Fiction: Assault


01-08-2013 02:24:19


WHISKEY, a melee man
ALE, a second lieutenant
BRANDY, a scout
DRAFT, a demolitions expert
RUM, a sniper

Tomb of Vodal Kressh

Curtain opens.

Lights up on a small room within Vodal Kressh’s tomb, reserved for ancient artifacts. It is a fairly pristine room, lined with ancient swords, jewels, and armor scraps, with a presumably secret entrance. Blaster fire, accompanied by the screams of the dying, can be heard offstage, right as a stone rolls away from the wall and reveals a sideburn-heavy ALE climbing his way through a passage. He lands on his feet in the room and whistles.

ALE. C’mon! Let’s move it!

WHISKEY. I’m comin’, I’m comin’! Geez, can’t expect a guy with this much muscle to squeeze through this thing quickly!

ALE. Yeah, yeah, substitute muscle with greasy lard, and you’ve got it.

WHISKEY. I heard that, you mutton-chopped mongrel!

A bulky WHISKEY clambers his way through the hole, promptly followed by a ponytailed DRAFT, who shoves a pack of detonators in front of her. The two of them settle on the floor.

ALE. Rum and Brandy?

DRAFT. Right on our asses, lieutenant. Patience is a virtue.

ALE. Yeah, not with our employers. Make sure Rum seals up the entrance good and tight, all right?

WHISKEY. (shouting through the passage) Hey, sniper boy! Seal up the entrance good and tight, all right?

RUM. (offstage) Little busy here, Whiskey!

More gunfire can be heard as a slender BRANDY slithers through the passageway, followed by a feverish and armored RUM, who drops from the passage with his rifle still smoking. RUM pulls off his helmet and wipes his brow.

RUM. Sheesh! Damn mites out there gave me a rush! Never thought I’d have to burn holes in so many throats.

DRAFT. You think you expended yourself? It’s gonna take me a couple thousand credits to replace those thermal detonators I lobbed. Seriously, whoever decided to set us up for this “stealthy assault” gig is a numbnuts.

ALE. Draft, the numbnuts is our boss.

DRAFT. Yeah, the drunk. I get it. Reason why we’ve got these stupid code names, too. Oh, draft! Real flippin’ funny, lady!

BRANDY. Least you’re not ‘Brandy.’ I sound like a cheap hooker.

ALE. No, you sound like the woman with the codename that sounds the most like a real name. Now, gather round, boys and girls.

The group does so. Ale clears his throat and puts his hand out for the others to touch.

ALE. Ascendant Team assemble!

OTHERS. Ascendant Team reporting!

They throw up their hands.

ALE. Nice work, sweethearts. Thanks to the lovely motley mosaic of our crew, we’ve managed to slip into the western flank of the tomb. Looks like this little space is our very own souvenir shop.

WHISKEY. (spots the sword) Ooh! A classic Sith sword!

He fetches it from its hanging spot on the wall and begins to swing it around, making verbal slicing noises. Draft smacks him upside the head. Ale pulls a pack of cigarras from his vest and lights one.

ALE. Now given our mission, the oh-so-inebriated Dread Lord – bless her twisted, Whyren’s-soaked heart – we are expected to move from this room into the western corridors, maneuvering our way north, until we reach the core of it all. In the meantime, other teams will be moving from the east, meaning we close around the main tomb area in a circle.

BRANDY. Yeah, and potentially get caught like flies. I told you, lieutenant, after scouting this thing – it’s a mousetrap in the making!

ALE. Relax, Brandy girl. Your little scouting mission paid off. Thanks to Rum and his collective sniper buddies, the whole periphery’s been scoured and cleaned up. Any move of the remaining One Sith defenses heading toward the tomb, and bam! Bolt in the skull. Cigarra?

Brandy takes one, as well as Draft and Whiskey, who smoke heavily.

ALE. Now. Brandy, when we move into our sneaky stealthy sneaky formation – or as I like to call it, the SSS or Triple S – you’ll be at the front, with Whiskey by your side. Draft will be with me, so leave her enough elbow room so she can keep an eye out on potential could-be-bombed secret treasure troves. Most likely, we’ve got hidden pockets of Sith stash everywhere. Rum!

