As Wrecker brought Tech to the barracks, Hunter set to work cleaning up the water – and the blood-soaked gauze, bits of charred fabric, and bacta patch wrappings that Quinlan had left scattered across the floor. The relative silence of the Marauder seemed out of place, after the frantic action of the past twenty minutes, and Hunter recognized the familiar, disconnected feeling that always followed an adrenaline high.
He could hear Tech and Wrecker arguing quietly about something in the bunkroom, and then Crosshair interrupting, ordering them to get some sleep.
Hunter focused on disinfecting the forceps instead of on the memory that kept playing in his imagination – the laser hitting Tech, sending him spinning around before he dropped to the floor. Despite his attempts to ignore the scene, it repeated over and over in the back of his head.
The mind, he reflected disjointedly, was a strange thing.
There was a sudden rustle behind him, then a thump. For half a second, Hunter didn't realize that the sound wasn't from his memory. When he did, he stood quickly and turned.
The Jedi lay crumpled on the floor right next to a startled-looking Crosshair. Hunter picked up the medical scanner and moved quickly over, then held it above the Jedi's torso and waited. When it beeped, he glanced at the readout and shook his head. "Broken ribs, no head injuries, no internal bleeding. Not sure what made him collapse . . ." He glanced at Crosshair. "He seemed fine when he was working on Tech."
Crosshair, who was halfway through resituating Quinlan to lie on his back, shook his ead. "He was probably using the Force to keep going."
Hunter nodded slowly in realization. "Like during our escape."
"Yeah."
They looked from each other to the Jedi and back.
Hunter rubbed at his forehead. "Well – I don't know how to treat this. I don't even know . . . Whatever it is, he doesn't seem to have seen it coming."
Crosshair shrugged, then spoke around the ever-present toothpick. "Might be like when he destroyed the spirit urn."
Hunter considered, then nodded and bent to lift him by the shoulders. "That's all we have to go on for now. Let's put him with the others."
When they entered the bunkroom, Tech sat up and stared at them, still wearing his goggles. "What happened?"
"Closest guess? He passed out," Hunter said. Funny, Quinlan had said the same thing about Wrecker not half an hour ago.
Wrecker, who'd been walking stiffly around the room, gestured Hunter and Crosshair to his bunk. "Put him here."
They managed to set the Jedi down without jostling him too much, and Wrecker stared down at him. "Anything we can do?"
"Yeah, prop him up," Hunter said. "It'll help his breathing, anyway."
"Okay." Wrecker promptly pulled all the spare blankets and pillows off the storage shelf, letting them fall in a pile on the floor. "What about a painkiller?"
"I don't know whether he already took one or not. Better not to risk it."
Since Wrecker and Crosshair could handle the Jedi just fine, Hunter left them to it. He turned around in time to see Tech, who was wearing a new set of blacks, hop out of bed and grab his datapad. He moved so easily that, if Hunter hadn't known better, he'd have thought Tech completely uninjured. That could mean only one thing – Tech was still unable to feel properly due to adrenaline, and he'd crash in about one minute.
Crosshair came up beside Hunter, followed his gaze, rolled his eyes, and slunk off into the galley.
Well, there was really only one way to handle the situation, so Hunter crept cautiously up behind Tech, then darted forward and snatched the datapad.
Tech made a grab for it. When Hunter simply leaned out of his reach, Tech blinked at him in offended irritation. "I was attempting to reference some notes I made earlier on Force-users," he said. "Some of them can heal themselves –"
"Good." Hunter pointed to the bunk. "Now sit down before you fall over."
As Crosshair came back into the room, he tossed a couple of water pouches to Hunter, then went to join Wrecker.
Tech frowned. "I am not going to fall over. I feel perfectly normal. In fact, I cannot even tell that I have been shot –" He rested an index finger against his mouth in thought. "– which, now that I consider it, does not make sense. Perhaps you are right."
"Perhaps?" Hunter resisted the urge to facepalm. "Tech . . ."
His youngest teammate sat down and took off his goggles primly, as though he were making a huge concession to some unreasonable demand.
Hunter handed him a water and smacked his arm. "Drink that and go to sleep," he ordered. "If I catch you reading again tonight, I'm locking your datapad up and spacing the key."
Tech's expression was a cross between justified outrage and amusement at the unrealistic threat. Hunter, on the other hand, was very much unamused. Fixing his youngest squad mate with a stern look, he turned back to check on Quinlan. Wrecker was getting him settled, and there wasn't really much else they could do except wait for him to wake up.
