PART 2 of 2
The Prisoner's head turned to them with a slow, almost agonizing share of patience. It was there that dark lashes framed his icy blue eyes in such a way that only intensified the feral nature of his stare. His pupils dilated with a microscopic shiver of exhilaration, like a starved beast within pouncing distance of its long-bated prey. They keened to Squad 0-1-6, who now squeezed at the dedlanite stocks of their rifles with a nerve-rattling clinch.
"Don't move!" The Squad Commander barked through the resonance of his helmet, more out of some misguided guilt of inaction, than any sense of courage or duty. "Put your hands up or we will fire!" The Prisoner heard the blared ultimatum, but did not waver in his long, menacing assessment. Slow and calculating, he stood his ground as the most subtle of nodding circulated his gaze from one trooper to the next, over and over again. The act was not only brimming of defiance, but also ripened with uncertainty. Did he not realize what was said to him? Was he truly as primitive as he appeared? This was his life being threatened, not some game to be played…unless it was. The Squad Commander's posture stiffened with revelation, as his eyes tracked the rhythm at which the man's head bounced from each of them, so timed and familiar, that he berated himself for not recognizing it sooner. The Prisoner was indeed playing a silent game, using their lives as its set pieces, and that game was eenie-meenie-miney-mo. "FIRE NOW!" The Commander loosed a cry, so desperate in its making, that his men hurried an innate switch to lethal settings.
The rapid barrage of energized bolts ignited the corridor with pulses of glowing scarlet, flying in multitude as fingers compressed triggers without restraint. In that instant, the squad no longer cared about their orders, fear had freed them of all rational thought. The only thing that mattered now was getting off as many shots as they could before the power cells in their weapons depleted. The firing levied in full stream, filling the Prisoner's direction with a swarm of projectiles that normally would've obliterated any soul in their path, had it not been for an unseen intervention. The bolts exploded from the tips of the rifles, flying with the deadly initiative that was expected of them, but only to a point. Once reaching a few feet from the Prisoner's unmoving stance, they would go no further, suspended perfectly still in the air as if ensnared in some sort of invisible web.
The mouths of the troopers dropped agape under their helmets. They knew of this sorcery, touted as a talent used only by the Master of the Knights of Ren. Yet, that had been mere rumor, to see it in person, as they did now, revealed the true magnificence of the act in a way that no grouping of words ever could. Never had either member of the squad imagined they would witness such an incredible feat as this, and in the deepest spaces of their hearts, as bitter reality offset the majesty of the moment, they now knew it would be the last sight they ever saw. The Prisoner's breathing now quickened with an exasperated depth, as his eyes began to flash between silvery blue and a chemical swirl of red and yellow that never solidified, making him appear even more bestial than ever before. With a rising flick of his fingers, the bolts spun and reversed course, their trajectory altered towards the two Rifle Troopers off to the side. Words at last formed in the Prisoner's lips, and in their parting, left behind the most insidious of smiles. "Mo."
With a piercing thrum, the bolts launched, seeking the pair of troopers like a swarm of kinetic javelins. Their bodies flailed with a wild flimsiness, freeing their weapons of their grips as each projectile detonated into them, casting flashes of brightened sparks and plumes of smoke that clouded that region of the hall. The pair roared in one anguished throat, ringing so loud and deep into the com that the others felt their ears pop. When the last bolt struck, and death's mercy finally ushered in, the troopers collapsed to the floor in a vaporous heap of mangled armor and flickering embers, spared of any further torment yet to come. Pressing his advantage in the surmounting confusion, the Prisoner breached the dispersing veil of smoke with a lancing step, kicking one leg off the wall to propel the other into an acrobatic collision with the Baton Trooper's chest plate. The impact hit with a bludgeoning thump, careening the trooper into the wall behind him, where he came down in a slouch of daze.
Knowing the other two were lost to this world, the Prisoner then focused his sole attention on the Squad Commander, who'd just returned to his feet from an evasive dive of the bolt swarm. With paced steps, the Prisoner came to meet him with his arms at his side, and the same sinful smile adorning his mouth, daring his opponent to make the first move. Out of raw anger or fear, the Commander took the invitation, throwing aside his blaster rifle and hooking a hard swing for the Prisoner's jaw that missed when he stepped out of range. Coming out of his swing, and knowing it didn't land, the Commander quickly re-positioned his feet and reversed his hips in the opposite direction, swinging with his left fist this time, that again missed its mark, but prompted no retaliation. The theory of a game being played resurfaced, but only served to enrage the Commander more, as he now began to bomb combinations of jabs, hooks, and overhands, all of which either didn't connect or were blocked with a perfectly-timed forearm or elbow.
