The radio silence born of the Marauder's narrow escape is weighty but welcome. It means Hunter and the others made it out, the innocent hostages were saved, and the mission would ultimately be regarded as a success. Clone Force 99 will have once again, proven its utility to the GAR and would be allowed to continue to train and embark on more unconventional and thrilling missions.

As of this moment, there is a 68% chance that all future missions assigned to Clone Force 99 will include neither Echo nor Tech because they will be terminated in the hostage rescue operation.

This probability emerges unbidden and unrewarding into Tech's overly-active computational mind. He pushes the figure aside and assesses optimal methods of getting Echo and himself out of their immediate predicament.

"Echo, you need to unplug from the system now," he says shooting out the controls of another hatch, effectively locking it in the closed position. "My scans indicate the issue of an electronic countermeasure that is specifically intended to disable your neural net."

"No shit," growls the clone hunched next to him, planting his hand on the control console to gain the leverage he needs to pull free. "I've been trying to disconnect since Hunter and the boys got away. My scomp… I-I think it's…

"What is it?" Tech prompts with a concerned cock of his head.

"Tech," Echo finally admits, embracing the absurdity of it. "I'm kriffing stuck."

As if on cue, the mechanical cogs surrounding the interface of Echo's scomp link start to whir and crank his arm against his will. The former ARC trooper grunts in pain and frustration.

Alarmed, Tech makes quick work of two clankers trying to breach the compartment. Unhindered by the blaster wound tugging painfully at his side, he somersaults deftly to the last remaining point of entry into the control station. Pieing around the threshold, he finds that their pursuers are taking a rare hiatus from attempting to murder them. He dashes back over to where Echo is trapped, places his blaster in Echo's hand, and grabs the tools he needs to attach his own gear to the control unit.

"Can you watch the door? I must investigate." Tech says to Echo as he lowers the visor of his visual readout.

Echo nods and, with difficulty, shifts his focus to the open entryway. His strategic connection to the enemy network has morphed into something he can no longer control and it feels dangerous and relentless as he tries to terminate the link and pull away. He groans with the effort and tries to blink away the static creeping into his organic field of vision.

"Tech," he stammers, suddenly unsure that he's even capable of firing the weapon in a remotely accurate direction if a droid chooses to appear. "Hurry."

"Making all haste," informs Tech, tapping and swiping furiously on his datapad. "Nearly there, Echo. I think I see the problem."

Echo's glad that Tech's onto it because he's becoming increasingly disoriented by the room around him. It keeps morphing inexplicably into a dizzying array of code he's never encountered before and he's fighting to stay present. It's making him feel dazed and nauseous.

Suddenly, two -maybe three- large shapes roll swiftly past the hatch. Echo fires a few rounds into the opening, but they're seconds delayed, and the bolts whine down the hallway carving into nothing but scorched air.

"C-contact," he mutters thickly to his right, hoping Tech has some sort of plan for what's to come. Vaguely he can feel programs, folders, and subfolders closing within his cerebral interface as Tech extracts him from the tangles of malware that have almost consumed him.

"Say again? Oh! There it is!" Tech declares brightly, raising the visor on his helmet. "We can disconnect you in three…"

Echo's murky mind is stalling and it's getting difficult to breathe. When did it get so hot in here? He knows he needs to disconnect when Tech says to, but there was something important he was trying to relay just now.

"Two…"

It was something very important. Something that he needed Tech to know right away. Shit. What was it?

"One…"

Echo feels Tech's left arm as it firmly snakes under his right armpit and embraces his chest. Tech's right hand joins Echo's in clutching securely onto Echo's socket-arm near the scomp link interface.

"Now!"

Both Batchers struggle to release the powerful hold on Echo's scomp for several seconds until their concerted effort and wiry strength free the ARC Trooper from the constraint of the interface. They stumbled backward in a disheveled heap of black and white armor.

Tech is up and at Echo's side in an instant, worriedly squeezing his shoulder, asking him basic first aid questions, requesting his status, and commenting excessively on how "highly irregular" the incident was. He carefully removes Echo's helmet to ease his brother's labored breathing.

Echo's consciousness has retreated to its natural limits. He's slowly starting to feel like himself again and is able to breathe normally.

Too late, he remembers what he was trying to tell Tech a few moments earlier.

There's an eerie metallic rattling sound behind the two clones, followed by the hiss of hydraulics. Three commando-like droids unfold from the rotary posture of their mobility feature, to assume their full, deadly height.

Tech has just enough time to reach for and aim a hand blaster until an enemy's grip catches his wrist. The brutal, metallic appendage wrenches Tech up from the deck and heaves him at one of the other synthetic soldiers.

Horrified, Echo looks up to see his best friend and younger brother yanked into the path of a vicious roundhouse kick. The blow connects so brutally with Tech's head, that it knocks his bucket clean off and sends him crashing into the nearest bulkhead.

"Tech!" screams Echo as he hears his brother's head and shoulders collide into the wall with a sickening crunch. Instinctively, he rolls up to his hand and knees and starts crawling to his brother's side to protect him.

As he scrambles closer, he can see bright red blood spilling from a fresh wound near Tech's temple. The holocorder light and right lens of his corrective goggles are nothing but a smashed ruin. The mechanic, himself, doesn't stir.

"Tech, talk to me!" Echo calls again, adamantly tugging on the prone man's leg.

Echo reaches for his reserve blaster and is about to mount his own ferocious assault when that same strong, metallic facsimile of a hand grabs him roughly by his occipital implant and lifts him ruthlessly from the deck by the U-shaped headpiece alone. He reaches back with his hand and his socket-arm to swat futilely at the savage hold. Echo flails and kicks his powerful artificial legs, desperately trying to slacken the death grip this shabuir has on him.

Something breaks loose from the back of his head, near his ear. Echo doesn't know if he heard the pop or only felt it. He only knows that it's agonizing.

He screams.