One shot. Two shots. Three shots. Flashes of red lit up the battlefield like Coruscant neon, the Mandalorian warrior mowing down the encroaching horde of Husks as they came. Not every blast hit its mark, but enough did; organic-synthetic corpses lay scattered before him, strewn across the combat zone with burning holes in their chests as the lingering scent of plasma and scorched ozone permeated the air. When the gun's battery depleted and it hummed in protest of further use he still managed to make use of it in some capacity, breaking from cover to clock the nearest Husk across the skull with the stock of it and searching his belt for a charge capacitor. And in a rarity, just as he had before, he made an oversight. And, just as it had before... it cost him. A rallying cry of
"DESHI BASARA!" and the telltale ignition of a rocket propeller was all it took. Boba Fett spun, leveled his forearm for the rocky outcropping above him upon which a devout band of Bane's followers had daringly flanked around the bounty hunter while he engaged with the Husks, and sent a miniature bolt of plasma express from his wrist to their leader's skull, dropping him with a cauterized crater where his forehead should've been. But it was too late to do him any good. The smoking barrel of the RPG-launcher the man's now-limp body held tipped him off on that.
An explosion rocked the world to his left, and everything faded to white.
He came to his senses with an abject ringing in his ears, on his stomach in the dirt with a dull numbness in his skull that made him think concussion. The detonation had thrown him a good ten feet across the battlefield, away from the front lines and into a ditch as he grunted and pushed himself up. Armor absorbed the brunt of the blast and shrapnel, but the sheer blunt trauma had knocked him senseless for about ten seconds; a lot could happen in ten seconds. He heard the calls of the mercenaries behind him, congratulating each other in a language he didn't understand. He didn't need to speak it to know they were coming to finish the job or scavenge what they could, probably hoping to loot some advanced weaponry to use against the Husks and resistance alike. Fett growled underneath his helmet, letting the anesthetic administered by his armor kick in as he put together a plan in his head. There were too many to shoot; with no cover, he'd be cut down in a hail of bullets. He lost his carbine in the explosion, anyway. He was gonna have to improvise.
That, he could do.
He feigned unconsciousness until they were close enough for this to work, already overconfident in their perceived victory. They thought they'd won. That didn't mean he should take them lightly, but it did give him an advantage he could use. He counted down the seconds in his head, using the sound of their voice to gauge their proximity, and when he deemed them close enough... He made his play.
A stun grenade, whipped for the mercenaries' feet. A flash of white and noise, filtered out by his helmet. The thumping of adrenaline in his ears as he rose to his feet like a corpse rising from the grave, hand reaching back to grasp the hilt of something dangling from his waist.
The push of a button.
The hum of a blade.
And he fell upon them, lightsaber felling the stunned militia soldiers in a whirlwind of movement. Lightsaber aptitude and force sensitivity weren't mutual requisites. He learned that early on, and when he started claiming Jedi bounties was around when he taught himself to wield them. He wasn't beholden to any style, instead favoring practical strikes and precision, but that didn't diminish its effectiveness. The fanatics never stood a chance.
Moments later, Fett could be spotted rejoining the fight against Elliot, jetpack still thankfully functional and boosting him across the battlefield towards the towering mechanoid's position. Shepard's voice crackling in his helmet prompted a change in tactics as he aimed to glide past the abomination's defenses and rocket straight for his knee to deliver a series of rapid, clean strikes with the lightsaber in a sort of flurried drive-by assault, attempting to weaken Elliot's knee at a number of key points. Though flashy, all this was simply a cover to support and mask his real attack-- a remote explosive, planted at the base of the reaper-human hybrid's knee as he soared past, detonating moments later. The goal, if things worked as planned, was to take out Elliot's leg, destroy his balance and send him toppling to the ground.
Right into the path of the Harbinger's beam cannon.
He wasn't called the best for nothing.
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