And another chapter's up! Thanks for being so patient everyone. If you're new, make sure to review if you like the story. It's always nice to know if you're wanted. Finally decided to get the ball rolling with this chapter, and so the Squad's finally infiltrated the enemy base. Hope you enjoy it! In the meantime, I'm guessing that I hardly need to write this anymore, but I don't own Star Wars or am I trying to make money out of it. Anyhoo- on with the fic!

Chapter 3- Breaking and Entry

The void echoed with the image of the Magister as it churned its way onwards. Inside the bedraggled and rustic cockpit stood the now assembled Delta Squad. Fixer was packing the last of his computer equipment into his backpack, whilst Sev tightened his thigh-straps. Scorch smiled smugly:

"Rule number 12- always be prepared."

"I call into play rule number 82," rumbled his pod-brother indignantly, and slapped his buckle to secure it.

"Uhm... Sev? There is no rule eighty-two," said Scorch with the air of someone who feels as if he's being forced into a trap.

"Sure there is," the reply came. "It's called 'We don't give a damn.'"

"Nah; both wrong," stated Boss as he replaced his vibro-blade, slotting the fine shard of metal into his wrist cavity. "There IS a rule 82. It's that the ranking Republic officer can put a stop to any argument between troops by any means he sees fit."

He waited for these words to sink in, looked to Fixer, who was already sniggering through a secure channel, and then looked back at Sev and Scorch. "This means that I can shut you up with as much prejudice as possible."

It was at this point that Boss decided to check if his vibro-blade was operational, and made an exaggerated punch into the air to his immediate left. The keen knife flew out with a frictionless SSHHK and came to a blunt stop. The effect this had was profound, as the control room fell silent. Fixer, however, was now in hysterics, laughing into his airtight helmet over the com-link to Boss. Scorch absent-mindedly dropped a grenade, and closed his open mouth with a muffled pop.

"Boss? Are you serious?"

"You'll just have to wait and see, wont you?"

Oh-Seven brushed the threat aside: gullible as Scorch was, Sev was the cynic of the two. He smiled strongly and gave an 'Mm' of approvement.

"Why're we flying in this hunk o' junk anyway?" Came the next spoken thought from Scorch. "Couldn't we get a lift in style? Y'know... I mean, cool as they are, I'd hardly call a Corellian light freighter a limousine. "

It was the Pilot's turn to speak: cracking his knuckles with authority he turned in his well-oiled swivel chair and faced the team. "Simple. This ship doesn't have a republic energy signature for its engines, so the chances are that Separatist forces wont be on the look out for us. Besides, there isn't a faster ship around if you're in a pickle."

Scorch raised an eyebrow.

"It's like when you use the mud to hide your heat signature...," muttered Sev. "just before you strike, you make sure that your arrival is undetected... No-one knows you get in, no-one knows you get out," he licked his dry lips and pressed on: "Only life that's left is the birds to feed on the corpses..."

The ominous silence from earlier returned with full dissolution. Instead of remarking, however, Boss simply chose to ignore his psychotic partner and continued to listen to the pilot.

"The Republic literally contacted me out of the blue to fly you here. I was only meant to be on their turf because I had some extra information that they might want 'bout their base of operations. Of course, this info wasn't leavin' my lips for nothin. Know what I'm sayin'?

"What did you say your name was, anyway?" enquired Fixer. His voice was almost accusatory- he didn't like such abuse of the Republic's funds.

"I didn't," the pilot returned, and swivelled back to his control console. "We're approaching our destination. Visual contact in ten."

Boss and the squad took one last look around the cockpit- from the patterned windows to the four cracked and shrunken brown leather seats. They found their eyes drawn to the glistening pinpricks of light from the hundreds of buttons on the overhead controls as well as the dull chrome of the hyperspace levers. Something about the ship emanated warmth - it almost felt like home.

"Right, Deltas- let's form up and get to the airlock. Prepare for immediate space contact."

Boss's troops nodded curtly and exited the cockpit, making their way down the dark steel corridor to the ship's only current way out. Arriving quickly, Sev unbuckled the hologram generator and tossed it idly to the floor. Business as usual:

"Deltas," flowed the voice of Advisor from the device, "By now you will have reached your destination and will more than likely be ready to leave the ship. I'm here to remind you one last time of your objectives. They are: Destroy the communications tower, and scramble all sent records of Confederacy Technology. Reach and disable the Confederacy research laboratory. Lastly, disable the yard's engines. Remember: it is vit-"

"Yeah, we know," piped Scorch. "It's vital that we destroy the Com. Tower so that they don't bring in reinforcements."

The hologram of Advisor nodded. "Right you are, Six-Two. Heavy ordnance should do the trick."

If there was anything that Advisor could do well, it was make Scorch happy. Not that he wasn't good at everything else he did, but when you have the ability to allow Scorch to wield heavy weapons, you're already on the fast-lane to his friendship. Although the yellow demolition expert had his helmet on, they rest of the team had already guessed his face: it was one of blissful glee.

"Aye, Sir! Wont letcha down!"

It was Sev's turn to speak: "I don't like it. What's our point of entry?"

"Missile port. Similar to the Prosecutor Liberation. Any questions?"