RUM. Yes, sir.

ALE. You’ll be at the rear, and when the corridors branch off, as is to be expected, your eyes will be on what’s behind us, not in front of us. So whatever you do, don’t hesitate to –

A loud clanging noise can be heard offstage. Whiskey gets into an offensive stance, still holding the Sith sword.

WHISKEY. Whuh-oh! Looks like the sheriff’s in town!

Draft smacks him again, this time so hard that he drops the sword. Draft puffs out a cloud of smoke and pats Ale on the back.

DRAFT. Leave it to me, champion! We must have been talking too loudly. Rum?

RUM. Madam.

DRAFT. (removes a detonator from her belt) Be my back-up.

RUM. (Cocks his rifle) Man, I love my job.

The two of them exit, and their activities can be heard from offstage, which include explosions, gunfire, and screams. Ale sidles up to Brandy, as Whiskey fiddles with more of the dark side trinkets.

ALE. Feelin’ okay about this, Brand?

BRANDY. Don’t call me that.

ALE. Sorry. Codename’s a codename. We can get cuddly and friendly again once we’re back on the Predominant.

BRANDY. I just feel way out of my league with this crap.

ALE. Relax. Ronnie T. may be a crazy little Dark Jedi, but…she knows how to pick the elite. And you, my sweetie scout, are definitely part of the elite.

BRANDY. How many tombs and Sith cemeteries are we planning on excavating anyway, huh? My first job was dealing with that Sorsus Shynn…Sorbus Hynn…Sorzus Syn…the dead Sith lady!

ALE. Yeah, yeah.

A scream can be heard offstage.

DRAFT. (offstage) Yeaaaaaah-hah-hah-hah! You like a grenade in the groin, darkie?

BRANDY. Look, I get we’re the primed Ascendant Assault team, but it feels so…hokey. We get dead people’s stuff. Plagueis takes it. Hooray. We get more dead people’s stuff. Plagueis takes it. Hooray. I mean, is this really their only hobby?

ALE. It includes killing, pillaging, drinking, and screaming…I’d say that’s a whole bundle of hobbies taken care of with this whole campaign thingy.

A rifle shot from Rum’s rifle can be heard, with a long proceeding wail.

RUM. (offstage) Whoops. Sorry. Aimed a little too low.

Another rifle shot silences the sobbing. Brandy puts her cigarra out behind her ear.

ALE. Look. I’m lieutenant now, right? I got that after the whole Khar Delba shindig when we totally gutted that dead Sith Lord’s mansion and stuff. And Whiskey? He got a promotion after yanking out a One Sith’s jugular vein on Ch’hodos. Or maybe it was his aorta. Whatever. The point is, you’re getting something out of this. And who knows? We might get some vacation time.

BRANDY. …Could be worse, I guess. We could be serving up casseroles in the mess hall on the Ascendancy.

ALE. Cleaning up the good old Dread Lord’s vomit.

BRANDY. Yeah, Dread Lord. Shithead Lord.

ALE. Or, if we weren’t careful, becoming one of their programmed Subjugate drone things with faceless visors and no individual personalities.

BRANDY. …Touché. We’re fine. Sorry.

ALE. Nah, don’t be sorry. Now, I do believe the carnage outside this room has ended?

WHISKEY. Hey! Guys! This looks like a holocron!

ALE. No touchy, Whiskey boy! Time to do some good old Triple S! And I don’t mean the sexy times.

WHISKEY. Awww, but triple sexy times are awesome!

Rum and Draft jog back into the room, Draft still chewing away at her cigarette.

ALE. All done?

DRAFT. We’ll need a janitor with a strong stomach, but…eh, the Ravagers can handle that.

ALE. All right. Hands in!

They put their hands in.

ALE. Ascendant Team assemble!

OTHERS. Ascendant Team action!

DRAFT. Ascendant Team ass-kicking time! Whoo!

She whoops as Brandy takes the lead, running off, with Whiskey pulling out a vibroblade and following closely behind her. Ale and Draft follow, with Rum shouldering his rifle, looking down at the floor, and grabbing a random jewel before taking off after them. Lights out. Curtain down.