The Doctor and the Duchess

[Atton Kira]

Star Yacht Iego Angel - Denon

- - -

Atton yawned, stretched, and ambled casually through the hatchway that separated the cockpit from the rest of the ship. The little astro-droid lurking in one of the corners shot him a scathing string of beeps and warbles that his years of exposure to droidspeak informed him was a comment about the suitability of wearing naught but a dressing gown while wandering around the cockpit - of course, the fact that the droid had been saying the same thing to him every morning for years made it some what easier to translate. There was probably some mention of health, safety, and sparking power conduits too: Atton decided to ignore the R4's veiled threats, and patted her gently atop her cone. "Mornin', Kate," he replied lightly, shooting her a smile. R4-K8 threw back something that sounded particularly scathing and rude. Atton's smile broadened.

"Good morning, sir!" the second droid - CZ-41 - greeted enthusiastically, shifting at the communications console to allow its ocular sensors to track Atton's progress down the ramp that descended towards the forward pilot's station.

Always one to try and maintain balance in the universe, Atton's response was considerably less enthusiastic than his protocol droid. He risked a brief look, but turned away quickly: there was something about the slightly humanised Rodian face of the CZ-series that left him a little uncomfortable, but unfortunately there weren't many droids with the specifications required to do what CZ-41 did, and while Atton had considered investing some of the considerable nest-egg his parents had secreted away for him into a Cybot Galactica research project to develop such a thing, he really didn't have the patience. Besides, learning to tolerate the droid was considerably cheaper, and at least he'd already managed to paint over the garish white coverings that the droid had rolled out of the factory with. "Mornin', Sleazy," he muttered, slippered feet finally scuffling to a halt, and lowered himself into the pilot's seat.

Risking a glance out of the forward viewport, Atton stared down from the floating landing pad that he'd been renting for the last few days, down into the bowels of the ecumenopolis that swarmed across the entire surface of Denon. According to the Imperial Tourism Agency, Denon was one of the finest examples of a city world, second only in the scale and engineering greatness to Imperial Center itself. He'd also read somewhere on the holonet that, if you fell from one of the airborne landing pads like his ship was currently resting on, you'd reach terminal velocity long before you reached the ground, and would apparently be able to survive impact. What the article hadn't pointed out is that, once surviving your groundward plumet, you would probably be mugged, raped and murdered within a few minutes by the various gangs that roamed the lower, lightless levels of cities like this. Drawing in a deep breath, Atton released a heartfelt sigh. There were some things about society that just made you feel proud to be a citizen of the mighty Empire, with its dedication to ensuring the safety of its citizens rather than wasting money on giant planet-destroying lasers.

Atton was both a smart man, and arrogant enough to point that out to people should an opportunity arise during conversation. He'd been privvy to all the same information that had been distributed to the Imperial populace regarding the "Death Stars" and the death of Emperor Palpatine, and yet couldn't bring himself to be sucked in by the blatant propoganda that seemed to have ensnared everyone else in the galaxy. For starters, it didn't take a genius to realise that a weapon like the Death Star was a financial black hole: one that a disorganised group of terrorists like the Rebel Alliance could never hope to finance. And yet, the galaxy had been completely convinced that the Rebels had been responsible for the destruction of Alderaan, and that the Emperor's tyrannical rule was the only thing that had saved them all from the same destruction. But then, the populace had always been a gullible breed: something Palpatine had exploited ever since he rose to power. First the Clone Wars and the emergency powers that he had managed to glean as a result, then the Jedi purge after those who had spent millennia protecting the Republic had made an uncharacteristic grab for power; even things like the Ghorman Massacre and the Atravis Sector Massacres had been dismissed as necessary evils thanks to the timely application of propoganda.

For someone like Atton - a reporter for the Imperial Holonet - such things were obvious, as if they had been burned across the very sky in mile-high letters. Apparently, the every-day citizen wasn't nearly so perceptive. Maybe it was ignorance, which after all brings bliss: many people lived their lives by the mentality that, if you ignore something for long enough it will loose interest in you and leave. Or perhaps it was simply fear. Atton had learned first hand how standing up to the Emperor could cost lives: his entire family had paid the price for his father's morals.

Pleasant mood suitably crushed, Atton released another sigh and twisted in his chair to face CZ-41. "Anything interesting on the news today, Sleazy?" he called across to the communications station.

"I have compiled a list of headlines that correspond with your perameters, and have uploaded them to the pilot's communications screen, as you have requested on the past 1173 days, Master Kira."

Atton couldn't help cracking a smile. Had it been anyone else, they would have delivered that last pronouncement with such a thick coating of sarcasm that it would have stuck in the air for minutes. Any droid, on the other hand, managed to deliver the line with its usual, upbeat monotone, repeating it flawlessly each day.

Kate shot out the droid-speak equivalent of rolling her eyes. Atton smiled. Almost any droid, he ammended.


Just six months after the highly suspect deaths of Lord Jakef and Lady Aido Andonel, the Nildur people are once more in mourning, this time over the loss of Archduchess Decelia Andonel.

It was announced earlier today by Shimel Dresden of the Katar, who currently control Baraboo, that the young heiress fell ill with a severe case of the Ascaralan Croup. Medical attention was recieved, but the illness was way too advanced to respond to treatment. "The loss of this youngest member of the Nildur class is felt deeply by all of Baraboo," said Sovereign Dresden in his statement, "And the hearts of the Katar people mourn with them. Be assured that we are prepared to continue to lead our citizens through this hour of darkness."

A frown furrowed Atton's brow. He remembered reading the report of suspicious circumstances surrounding the deaths of the Lord and Lady in an earlier report, but at the time the situation hadn't piqued his interest. Political figures died all the time, and the conspiracy theorists always managed to find something suspicious about the circumstances, if they looked hard enough. Conspiracies existed, and Atton certainly had theories about a number of them, but didn't usually buy in to all the media hype. This latest development changed things however: the situation on Baraboo was beginning to turn into a mystery that was crying out to be solved.


This news comes on the brink of next year's Changing of the Powers. Andonel, was to take control of the ruling house from the Katar class in representation of the tribe of Nildur. The long-established tradition occurs once every decade, and the ceremony is one of the Galaxy's most elaborate.

Even more intreguing. But it was the next line that sold Atton on the story, and determined the investigative journalist's next port of call.


No inquiry has yet been organized to investigate further.

"Sleazy: log on to the Denon computer network," he instructed, glancing briefly over his shoulder. "Download any information you can find on Baraboo - political history, dealings with the Empire; anything. Once you're done, contact Denon Orbital and request clearence to leave the system." CZ-41 announced his compliance, and set to work. Atton's fingers started tapping across the controls, running through the preflight checks that would ready his Baudo-class Yacht for its journey. "Kate: once we've got our flight path from Orbital, plot me a Hyperspace course to the Baraboo system - fastest one possible." The droid whistled something sarcastic about how it was planning to program the most round-about course possible, rather than the direct and logical one. Atton smirked as the droid grumbled, and glanced down at his naked legs. "Atton..." his voice trailed off. "Find some clothes."

[Decelia Andonel]

Unmarked Cell, Theryn Fedd dungeons, Baraboo
---
"This one, this is her." The haughty voice rolled and echoed around the almost-empty cell, followed by an ominous crackle of static and the scrape of heavy boots against the rough stone floors. From her prone position in the furthest corner, Decelia Andonel glanced up at the violet sheen of the electric field which kept her imprisoned in the small space. For a moment she tasted fear rising in the back of her throat like bile until she realized that it was her vision that was faulty; there were only two men, not four. Relief flooded over her so strong she thought she might faint.

There was a hiss-snap as the field retracted; she curled up tighter, eyes scrunching shut.

"Archduchess?" The title sounded concrete if not familiar, a passable identity – nothing about it made her cringe, at least, unlike the other things she'd been called the last few days, names that weren't so benign.

Name.

What was her name?

She cracked open her eyes a fraction, wincing at the light that shot forward as the two figures shifted into the cell. One of them - a man whose elegant face and fine garments made her brain jerk in shock - dropped to a crouch a few feet away, watching her. She expected fear to come crashing hard through her aching lungs and weakened limbs, but instead there was only a steely hate. Strange, considering all she'd been through.

"If you would just cooperate." The voice was saying. "I dislike drawing this sort of charade out."

"You -" It hurt to talk over her raw throat and Decelia grimaced, shivering, naked against the cold, stone floor. "I know you."

The man nodded. "You do. You know other things, too."

There was a wheedling edge to his voice and the huddled woman instinctively curled against it, shaking her head. "Don't."

"Won't you tell me? This," The figure waved a hand at the surrounding prison. "Will all go away. All you must do is share with me."

"No." Decelia studied his face, blinking to clear her vision and frowned at the weariness and anger that flashed across the startling blue of the man's eyes. She knew this, anger – she didn't remember much about how she'd wound up here but she remembered the rage; the slide of a needle on the edge of snarled taunts; the burn of drugs curling through her system.

Each fragmented memory was as sharp as a slap, and strong enough for Decelia to push out against the floor, propelling her body backwards with her eyes on the man, waiting for him to strike.

He smiled. "I'm so sorry." With an air of tried patience he stood up, nodding to the other with him. They walked out of the cell but the purple haze did not spring up after them. Decelia struggled to hear what they were saying and then, when she did, wished she hadn't.

"Again. Do not stop until she says something useful. We're wasting our time."

