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"Get that AT-TE back online!" the Captain orders, his voice bellowing over comms.
There’s another whistle as artillery arcs across the sky, troopers ducking into any meager cover they can find before it impacts. It hits the ground with a ground-shaking thump, the blastwave catching a few men unable to clear the impact zone in time, sending their bodies spiralling. There's a clatter as those armoured bodies land, medics already in motion - those they can spare from the men already huddled behind a downed LAATi which is practically operating as a medbay at this point.
Dent scrambles from behind the mangled remains of a speeder bike; having been trying to salvage whatever parts he can from the twisted wreck. He has no idea where Captain Keeli is, though he suspects probably wherever the blasterfire is heaviest knowing the Captain.
"On it, sir!" he responds as he dashes towards the open loading ramp of the AT-TE, his footsteps thundering up the warped ramp.
He slams into the cockpit, the pilot in there slumped against the controls. Dent mutters a quiet apology before yanking his body up out of the seat. He gently sets the man's body down behind the seat, up against a wall panel he's unlikely to need to access for the moment.
The AT-TE's controls are covered in the man's blood, obscuring labels and lights. Dent grimaces, grabbing a rag from his kit to scrub away the worst of it so he can see the bulk of what he needs to. He discards the rag on the floor as he attempts to bring the vehicle back online, warning lights flickering across the panel.
There's another flurry of blasterfire outside the cockpit window and Dent ducks as a shot hits the windshield, adding another spiderweb to the already fractured window. A volley of blasterfire from his brothers outside returns in the same direction, and Dent pays no further attention to the outside world. He remains low to the floor however, popping open the casing just below the panel to inspect the tangle of wires beneath.
Fuck sake, he thinks as he spots the issue. Easy fix that shouldn't have had us grounded for this long.
Dent quickly makes the repair, replaces the console panelling and then starts the initiation sequence.
"Come on, girl," he mutters as she chokes the start. "You can do it, come on."
He hears the cheers from outside as she finally roars to life, hydraulic legs lifting her belly from the sticky mud below. Dent adds his own to the chorus, patting a relatively clean section of her console in grateful thanks.
There's the rumble of footsteps as more of his brothers board, a bedraggled brother slipping into the cockpit behind him. The man spots their dead brother in the corner for a brief moment, head bowing in silent acknowledgement before he takes the man's place in the chair.
"I've got her," the new pilot confirms, a scorch line blistered across his backplate. "Wanna ride?"
Dent nods. There's no point returning to that broken speeder if he can keep this girl moving. "Sounds good - I'll keep an eye on her systems whilst you drive."
The pilot steers the AT-TE forward, Dent watches as the main gun platform rotates and fires - someone must've swung up into the gunner's mount. He can't watch any longer as several warning lights flicker amongst the previous pilot's bloody demise across the console. Dent ducks down, prising a panel loose. The wires inside are half-melted, and Dent carefully re-establishes the electrical pathway. The system sparks as it reconnects and Dent thanks the stars for his still intact non-conducting gloves.
"You alright down there?" his companion calls, and Dent pops back up from underneath the console. He staggers against the pilot's chair as a blast rocks the cockpit.
"Yea, think it'll hold for a little while longer - anything else flashing?"
"Nothing I can see," the man says, wrenching the vehicle around with a strained grunt. "Steering's completely fucked though. Not worth trying to fix it right now with the amount of fire she's attracting."
Dent hums an affirmative. "Just tell me when and I'll see what I can do."
A warbling roar echoes overhead, shadows moving swiftly over the ground in front of the shattered cockpit window. Dent feels the rumble in his chest as the munitions deploy, and hears the cheers erupting as the survivors rout the enemy stragglers not caught in the rolling blastwaves.
The pilot slumps forward against the steering column for a brief moment, before he pushes back - his dirt-streaked visor meeting with Dent's. He holds out a gloved hand, the fabric torn. Dent meets his grasp on the forearm.
"Thank fuck for that," his brother says and Dent laughs in wholehearted agreement.