Battered, but still poised to fight, the Baton Trooper struggled to stance at the Prisoner's back, where he concealed the magnetized grip of his riot baton and whirled it into activation. Pushing off from the wall, the trooper spun the baton again to readjust the angle and lunged, rushing a strike for the rear of their attacker. As if sensing the imminent threat without offering so much as a glance to confirm it, the Prisoner shifted out of aim with an adeptly-balanced spin, just as the pulsing conductor vanes veered past him and straight into the stomach of the Squad Commander.A bright citron field was suddenly thrust upon the Commander's frame, rattling it as the electrical currents conducted through his limbs, contracting his muscles in a searing flow of convulsion that didn't subside until the building charge propelled him to the ground.
Horrified by his mistake, the Baton Trooper was unable to react in time to the Prisoner as he spun out from his dodge, and with an open palm, stilled him just as he rebounded for another attempt. The change came quick, almost instant, save for a subdued jerk before the paralytic state solidified. The Commander watched from the floor, his mind fractured with equals parts pain and fatigue, but still lucid enough to understand what he witnessed was no hallucination. The Baton Trooper was as immobilized as he now was, only by differing means. Pleaful moans filtered low and gravelly through a mouth that refused to work, seemingly crippled by nothing more than a gesture of the hand. Seeing the act with his own eyes now explained why the first responders never fired a single shot when the elevator opened, why they didn't offer a reprisal as they were slowly broken into inhuman shapes. They couldn't. He wouldn't let them.
From the very start of this, they were matched against an enemy far beyond them, the likes of which they were never trained to withstand, and there was never more proof of this than when the Prisoner snapped the Baton Trooper's neck with a simple swipe of his fingers. Watching his victim fall limp against the slickness of the wall and collapse under his own weight, brought an apparent measure of satisfaction to the Prisoner. He paused, analyzing his handiwork in the same way he was doing to the prior squad when the current one arrived. He'd disposed of them efficiently, the way he'd been taught to, and even managed to have some fun in the process. Yet, the window for enjoyment had closed now. He had to hurry before reinforcements filled the halls to capacity. Turning from the slain troopers, the Prisoner paid them no more regard than one would trash on the street, and was about to lean into a sprint when he noticed something forgotten.
The Commander stifled as the Prisoner's predatory gaze sank to him, still beaming with a narcotic shiver. The fear he felt then was worse than any he could ever recall. Worse than the first time he'd been fired on, and had to return fire. Worse than the cruel examples made of those who didn't comply with Captain Warvane's demands. It numbed him, even as his every instinct screamed for self-preservation. His legs, his arms, they were as stone.
In desperation, he smothered his breathing, thinking that if he held his breath long enough, no one would suspect he was still alive. The Prisoner was standing over him now, one foot on each side of his torso, undaunted, unamused, and above all else, undeceived. His hand went to his hip with a gradual sway, searching under the flap of his overlong robes until finding what he needed. Weighed in his grip was a cylinder-shaped item, ebony dark with slots of faded gray steel that extended down its length to the circular base. Shrouded smaller shafts hooked over a larger central opening like horns, both reversed in direction with a slight upward tilt. It was a sight known to legends, and all who passed them on from generation to generation. A lightsaber hilt.
A gleaming red blade jettisoned from one end, spitting miniature versions from the tips of the hooking shafts that bathed the Prisoner's already malevolent appearance with a hellish ruby glow. For a fleeting second, he looked to the pillars of blistering plasma and examined them with almost child-like awe, as though in some estranged way, he was endeared to its presence, and grateful for it. He twirled the saber twice in his hand in the most casual of manners, reacquainting himself with the feel of the weapon, when on the third twirl, the saber went high with a zipping hum, gaining height as its wielder's smile gained Commander felt death close in on him, sealing his breath deeper into his lungs with a sunken gasp. Panic took him, protesting for action that couldn't be completed. Out of pure survival instinct, he closed his eyes and threw one hand up in front of him as though to defy his fate and shield himself from the killing strike.