[Atton Kira]

Star Yacht Iego Angel - Baraboo

- - -

"For the last time!" Atton snapped, scowling at the droid's reflection in one of the computer consoles beside him. "You're an astromech droid, not a pilot. You are not landing the ship!"

Kate let out a low, mournful whine, but knew that her efforts were in vain. For a moment, the title of the command subroutine that would activate her shock arm floated through her operating system, but she decided against it. Ever since her programming had reached the point where the first vestages of conscious thought emerged, she had realised that Atton had profiled her as a female, and had begun to research just what that entailed. One of the things she had learned from her studies was that women were capable of holding a grudge, and storing up their negative feelings for months, if not years at a time. R4-K8 supposed it was a more efficient approach to the situation: that allowed them to cumulate all of their revenge into a single act, which would cause a much lower consumption of resources, energy, and processing power. Activating a new command protocol she had written herself, a back-up of the settings in her emotional simulation matrix was created. She would store these perameters in her memory banks, and formulate an appropriate retaliation later.

Hands gripping the controls of the Iego Angel a little too tightly perhaps, Atton eased the shuttle down through the edge of the atmosphere. The way the planet had rotated, and the point in the system where they'd left hyperspace, a large tract of ocean lay between them and the mainland, and over it a storm was brewing. Ocean storms were common on many planets, but planets with so little land could really whip them up to an impressive size. Ever since he'd taken a ship into the atmosphere of a gas giant as a dare and nearly killed himself - and, more imporantly, nearly trashed his ship - he'd been a little wary of being anywhere with winds moving faster than he could. So, making sure to give the storm a wide berth, Atton brought the Angel into a wide arc, and swept clear of the wind, the rain, and the lightning.

Increasing power to the engines to try and bring clear skies back overhead, Atton allowed his grip on the controls to relax slightly. A display to his left showed the angry red swirl of the storm sliding away behind them; outside the dense spiral of dark clouds began to unravel, and the sound of the rain hammering against the Angel's hull lessened. Memories of childhood camping trips into the wilderness of Ord Lithone slipped away, and Atton heaved a sigh of relief.

"Thank the Starport for the heads up on that storm," Atton instructed, not quite willing to take his attention off the viewport just yet, "And inform them that we're making our final approach."

The servos in CZ-41's neck and torso whirred slightly as he twisted towards the relevant console to comply. "As you wish, Master Atton."

The sun broke through the clouds with the force of a blaster bolt, slamming into Atton's unprepared eyes. Squinting for a moment, he risked releasing a hand from the controls for just long enough to push the tinted glasses a little higher up his nose, before adjusting their heading slightly to move the sun out of view, hidden safely by the ship's hull. It would deviate from their flight plan by a few dozen meters, but from what his research had revealed, he doubted the people of Baraboo would mind. It wasn't like the Starport Atoll was the busiest shipping destination in the world: apparently he was the first visitor to the planet in some time who hadn't landed with a squad of white plastic soldiers.

Quickly, he risked a glance at CZ-41. Maybe he shouldn't have bothered with that paint job after all: the irony of Sleazy in his Stormtrooper-white plating would have kept him amused for hours.

"Sir," the droid in question called, his voice a strange mix of mild arrogance and blissful ignorance. "The Communications Officer at the Starport informs me that they have transmitted our final approach vector, and that we are clear to proceed with our landing." He hesitated. "When you are ready to, of course."

While the prospect of a joyride around the water world certainly appealed to the repressed child that had been displaced when Atton was sent off to the Academy, the man he had become instead managed to keep those urges in check. At the moment, he had a mystery to solve, and his curiosity was strong enough to outweigh anything else: sometimes even his instinct for self-preservation. Mystery now, he informed himself sternly. Joyride later.

The Iego Angel swept around the final curve and the Starport Attol appeared beneath them, the vastness of the mainland looming in the distance. A tangled mass of emerald green intermixed with the stone and durasteel of the more developed settlements, the mainland was a strange mix of the necessary evils of modern urban living entwined with a reverance for the world around them. The balance struck Atton as a stark contrast to the world they had left before: perhaps the architects of Denon and Coruscant could learn a thing or two from the people who shaped planets such as this. Not a sentimental man by any means, Atton had still been intregued by the harmony that seemed to exist between the people of Baradoo and the planet itself. Cutting power to the engines, powering up the repulsorlifts, and allowing the nose to climb skyward and rob him of his view of anything but sky, Atton bit gently on his lip in concentration. Its a shame these people don't live in such harmony with each other.

The thud as the yacht came to rest was conducted through the ship's hull, amplified as it vibrated through the various metals to make it sound far worse than it actually had been. At least, that's what Atton reassured himself, although Kate apparently had a different oppinion on the matter. While he'd had plenty of experience flying around in ships, the amount of time he spent actually landing them was considerably yes. In fact, in his youth he had been so bad at landing that most attempts wound up with him in a medical bay and his speeder in the repair shop, trying to hammer out the dents. At least big craft like the Angel had computer systems to do the work for you, and nice squidgy landing struts to absorb some of the impact. He cast Kate a look as she warbled nervously, and shot her a smile, flicking off the last few controls and springing to his feet, jacket already retrieved and hooked over his arm. "Lock down the ship; we'll be back before you know it. Sleazy!"

Oblivious as usual, CZ-41's head jerked up from the console it had been studying with interest. "Yes, Master Atton?"

Fighting the urge to tear the head from his droid, Atton satisfied himself with a grunt instead. "If I say your name while walking to the door," he explained, "That generally means you're supposed to follow."

CZ-41 seemed to consider that for a moment, before responding. "Undersood, sir. I will make a note of that in my memory banks for future reference."

Atton decided against responding to that, lest the droid be provoked into speaking more. Instead, he punched his hand against the door controls, and strode towards the aft ramp.

The entire ship seemed to shudder as the ramp descended, and Atton felt his ears pop as the air pressure changed. If memory served - which it always did - then this planet's gravity was a little higher than the standard that most vessels across the galaxy were calibrated to. That had a number of effects. For starters, the controls on the Angel had felt slightly more sluggish than he was used to, although Kate had been kind enough to recalibrate the controls to compensate for him as she tended to whenever the ship entered the atmosphere - yet another reason for him to tolerate the droid's constant sarcasm. Also, the effects that the had on objects like the Angel and Atton's legs also affected the atmosphere, drawing more of it down here closer to the planet's surface. The air here was noticably thicker - fantastic for air-breathing engines, and better for humans than a thin atmosphere would be, but it still took a little getting used to.

A figure appeared at the bottom of the ramp, which was nice. At least, probably nice. Some planets were incredibly hospitable, and had officials at their starports whose sole responsibility was to meet and greet the people that left the ships that landed there. Other, less hospitable planets had gangs of thugs whose sole responsibility was to meet and beat the people that left the ships, as well as those who decided to stay onboard, and then steal everything in the cargo hold. Given what he'd heard about this planet however, he was leaning towards the former. "Hello," he greeted, casually.

"I am the boatman," the greeting party of one announced, simply. "I will transport you to the mainland."

Atton offered him his friendliest smile. "That won't be necessary," he assured.

"The water is wide," the boatman protested, gesturing over his shoulder in a direction that Atton assumed pointed towards the mainland. "The waves are rough thanks to the storm, and dangerous creatures lurk beneath them."

His smile faltered ever so slightly, but Atton repeated his previous statement. "That won't be necessary." Reaching for a sheet of course fabric that appeared to be draped over a cluster of cargo containers, Atton yanked it free to reveal his precious airspeeder. He turned back to the boatmaster, and his smile broadened. "I've brought my own transport."

* * *

It didn't matter that the spray from the ocean was stinging against his skin. It didn't matter that the wind was full-force into his face. It didn't matter that his mouth was slowly filling with salt. Atton was racing along, skimming the tops of the waves as fast as his XJ Speeder would allow, and he was loving it. Landing the Angel rather than heading out to cruise across the oceans had been a good plan: this way he not only got to joyride, but it was constructive joyriding. At this pace, they'd be at the mainland in only a few minutes - a shame, because it cut his adrenaline rush short - but it was definately much more fun than spending an hour bobbing up and down in the boatman's ferry.

At least, that is what Atton had assumed. However, as his meandering course swerved round to the left again, he caught a glimpse of the ferry out of his peripheral vision, blasting across the water and leaping up the waves like a Podracer on the Malastare rally course. Atton's eyes narrowed in concentration for a moment, before a smile eventually cracked on his face. No, his way was definately more fun. Swinging back to the right, Atton punched the thrusters to full power, and set off at a sprint for the sure.

"I will always be puzzled by the human predilection for piloting vehicles at unsafe velocities," CZ-41 commented, raising the volume of his vocabulator slightly in an attempt to cut over the noise of the wind, the spray, and the engines.

Atton grinned. "Remind me to buy you an adrenal gland!" he shouted back, bracking himself as he banked around another wave, pulling the airspeeder into a steep climb, and then dropping them back into a shallow, high-speed dive back towards the ocean surface.

Sleazy contemplated the concept for a moment. "I do not believe that would have the desired effect, sir," he observed.

"You're loss!" Atton shouted with a laugh, narrowly avading the crest of a large wave that decided to form behind them. The speeder seemed less than pleased with the sudden onslaught of water; obligingly, Atton pulled away from the waves and slowed down, giving them some room to stay dry, and to speak. "Start running through the city plans and find me a bar."

"I do not believe that consumption of alcohol while piloting..."

