Kris Rietsveld | The Damsel (thecorrupt) wrote in thegalaxy, @ 2016-06-01 20:17:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | !locale: space, kaz brekker |
lose yourself, cut your ties
Who: Kaz.
What: A delivery to the First Order goes awry.
When: Backdated to before the slasher!Cassie events.
Where: Aboard the Hands in neutral space.
Rating: PG?
Kaz's eyes lingered over the crates as a mix of his men and First Order soldiers delivered them to a waiting ship. His venture with the much-maligned Order had been lucrative thus far, and he was beginning to feel the creep of a smile on his face. Who was to say there was nothing to be gained in remaining neutral in a conflict? The leaders of the Order had been pleased with his previous shipments, and a fourth was now in the pipeline. There seemed no end to what he could accomplish in this endeavor, and he had begun turning his mind toward offering the same to the Resistance. He wouldn't want anyone to feel left out.
The only downside was that he'd had to upscale his operation more quickly than he would have liked. The size of the orders was simply too large for his usual crew to fulfill with the accuracy and speed the Order demanded. Lax as he was to hire those unfamiliar to him without having gone through a rigorous background check, he ended up bringing on five extra men that his previous crew members had vouched for. With enough pay in their pocket, Kaz felt confident that they were on his side long enough for him to finish this particular job. What they did after was of no concern to him, as long as it didn’t directly harm his business. He'd have more time then to review their files and decide if they were worth keeping around, or if he should look elsewhere for more employees.
Fingers curled comfortably around the silver crow’s head of his staff, he noted that the delivery was reaching its halfway mark. In a small way, he had a small amount of respect for those who ran the First Order; they knew what they wanted, and they weren’t afraid to pay for such things, whatever the cost. If it couldn’t be bought, they took it. It was a simple and forthright strategy, one that he could play to easily. He realized that such a demeanor might not bode well for him and his, but for the moment he was too taken in by the fact that he was, quite simply, doing so well. Ten years ago, the old Kaz from the Barrel would have sneered at what he'd become: this complacent simpleton.
His ears should have been pricked, nose to the wind ready to scent danger. When the explosion came, it took him by complete surprise. Pieces of crate flew through the air, striking Kaz in the head and hitting others. The sound of metal warping, alarms notifying destabilizing pressure, and men's screams filled the air as a momentary insanity took hold of all.
Smoke filled the cargo bay of his beloved Hands, and Kaz found himself on the floor. His jaw had bitten his tongue hard enough to draw blood, and he scrambled for his cane, which was nowhere to be found. His head throbbed, and he struggled to make sense of what had occurred. Something sticky and wet trailed down his forehead; a cursory touch revealed it to be blood. Struggling to his feet, another crew member suddenly jerked him up as they appeared out of the smoke. He turned to snap at them, but they released him just as quickly – the shapes of men were running about the small space in and out of the smoke, followed by the bright red light of gunfire.
“I need to get to the cockpit,” he muttered more to himself than to the man who'd assisted him. Reaching out a hand to the wall, he had to take a few uncertain steps to find it. Then, moving by muscle memory (he knew his ship like, well, the back of his hand), he carefully and slowly picked his way toward the pilot's seat. Though the length of the ship had never been too large for him to navigate on his own, it suddenly seemed light years huge. He was forced to step over no fewer than two bodies, one he recognized as a man he'd newly hired and the second a First Order soldier. He didn't allow these sights to hamper his movements or slow him further; unperturbed, he moved on, focusing on his goal of attaining control of his ship. Though his gloves kept him from truly touching the metal siding of the walls, he could feel familiar screens, control panels and viewports that told him he was on the right path. There was no time to discover what had happened; no time to discern who was responsible.
He grabbed another passerby, glad to see that they were a familiar crewmember who had been aboard the Hands several times before. “Get the docking bay doors closed. We’re leaving!” The man paused, fear clear as day on his features. He was already running in the opposite direction from where the alarms were signifying danger, but after a beat, he seemed to find himself. Nodding swiftly at Kaz, he moved off into the smoke and called for others to assist him. Hopefully there was still enough of the crew left to manage the task, otherwise they weren't going to get very far. Kaz grimaced as a spike of pain shot through his bad leg, but he ignored it and pushed on.
His fortitude was rewarded in the next few minutes as relief flooded his body when his gaze fell on the cockpit entrance. He hurried through it, grasping the pilot's chair with no small amount of possession and slid into it gingerly, favoring his right leg. Then he was all frenetic movement; hands toggled switched and hit buttons that would get the Hands up and running, hopefully before the First Order ship did. The Hands was equipped with a simplistic weapons system, having been built more for speed and maneuverability than for actual combat. He prayed to whatever was listening that the lion's share of the damage had been applied to the other ship, and that it would slow them down. If there was a third ship present, responsible for the explosion, Kaz was certain he could still outrun it. His eyes flicked down to a screen that told him the docking connections were still in place -- they weren't going anywhere with that extra weight.
A finger tapped against the dashboard impatiently. He could hear the thumping of boots running throughout his small vessel, and began to reach down for the blaster he kept stored under his seat. Just as he was doing so, the screen turned blue, signifying that the docking connectors were free and the Hands was clear to set sail. He leaned back up quickly, hitting the gas for all he was worth. The Hands shot forward like an arrow from a bow.
He didn’t glance back at the First Order ship; instead, he kept the ship moving forward, back toward its home port in Coruscant, and wasn’t surprised when the ship’s cannons started firing at him. Long red streaks broke through the black expanse around them, but Kaz's eyes were solely on what was in front of him. An asteroid field wasn't too far off; he'd lose them there, wind around and then turn back for his home port. It was never a poor idea to ensure that anyone who might be possibly tailing them would lose the trail. Whatever had occurred, the First Order clearly held him responsible. For the moment, though, he would focus on one problem at a time as more and more sensors bleated at him of the various aches and pains the Hands had suffered. He sympathized as his own body groaned in complaint from the beating it had taken. Grimacing at the pain from one arm, ignoring the complaints from his bad leg, Kaz did what he did best.
He survived.