The Prisoner's posture then released, hacking downward with the force and speed of a guillotine, when it suddenly bucked, falling just short of severing the Commander's hand at the wrist. A flicker of something brought the Prisoner's eyes to yield, so brief in duration that he questioned if it happened at all. His stare hardened on the storm trooper's defense with accusatory heat, believing he was behind the image's emergence, until closer inspection proved this incorrect. It was something about the way the Commander cowered before him, the slant of the arm, the way the hand spread wide in front of him, it felt more than just familiar, it screamed to be remembered. He could never have distinguished the flicker in whole, and to even venture a guess would've been a long shot of the greatest distance, but despite that, the Prisoner couldn't fight the idea that for the length of that instant, it almost looked like a child's bloody face. A child he once knew...
It was only after an inordinate amount of time had passed that it occurred to the Commander that pain had not overtaken him. Just seconds prior to then, he was on the precipice of joining the other troopers in oblivion, and yet, he still drew breath. Gathering what last vestiges of will he possessed, the Squad Commander risked an opening of his eyes to investigate, and saw that while he still remained among the corpses of the hall, the Prisoner did not.
...
The Prisoner cleared the corner with urgency hastening his pace like accelerant to flames, each stride moving longer and more quickly than the last. Shame clinched his face into a scowl that gave form to the anger he suppressed within. He'd been foolish to waste so much time dispatching the storm troopers, and even more so in exerting himself in the process. Overindulgence. It had always been his cardinal sin. Already he could hear the words springing from his Lord's lips with sharp, piercing criticism. Every syllable stinging like a thousand needles of admonishment.
"Always remember, my children, do not drink too greedily from the well of the Force. It will stricken you, urge your favor again and again, as you will become reliant on its influence, and in turn, suffer under it. While the true power of the Force can only be attained through the Dark Side, it is not without its weaknesses. It proffers immense possibilities, but lacks vitality. It will drain your strength until even your anger will no longer fuel it. It will cloud your mind and demand your wrath, even when sparing your enemy, if only momentarily, will better aid your cause. To give yourself over to it completely, without the tutelage to guide you, is to invite your own destruction. It is because of this reason that discipline must become more than a necessity, it must become innate."
The wisdom was as true then as it was now, and yet, somehow he always found himself punished for disobeying it. Almost concurrently, the Prisoner felt his head start to fog, as his legs went rubbery. He'd reached deep into the Force in such a short time, and the journey's perils were starting to take their toll. The elevator trip from the lower levels was the first heavy blow. While to lift an entire structure was possible for those trained in the Force, that didn't mean it was easy. For it to move, your mind must will it to, as well as keep it moving for as long as needed. Sustaining one's concentration was vital in this process, and a single falter under the elevator's 1200 kg weight would've meant a fast plummet into the afterlife.
The second challenge followed almost immediately after the first, coming in the form of the ambush party that awaited him. To halt one person, even two, was child's play, but an entire squad more than tested his will, it fractured it. He had to reach even further after the other squad appeared and peppered him with their barrage. He could've drawn his saber then, he should have, but chose theatrics over skill instead, and was now paying for the abuse. He wasn't strong enough yet to utilize the Force in such an exuberant display without consequence, and admitting it did nothing to ease the contempt for his own recklessness, which would've continued if not for...
The Prisoner shrugged, unwilling to allow his thoughts to slip back to what happened with the last trooper, but found the issue to be persistent. What had he seen? A wraith, a reminder of all he endured? That person, if you could even call it that, was one he hadn't thought about in years, assumed forgotten, until it wasn't. The boy who awoke to darkness. It was a face so profound to see after so long, a face forfeited of weakness for the chance at a grander future.
It was that same future that the Prisoner purchased through blood and death. But was it still his? That question drove all this to be, it forced his hand to betray the one that fed him, that taught him, and above all else, promised him. It would be kept, either given or taken, this, the Prisoner declared. He would do it the way he was told, he would find the ones withholding what is rightfully his, and make their suffering legendary.
"You are the last of The Anointed, the sole victor, but you still have one final test before you. We have spoken of your past, but are you strong enough to overcome it? This remains to be seen. You know your targets. When the time is right, you will find them, you will know them, and you will end them. And upon their demise, you will be worthy of my promise, child. You will be worthy of the duel you seek. You, my Ascendant."
The Prisoner's hand found the wall after a stumble, freeing him of his recollection for more immediate concerns. Breathing came harder, and with a glaze of beaded sweat, as if hoisting a great weight on his shoulders that sought to crush him. He'd harmed himself more than estimated, he knew this now, and it was that fact that coerced him to continue on. He had to get off the freighter, but that was much easier said than done. The Prisoner knew the main hangar bay was located on the current deck, but was most certainly locked down by now. However, if he could get there and access its control panel, he could use smaller expulsions of the Force to bypass the security protocols, much like he did to Warvane's elevator. There was no worry of triggering the alarms this time, as he was more than expecting interference to be waiting for him, ready to give one final greeting on his way out.