Atton fixed the droid with a look. "To conduct interviews, Sleazy. We always start in a bar." He shook his head, and sighed. "How long have you been working for me?" He hesitated, not entirely sure he wanted to be reminded of that horrific fact. "Actually, don't answer that. Just..." Sighing again, he focussed his attention back on flying. "Just find me a bar."

[Decelia Andonel]

Theryn Fedd Grand Basilica, Baraboo
---


"I don't know."

Then she felt it, the snap of hands in the air before one cracked against the sharp line of her cheekbone. The other pressed her arms up and fumbled with clasps around her wrists - a crackle as the magnetic ends met each other and yanked her up with a violent jerk. Her feet were firmly tied to the floor and there was an agonizing pop as her sciatica strained against the pulling. It was so tight she could barely breath for fear of splitting the skin stretched taut over ribs.

Leather hissed against palm. Decelia couldn't bring herself to care.

In the dark the beating resumed. It was worse without light, she couldn't see much beyond a few feet but the arc of the whip was a shadow on the far wall, a ghost. The air was close in the narrow compartment and the echo of the blows were dull as they bounced off the wall and back into her skin. Her skin, which was being sliced by the leather like a vibroblade, welts rising. The fire of it made her jerk forward. Even her bones hurt. Decelia bit down so hard her jaw creaked. She shook.

"Who else is helping you?" The voice - which one was it? She couldn't tell anymore - was calm.

Silence.

"Where is the next target?"

Silence.

Decelia heard the whip uncoil as it was lifted again and she tried to brace herself. She hissed as it landed across her hips, tasted sweat as it ran down the side of her face and into her mouth. Boots scraped on the floor; it was a sound of effort. She knew her interrogator was clocking his arm back as far as he could and the whip confirmed this as it fell again, curling around the line of her waist and stinging her skin like a snake bite.

The young woman cried out in crooked, broken agony as her skin was flayed like so many fibrous threads. Then the beating really began, each blow harder than the next, the pain vibrating through her like a dark coil, coming up again to spread over her skin.

She was sobbing by the sixteenth lash and hated herself for it, tried to still the heaving and almost choked. If her hands had been free, if she'd had something to grip... Decelia tried to breathe. Counted the stripes. Got to twenty-four before her brain stopped working.

"Are you ready to talk?"

Suddenly her arms were slack and she tumbled to the hard floor, her wrists almost snapping at the sudden rush of blood and weight forced upon them. Decelia tried to get up, failed. She reached for her feet but her hands were brutally kicked when they touched upon the tightly knotted cord.

"If you tell us what we need to hear, this will all end. We don't like doing this. Not really."

By some miraculous force, Decelia managed to shake her head. Rough hands pulled her to her feet and the battered figure swayed precariously. The inferno that was parading as her back seemed a creature of it's own power. Decelia fought back vomit, thought about walking before the hands let go and she dropped again to her knees.

Slowly, gently, everything went black.

[Maxx Elgrin]

Aboard the Severus: Baraboo Sector

Captain Maxx Elgrin enjoyed an evening of simple pleasure as the ship's computer ran through a quick diagnostic of all systems. The Nabooian L-Class star skiff was his pride and joy and one of the fastest ships in the Rebel Alliance Fleet. It was based upon the older production J-Type (http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/J-type_star_skiff) model, with a wing design that gave the ship sophisticated atmospheric combat abilities, and a bitch to hit. The modified hyperdrive and sublight engines just made the damn thing fast.

It was his baby. And his baby was singing him some Quenk Jazz in the cockpit. Arms behind his head, Elgrin nodded in time to the tempo as his pristine black boots followed the drums, tapping against the floor. All he needed was some finely aged Scotch and he'd die a happy man.

beep ... beep ... beep

Eyes still closed, he puckered his lips in annoyance. "Couldn't wait until after the trumpet solo!!!" Arms parting and a hand slammed the comm button.

"This better be good!" he said, before the image of General Rykert of the Alliance Fleet shifted into holographic life before him. He was an aged man of 70, bald with tuffs of grey hugging either ear.

And hello to you too Maxx, said the General, nonplussed. Everything ok?

Elgrin, extremely shifty eyed, pretended to check the sensors for anything. "Sorry, General. We had a sighting of some pirates in the area. Didn't mean to snap. Just, we're trying to lay low like you said, but you know how it is."

I'm sure, but now I'm calling in a favor. Baraboo is calling in a favor. Seems the Archduchess Decelia Andonel is alive.

That gave the Rebel pause. Her death and been broadcasted from one end of the sector to the next. If she was alive, this would be a great boon to the people of Baraboo.

The look of surprise wasn't missed by the General. Yes, I was surprised too. One of her informants was able to send a coded message to the Alliance, along with the coordinates of where she is being held prisoner. They're interrogating her, trying to get Andonel to crack about her involvement with us.

"And we can't have that can we," he said, flippantly.

No. A small team to extricate her and smuggle her off-world would be preferable. We can coordinate with her people through her spy network once she's in custody to continue the resistance.

"Not to mention rally the cause seeing their leader all safe and sound."

Correct.

"On a positive note, Baraboo is almost all water. Can't be too many places she's hiding. They don't have a lot of underwater facilities... I think."

We're uploading a file into your main computer. It contains information about an informant you're meeting. Time and place is all there.

"Sounds simple enough. Save the Duchess, Save Baraboo." He started decrypting the information as the General sighed.

Don't get cocky. This is a serious matter Maxx. An entire planet is being duped into thinking that their former leader is dead. They've been oppressed by the Empire since it's conception. They need to have hope instilled in them again.

"I know, General." His lighthearted sense of humor dissolved into a soldier's focus. "Me and the boys we'll get her back safe and sound."

I don't doubt that. General Rykert out.

"No sense of fun that one." He fired up the sublights and paged the entire ship. "Tan! Jon! Wake up and get dressed! We got ourselves a hot date with Royalty!"

[Atton Kira]

Unnamed Seedy Bar - Baraboo

- - -

Atton ducked his head as he stepped into the dimly lit interior or the third bar that they'd trecked into. Beside him, Sleazy performed the same manoeuvre, although with considerably less grace. This was the third such establishment that they had entered, and the quality of the produce, interior decorating, and atmospheric filtration was going steadily downhill. Atton bit back a cough as the noxious smoke fumes tugged at his nostrils and throat. "Come on, Sleazy," he muttered, peering through the darkness before advancing towards the bar.

"No droids aloud," a gruff voice announced before Atton had even made it a few paces. The bar seemed to go silent as all eyes paid attention to the exchange. He turned, eyes settling on the burley bouncer waiting in ambush just inside the door. "He'll have to wait outside."

Atton shoved his hand into a pocket, and pulled out a slim piece of holocard. "Press pass," he explained, brandishing the ID towards the bouncer. He leaned a little closer, finger hooking behind the bridge of his glasses to pull them away from his eyes. "Between you and me," he muttered, "I'd love to be rid of him. Unfortunately, he's an essential part of my investigations."

The bouncer seemed prepared to protest, but Atton wasn't planning on giving him the chance. Jamming the glasses back onto his face, he snatched the press pass away before the bouncer had the opportunity to say anything. Stuffing the ID back in his pocket, he set his course for the bar once more.

"Don't get many reporters around here," the barman announced, the general hum of noise in the bar slowly rising back to it's normal levels as Atton settled himself atop a stool. Sleazy remained standing, hoverring awkwardly behind his shoulder. The barman gave the droid a brief look before grunting, and deciding it was best to just ignore the thing. "What makes you think there's anything worth reporting?"

A glass emerged, and was quickly filled with a strange brown, foamy sludge. A quick glance around the bar confirmed that everyone else was drinking the same. Apparently the selection of drinks here was even worse than the decor. Lifting the glass to his lips, Atton took a tentative sip before replying. Surprisingly, the strange concoction didn't taste all that bad. He offered the barman another shrug, swallowing a more enthusiastic mouthfull before he answered. "I'm here writing a story on the deaths of those royals recently."

That certainly prompted a response. The barman's face contorted into a snarl. "There ain't a story there," he warned, folding his arms defensively across his chest. "The Royals, rest their souls, died of natural causes. A disease or somesuch."

Carefully, Atton settled his glass back onto the bar. "Don't you think it's a little strange though, all opposition to the current ruler mysteriously dying a matter of months before they were due to assume power over the government?"

The barman's growl grew louder; strangely, his words sounded more like a genuine warning than actual aggression. "If the Sovereign says she died of natural causes, then that's how she died." He shook his head. "here's no story for you here. Fly home; find somewhere else to prospect for secrets."

Without another word, the barman disappeared, leaving Atton alone with his drink. The reporter frowned at the barman's strange reaction. While people were often distrustful of journalists, and would much rather they weren't there, usually their demands to be left alone were delivered with an ultimatum. Leave, or we'll kill you - that sort of thing. The barman however seemed more interested in warning him away, as if investigating this story would put his life in danger. For a moment, Atton seriously considered retreating back to his ship, but that quickly subsided. He'd put himself in danger pleanty of times. What was the fun in dredging up secrets if there wasn't any risk involved?

Taking another swig of the strange Baraboo ale, he shifted in his stool, searching the bar for anyone else who might have something interesting to say.