Hunter finished his own water, then took Tech's empty water pouch and said, "Cross, I'll be in the cockpit."
The sniper nodded.
Satisfied that things were under control for now, Hunter went back to the cockpit. He shut off the lights and slumped into the pilot's seat, one hand clasped loosely around the hilt of his vibroblade.
For several long minutes, he stared out into the Marauder's dark surroundings. If one thing had gone differently back there – if Tech had been hit severely, if Hunter hadn't been able to drag Wrecker to the ship, if Crosshair hadn't had the shuttle so close, if the Jedi hadn't managed to keep himself conscious until they'd escaped . . .
There was no point in 'what-ifs' now.
Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Hunter thought, darkly amused at how little it actually helped. If that merc's aim had been even a bit better . . .
Drawing a deliberate breath, the sergeant set to work checking that each security measure was functioning correctly. He already knew they were, but he needed to occupy his mind. Tonight was the closest his squad had ever come to disaster, and it rattled him a lot more than he'd expected it to.
#
Quinlan woke slowly, almost unwillingly, as though his body were trying to make him stay asleep while his mind told him to wake up. Come to think of it, that probably was what was happening.
It was several minutes before he could open his eyes. His surroundings were completely dark, and he could hear quiet breathing from two others – which meant he was probably in the bunkroom.
As he lay there, something nagged at the back of his memory, something about an injury and needing to take a look at it. Tech . . .? No, I finished patching him up. What happened after that?
Feeling strangely unbalanced, he tried to sit up. A rush of vertigo overwhelmed him, and he slammed his eyes shut and froze, suddenly uncertain of whether he was lying down or sitting up. Okay, guess I'm staying here for a minute.
He stayed there for more than a minute, utterly motionless and unwilling to move without some sort of reference point. He had the odd, though obviously unrealistic, feeling that his surroundings would fall apart if he moved.
When he heard the door slid open, he opened his eyes cautiously to see a figure slip into the room and pause next to the first bunk.
To Quinlan's relief, the dim light from the galley allowed him to get his bearings. As it turned out, he was neither lying down nor sitting up, but both at once. He was in one of the lower bunks, back and shoulders propped up with several pillows and folded blankets.
He didn't remember walking here. He did remember releasing his control on the Force, which he'd drawn on too extensively for too long, much too abruptly. He definitely remembered the blackness closing around his vision and his last vague thought: Oops.
The figure crossed the floor and paused beside him. "You awake?" Hunter's voice asked quietly.
"Yeah . . . What time is it?"
"Twenty-one fifteen."
Quinlan squinted. He didn't remember the exact time they'd escaped, but it had been close to seventeen hundred hours. Probably. "Still the same day?"
"Yeah. We're at the airfield across from the Prince's place. Crosshair's outside, keeping watch. Nothing's happened since we landed – no sign of anyone nearby."
That doesn't sound right. They saw where we landed. He tried to sit up again, then stopped when something stabbed into his side.
Hunter huffed. "Maybe you should stay there."
"No reason to, I'm awake," Quinlan said, and regretted it when his broken ribs made their presence known again. He briefly considered following Hunter's suggestion before shrugging off the thought. There were a few things he found more aggravating than lying still, staring at nothing. One of those things was lying still, staring at nothing, and hoping he didn't breathe wrong.
Drawing on the Force just a bit, he turned cautiously, sat up, and stood. He was careful to move slowly, but it didn't do much good. The moment he was on his feet, the remainder of his injuries from Dverik's friendly little questioning session made themselves known, and he clutched the side of the upper bunk. "Oh – kriff."
Hunter folded his arms, managing to look unimpressed despite the fact that Quinlan couldn't see his expression in the dim light. "Want some help?"
"Uh –" He took another shallow breath. "Help as in painkillers?"
"I didn't know if you'd taken one yet."
"Forgot."
Hunter shifted, and a needle pricked Quinlan's neck as the sergeant said, "Let's hope these are strong enough."
"Thanks – they'll work fine." Bracing his side with one elbow, Quinlan limped out into the galley.
Hunter followed, opening a water pouch, which he handed to Quinlan. "Here, have something to drink. I'm going to check in with Crosshair."
Feeling strangely touched by the gesture, Quinlan leaned against the wall and watched him leave. Hunter had already had both water and a hypo when he entered the room, which probably meant that if Quinlan hadn't been awake, the sergeant would have woken him.