He no longer possessed the luxury of surprise, and while not a total setback, he would have to be more careful for whatever came next. Pushing off from the wall, the Prisoner spewed a trailing breath that was both hard and deep, steadying his mind, as well as his limbs, as he pressed on ahead. Stealth was his greatest weapon, and in using it, he would move as though he were the shadows, themselves. He approached each corner with consistent caution, listening for activity, and utilizing only increments of the Force to enhance his awareness. The Prisoner couldn't afford to linger long, so he had little choice but to trust his initial instincts as he crossed from one access hall to the next, giving consideration to each compartment as he breached their entrances.
His evasion paid off, even managing to avoid a patrol that trotted down a corresponding corridor. The hangar was just ahead of him now, and to his complete and utter shock, it was left unguarded. Not a soul occupied the front of the blast doors, where he imagined a large group of storm troopers should've been, already sunken into firing positions, awaiting his arrival. The hangar bay held the only means off the ship, so the fact that it was unwatched left only two possibilities. One, the squads were spread thinner than he estimated, and busy trying to hunt him down, or two, this was a trap. The Prisoner liked number two.
Stepping from his concealment, he gauged what to expect, but found only a condensed hall and a pair of blast doors between him and freedom. Were they solely depending on an encrypted lock to keep him out? No. The Prisoner dismissed the thought. Warvane would know better. Another idea was that the bulk of the opposition was on the other side of the door, but he doubted that as well. The Captain would know that once inside the hangar, the Prisoner's chances of escape would only increase dramatically. Already the endless possibilities began to wear on his weakening mind, so rather than exercise patience, he decided then to speed things up, instead.
"I know you're there." The Prisoner's lips curled into a smirk, speaking with an inviting share of snide. "Come out now and I promise you'll go quicker than your friends did."
A loud metallic crunch filled the air as gears wheeled and mechanisms unlatched from each other. The durasteel halves of the blast doors shielding the hangar then fell away in separation, revealing the foreboding presence of Vendol Warvane. The Prisoner's smirk faded at the sight of the Captain, replaced with an unease that threatened to make him rethink his actions. It was clear now why there was no ambush sitting in wait, and that was because he was always the hidden secret of the Black Freighter, even from those who guarded it. The current lack of reinforcements was to limit further exposure, as well as loose ends. Fortunately, all who had seen him had been slain, save for the single Squad Commander, but the Prisoner wagered Warvane would soon correct that mistake.
"What do you think you're doing?!" The Captain's voice boomed with spite, and something more layered within it, something that sounded vaguely like disappointment. It was not at all like the tone one would use in speaking to an enemy, but rather...an ally. He stared on at the Prisoner from his towering height, eyes flaring with anger as his leer became the same given to a disobedient pet. Except this was no pet. It didn't cower at his feet, it stood tall. It didn't weep in shame, it exhibited little emotion, and while it might've been a man, it certainly looked as though it was ready to bite.
"What I must." The Prisoner replied, unrepentant.
"You swore fealty, boy!" Warvane scolded. "After all you've done, all that has been given to you, you're just going to sacrifice everything? This is madness, Zego."
Warvane used his given name as though it would convince him to listen to reason, but that was no longer who he was, he had become than that...hadn't he? At most, it was a feeble attempt to return him to his prior path, one not born out of compassionate, nor empathy, as the Captain cared for no one. It was fear of consequence that motivated his words, should he allow this escape to pass. However, what Warvane failed to see was that the implied path had already closed. To do what Zego has done, to expose his existence, to shatter every rule he had been raised to uphold, would earn him no understanding of his motives. Even were he to return to the bowels of the freighter, the trust he earned through years of loyalty and discretion was irreparable. No, this was his only option.
"That is not my name..." The Force-User growled with cold countenance, his gaze sharp and singular as a razor.
"Oh? So who are you then?" The Captain inquired. "No longer his Ascendant, not if you continue this route. He will take that which you yearn most for."
"Has it not already been taken from me?" The Force-User mused aloud, as if speaking in self-reflection. "It's been nearly a year without reply or visitation. All the while I languish as forgotten, and without opportunity. What I do now, I do to ensure a future for myself, teacher."
The manner in which he used the term boiled Warvane's blood with contempt, but did not rob it of its truth. While others may've assumed Zego was a fleeing prisoner, concealed from their eyes for any numbers of reasons, the Captain knew better. He'd helped trained this man since he was a boy, educating him in strategy and any number of fighting methods, save for the use of the lightsaber and the Force. All in preparation, all commanded of him. Now those years of devotion were swept away by a wind of treachery.
