Hunkered down below the dashboard of one of the moff’s partially-crated drilling weapons, Tcho uses biofeedback techniques to calm himself as he waits for the opportunity to make his next move. While the Stormtroopers get their ladder set up, the technicians continue working. The noises that reach Tcho indicate a device has been turned on. “Ah, excellent! It works!” someone cheers. Tchit, tchit, tchit! “Wait, hang on! It’s—” Kheeeeeesh. The sound of something grinding into metal is accompanied by an initially light vibration in the floor on which Tcho crouches.
“Hey! We’re on a ladder over here!” a modulated voice admonishes.
“We’re working here,” the tech calls back.
“The floor is shaking!” protests the Stormtrooper.
And indeed, the vibrations Tcho can feel are getting worse. Based on the sounds, he imagines a drill bit like the one he bounced off of clawing its way through the side of a metal crate. At least it’s not my crate getting torn apart. This is perfect, though; something distracting and loud is exactly what Tcho needs in order to make a break for it. He takes off at a crouching run, heading towards the service entrance but sparing an eye for anything useful to swipe along the way. He spots the perfect target, a datapad that has fallen from a jostled table and is lying underneath the running device. With the technicians and Stormtroopers arguing with each other, no one is looking that way. Tcho drops down next to the device and reaches under with his right arm. Pleased at how this is turning out, he thinks, I’ll just grab this and—
The scream of pain that Tcho cannot suppress alerts everyone in the room to his exact location. The device has dropped another drill bit, shredding through the muscles of his inner forearm, though mercifully missing the radius. The bones are intact, but all he can do with the mangled limb is bat the datapad back towards himself so that he can snatch it up with his left hand.
One Stormtrooper is halfway in the ceiling and the other is holding the ladder, but Renault is ever vigilant. When he catches sight of the perpetrator, he instantly recognizes the Rebel that he has told everyone he killed. Dyed hair and face paint cannot hide the identity of the alien who has repeatedly shown him up. But Renault cannot let his superiors find out about his earlier lie. This scum has to die for real this time. Unfortunately, that means no witnesses, or he will be accused of killing some random crewmember. This Tcho can be no simple Rebel, though. He somehow survived an explosion in space and has come back yet again to interfere with the moff’s anti-Jedi equipment. Fearing the Pantoran is one of those space wizards himself, Renault snatches up an experimental gun from one of the undisturbed tables.
One of the technicians begins, “Hey, that’s not—”
“Shut up!” Renault shouts, trying to figure out which door the target is going for, the main entrance or the service one. The target is too far to shoot right now, anyway. This fancy gun likely has an effective range comparable to the stun setting on a standard blaster.
Eyes on the drill bit, Tcho slips under the device to get it between him and the soldier now holding some weird kind of blaster. The more clutter blocking his line of sight, the better. Staggering back to his feet, Tcho stuffs the datapad into his satchel and awkwardly roots around in it with his off hand. He yanks out a hypospray of nullicaine and hastily administers it without his usual care. The initial burn of the temporary treatment is nothing compared to the agony of the horrific injury. The drug takes effect quickly, blocking the pain receptors so that Tcho can open and close his right hand again. Using it is likely to damage the muscles further, but that is a tradeoff he is willing to make right now, since the lead Stormtrooper is radioing for additional guards. Fortunately, Tcho is headed through the mirrored door into the staff section, though, not into the main hallways.
“Silver Squad! This is Lieutenant Renault,” the newly-promoted soldier bites out. He orders them to take up positions in the corridors around the ballroom in order to control the shape of the chase. “This should be a simple enough order for you to follow,” he growls. He will not call them directly in to help, though, as he cannot have witnesses. Relying just on himself, Renault charges after his quarry.
Tcho shoulders his way through the staff door into the narrow service space beyond it. He topples carts and tray racks as he runs down it, hoping to slow his antagonistic pursuer. “I will take you down!” the man yells after Tcho. “There’s a dark place in the Empire for people like you, who do I don’t even know what!” Tcho gives up on trying to slow the other man down. It is taking too much time to yank things down, time that would be better spent running from whatever torture chambers they send Rebels to.
The two of them pound down corridors, Tcho maintaining his lead but growing more and more nervous about how long he can keep this up. Once the nullicaine wears off, he will barely be able to think straight from the pain. When he reaches a section of the ship not fully repaired yet, Tcho gets the opportunity to switch things up. The room is cluttered and dim, and though the atmosphere is breathable, dust fills the air. The decreased visibility makes this a perfect place to hide. He keeps running, scanning the area for a place to slip between detritus. Suddenly, a cry and a strange fwoomph noise sound from behind him.