Of course, it wasn't at all necessary. Quinlan was capable of taking care of himself, and sleeping another six hours without water would have given him a nothing worse than a headache. Still, it was . . . nice. At that thought, the Jedi rolled his eyes at himself and took a drink. Being tired was obviously making him sentimental, like usual.
He worked alone. Working alone meant having no one around to help you scrape yourself off the floor after something went wrong.
The room tilted again, and Quinlan gripped the nearest shelf to steady himself. Even though he worked alone, there had been times when he'd wanted nothing more than for someone to be nearby.
One of the worst experiences of his life was the time he'd been poisoned, and the nearest place he could find to hide from his enemies was an old basement. He'd been on the floor with a raging fever for hours, completely unable to move. Then, after finally getting up the strength to open his canteen and take a few sips, he'd promptly vomited. He'd been so desperately thirsty, though, that he continued to drink whenever he had the strength, cringing as he did so in anticipation of the awful nausea that would inevitably end in his throwing up again.
It was fully thirty hours after his escape that Quinlan managed to crawl the hundred meters back to his ship, more sick and – yeah, scared – than he'd ever been before. The way the floor and ceiling reversed, spinning and tilting beneath or above him, scared him enough that he finally tried to call Kit. He'd been too weak to do more than type in his comm code once, though, and the call hadn't gone through.
Yeah, that was definitely the high point of my career, he thought sardonically. The first and only time in my life where I completely panicked.
Crosshair walked slowly around the perimeter of the landing pad, deliberately shifting his gaze from far-away points to closer ones. Focusing on points the same distance away for too long would accustom his eyes to that distance, and then they might not pick up motion closer at hand.
The rain had stopped, leaving the duracrete gritty with soaked dirt and ash, which made it hard to walk silently. The landing pad's surroundings, though, were quiet – apart from the distant rush of air traffic. Earlier, he'd heard an explosion, but it was far enough away that he'd had trouble locating which direction it had come from.
Crosshair paused in front of the Marauder to study the Prince's stronghold. So far, he hadn't seen a single guard. As he wondered about that, the door of the shuttle opened behind him, and someone came down the stairs, moving too quietly to be Wrecker or Tech.
"Nothing yet," Crosshair said.
"Hm." Hunter stopped next to him and eyed the warehouse for a few moments. "Come on," he said. "We've got the sensors running non-stop, and I don't think Dverik's going to make a move while we're so close to the Prince's headquarters. At least not tonight."
Hunter had told him the same thing four hours earlier, when Crosshair insisted on standing guard. And so far, the sergeant seemed to be right. Nothing had happened since then – even the occupants of the other landing pads had been dead silent. Crosshair returned to the ship without argument and followed Hunter into the galley.
Vos, the left side of his forehead swollen by a dark bruise and his eyes unfocused and distant, stood a few steps from the bunkroom door, one hand clutching at the metal frame of the storage shelf. It took him a few seconds to notice their presence. When he did, he abruptly released the shelf and said, "Anything?"
"No," said Hunter. "We're pretty much in the center of the Prince's territory. Do you expect Dverik to make a move?"
The Jedi smirked wryly. "Guess I'm not the only one who thinks he's still alive."
"No." Hunter shrugged. "He just wouldn't stay down."
Crosshair rested his rifle in the crook of one arm. "That blast might have caused enough damage to slow him, though."
"Yeah." The Jedi opened and closed his right hand stiffly. "We can hope, right?"
There was an awkward pause.
Setting his rifle against the wall, Crosshair took a toothpick from his belt. "Any reason we're standing around?"
" . . . Yes?" said the Jedi. "Feels like something's supposed to be going wrong."
Crosshair smirked and glanced at Hunter, who was already giving him the 'don't you dare say it' look. Hunter had a habit of saying that exact thing when the Bad Batch was forced to pause for a while during a misison.
To be fair, even though Crosshair never said it, he'd been standing guard just now for the same reason. It was too quiet, the chase had ended too abruptly, and every member of the team, apart from himself, was injured. Crosshair chewed silently on his toothpick for a few moments, watching as Vos wavered against the storage unit and Hunter fidgeted pointlessly with his knife.
When the Jedi began to look uncertainly around and grow pale – definite signs of an oncoming vertigo attack – Crosshair rolled his eyes and threw the toothpick, bouncing it off the wall into the disposal unit. "Go get some rest," he said. "You too, Sarge. I'll stand guard till Wrecker wakes up."
Quinlan rubbed a hand over his face, muttered some sort of agreement, and moved cautiously into the bunkroom.