"There is no future for you outside of the preordained." Warvane advised, edging slowly closer in a tensed state of calm, calling on every fiber of restraint to not lunge outward and rip the young man's head from his neck. "Return with me now, and I will not report what has occurred here. Whatever you have convinced yourself of is not true. It is not what is planned for you."
"Plans change." Zego said, less sympathetic than before. "Now move, or be moved."
The Captain was closer now, almost within arm's reach. It was here that he could see a noticeable advantage, hidden between the obscurity of the dark shade and distracting flashes of red emergency lighting. There was a slight hunch in the Force-User's posture, while sweat adhered to his forehead with an oily layer, and every few seconds, he'd flick his fingers, as though trying to keep them from falling asleep. His body language read like an open book, citing exhaustion that was not finished setting in. "I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised by all of this. You always did take things a step too far. Especially when it came to his teachings.'' As Warvane's confidence grew, his tone darkened to the same depth. "You've overexerted yourself, boy. You're tiring."
"You're right," Zego replied, releasing the relief in his voice with a full stream of breath, no longer trying to control its pace for the sake of looking stronger than he felt. "But the thing is...I don't need the Force to take you apart." In that last fleeting exchange, just as the words left his lips, Warvane was on the cusp of standing over Zego when his eyes met the Captain's with a dangerous quality, and in that instant, both knew they only had seconds to react.
The two struck out with simultaneous fists, crushing into the other's face so viciously that it staggered them into opposite directions. Both gave space for assessment, looking for openings to capitalize on, but found them absent due to other man's choice of fighting style. In stoic pause, they stood as a mirror of each other, living parallels taught the same methods of unarmed combat. Their stance was slightly sunken, one leg positioned forward, and the other propped behind it for support. Both fists were balled, one extended vertically outward in contrast to the other that hung at a horizontal angle with the chin. Their stares met once more with deathly symmetry, fire radiating at their cores, lighting the furnace of hate one feels just before taking a life. They came at each other, the first series of blows evolving into a gale of timed strikes and narrow deflections, as their muscles searched for a rhythm that would offset their opponent's.
This lasted for only seconds until Zego broke contact, back-pedaling away with a feign of indecision that he knew would lure the Captain into pressing him. When Warvane took the bait, the Force-User ducked his decapitating haymaker, and rolled out to the other side where he spun off his back leg into a wheeling kick to the cheek, so hard, a click sounded in Warvane's jaw. Zego released a bestial roar as he came back to stance, chewing into his lip as battle lust filled spiked his blood. The Captain's unbalance brought him hard into a wall, dazing his vision, but still he reactively turned to seek out his foe. By then, Zego was already bounding off the ground, following his momentum into a springing knee, that if connected, would've shattered the Captain's jawline altogether.
However, Warvane predicted this maneuver before it materialized, and upon its launch, lunged and caught the Force-User in midair, heaving his weight over his shoulder like a sack, and drove him into the opposite wall with a punishing thud. Air departed Zego's lungs with a harrowing gasp, imperiled more by the sudden pain now radiating from his ribs. The Force called to him out of desperation, tempting him to use its power, yet he defied it. Despite their current scuffle, Zego knew he couldn't kill his hulking opponent, but not because he lacked the ability. His opponent, himself, had taught it to him. The real reason was found in an extenuating circumstance located beyond the hull of the freighter, one that still had use of the Captain.
Zego was on his last reserves of strength, and he knew that even if he managed to win the fight, he may not have enough left to complete his escape. Times had become their most dire, and drastic action was needed, he only hoped the cost wouldn't be too great. Gritting his teeth to suppress the pain, he waited until Warvane reeled back for another slam into the wall, and at the last possible moment, contorted his body until his boots arced against the Captain's chest plate. Gaining position, he then kicked off with an open hand and fired a Force Push that sent them rocketing separate ways. There was a brief feeling of flight that seemed to linger, until the Force-User's back met the floor in a driving slide that carried beyond the frame of the hangar's entrance.