[John Glayde]

Transport Mitternacht - Hyperspace

Stuffed into the copilot's seat of the YT-2400, Glayde shuffled uncomfortably. This had been a long Hyperspace voyage already, and while the computer readouts on the nav console told him that it would all be over in a little less than thirty minutes, his nerves were already frayed - extended periods of immobility had that effect on him, which was probably why he'd never seen the appeal of becoming a Starfighter Pilot. He guessed that was probably true of their pilot, Miss Selinica Miriya Callis, as well. Something about her icy demeanour, and her steadfast resolve that he wasn't moving even one cheek off his seat until she was done flying gave it away. She was probably still pissed at him for volunteering her and her ship - probably more her ship than her, knowing her usual whimsical opinion towards hurling herself into danger - for this mission without having asked her in advance.

This mission: a special assignment for the half-dozen souls that Colonel Sogan Dalgas had dragged with him on this interstellar excursion - four assorted soldiers from SpecForce, one mercenary Lieutenant that SpecOps had insisted they bring along; and then Miri. Glayde unleashed a sigh. Poor, misguided, in-too-deep Miri. He wasn't sure what she was - somewhere between spacer, smuggler and con artist, with a little bit of the little girl that had been so close to Sora that she was practically his baby sister too. For a fleeting moment, John considered the part of the mission brief that mentioned royalty, and how an encounter with Miri would go; and how she'd respond to this Corellian junker that she somehow managed to keep in the sky.

He shook his head. All he could do was hope that the Alliance's man-on-scene - the operative they'd deployed to Baraboo in advance of this haphazard SpecForce team - could provide a classier mode of transportation.

With a grunt, John leaned forward and grabbed the nav console. "I'm just going to the 'fresher," he announced, ready to lever himself to his feet.

"No you're not," Miri stated simply. She didn't look at him, instead directing her superlaser glare out of the viewport. For a fleeting instant, Glayde silently thanked her concern for the safety of this mission: being alive would be an extremely useful attribute, and he had no desire to gamble on his odds of survival under that withering glare.

Sighing, John dumped himself back into the copilot's couch. "No I'm not," he echoed, body slumping into the seat's worn padding.

With Miri's mood limiting the conversation to an almost non-existant minimum, and with the swirling blue void of Hyperspace the only thing to occupy his eyes, he instead allowed them to close, searching through his mind for the details of the mission that their briefing in the Mitternacht's hold a few hours earlier had provided. It had been the true definition of a briefing, but then most of the information that wasn't readily availiable on the holonet was being collected by Captain Maxx Elgrin; the SpecForce team would likely be performing their own reconnaissance as well.

Another sigh, but one of resignation rather than frustration this time. No doubt they would know more when there was actually more to know.

Glancing down at the nav console, he watched as the last few seconds of their hyperspace flight ticked over. "Time's up," he muttered, directing a brief glance across to Miri as he began to work the controls at his station. He and Selinica worked in concert, him slowing the craft from lightspeed and powering down the various hyperspace systems; her powering up the systems necessary to allow the craft to move at more conventional speeds. Starlines snapped back into points, and the ship twitched down and left slightly as the braking thrusters fired, bouncing a little on the inertial compensators as Miri moved them onto their intended heading for planetary orbit.

Glayde grabbed at the comlink on his belt, and thummed the activation stud. "Glayde to Dalgas," he spoke, the device already configured to the team's predetermined secure frequency. "We've dropped out of hyperspace."

[Sogan Dalgas]

In the common area of the ship they were on Colonel Sogan Dalgas was reading over the limited specs of the mission that he'd been given. It was two part: 1. Fulfil the mission; 2. Find out if garnering a SpecForce team that could pull off deep missions and fulfil specific mission goals using certain individuals would work.

So he'd gotten a small, six man team together. Sitting not too far away Lt. Onashi chewed on the end of his pipe while he reclined and idly read a sappy romance holo-book. Dalgas grinned at the knowledge; the mercenary was a study in contrasts. SpecOps had insisted on him bringing the mercenary in, and he was still wondering whether they had just gotten tired of the man's bearing and mannerisms and foisted him off on the little squad.

"Glayde to Dalgas. We've dropped out of hyperspace."

Dalgas picked up the commlink and allowed it two seconds to key into the secure frequency. It wasn't completely secure, as he'd learned from his past, but he was reasonably sure that they had no eavesdroppers.

"Dalgas," he replied. "Very good. Ask miss Cailis if she could transmit the docking codes and such to the Starport Attol. We'll be landing there. Afterwards, return to the common area so we can go over the plans with the others. Copy?"

Onashi grunted a laugh. "Don't see the point," the mercenary said, puffing out a cloud of smoke, and not taking his eyes from the holo-book. The pain-killing tabacc in the pipe had a nice smell at least. "We have information from Intel. Just tell them what to do. If they don't you have no discipline. To gain discipline, kill those who don't follow your commands. At the very least whip them."

Dalgas gave the mercenary a sidelong glance, but didn't answer. He'd conversations like this with Onashi a few times before. It had already become something like routine.

[Kyran O'Hurn]

Usually Ky would be trying to sleep, usually before a mission he knew that he wouldn't be getting much sleep. But for some reason this time he couldn't sleep. It wasn't nerves, he didn't get nervous about missions anymore. It was a waste of energy. No if he had to chalk it up to one thing it was that sub consciously he knew that for a change he wasn't on his own. In recent months Ky had been working alone or with a partner. It hadn't always been that way for Ky. At one time he had actually been a part of a fire team. Maybe that's why he had been selected for this team.

The 2nd Regiment's commanding officer had told him that he had put his name forward for a new unit that was being fielded. Apparently there had been a request for a senior NCO. The scowl that immediately crossed his face as the CO told him that caused his CO to chuckle. He knew the thought had immediately jumped into Ky's head. Usually when someone asked for a "senior" NCO, it was to fly a desk, but he quickly put aside Ky's reservations and told him that the units commanders had actually asked him for one of his NCOs to fill the need both as a weapons expert, as well as the teams jump master. A pair of roles which Ky fit.

And thus, he was here on board this transport with a handful of others, he assumed they were all shooters, but other then the blonde Lieutenant he had just finished working with, he didn't recognize any of them. As the ship shuddered slightly as it dropped out of hyperspace Ky opened his right eye just slightly and scanned the hold to see if their commanding officer was going to breif them again. Usually he would have been prepping to jump as soon as the ship hit atmo in keeping with the tradition of the Pathfinder's being the first ones into the area of operations, usually at night, and by the air, but that wasn't in the plan for this one, and for the first time in a long time he was going to start a mission by actually walking down a ships gangplank.

"Oh well." He thought to himself. There was always next time. A small smirk crossed his lips as he thought about his personal inside joke and closed his eye again. He'd get to play soon enough.

[Charlotte Tur'enne]

Fidgety. That'd probably be one's first impression of the young woman just before a mission. Fidgety and nervous and by all accounts it was probably impossible to comprehend how she was part of the 5th. Infiltrators, a nickname and reputation...one that seemed to get blasted all to hell if one spent enough time watching the blond as she chewed on a piece of brightgum, one foot in a constant state of rhythmically moving to just the toe and then back down as hands made subtle gestures as if she was playing a drum kit that only existed in her mind. The subtle bobbing of her head didn't exactly deter the image.

But there she was, part of a group. And not her usual group. Maybe they'd all gone and gotten tired of her and that's why they had to go and shove her off on the small squad. Would make sense seeing as how most of them she almost looked up to as older brothers...older brothers that she often swore she could out drink and out shoot if they'd just give her the chance to show them up.

So yes, Tur'enne, in all appearances was nothing more than a fidgety, if not friendly (the over enthusiastic wave she'd given to O'Hurn when she'd boarded the YT-2400 and saw the familiar face had to speak of that) girl. But maybe that's exactly how she wanted to be seen as. It made it all that much funnier when someone actually caught word she was running around with the rather elite group. There'd been more than a fair share of jaw drops and 'Her??'s to go about to last a lifetime but it always made her giggle slightly when she'd get a new one. That was, until she was actually in the feild, moreso if she had her favored E-17d with her. Then the giggling stopped, any semblance of disrespect or disregard for authority was gone and all that was left was someone who took their lot in life rather seriously. But whether anyone on board other than the man she'd actually worked with before knew that bit of information was anyone's guess.

But, eh... who cared? Still a bit more time to enjoy the song playing in her head as she mentally ran over the bits of information she'd been given as she waited in the hold. Normally she might have been trying to go and make with the niceties with the others, get a feel for their personalities, but it just didn't feel like the appropriate time. Maybe if they all got through this okay she'd offer to buy them all a round (but just one) and they could have a proper chat. But that would be quite some hours off...no point in making your own plans when you already had a bunch of other people's to carry out first.

[Oran Jsorra]

"Oh, frakkin' hell!"

The shouted expletive was considerably louder than Oran Jsorra had expected to be, and echoed ominously around the Mitternacht's common area, and hung in the air for a few seconds. Attention suddenly drawn to himself, he shrank back into a hunch, a nerfish smile flashing across his face. "Sorry," he muttered quietly, and turned his attention back to the datapad nestled between his knees.

The source of his frustration was displayed on the screen of said datapad. It was a computer program - one he'd desined himself, and circulated around many of the SpecForce and Starfighter Corps technicians at his last assignment - called Krayt. The premise was simple, if somewhat warped: a string of pixels moved about the screen, representing the Krayt Dragon that the program's title expected. This Krayt was navigated about the screen via keypad commands; the aim was to steer he Krayt's head towards he food sources - tiny animated Jawas, and the occasional Tusken Raider - that periodically appeared on the screen. The more food that was collected, the more points were accumulated; obviously, Tusken Raiders warranted more points. As each source of food was accumulated, the Krayt grew in size, trailing a few extra pixels each time. The aim of the game was to accumulate as many points as possible, by consuming as much food as possible - without causing the Krayt's head to contact any other part of it's body.