Hunter paused to look back at Crosshair. "Lock down the ship first. Stay inside."
The sniper nodded, and Hunter finally left. Picking up his rifle again, Crosshair went around the ship, locking the outer doors and double-checking the scanners and proximity alerts.
When the Marauder was as secure as it could get, Crosshair went to the lower deck and opened the storage closet that held a variety of items belonging to the members of Bad Batch. Wrecker's metal junk, Hunter's spare knives and collection of rocks – he had one from each planet and moon they'd visited – whatever devices Tech was currently upgrading or taking apart, Crosshair's reflectors . . . He supposed he could always polish more of those.
No, he had more than enough ready for now. Crosshair shoved a small crate on the top shelf to one side and pulled out the box that contained the games which the Bad Batch used during long hyperspace flights.
Cody had encouraged them to find something besides cards after he'd heard about their four-hour sabacc match. Of course, as the commander had pointed out – in an impressively dry tone – it wasn't the four-hour match that was the problem. It was the fact that the match had turned into an all-out brawl, which ended only when Hunter threw Wrecker into the table and it snapped free of the bolts that held it to the floor. It had taken the four of them the remaining two hours of flight time to fix and secure the table.
Crosshair huffed a quiet laugh as he sorted through the box's contents. There were three-dimensional puzzles, flimsi and pens, a few gadgets that involved turning or moving pieces in exactly the right order to solve them, decks of cards . . .
He paused. Vos had said something about building houses out of cards. Crosshair raised a skeptical eyebrow, then took the cards anyway. His datapad was in the cockpit, and it would take only a few minutes to research.
The next morning, after everyone was more or less vertical, and before Hunter was awake enough to think, Wrecker called dibs on the sonic. Predictably, Crosshair tried to race him by sliding down the ladder. Wrecker simply jumped down to the lower hold without touching the ladder at all and somehow managed to avoid crushing the sniper in the process.
With a feeling of resignation, Hunter listened to the scuffle and ensuing rush of footsteps. The thump that ended the chase wasn't particularly loud, which meant that it was Wrecker who had reached the refresher and shut the door, and Crosshair who hadn't stopped in time.
He glanced at the chronometer. In one minute, he'd go down to the lower hold and check the door. Crosshair tended to get back at Wrecker by putting a small box or crate in front of it. No matter how many times he did it, Wrecker never thought to look and would inevitably go sprawling. And then he and Crosshair would be at it for the next hour, something which Hunter wanted to avoid if at all possible.
Quinlan entered the galley, looking better than he had earlier. "Morning," he said ambiguously, limping over to the table. "I think."
"It's morning," Hunter replied. "Where's Tech?"
When Hunter had gotten up, Tech had already been ready for the day.
"Reading something," said the Jedi.
Hunter wondered why he'd even bothered to ask. A minute was up, though, so he went down the ladder, picked up the metal box that was in front of the refresher door, put it back in the storage closet, and gave Crosshair a stern look. "Cross . . ."
The sniper, who was lounging against the opposite wall and looking faintly amused at Hunter's reaction, shrugged and climbed the ladder. Hunter followed, stepping into the galley as Tech slipped onto the bench next to the Jedi.
Tech held out his datapad. "Quinlan, is this true?"
"Let me see . ." The Jedi's voice trailed off as he skimmed through whatever article or list of facts Tech had been reading. "Okay, it's not true that all Jedi can heal others with the Force. Most of 'em actually can't."
"Can you?" Tech asked, tilting his head curiously.
Hunter wondered how Tech had managed to get along so far without irritating or offending someone – well, apart from their old instructors, whom he annoyed a lot. Then again, all of the Bad Batch had annoyed all the instructors pretty regularly.
But the Jedi didn't seem to mind the questions. "No," he said. "Kit can, though. General Fisto, I mean."
"Oh, yes; the Nautolan."
"Yeah. He's good at Force-healing." Quinlan slid the datapad back to him. "What all Jedi can do, though, is to heal themselves, to some extent."
Hunter glanced at the much-improved bruise on the Jedi's face. Was Force-healing instinctive, or did it take focus?
"I wondered about that," Tech said into his thoughts. "The article mentioned meditating. If you were to meditate for one hour, would you heal twice as much as you would under normal circumstances?"
Quinlan raised an eyebrow. "I never thought about it like that . . ."
"Hm." Tech scrolled up. "This says only that the results are 'variable'. What does that mean? Does it vary from Jedi to Jedi according to their skill level, or do other factors, such as age, or strength in the Force, come into play?"