Weary in mind, but alert enough to know he couldn't allow Warvane to rebound from the other end of the corridor, Zego immediately located the nearest control panel and channeled a burst of the Force through it, shorting its circuits in a spray of sparks that sealed the blast doors shut. Having eluded his pursuer, if only for the present, Zego robbed a moment from his shrinking timetable to take stock of his faculties. His breath came ragged, almost oppressively so, and his back felt like a Rancor had danced on it. As quickly as adrenaline had seized him in the fight, it faded just as fast, leaving him lethargic and allured by the idea of sleep. All at once, he recognized he'd reached his limit. He couldn't fight any longer, despite his willingness, but knew that if he didn't get up, all he sacrificed would be in vain.
The pitching beeps of maintenance droids drew his blurring vision to eight, black TIE-fighters that occupied the immense structure. Over the years of isolation, when he wasn't learning tolerance for new forms of pain, Zego was being taught other specialties that would aid him, such as piloting. A flight simulator was built into the lower levels for just such teachings, and in its extensive collection was every vessel at the First Order's disposal. He recognized the fleet he stared on as TIE / Superiority Fighters, models assigned exclusively for Special Forces, which meant the installation of hyperdrive engines inside them was a certainty. It was they that inspired an idea that returned the Force-User's snide smirk to him, and reinvigorated his resolve. They would be his way out, not just one, but all of them. Climbing to his feet through aching movements, Zego inhaled deeply and used the air to fuel a run for one of the TIE's entry hatches, where he staggered up the sloped ramp and into the black belly of the cockpit.
He hadn't the luxury of a flight suit and the plethora of life support functions that accompanied it, but at this point, Zego allowed that death by a leak in the oxygen supply was still preferable to what came if he was caught. Stirring attentiveness from eyes, he studied the onboard controls, display consoles, and gripped the noke in his fingers, trying to establish a feel for it. He'd flown before in countless simulations, and even found that the current controls, all the way down to their pre-flight checklists, were not just familiar to the ones he tested on, they were identical. Obviously, simulations and actual space travel were vastly different in many degrees, but he wagered, albeit recklessly so, that his accrued training would apply. Zego looked next to the navigational components, memorizing their layout, and from there, used his memory as a blueprint to reach out with the Force to the other TIE-fighters and begin adjusting their own navi-coms, selecting hyper-routes to various worlds already programmed into the freighter's database. Their destinations didn't matter, all that did was that they were far away in distance, and even further from where he planned to go...where he must go.
"Which we did he go, which way did he go?" He scoffed in a sing-song tune, a swell of pride nudging his lips to lift. Sensing his reach begin to strain, Zego used the last exertion of his will to activate their auto-pilot functions and initiate their launch sequences, along with his own. A symphony of clunks echoed in unison throughout the hangar as support cables detached their tethers, allowing the automated ships to hover into an orderly line behind the deck's energy barrier.
A confused tech in the main control room was in a frenzy when Warvane and a grouping of troopers came storming inside. "Sir, I don't know what happened? I was busy going over the diagnostics report for the hyperdrives when the entire squadron suddenly activated their launch sequences!" The tech shouted in a haze of panic once recognizing who it was that entered.
"Can you stop them?!" Warvane fumed, aggression burning in his features.
"I-I can maybe manually override one," The tech tried to appease the infuriated officer, his fingers a blur of tapping on the instrumentation in the hope that he could. "but the others will be out of range once they hit lightspeed."
A sour blend of distress blew the Captain's gaze wide open as he found the viewport in lieu of the barrier dissolving from the broadcast of the fleet's departure signal. "The barrier! Keep up the barrier!"
"We can't!" The tech shouted out of nervous frustration. "The safety protocols won't allow it! Once the departure sequence is achieved, the barrier will stay down until all designated vessels have vacated!"
Warvane roared , throwing the tech aside like a ragdoll as his fists came down on the controls with a raging violence, smashing buttons, cracking frames, and producing plumes of smoke and anxiety inside him that he had managed to keep subdued was now unleashed, and further provoked by the image of the TIE-fighters' thrusters as they shot off into space, until one by one, they, as well as Zego, were gone. For an extended moment, no one dared speak for fear that his fury would escalate. The Captain remained with his palms pushing heavy weight into the destroyed console, his entire body rising and falling with excessive breathing. It was only out of bold curiosity that one trooper then risked a question.
"S-Sir...do you have any orders?" The trooper asked, hesitation fracturing his speech.
Taking hold of his anger, and attempting to at least appear more composed than he felt, Warvane straightened his posture, and allowed his venting to come to an unceremonious end. He then turned to address the trooper with a calmer visage than was expected, eyeing him with tensed muscles twitching in his face. "Yes..." The Captain answered through gritted rows of teeth, as though what he was about to say begrudged him to even think about, let alone command someone to do. "Contact the Supreme Leader."