID's had carried them well into the prison. It had taken months of work to get this far. The un-inventively named remote mountain prison Mirci'Cerar was not an easy place to gain access to. While the gulag was mostly known as a place for the worst prisoners of the war to rot away in the frozen, rocky wastes, it was also home to those the regime would rather just let the public forget- peoples who's views and rhetoric didn't toe the House line closely enough. People like Ral. Fool should have stuck to the outer rim like the rest of them Mik thought, but he was willing to chalk this mistake up as a learning experience. Words didn't move people. Blasters and swords did.
The knight plopped a heavy duffel bag down on the smoking remains of the console and drug out a smelly black cloak and twisted mask. The Sith truly had no sense of style. He grimaced, but settled the mask over his face and threw the cloak around his shoulder anyway. Then he pulled a gnarled silver rod out of the bag and inspected it closely. It had cost them more than he would have liked and was a pain to get hold of, but anything could be had in the black markets behind the Border Alliances front line if you looked hard enough and had the credits. He felt dirty just touching this thing. At least, Mik thought as he ignited the scarlet blade of the lightsaber, they'd get a good laugh presenting Ral with a bill for his own rescue. He cast a glance at Kex through the eye slit of the mask.
"Come on Bardan. For the Brotherhood of the Sith and the Sacred Band, rah rah rah and all that. Right?"
You could have scooped the sarcasm with a spoon, so heavy was its drip.
@Ral @Ecclessey @Bardan Kex @Arclight
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