Hunter sighed. "Tech, I don't think you can fit the Force into a nice, neat little box."
The Jedi cast him an interested look, then shrugged at Tech. "He's right. There's no definite answer to your questions . . ." He paused for breath. "I can tell you that the deeper Jedi go into meditation, the more closely they're connected with the Force. That's got a strong effect on how well they're able to heal themselves."
"I see." Tech drummed his fingers thoughtfully against the table's edge.
Hunter stepped in before he could ask any more questions. "We should review yesterday's mission."
"Oh. Yes." Tech shut off the datapad.
Wrecker joined them a few seconds later, and Crosshair promptly threw a ration bar at him, which Wrecker caught without looking.
"Okay," said Hunter, a bit louder than necessary. Everyone turned to him, and he folded his arms. "Mission review."
"And breakfast," said Wrecker, putting the ration bar away and grabbing a pile of breakfast packages. "I'm starved."
He dealt the meals out like cards before sitting down. Crosshair got drinks, and Hunter turned to fetch some utensils.
"So, what are we reviewing?" Quinlan asked. "Or rather, where do we start reviewing?"
Crosshair shot him a pointed look. "How about the part where you got yourself captured?"
"Well – I got Hunter caught too . . ."
Hunter wasn't sure whether he was trying to annoy Crosshair, or take credit for the fact that they'd nearly failed, or both.
The sniper's voice was unusually sharp when he said, "I thought you were the one who was supposed to be so good at infiltration."
The Jedi ignored the obvious challenge in his tone. "I am," he said easily. "Doesn't mean I'm perfect at it."
Crosshair didn't reply, but Hunter was sure he'd come up with another biting comment in the next few seconds. Then Wrecker would defend Quinlan, Tech would defend Crosshair or Quinlan, depending on who was making more sense at the time . . .
Hunter opened his ground steak and gravy and considered letting them argue until they got bored and decided to ask for his opinion, at which time he could start the review instead of answering. On second thought – no, that would take way too long. "We know what happened up until we were captured, so let's start there," he said, his glance darting around to include all of them. "And after that, there's not a lot to tell on our side. We got brought to a cell, where we stayed until you arrived."
"Yeah," said the Jedi, who, for some reason, was busily mashing his tuber cakes. "Not much happened."
There was a long moment of silence. Puzzled, Hunter looked up, met Quinlan's equally bewildered gaze, and turned to glance at his teammates. All three of them were giving him exactly the same look, which they then transferred to Vos.
The Jedi took a bite, eyeing them back in exaggerated confusion. "What?"
Tech sniffed. "You said, 'not much happened'."
"Nothing relevant happened."
"Hm." Crosshair stirred his food around. "You don't think it's relevant that Dverik knows you and Hunter are working for Grakkus?"
"What?" Quinlan looked honestly startled. "How?"
"Uh –" Hunter hesitated. "You didn't hear that?"
"No . . .?"
Hunter sighed. "It was bad timing. If I'd known the others were so close, I'd have waited, but Dverik was losing it. I answered him after that last hit."
"You did?" The Jedi frowned. "Strange, I didn't hear either of you talking. Must have been while I busy trying not to keel over."
"You did keel over," Crosshair informed him unsympathetically.
". . . Whatever."
"I couldn't think of anything else that would stop him," Hunter admitted. "Attacking directly wasn't working."
"No argument there."
Hunter had tried to interfere three times, but the Devaronian was always too fast with his shield. Dverik had seemed furious after each attack, but, strangely enough, he'd only start to go after Hunter, always pausing before actually reaching him. Then Dverik would apparently forget about Hunter, ignoring him in favor of questioning the Jedi.
Hunter narrowed his eyes as he remembered the woman in the loading dock, and how she'd suddenly and conveniently left when he and Vos were trying to slip out of the speeder truck. Some sort of coercion, or mind control? Could Jedi even do that? "Vos," he said suspiciously. "Why did Dverik –"
"Was that all you told him?" Quinlan interrupted. "That we were working for Grakkus?"
Hunter paused, then nodded. "Yeah. Turns out, telling him was a mistake. Dverik said that was all he needed to know."
"Good thing we were right there!" Wrecker said.
"Yes," said Tech, looking a bit concerned. "That was much too close."
Hunter looked at Quinlan, intending to repeat his question, but the Jedi turned quickly to Tech. "So, were you guys able to cause trouble for Dverik, or were you too busy trying to rescue us?"