A single Jawa away from smashing his previous top score, Oran had just boxed himself in, caused his Krayt to bite its own tail, and experienced the rather irritating 'Game Over' sound playing through the datapad's poor-quality mono-speaker. His frustration then was completely understandable.

With a sigh, Oran flipped the power control on the datapad, and returned it to the pocket of the tactical vest that was the best that SpecForce could provide for the storage of his various tools and gadgets. As a member - former member, it seemed - of SpecForce's 7th Regiment, he'd enjoyed a somewhat back seat role, tinkering with various vehicles and equipment to keep them in working order for the field units that his team supported. While he wasn't exactly modest about his achivements and abilities - his selection for a mission as important as this was hardly surprising - he was somewhat reluctant to find himself on the recieving end of weapons fire. While trained and certified on most of he equipment that SpecForce employed - the idea was that, if the unit was attacked, its members would be able to defend themselves with whatever weapons were on-hand - in truth he was a rather terrible shot, and a fairly reluctant one as well.

"Gods, if y're up there," he muttered softly to himself, and whatever galactic deities might be listening, "Don't let me die on this one. I'm too young, attractive, an' way too intelligent for y' t'let me die just yet."

"Don't forget 'modest'," the mercenary - Onashi - offered with his usual sarcastic lilt.

Oran threw him a frown, before deciding the Lieutenant was probably better left ignored for now. Indeed, the mercenary and his companions would likely be vacating the craft before too long, apparently: his mind had recorded the overheard status update from the cockpit, despite being totally focussed on his game. That was another talent of his; and they said that only women and droids were capable of multitasking. With any luck, he'd have the ship a little more to himself, although not entirely, he hoped: he'd only caught a few glimpses of the ship's pilot, but as a man always looking to expand his knowledge whenever possible, he was very hoping to get to know her a lot better.

Not that she'd be interested, of course. For some reason that he couldn't quite fathom, women always seemed to be more attracted to the generally brainless type that stupidly threw himself into the path of danger, rather than the intellectuals who had the smarts to remain out of its way whenever possible. That thought prompted a sigh. 'Grunts over geeks' was the addage that the Technicians generally tagged to that concept.

With a stretch, Oran converted the sigh into a yawn, punctuated by a few odd popping noises from his spine as the fluid shifted around in his joints. Long periods of sitting still did that to him. Climbing awkwardly to his feet and hesitating for a moment, he managed to muster up some resolve, and wandered towards the cockpit. Because, you know. They might need someone to help with transmitting those codes. Or something.

[Serasai Onashi]

"Don't forget modest."

Onashi had only said that because the boy was amusing. As far as he could anyone who had willingly joined the Rebellion for some reason other than money, he liked him. Arrogance and self-confidence were far better flaws to have in the military than crippling low self-esteem. There was a good in between state, but Serasai was quite sure that none had ever reached it.

He smirked and puffed a bit more of the soothing tabacc from his pipe. During a mission nearly three years before, he'd been badly wounded. Bacta wasn't very plentiful though, and so while he waited, he'd been given painkillers that worked, but also left him quite addicted. He got by now through smoking a tabacc leaf with similar effects. It was weaker, but Onashi had dealt with the mild withdrawal symptoms stoically.

O'Hurn and Tur'enne were around somewhere, but he decided that Ashila's racing heart and melting loins were far more interesting than they were. He pressed the button, and the next bloc of paragraphs filtered on the to screen. He lazily lifted his eyebrows and whistled lowly.

Definitely more interesting.

[Selinica Miriya]

<o:smarttagtype namespaceuri="urn:schemas-microsoft-com<img src=" forum="" images="" smilies="" blush.gif="" border="0" alt="" title="Blush" smilieid="2" class="inlineimg"></o:smarttagtype>To say she was displeased about being hooked into this thing would be an understatement. As much as John Glayde was the closest thing she had to family (realistically, the Glayde family had been more like one than her biological one), there was nothing more she wanted than to give him the long end of a stick to knock his block off. Really, if she was all-truthful about it, it was more the thought of dragging her precious baby into something that could be the end of her. Somehow, despite all the objections she had lined up in her head to offer him, John had managed to talk her out of her less than legal pursuits. After that last job, after having to ask for help… it was humiliating. Not that she would ever admit to it.
<o></o>
Not that she would actually remove his head from his shoulders, anyhow. Apparently, she should be thankful he was even able to get a troublemaker like her in on this operation and away from the life she had been living. Even if it was just playing transport driver.
<o></o>
Ha. He’ll see. I’ll show them all.
<o></o>
Now, now. Don’t go showing off. People will start asking questions.<o></o>
<o></o>
Fuck off, natch.<o></o>
<o></o>
With the command from Dalgas to transmit docking codes, Sel slid a look out the corner of her eye to her co-pilot, the aforementioned man that she was so very angry with, then other footsteps intruded on her displeasure-inflated personal space. She didn’t look to see who was there. Fingers working to transmit and keep Mitternacht on course, she swallowed some of her anger, cracking a scratch-voiced, withering reply to <st1:city><st1>Oran</st1>'</st1:city>s entrance.
<o></o>
“You better have a good reason for being in my cockpit or I will give you a very good reason to leave.”

Awaiting his answer, not really caring if he answered or not, Sel keyed in the codes and set to transmit, not quite finalizing the process just yet. She turned her head to John, actually looking at him for the first time that trip. When he met her look, she just turned back to the front viewport and opened the channel and began transmitting, holding down her anger in search of something a little more civil within. <o>
</o>

[Decelia Andonel]

Her shoulders ached.

Everything ached but it was the bone-deep throbbing in her shoulders that kept her eyes from closing. She couldn't remember exactly what had happened. Some sort of hook and her arms behind her and then questionsquestionsquestions while her collarbone staged mutiny against her skin.

She hadn't answered.

At least, she didn't think so. She couldn't remember anymore. There had been so much talking and so much pain and then everything had gone black again.

Decelia tried to lay as still as possible on the floor of her cell. She was in the back corner, the one that was drier than the others; her favourite. That was probably a bad sign. She wasn't supposed to think of this place as home. Wasn't supposed to like it. It wasn't safe.

The skin of her back was deadened and hard, and her legs. It felt like she was turning into a stiff plank. They wouldn't kill her outright. They wanted her to petrify. Maybe they'd stick her in the gardens after, near the copper-bright jawari blossoms. The sun shone brightest there. That was her favourite too.

"My Lady."

Before her synapses could process the words, Decelia reacted, adrenaline surging and sending her into the wall with gasps of effort. She huddled with her hands over her head, trying to look smaller.

"Shh, Decelia," Came the hushed voice again. Why were they whispering? Decelia frowned; she didn't know this game. This was new. "Decelia, it's me. It's Havad."

Havad. When the name failed to ellicit any spark of recognition, Decelia risked a glance toward the front of the cell. She blinked.

An aging man was there outside the humming forcefield, bent as low as he could manage. There was something familiar in the stoop of his shoulders but when she tried to seize onto the detail it darted away, just out of memory's reach. He looked like he was in pain as he stared at her, but that didn't make any sense. Unless he was a prisoner too? Decelia's heart hammered.

"It's alright, Lady." The man said. Havad. "We're going to get you out. We're going to--"

Havad fell silent immediately as the unmistakable sound of approaching footsteps echoed down the dirty corridor. He hunched lower, face urgent. "You mustn't say anything. Not to them. No matter what."

And finally, here was something she recognized. The footsteps were coming closer and Havad was flinching, hovering between waiting for her to do something and fleeing for his own safety. Decelia swallowed dry air, felt her throat crackle. She nodded. "I won't."

Havad's eyes flashed and he smiled sadly. "Ios be with you, our Lady. Your salvation is not far off."

Then he was gone. Decelia closed her eyes and slumped back down.

[Serasai Onashi]

Finally, after he'd finished reading about Ashila's shivering body (he mentally added in a number of jiggles in the proper place for added enjoyment), and the stars exploding behind her eyes, Serasai saved his place in the novel and turned the datapad off.

"So when is this thing going to be kicking off?" he asked, his accent and speech oddly cultured, clashing with his personality and appearance. Dalgas gave him another patient look. He gave a sneer and a sniff as a reply. "I might as well be paid for doing something."

Dalgas laid the flimsy he was studying down with a nearly unperceivable sigh.

"We wait for the ship to land, and we'll lay out the search plans from there. There are a few contacts within the city that Elgrin's managed to procure, so we won't be starting totally from scratch," the Colonel replied. "I would think that you were familiar with the routine, considering."

Onashi grimaced. "Familiar? Yes. But familiarity does not include enjoyment, or even a sense of resignation to the fact."

Dalgas sighed again. "Fine. Go round up everyone, and we'll start the briefing as soon as they arrive."

Onashi pushed himself up quickly, visibly relieved to be doing something, and made his way down to Tur'enne's position. The mercenary was fairly sure that she disliked him from the first time he'd seen her. Being the type of man that he was, he'd sent her an overt appreciative earlier; one that had been studiously ignored with practised ease. But his enjoyment of her looks didn't require her to like him, and despite his callous attitude toward most things in general, he kept himself limited to looks, keeping his words as professional and polite as he felt that he should, and centred on 'business'.

She was sitting in a chair, her head bobbing up and down in time with whatever music she was listening to. He was equally happy that things were finally moving along and with the cute woman in front of him, so he decided to wait until she noticed him. If her quick perception of his look earlier was the norm, it wouldn't take long at all.