Sev allowed another grumble: "On a scale of one to ten for difficulty, where does this lie? I'm not keen on taking anything below a nine these days."

Advisor nodded with owl authority: "It's enough, Oh-Seven. It's enough."

"All right, all right. Just wanted to know how many pieces of Scorch we're going to have to find afterwards..."

Fixer chose to interject at this moment, stopping any fights between Sev and Scorch in their tracks. Swinging his green patterned body in between the two, he held out his lanky arms in mild protest. "I believe, gentlemen, that it's time to leave. Let's pile in."

The hologram of Advisor faded away, the blue flickering sparks evaporating into the air. One last sentence echoed around the room: "Good luck, Deltas."

Boss pulled the release valve on the door, and motioned with his orange hand for the others to get in. They did as told, and ducked as they moved through the thick metal walls into what may have been a rubbish dispatch chute. Brown smears dotted the wall like gunfire whilst slug-trail grease stains wound their way like rivers across the floor. Even Scorch felt uncomfortable to touch the walls.

"Built in grime is one thing- this...is something else."

Boss checked all was ready, and allowed the doors to close. At the centre of the great iron barrier was a large wheel used to lock the doors manually: it twisted clockwise with a great shudder. No turning back.

"Hmm... I'm purrety sure these are blood stains, Boss..."

"Quiet, Scorch."

A flash of static and the room fell quiet:

"You guys ready?" Came the pilot's smooth voice, contradicted by the harsh tin reverberations of the communication system.

The response was unanimous, and the atmosphere depressurised. On the other side of the room, the second wheel began to spin on the airlock exit.

"Switch to com-systems, Deltas. Secure channel thirteen,"

"Right you are, Boss."

"Woosh! Having a cold shower is NOTHING compared to this. Activating external jets, Boss."

Three-Eight watched as Scorch rose from the ground, his yellow backpack now issuing a pale smoke from the bottom. On the other side of the room, the great black expanse waited; the mouth of the abyss flung wide. Copying Scorch's actions, Boss ignited his jets with a single thought. Already he could feel his intelligent suit preparing its systems for a confrontation- the link was there, in his neural chip. He was one with it, and it was a part of him. With a deftly wielded thought, he rose from the ground and turned with graceful precision.

"Follow my lead, boys."

A smooth back flip and a burst of flame later, Boss was out of sight, leaving a silky vapour trail for Delta Squad to follow.

XXX

Z9 PZA 575 flicked a few switches on his control desk. His chrome hands flashed as they interfaced with the controls, making no mistakes. He was a droid- such biological deficiencies such as operator errors were beneath him. Z9 PZA 575 shared the first 5 letters of his name with nearly 500 droid workers in his room. It was the main droid gunner's room- though but a small fraction of 575's brethren resided here, it was enough to defend the missile port of need be. After all, 500 battle droids were easily a match for whatever number of enemies that could breach the missile silo's relatively narrow sides. Five Seven Five's cruel talons continued their inorganic work. The job was monotonous: scan for ship's energy signatures every sixty seconds and see what comes up on the flat monitor. A slight glitch had appeared earlier, however, which was what the droid was investigating at the moment. All signs pointed to another rogue meteor. That equals five for the current cycle... The droid's mind calculated.

The battle droid's clinical train of thought was interrupted. Interrupted by something moving. What he had first perceived to be a star was now hurtling towards him at great speed. Whilst the object seemed to pose no threat to the plexi-glass, it was enough for concern. The shooting star hit the glass with a dull thud, and the now obvious Scorch gave a nonchalant thumbs-up to the hapless worker. Scrambling almost clumsily up the window, Scorch pressed his legs against the immovable plexi-glass. Not as agile as Shrapnel. The spaceborne trooper considered, as he placed a demolition charge to the screen in front of him. But it's certainly more amusing...

It took only four seconds for the windows to be replaced by the massive iron blast-gates; their dirty golden sheen polluting the sterility of the ex-droid's quarters. Four seconds, however, was enough for the vacuum of space to extend its clammy grip and drag the room's occupants into the black beyond. As the room's atmosphere slipped in through the air ducts and flowed eagerly into place, the main entrance burned with an angry flame as the door's lock was breached, and the mobile walls slid back with a disturbing snap.

"Move!"

Delta Squad swept into the room, their guns raised high, their line of sight probing every inch of space. A storm of colour, the troopers made their way to the main control console that had so very recently been inhabited.

"Fixer- what of the alarms?" Enquired Boss as he activated the screen. Hull breaches caused any unnecessary consoles to shut down to minimise power usage, so booting up would take a few seconds.

"Already handled it. I bypassed the room's alarms before Scorch had even made contact with the glass..."

"Yes, well..." Mused Three-Eight to himself. "It certainly makes a change to the usual method of clearing a room of hostiles..."

"Mm. The jammer wont last forever though- deactivate the alarm once you've booted up."

A swish and a click later, Scorch entered the room. From his stance and the flick in his step, the others could tell he felt pleased with himself:

"Aaand... Done. So tell me- whose entrance was most bad ass?"

"Certainly not the guy who was mimicking a bug on a windscreen..."

"SEV!"