XI: The Shootout
Aliix found his way to the table, retriving his armor and weapons, thankfull that the besoms were dumb enough not to make use of the gear. Presumably they were going to split it up once he was used as target practice by their make-shift firing squad.
Their restraint is probably the only remarkable thing, being all that Aliix could think in response to that hypothesis as to why his gear was unclaimed. I suppose I should be grateful to Hod Haran for once…I suppose.
He armored himself up, holstered his WESTARs, and grabbing his rifle, Aliix moved with great haste for the entrance of the jailhouse. Stepping out steadily with his rifle at the ready as he encroached into the street when a projectile suddenly passed by the left side of his helmet—narrowly missing him by a inch—and lodging itself into the wall of the jailhouse near the door he just exited from a moment ago.
"You're dead!" he heard a voice holler.
Aliix looked up to see a pair of gruffy and haggered locals on the upper level of a building with slugthrowers in hand. The second one raised his own slugthrower a second behind Aliix doing the same with his DC-17m and was dropped with a single shot from the Mando into the resident's skull.
They had faled to land a hit on him with that first shot, and a few follow ups landing on him but the durasteel material was able to hold up—he may not have had Beskar but at least his armor was adequate enough, thus regardless they accomplish little more than angering him a midichlorian more.
More shots were exchanged between Aliix and the local color. When his mag was emptied, Aliix let the rifle hang to his side by a strap as he lifted his arm to send his rappling cord to wrap around one of their throats as the other drew his blaster pistol. Pullin back on the cord and firing his pistol, he dropped the rest while one hit the ground with a broken neck.
Once the whip cord returned to his gauntlet, Aliix drew his second WESTAR and fired on through the streets. Passing the Duros' corpse as he pressed forward, dropping the barves here and there, showing no mercy—just as he had done with his foes before being captured. Unlike in the situation he found himself in with Keyes he was less reluctant to kill. And even less so to feel guilt over the followin slayings. Hearing blaster fire emit from the opposite direction of his position in the town.
Holstering the WESTARs he loaded a new mag into the DC and pressed on, his destination the source of the blaster and slugthrower fire he was not causing—with reservation of the merits of doing so, but stepping onward regardless.
"By the Force! Never a moment's peace around here, I swear!" one woman grumbled. A man beside her retorted "What else is new?"
The Marshal felt an urge to strike the useless lot complaining around him and kick that one while they were on the ground. He had returned to the jailhouse hoping against the odds that perhaps Keyes and Jun managed to hold onto the Mandalorian despite the blasterfire and explosions. The reality—as it was in most cases since the Regulators emerged on his radar after dealing with Tunstal—was immensely disappointing.
He was less so angered by the death of his lackies, and more rendered to feel a mite inconvenienced. He saw very little value in his various underlings; the House did not pay him enough credits to care the slightest about those sorts of things.
The Marshal's line of work only required to solve the pillars of the communities' problems, beyond that he had little else to genuinely care about. But that was also why he was now irked when he returned. He gave those two fools a job and they failed miserably.
Now he was down two more men and the public's scapegoated entertainment was nowhere in sight.
Glancing toward his nearby underling, the militiaman practically able to sense the frustration beneath the Marshal's helmet, he hissed venomously at the shootist holding his slugthrower rifle "I better be hearing some good news within the hours!"
One, two, there. Three and four there. Cass fired her Jaster rifle in successions of bursts with an effectiveness which could be likened to the sniper Sev dropping the cannon foder clankers of the waning yesteryears of the previous Republic. As she continued with the aforementioned dropping of the militiamen to enter her line of sight, the flames of what had been the fuel depot radiating not far away. Holfast was in chaos as a result of the explosion and unfortunately the response had been more swift than she and Wes had anticipated. The militia and local color had responded more hastily than the Regulator's could have anticipated as done so before they were able to pull back and converge on the next step of what they had planned that day.
They were supposed to spring Aliix and retreat—either for their own hideout or to the bounty hunter's starship—and now even that was not an option. Finding themselves with only the luxury of adequate cover, at best, to makedue with until the situation let up enough for them to have a chance at surviving.
"They're really fuming." Wes laughed. "Even worse than the depot."
Elra tilted her head enlivenedly. "I guess they weren't fond of the fireworks."
Cass continued to fire instinctively; no-scope dropping one shooter on the roofs before again pulling back. "It's a setback." she told them calmly.
They were not too fazed by the matter shooting at them, perceiving it as more of an inconvenience. Each of them was fully aware there was a chance this could have been the result of their plan—as most plans for battle fail to go smoothly when making contact with reality, the enemy, or both—so none were in a blame-game mood or breaking down in a panic (not completely anyway). All focused on the priority of survival above all else.
No different than a more uber-intelligent predator outflanking and outplaying its hunters.
Swears and obscenities could be heard from the militiamen and tolksfolk aided in the attempts to snuff out the Regulators. At the very least it was easy for Cass and hers to take their crackshots. No different than blasting fish in a barrel.
Doing what they do best—going pop, pop, pop, making their enemies drop.
All as the streets became chaotic. But it was not without moments of waning.
As the chaos reached another of its receding moments ever so slightly, just enough for Cass and the Regulators to register a lone figure advancing forward; however before she could take aim it fired upon her adversaries with zero hesitation. Then she saw the blue warpaint. It was Aliix Spir for sure with his deece in hand, fighting with the efficiency of a seasoned warrior; showing the skill of not only the practicianer of his profession but a true breed of mando as well.
Shooting those who were at a distance which he could not grab with his hand, and those who were ended up getting backed with the stock of his rifle, punched, and backed into the wall of a nearby building or variety of structures in the streets.
Ruthless as any Trandoshan, and ferocious as Jango himself was reputed to have been on Galidraan. Outwardly almost as furious as well, without ever uttering a single word.
The tempest of conflict which had been overwheling them was not less of a crucible for them to be concerned with; and this boonful aberration was one which the mando leader and her followers would use to great advantage.
Taking aim, they resumed their blasting shots.
Aliix and the Regulators' combined efforts and firepower seemed to get the better of the opposition forces.
"Fall back!" they heard one of the foeman hollar. "Fall back for now!" another was heard soon after. And every saddletramp, militiaman, gung ho citizen, and other form of life in the town was soon to retire from the scene of the shootout. Revealing themselves to not be the tough Barves and lethal as a Rancor that they fancied themselves, and more like Bantha fodder.
Neither the Regulators nor the Bounty Hunter made a concerted effort to shoot the retreaters in the back as they fled. Opting to conserve their ammo for the time being and beckoning Spir over to them, all of which he obliged.
For now they had earned themselves a reprieve.