[Charlotte Tur'enne]

It was that itchy feeling she got at times, the one that always seemed to result in someone either watching her or talking about her or it all just being in her head, but either way the small motions were brought to a halt slowly before brilliant blue eyes moved from the ground to rest upon the mercenary standing before her. Him again.

The look she gave was neutral, somewhere between a simple acknowledgment of his standing there and just a hint of curiosity. Shoulders rolled back before she leaned back in the chair slightly and brought a hand up to brush a few strands of her blond hair to tuck them back behind her ear. Mercenaries, hired soldiers rather than ones that'd bleed for the cause just for the sake of doing it. Really she had nothing against them, they had their uses, but sadly she really had nothing for them, either. And that look earlier...it wasn't that she'd been appalled with it, wasn't that she even minded it, but it just wasn't time for that.

"Something I can help you with, Lieutenant?" As hard as she'd tried to make it come out as professional as possible it still had a marginally playful undertone. The tiny smirk that tugged at the corner of her features didn't quite help any.

[Serasai Onashi]

And just like that, Onashi felt a little lust rising in him again. It wasn't particularly strong, nor even something that made his breath quicken. She was attractive, in both body and what little personality he'd seen as of the moment, and he liked that.

'One or two things in particular, Tur'enne.'

Though he didn't say it, he was particularly sure she knew he was thinking it, despite his mostly ambivalent expression. He'd survive, though a quick hit of tabacc would do wonders to soothe him. His own mirror of Tur'enne's expression adorned his face, though it carried his usual air of hard sarcasm.

He gave an odd mixture of a nod and a bow, too deep to be the first, but too shallow to be the other. It was an gesture learned from his home planet, and was reinforced during his time in the mercenary company that had trained him and many of his kinsmen and people; it had been run by his people, actually, the remnants of their military back when they had an empire of their own.

"Dalgas is preparing for the briefing. He wants everyone in the common area."

[Charlotte Tur'enne]

Oh she could tell, and had that situation not been, well, professional, she might have indulged with a bit of cat and mouse with him, just to prove to herself that she could and that time spent among men continually hadn't totally drained her of any abilities she'd inherited from her gender. The fact he was in all technicalities her superior made the small desire all the worse. 'No no, Charles, stick to the mission. Don't go getting yourself all muddled...' The mental scolding was enough to bring a halt to it all...mostly.

"Oh."

A gentle nod of her head occurred just before she stood from the chair, raising her arms, fingertips clasping together as she stretched. A deep breath was taken, released as she shrugged.

"About time, I guess." She let her eyes meet with his once more before brushing past him to head to the common area. But before she let her mind slip into full on 'solider mode' as she liked to call it, there was one little thing, one tiny bit of temptation that couldn't be let go without just going for it. Frak it, you only lived once.

Just before she left the way he'd come to the hold, Charlotte glanced back over her shoulder at Onashi, letting the smirk show just for an instant. "Pitty, though."

And that'd be all she'd let slip. Let him make up his mind about what she'd meant, if anything, by it. And with that indulgance of bad idea #87 let go she scurried off to see just what else the Colonel would let them all in on before they landed.

[Serasai Onashi]

With her little stretch, Onashi knew quite well that she had picked up on what little lust he'd let slip. Despite the fact that he knew she was playing with him, he still enjoyed the little show.

Sometimes watching was even better than actually taking them to bed; even if he'd never sleep with Tur'enne (the stretch, he knew, was far from a promise or even a hint of something he could get), he would always remember with fondness her lithe form.

"Pity though."

Her parting words made him smirk widely. He enjoyed the game, but he figured that was only insofar as that he'd never actually felt a romantic attachment to a woman. If, gods save him, he ever did fall in love (the very idea was something of a curiosity to him), he was far too direct and hard-bitten to ever enjoy wondering if the object of his affections held any for him while she danced around him alluringly with coy smiles.

He made no response, but merely watched her nearly swagger down into the common area. He shook his head slowly, after she had disappeared from sight, though not to clear his head, but to wonder a moment at the circumstance he had just been in.

A few moments later, he was at O'Hurn's bunk knocking loudly.

[Kyran O'Hurn]

Ky had left the door to his bunk partially open, and given the fact that there wasn't a whole lot of other noises on the ship, he had heard the entire exchange between the Mercenary and young Lieutenant. He was always swinging his legs over the side of his bunk when the knock came.

"Yeah?" It was pretty much a rhetorical question. He knew what Onashi wanted. But he wasn't surprised with the Merc slid open the door and stuck his head in.

"Breifing."

Ky nodded once and stood up, not letting the other man know the thoughts going through his head. Ky was a lifer, a professional soldier who acted that way both on and off the battlefield. He'd dealt with Mercs before, some of them were more like him, and others... well they were like Onashi, though he would hold judgment on the man until after he had seen him in battle. Just because a man acted like a complete ass off the field of battle didn't mean they didn't know how to do their job when it counted.

He walked out of the room and brushed past Onashi and headed for the common area for the mission breifing.

[Serasai Onashi]

O'Hurn was, to Onashi, one of the prime examples of the type of soldier that would do well as a Mercenary. But to all the sorrows, he wasn't, he was a Professional. Someone who fought for ideals and other nonsensical things not worth the amount of blood spilt for them. Well, sometimes that's what they were. Tur'enne was that to be sure; he suspected that O'Hurn just liked fighting, and was looking for something worth fighting for.

Onashi didn't respect his choice, but then, he felt that there were very few things worth dying for. He himself was only a mercenary for decidedly non-martial reasons. When someone does something for long enough, they grow used to it. When they do it for even longer, they grow to enjoy it in its familiarity. He enjoyed his job now, especially as it deprived war of all its 'glorious' undertones, making it a messy job, which was all it should be.

"Yeah?"

He opened the door to see O'Hurn already up, and looking at him with a reserved but still slightly disdaining expression.

"Briefing."

The man nodded once, and shouldered his much larger bulk past him. Onashi let him pass, and followed along sedately, walking through the common area (and giving a sidelong glance at Tur'enne), and making his way to the cockpit, and the last member of their little team here at the moment, to get him into the common area so the Mercenary wouldn't be so bored anymore.

[John Glayde]

"...so it must be a magnetically contained tube o' plasma, confined within some sort o' energy field. Logically, that field has tae operate in both directions, an' since the bolts fired by blasters are also made o' plasma..."

John gave an appreciated nod, his admittedly lesser understanding of science finding no fault in the Corporal's logic. "So the answer to my question was: 'Yes, the Jedi really could deflect weapons fire like that'?" He frowned, a mix of enlightenment and disappointment flashing across his face. "And there was me thinking it was just special effects."

Oran flashed a smile, pleased to have found such a willing vict- correction, audience. Granted, the topic had been insanely trivial, but he'd relished the opportunity to flaunt his intellect in front of a someone who didn't react with the usual insults, mockery, or demands for silence. From the look of her expression - which admittedly, he could only see from the side - however, Selinica wasn't nearly so impressed. Oran's brows tugged downwards in a disappointed frown.

A cough from beside the door drew the attention of both SpecForce occupants of the cockpit towards the main entrance. Glayde threw Onashi a nod of recognition. "Can I help you, Lieutenant?"

[Serasai Onashi]

Onashi had only caught the tail end of the conversation, and though he liked the kid well enough, he was glad enough that Oran hadn't felt the need to try the same thing with him.

When Glayde noticed him, once again, he made that odd nod-bow.

"Dalgas is calling us all to the common area to begin the briefing."

[John Glayde]

John nodded, both to Serasai and himself. "Thank you, Lieutenant," he directed at the man in the doorway. Glayde wasn't entirely sure what to make of him; he'd been sent their way by SpecOps, and was one of the mercenaries that the agency seemed to expend a fair portion of their budget on employing. That they had chosen to assign him specifically meant one of two things: either he was a highly skilled agent that they were lucky to have, or he was the only one not talented enough to be assigned anywhere else.

Glayde had decided to reserve judgement, at least for now. "Come on," he muttered to Corporal Jsorra, rising to his feet. "That means you, too."

Tugging down at the front of the jacket that had bunched up while he was sitting, he half-glanced at Miriya, waiting for her protest. She offered none, thankfully. It seemed that Colonel Dalgas' instructions trumped her own personal reluctance for him to leave. "Set us down on the planet; I'll let you know what the plan is as soon as I do."

She muttered something under her breath; Glayde felt somewhat glad that he didn't completely catch it.

Turning back towards the exit, and the waiting Onashi, he flashed a half-smile, half-wince. "After you, Lieutenant."

[Serasai Onashi]

"After you, Lieutenant."

Onashi's expression remained impassive (or as impassive as his default uninterested expression could be) as he nodded in return to Glayde's statement. He then proceeded to stride back into the common area, where Tur'enne and O'Hurn were waiting with the Colonel. He eyes slid over Tur'enne easily; he recognised that this was not the time to be sidetracked by pleasurable distractions and reigned his impulses in with the ease of a militarily disciplined man.

“Ah, John,” Dalgas said. “Good. Now we can begin.”

He pressed a single button on the datapad before him, causing the hologram projector in the centre of the table to bring up a plan of the city they were landing in.

“We are currently waiting on further information from our forward man, Elgrin, about any places that we should focus on,” he began. “But it shouldn't be too difficult. We aren't here to blow things up. Well, not yet at least. We'll see when we get further along.”

