>>5870043====
It was impossible to see. The air was swirling with smoke and milky vapour which the fusillade of plasma bolts had boiled out of the frigid atmosphere.
You watch as several stormtroopers in front of you fell. Many others received painful blows upon their plastoid armour. The stormtroopers shrugged it off with a hiss and remained standing in line.
“Forward!”
The battalion moved forth unanimously.
When the smoke and vapour cleared, all became apparent. The Servitude had succeeded in ramming the lead cruiser.
You knew where you were: the enemy starboard. The man o’ war had cleaved into it like a butcher’s knife, and the commander of the craft, the Je’daii Rosenberg, perhaps having frantic thoughts at the last second must have tried to swerve hard, which resulted with the Servitude burying itself into the cruiser’s side.
Sith Bocchi led the assault. She brandished a gleaming rapier from her belt. “On me! Let us go take this ship and her crew!”
She laughed harshly, then suddenly disappeared into the noise and carnage of the fighting.
You attack as well. You can’t let her keep going out of your sight! The starboard was narrow, deeper than you had anticipated. The blown entrance was strewn with rent corpses. The volley fire had killed them instantaneously and gouged holes into their soft bodies like spoons scraping up brûlée, and the floor was beginning to run with charred blood.
You follow the stormtrooper party in. It was swarming. There had to be a hundred Coalitionists, wearing colourful uniforms that made it easy to spot them. They wore orange and blue jackets and trousers that sagged slightly where their nylon gaiters pinched their calves and made their feet alacritous. Their closed helmets were glossy and white, with rose-gold visors that shone like mirrors.
The battalion needed to push. The matter was pure viciousness. Men took to melee after their shots and pulled out swords and maces to dispatch the marines. One trooper dashed his rifle into a marine’s face as the man lunged. Another took aim and fired off a shot which blew an enemy’s brains out. Another more produced a steel club from his belt and set onto helping a crippled comrade by bashing the attacker’s skull open, who was upon the comrade.
You’re a sharpshooter. Necessarily, your first instinct is to find proper footing on the tumultuous gallery and take aim. You dig your boots on the shaky metal floor, next to the windowside. Then you raise your rifle to your cheek. Then, taking aim, you search for an orange backside, then squeeze your trigger.
The recoil thumped your shoulder affectionately, as your blaster roared with a burst of hot gas. A bolt of plasma glid out of the muzzle and sailed down the gallery before slicing open a marine’s back and blowing his lungs out. The man was dead near-instantly, freeing a pinned stormtrooper, who threw the adversary off.
