The look on Ben’s face was priceless.
He watched the Rodian disappear, his fists, jaw, entire body clenched, and said, "How can you storm around with that thing?" tipping his gaze toward the disruptor with his mother's disdain
“Barbaric,” he muttered into a mote of ash.
His other remark—not very nice—died in a streak of plasma. Ben folded sideways again, shoulder smashing against a cargo crate. The pirates who’d just been sliced and dusted were no longer in a position to comment. Unfortunately, their friends were. The corridor shook with approaching boots.
Ben risked a glance around the crate and immediately wished he hadn't. The passage beyond had become a forest of blaster muzzles, a bottleneck rippling backward through the charging crowd.
Then, a familiar current flooded the back of his skull. The same one that occasionally made dice land where he wanted them, doors open unexpectedly, and credits disappear. Via donation, of course.
There was not going to be another DXR-6 shot. Out of the goodness of his heart, he tore a rifle off a corpse and aimed for a cargo hook, which suddenly swung free from overhead. It dropped the approaching grunt and several unmarked containers, large enough to crush several men.
It bought him enough time to shout.
“They’re looking for you!” Blaster fire rattled a fallen container, peppering Ben’s coat with fragments as he flung back to grab the blade—and scowl at the stupid blood skull. “Kriff! Now, I’m on their radar. Thanks a lot, Scrapheap.”
The thunder of boots resumed, and Ben started pushing through the debris.
“You got me into this; now get me out before you turn us all into ash.”
Whatever woo-woo intervention had just occurred seemed unwilling to solve all of Ben Solo's problems for him. And this buckethead fuck.