He cast a slightly humorous glance Onashi's way before continuing. “We will set up operations and scout out the city, and hopefully Elgrin will have gotten in touch with us by then, or else we'll have to continue the hard way. The Duchess will undoubtedly be held with security, so our main objective is to make as little noise as possible and then let the word spread that she is alive after we get off the planet and she is safely on this ship.”

Dalgas schooled his expression into a stern one. “For the scouting, I want each of you to comm Jsorra about the layout of the native police forces and military, where there are large concentrations of them, and possible escape routes. There will be no weapons.” Onashi made a grunt of displeasure, and Dalgas seemingly ignored the man, saying, “We are not expected, and as far as we know, they are not even on alert for trouble. Carrying weapons will be a cause for more scrutiny than we want at the moment.

“Any questions so far?”

[Jehkran Dmath]

'Any chance I can get an ID on this Duchees..."

A hand went up. A smile did too. It was coy, it was charming, it was Jehkran. He had just slipped in. A new face to this side of the SpecForce. Normally he was working the urban setting, the ground, and simply attacking. Little briefing in that field of work, but he wasn't a fish out of water. The white hair, young face, Echani features could be found in many files throughout the Rebellion.

He had done enough field work to be familiar with just about anything. He knew the ins. He knew the outs. Jehkran was a regular ol' student of the game. All the work he had put in had come out, and finally he was in a good spot.

Some common room, raising his hand, asking a question, late to briefing, with few worries beside a single target. No reason to bring weapons was a bit of a downer, he was with Onashi on that one, but at least there wasn't such a high chance he would die. Jehkran loved fighting, but he wasn't exactly exhilerated by suicide missions.

Of course, he survived them. He was still around to ask silly questions, however that didn't mean he enjoyed being the underdog. Standing in the back of the room, his lowered his hands, held the smile, and tried to play as innocent as possible. Hopefully no one would highlight his tardiness.

[Sogan Dalgas]

“Not just yet, Dmath, one aspect of the mission at a time,” Dalgas replied patiently. Jehkran was chosen for much the same strengths that Onashi touted when SpecOps offered him, and that was an all around strength in most types of combat. The Echani wasn't as experienced as Onashi, but Dmath had one redeeming quality that Onashi would seemingly never have: loyalty to the cause. That loyalty was worth any number of mercenaries like Onashi, as far as Dalgas was concerned. Onashi's sense of honour would not allow him to break the contract he had signed when joining with the Alliance, but in the end he was still motivated by money, or some other cause that was yet unknown. “That will wait until we have more information from Elgrin, or we have to break out the files we have from Intel, which are somewhat dated and so are unreliable compared to whatever Elgrin may have.”

He surveyed the now slightly crowded common room. “Are there any other questions?”

[Charlotte Tur'enne]

Tur'enne did try her very hardest not to make a face at the mention of going in unarmed, but a small scrunching of her nose couldn't be helped. A side blaster at the very least seemed more than appropriate to her and the looks a few others gave proved she wasn't alone in that thought. It could be concealed easy enough, after all. There was a good moment (while that Echani was getting his question answered) where she began contemplating the possibilities and probabilities of being able to sneak one out anyway and not get flack for it. It was tempting...real tempting. She'd probably let her thoughts go back to it just before they were getting ready to head out.

But with that little issue left to be decided on later...(And what were they gonna do if she brought one measly little blaster with her anyway? Court-martial her? Doubtful, they hadn't done it yet for half the skrag she'd gone and pulled some times...damn it Charles, get off that thought!)...she was left to actually address the question she actually had that wouldn't get her instantly in trouble. "This...scouting bit. We all going solo? Teams? Pairs? Judging by the lack of firepower we'll be posing as tourists or somesuch, I'm guessing...?"

[Kyran O'Hurn]

Oh this mission was just getting more and more fun for Ky. No getting to jump out of a perfectly good spacecraft, no getting to haul around weapons. To say he wasn't too happy about having to operate in a potentially hostile environment without even a side arm was an understatement.

Letting out a slight sigh Ky listened to the young Lieutenant's questions.

"Oh god no..." He couldn't help but think. No weapons was one thing, but he'd sooner stay on the ship then walk around like a fraken tourist. If someone broke out the colourful and usually flowered surf shirts, he was out of here. Fatigues and camo were he was at. If he had wanted to play dress up he would have joined the spooks.

He was starting to wonder what he had been drafted into. Sure the Pathfinder's were used to reconnaissance work, but it wasn't at the top of their list of things to do. But considering he had been told that the man in front of him giving the briefing had apparently asked for someone to handle weapons, there had to be some action coming. He'd give the operation a chance, maybe he'd even get to blow something up. Yes... that would make all the sneaking around worth it.

Breaking from his thoughts he started listening again waiting for the answer to the questions that had been posed.

[Sogan Dalgas]

Dalgas smiled at the numerous looks of disappointment and even disgruntlement (this expression was mirrored on both O'Hurn and Onashi's faces) that flashed around the room. He picked up a normal looking folder, and opening it, he turned it over and let numerous small envelopes spill out, enough for each one of the gathered military personnel, in fact.

“We will be playing tourists, but not civilian tourists, Jr. Lieutenant, to answer your second question first. Thanks to Lieutenant Onashi and his contacts with his mercenary unit leaders, we managed to assign each of you a fabricated identity as a mercenary. Note that these are not real, but merely designed to look real, and will not stand up to an intensive background check. That is why we are going without weapons; if any of the Empire wish to prove their superiority over you, they will confiscate your weapon and detain you. Without a weapon, you will not classify as a threat, and most likely will only be bullied before they let you go.”

He picked one up, and glanced at the name written on the envelope in basic before tossing it to Tur'enne, who caught it deftly. The process continued while Dalgas continued the briefing.

“So, our covers are that of a team of mercenaries granted leave before our next assignment, which, conveniently, only I as team leader know,” he pulled his own datacard out (slightly beaten looking, with the design of an orange circle on a white field above a pair of silhouetted blaster rifles displayed on one side) and slid it into the projector, which shifted from a view of the city to a fairly simple view of a Mercenary Major's information with a picture of the Colonel prominently displayed. “So I want you to treat this like a low-priority assignment. The thrust of this reconnaissance is to familiarise ourselves with the city and the normal locations of Imperial troops and their allies, not to come up with a plan right away on what to destroy when, or formulate attack patterns based on information we don't even have yet. We aren't spooks or even under the purview of Intelligence, so we will not be handling this like an Intel Operation.”

Dalgas tossed Dmath his mercenary datacard, finishing the passing out of the fake datacards, leaving one sitting in front of him. “To answer your second question, we have three people within this room who have the bearing and experience to convincingly pose as mercenaries beyond that of a cursory examination. Obviously there is Lt. Onashi, there is myself, and then there is Captain Glayde. Thus we will go in pairs, with one of you attaching to one of us to hopefully lessen the chance of our cover being blown. Jsorra, though you have a card, you will stay with the ship and monitor communications. Comm me immediately should we have any word from Elgrin, or if there is some trouble.”

He folded his hands on the table in front of him. “The pairs that have been decided are: myself and Sergeant O'Hurn, Captain Glayde and Corporal Dmath, Lieutenant Onashi and Jr. Lieutenant Tur'enne. Thanks to Onashi we were able to arrange these datacards free of charge, so each of you will receive a stipend of credits to spend in most any manner you choose, as long as you keep aware of concentrations of security and Imperial personnel and the layout of the city. Do any of you have questions, or problems with the partner I have chosen?”

Onashi nodded. “I do, Colonel,” he grunted, looking a bit unhappy; Dalgas assumed that it was either the way he worded Onashi's involvement in getting the datacards, or his decision to partner him with Tur'enne. “How many creds are we getting? And where is the nearest place that sells food?”

[Oran Jsorra]

Stay on the ship and monitor communications. At last: an assignment that he could accept without any reservations. Granted, it was hardly the most glamourous of the potential assignments, and listening in to the bland, minimalist chit-chat that usually made it across military channels on this kind of information gathering expedition was unlikely to be more than a couple of steps away from mind-numbing monotony. But, it did come with the advantage of minimal risk of being shot which, in Oran's book, was a major plus.

The opportunity to be alone on the ship with Miriya as well was particularly enticing: perhaps without all the male bravado and testosterone filling the ship and obscuring her senses, Oran's natural charm and intellect might stand a better chance of winning her over.

Onashi's second question was somewhat simplistic, but Oran was in a good enough mood to remain plaonic. "I'll access th' local comm network," he offered, chiming in from his corner at the back of the common area. "Make sure ev'ryone has a map o' th' surrounding area and any relevant utilities and establishments."

[John Glayde]

"You'll have enough," Glayde added, with a stern look in Onashi's direction, "For basic food and provisions, with a little extra to flash around if necessary. That doesn't extend to pricy souvenirs, black market munitions, gambling expenses, or -" He winced slightly, vaguely floundering for a vague enough term to cover any of the illicit back-street services they might stumble upon. "- any additional or collateral expenses you may be dreaming up at this point."

He glanced briefly at Dalgas, who displayed no protest to the Captain chiming in with a few words of his own. Of course, that could just have been the result of the guy being inherantly unreadable; he decided it was best to play it safe, and keep it brief. "This is recon, not shoreleave. Stay sharp, stay sober, and stay safe." He paused, deciding to make Onashi the subject of his focus again. A slight hint of a smile quirked at his lips. "And stay single - I don't want those trashy novels of yours giving you any ideas."