Wrecker laughed. "Don't worry – we caused him a lot of trouble!"
"The explosions," guessed Hunter.
"Yep!"
"Not just the explosions," Tech corrected. "I sliced into one of the master terminals, accessed his holonetwork, and uploaded a self-replicating virus which spread to every single terminal and datapad currently connected to that network."
Quinlan raised his eyebrows, intrigued. "What did you do, freeze his accounts?"
Tech smiled faintly. "It seemed the best way with which to inconvenience him, given the time we had available."
"Definitely." The Jedi paused. "How'd you find the right virus so fast?"
"I did not look for a specific one," Tech said. "When Dverik paid the woman – the one who works for Wistern – I was already in the system. It was a simple matter to investigate the banking company he was using and to see what level of security breach it would take for them to freeze one of their clients' accounts."
"Oh, got it. How long do you think it'll take him to sort everything out?"
"I am not sure." Tech tilted his head. "Given that all of his holonet-capable devices are currently unusable, I estimate at least one day. Perhaps longer, depending on what kind of damage Wrecker did."
Wrecker grinned and folded his empty food container in half with one hand. "Well, let's see – his cantina's kinda gone. Mostly I just destroyed all his security doors, though."
"Wow." Quinlan was looking openly impressed now. "And all that took you – what, a quarter of an hour?"
"It was Crosshair's plan," Tech said, sounding pleased about it. "Not the particulars, of course – Wrecker and I had to handle our own areas of expertise – but he was the one who thought of how we could inconvenience Dverik, keep his men out of the way while we rescued you, and ensure that our escape route was ready, all at the same time."
Quinlan gave the sniper a two-fingered salute.
Hunter elbowed Crosshair. "Good work," he said sincerely.
Crosshair pretended not to hear him, but Hunter knew perfectly well that he had, because the frown he was aiming at the Jedi lessened slightly.
"What about intel?" Quinlan asked. "Did you find anything about Aurra or the Prince?"
Tech looked displeased. "Nothing whatsoever. If they were ever involved with Dverik, there is no sign of it. He keeps abysmal records, though; perhaps their dealings were never properly documented."
The Jedi shrugged. "Well, it was a long shot at best. We'll just stick with our original plan, I guess."
"Original plan?" Wrecker asked. "We were gonna go after the Prince today, right?"
"Um . . ." Quinlan hesitated. "That was an idea I had, but none of us – well, except for Crosshair – is really in good condition."
"I am!" Wrecker retorted.
"No, you're not," Hunter replied coolly. "I saw you with that hypo this morning. And even if you were completely fine, you wouldn't be going in alone. This isn't an all-out attack, Wrecker."
"Definitely not." The Jedi rubbed absently at his forehead. "We'd have to start by sneaking around, finding out whether there are any relics to destroy. I'm almost certain there are, but . . . hopefully most of them will still be here by the time we get back from Malachor."
Crosshair folded his arms. "I could scout around."
"Not alone," repeated Hunter.
"Yeah, no," agreed Quinlan. "When it comes down to it, I don't want anyone – except possibly myself – going in that warehouse alone."
Hunter raised an eyebrow. "You're not going in there alone until the rest of us are able to rescue you."
"I wouldn't," protested Quinlan. "I mean – not that I'd get caught or anything."
"Right," muttered Crosshair. "Like last night."
"I think you've jinxed me," the Jedi insisted. "I almost never get caught – and then suddenly, this mission, everything's going wrong."
"Like when we fly with regs," Wrecker said sympathetically.
"I – what?"
"Never mind," Hunter said. "We need to rest up for the next part of the mission anyway."
"We'd have plenty of time to do that in space," Quinlan pointed out in a mutter.
Somehow, Hunter failed to find that reassuring. They had less than a day before Vythia was supposed to contact them, and they'd be leaving the planet immediately after that. Two days was plenty of time to recover from last night, but it wouldn't be enough to recover if the team got itself into more trouble before leaving Nar Shaddaa.
"We're staying low until it's time to leave," he said firmly.
Wrecker let out a heavy sigh. "Well, what are we going to do, then?"
"Get the ship ready, obviously," said Tech, and slid off the bench to let Quinlan stand up. "It is refueled, but we never did purchase rations and water for the journey. Chopa said that he works at a supply shop close by."
"Oh, yeah." The Jedi straightened carefully. "It's probably the same shop I mentioned earlier, Hunter."
". . . You mean the one you want me to bargain for supplies at."
"Yep."