He turned back to Dalgas, the two officers exchanging a brief, wordless nod. "Permission to get the hell on with this, Colonel?"

[Selinica Miriya]

Being alone in the cockpit - her cockpit - allowed Sel some 'breathing room'. It didn't discredit the fact that she was more than ready to gut anything from an atom on up the food chain through to rancors and beyond, as her mood was on the edge of something that dark, but being left in a room with herself gave her some shred of time to take the edge off - or at least dull it a micro of a bit. She hadn't had a drink since Raxus Prime (John had made sure of it, for obvious reasons) and there'd been nearly so little room or secrecy for her to even beat the living frell out of a cushion, never mind taking bodily harm to a live person, which was always infinitely more satisfying, times infinity squared and then some.

Her emotions had been riding something akin to bloodlust for a time, but there was something warm and battered tucked somewhere to the left of center of her soul, like a security blanket that had been loved to its limits over the years of ownership: She had family. Someone who wouldn't turn their back on her regardless of anything and everything, damn the universe to hell if they convinced him otherwise. That... well, it meant enough for her to listen to him and give him her respect, if grudgingly. Showing gratefulness wasn't exactly something in her regular skillset.

Selinca Miriya Cailis pulled the headset off of her ears and looped it around her slender neck, pressing out a sigh of finality once the landing and docking processes had been run and completed. Her work, for now, was done and she found herself craning an ear to try and catch snippets of the conversation, but much of the effort was to no avail. Sighing, she slouched in her seat a little and propped her head up on one hand, elbow digging into armrest. This tactic was considerably less attention-grabbing than beating the hell out of the edge of the console, which was a good thing, anyway. Edges had a pretty solid history of not being kind to bodies when force was applied. Even rounded edges had their own agenda.

She found herself wondering when something was going to happen and what that something was. After all the hours spent in the pilot seat, she was starting to get antsy. Antsy wasn't something appealing on a gal toting a undercooked fury burger with a side of annoyance fries and kill-something cola.

I'm stuck with the ship, anyway, I figure. Well, bloody frackin' good, then. Not like I'd trust any of those testosterone-riddled meatheads with my baby.

She reached out and rubbed the edge of the console lovingly. "That's my girl."

[Sogan Dalgas]

Captain Glayde's reply was well said, and the Colonel gave him tacit but understated praise when, he made eye contact with Glayde and nodded his approval.

“The only idea those books would give me is the idea that I could somehow sneak away, find this Duchess and elope with her after falling in love at first sight,” the Lieutenant replied. “While evading both the Empire, and you as well for my dereliction of duty in the name of love.”

I wonder, Dalgas wondered, if anyone but myself understood the reasoning behind the pairs.

“I sincerely doubt that Onashi will be so insensitive as to go to a prostitute or any other such person while in the company of Jr Lieutenant Tur'enne,” he said gently, not even looking in Onashi's direction. The mercenary grunted a laugh, but didn't offer any more words. Dalgas continued.

“I will give Captain Glayde the initiative as to which team will head in which direction. You have fifteen minutes to prepare yourselves. Dismissed.”

[Kyran O'Hurn]

Ky took the dossier that he was handed and listened to the last of the breifing before spinning on his heel and walking back toward the rear of the ship. He didn't really care who he worked with, well short of Onashi. Ky was pretty sure that he would have ended up trying to kill the former mercenary because of some stupid stunt he would pull.

At least with Dalgas he could be fairly confident that he was going to be working with an officer who knew the value of a senior non-comm. And if not, well, Ky had enough self discipline not to slug a Colonel no matter how stupid they might get.

That thought brought a slight smirk to his face as he made his way back to his temporary quarters. While he didn't need some loud tourist shirt, but fatigues probably wouldn't go over all that well either. Good thing they'd told him to pack something... relaxed... before he had deployed.

Fifteen minutes later he was back in the common area dressed in a pair blue jeans, a white T-shirt, and a brown leather bomber jacket. The only thing that resembled anything military were the black boots he was wearing, but thankfully the rebellion weren't exactly sticklers for spit shinned boots, and so the scuffs and dirt that covered them made them look like they could have belonged to any labourer. The only thing missing was a DC-15s blaster in a shoulder holster under his jacket, but the Colonel had been right. That would have drawn too much attention, even if they were posing as mercs.

[John Glayde]

Sorry for the hold-up, guys! Lets see if we can't get this rolling again.

Surface - Baraboo

Glayde stepped off the loading ramp, and crunched his head from side to side. It was nice to breathe fresh air again instead of the bottled stuff they were stuck with inside the ship, even if it did come with its own rather distinctive odor on this world. They'd already powered down the gravity generators inside the ship, so had got the awkward and disorientating transition out of the way already in the privacy of their own ship. Even so, the cobbled together armour that apparently made him look like a mercenary weighed heavily on his shoulders; and frankly, he felt it made him look like an idiot. Sure, it looked 'cool' and vaguly intimidatin, but cobbling together protective equipment that wasn't designed to mesh was stupid, and more often than not lead to exploitable gaps, which people with Glayde's level of training were well versed in exploiting. He sighed. "I guess we're stupid mercenaries," he muttered under his breath.

He forced his attention back to the situation at hand. "We're going to keep this nice and straight-forward," he explained, trying to fold his arms across his chest, but founding that the combined armour fragments made that somewhat difficult. He settled for gripping one wrist in a display of adjusting a vambrace instead. "Onashi and Tur'enne: you are focussing on the eastern half of the settlement, while Dmath and myself will concentrate on the west. We're analysing the disposition of the security measures in the area, and analysing the terrain for any possible tactical benefits."

He glanced briefly towards the Colonel. "Meanwhile, Dalgas and O'Hurn will attempt to establish contact with our -" He fumbled for a synonym. "- contact." He shrugged, almost imperceptibly in the Colonel's direction. Damned Basic and its lack of sufficient words.

"We'll relying on public transport to get from the landing site to the settlement on the mainland. Stay sharp, but for Force's sake stay casual - we don't want to arouse suspicion." He shot Onashi a lingering look, to emphasise his point.

"Alright then people; lets move out."

[Serasai Onashi]

Onashi immediately recognised O'Hurn's jacket style. He wore a similar jacket himself, thinner and slightly longer, without the large collar. It had been worn by his many times over great grandfather during the last great planetary war his people had fought and conquered in. It had been repaired and cleaned ever since to the point that one could have made the argument that it was only a descendant of the jacket his grandfather had worn, but Onashi knew the spirit of his grandfather still imbued it. It had the distinction of being fitted with armour within the layers of cloth, making it slightly more useful than normal clothing. It still bore the insignia of his ancestor's fighting unit, along with his own. He wore it open, revealing the white shirt of fine but worn material underneath. He wore brown worn jackboots that had once belonged to his father.

He snorted softly at Glayde's veiled remark. I don't trust you to be a professional warrior, was in essence what the man was saying. He understood that his 'attitude' did not lend itself to being liked, but he wondered if anyone but Dalgas knew how many battles he had survived, despite his young age.

"The east," he replied, nodding (or doing that damnable bow again). The place of the sunrise - he approved. He glanced over to Dalgas, who wore greatly understated armour underneath a long coat. He carried a briefcase that held faked documents and military plans, while within a secure compartment were the actual documents and plans that would be brought out in company with their contact. He turned to Tur'enne, and smirked.

"First place I'm looking," he murmured, "is inside an eatery."

[Charlotte Tur'enne]

Tur'enne wasn't too happy with being stuck with Onashi as she had this distinct impression that it was probably to play babysitter more than anything else, though the thought of her getting anyone to behave themselves was laughable. The Colonel seemed to trust him well enough though, so she'd do as she was told (For now came the mental add-on). Besides, it'd give her a chance to actually see what type of man the mercenary was... and probably more than enough opportunities to mess with him some more since she wouldn't be under the constant watch of everyone else. Mission and all, there wasn't any reason to not have at least a little fun.

When it came to attire she'd chosen for simplicity, finding the mismatched armor thing to be a little too ridiculous for her (She was a girl after all). So Charles settled on a black tank top under a two-years-past-fashionable slate gray jacket whose arms were covered in various patches ranging from band logos to just a simple star that had designs drawn on it with a bit of paint. All in all she'd have looked like any other casual, no-good, 20-something year old female, but she was playing mercenary and that meant she got to wear the one thing that might give her some sort of credentials without drawing too much attention and that was a pair of black pants adorned with a set of yellow stripes going down one of the legs. She'd earned the damned things and like hell if she wasn't going to show them off every so often. Somewhere in the back of her mind she was overly amused with it all... and then her attention snapped back with the Captain dishing out where everyone was going off to.

East seemed well and good with her, and the smirk Onashi gave her was met with a small shake of her head, a roll of her eyes, but all the while some cheeky little grin that let on she wasn't really annoyed by the guy.

"You're a brave one, aint ya? Nothing better than local seafood with a side order of local stomach flu. But if you want to be curled up in a fetal position all day tomorrow on the ship, be my guest."

[Serasai Onashi]

"Seafood does seem like a good idea," he replied, making his way along to the east. "But I would settle for something that does not remind me of rations. Spending that long in space between missions is a crime. Least this pays well."

He smirked, making note of the two Stormtroopers standing on either side of the archway allowing entrance from the starport to the eastern part of the settlement. He said the last part with a bit of uncharacteristic vehemence, allowing the Stormtroopers to deduce his identity as a mercenary.

"Keep an eye out, remember," he reminded her. "My stomach will revolt soon enough without something filling it."