Family Remains

[Cambrio Montegue]

It was a subtle form of sadomasochism, some traitorous subconscious need to have his ass kicked six ways from Sunday and served on a silver platter, that drove him to this every damn time. There simply wasn't any other explanation; even the most doggedly determined, the most perpetually stupid beings knew when to cut their losses and draw a line in the sand for the sake of self-preservation. It was a simple matter of common sense, an attribute that he liked to believed he possessed, current situation notwithstanding. So, the only possible reason for playing sabaac with his brother, bets on, had to be a deep-seated urge to be (metaphorically, although it wasn't beneath them to escalate into a physical altercation when foul play was--rightfully--suspected) pummeled. He'd never pegged himself as the sort with a humiliation kink, but Cambrio was running low on excuses. It wasn't as if he was deluding himself about stumbling upon a lucky streak. He knew he was going to lose, knew it the way he knew he'd suffocate in space without a 'suit or that his middle name belonged to one of his dad's war buddies or that mixing two-for-one Reactor Core's and hood surfing in Coruscant's yellow district was a bad idea.

And he tried to avoid it, really he did, sticking to snooker in bars or target shooting when he could, places where he had equal footing. But the itch just seemed to build like a discomfort demanding to be appeased; these "friendly" games were like a goddamn sinus infection. There was irony in that, too, because the only thing worse than playing with Vittore was not playing with him. Cambrio'd never met anyone who could persist in ragging as long or as fiercely as his brother could. He'd taunt you, that smug devil-may-care grin plastered on his face, until you were internally seething and incapable of thinking of anything else and he wouldn't stop until all that moral resolve crumbled away.

The bastard.

"Shut. Up." Cambrio growled, narrowing his eyes at his brother across the small table in the galley. Vittore chuckled gleefully and palmed the modest pile of credits over to his ever-growing stack. "I don't know why I let you talk me into this."

Boredom, mainly. The novelty of owning their own ship--and not just any ship, the Headhunter, a much sleeker beast than it's namesake--was quick to wear off when they didn't have anything to do. Growing up flitting from system to system snuffed out a lot of the romanticism of wandering freely, and with the growing expense of keeping a rig like this running they chose to set up camp in-between jobs more often than not.

And getting a job? Well, that wasn't so straightforward anymore, no sir. Used to be that they'd kept their ears to the pulse of the galaxy and gone where the good leads led, but that was before the Guild and when the family business hadn't been the family business. Truth be told, the trade wasn't all that different from before; albeit the structure was dramatically changed in the fact that now there was some but Cambrio couldn't help feeling vaguely hoodwinked. At the ripe old age of twenty-four, he was suddenly somehow revisiting his teen years wherein the word came in from on high, assignments and instructions heralding from the very source that had issued them in the past: Dad. Not that he was complaining, he wasn't, really. Everything was fine. It was all just a bit Corellian Mafia, to be honest.

Which was why he'd just lost several hundred creds. Because even with all their ingenuity and charm, four weeks of downtime was three weeks too long for he and his brother to be spending together. Idle hands were the devil's tools, and all that. They needed a job and they needed one soon, because he was going to go broke if--

"Motherfrelling son of a whore," hissed Cambrio, slapping his cards down onto the tabletop and rocking his chair back until it tilted precariously on it's back legs. He stabbed an accusing finger at Vittore's chest. "You're cheating, Vitt. No way, no way somebody wins twenty-six straight rounds without rigging the system!"

[Vittore Montegue]

Vittore snapped a foot out under the table, knocking his brother's precariously balanced seat off-axis, and depositing both it and its occupant in a heap on the floor. Rising, he circumnavigated the table in a few quick strides. A military issue boot landed heavily in the center of Cambrio's chest and kept him pinned to the ground. "Call mom a whore again," Vittore warned, words laced with a warning edge, "And I will beat you so hard that the blood spraying from your face will puncture the whole. Got me?"

He eased off the pressure and stepped back; a little surprised at his outburst, he forced himself to turn away. Their mother had died back when Cambrio was still crapping in his own pants. More specifically, it was towards the start of that rather broad time period; twenty-three years ago now, give or take. Back then - like with now; Why do I suck so bad at metaphors? Vittore wondered, internally - most of Cambrio's meals had come out of a bottle, and he barely remembered anything about her. Vittore on the other hand... well, to him, Emaryn Montegue was more than just a name; more than just a face in a faded photograph. He'd known her; loved her in person.

Despite all that, hard as it had been, he'd managed to trample down the pain and get on with his life. It had been easy for Cambrio - you couldn't really miss someone you never met; all you could do was be aware of their absense. He didn't have the memories to haunt him in his nightmares as a child. He didn't know the sound of her voice; didn't have it acting as the voice of his conscience.

Then recently, everything had changed. They'd gone to Ord Ithil, and she'd been there; or her ghost; her essence; some spiritual crap like that. She'd been there and, while granted she was the same kind of translucent blue as a hologram, Vittore had been able to see that smile of hers one more time; she'd even told him that she was proud of the man he'd become.

Cambrio had to go one better. Some freaky blood thing - mandachlorians, or something like that - had meant that they'd shared minds, or shared bodies, or something like that. Vittore only understood it to a small degree; just enough to know that 'Dude; you had mom inside you. That's sick' was an apt and accurate joke. He'd brushed it off as such, but he couldn't fight down the sting of disappointment and jealosy that his baby brother had somehow earned an experience that Vittore would have killed or die for.

So yeah. The mom issue was something of a raw nerve. And maybe his reaction had been a little over the top; but in the grand scheme of things, it was karma. The whiney little bitch probably deserved it from something else he'd done that was totally stupid, when Vittore hadn't been around to beat sense back into him. Like that man-eating girlfriend of his. Or that tight-fitting shirt from last Tuesday that had made him look even more like a girl than normal.

"You're not loosing because I'm cheating," he threw back eventually, with a sigh. "You're loosing because you suck, dude."

[Cambrio Montegue]

His brother's incendiary reaction caught him off guard, and Cambrio found himself spluttering on the floor before he had a chance to process what had put him there. Their mother was a sensitive subject, that was a give in, but he'd obviously underestimated just how raw that particular wound was if a throwaway remark could draw out this kind of a show. Vittore wasn't one for making idle threats and his tone was one that Cam knew well, that you-better-fucking-listen cadence that'd been directed at him since before they'd been old enough to handle a blaster. There were many shades to Vitt's big brother voice, but this one was the deadliest, and even Cambrio--who rather enjoyed winding his brother up, for the sake of camaraderie--didn't dare cross.

"Frelling hells," The younger man spat, half-heartedly sweeping his leg at his sibling's ankles. "I didn't mean it like that, asshole."

They needed to get out of here, get working before they killed one another. Shoving himself to his feet, Cambrio eyed Vittore carefully, schooling his features into a neutral expression that wouldn't provoke the situation; the last thing they needed was to go to blows over a family hair-trigger.


"And I'm not that bad," Cam muttered as he bent down to right his chair and picked up a few of the cards that had fallen from the table. He took the subject change for what it was and didn't try and divert the conversation back to Emaryn Montegue and the blatant weight that still hung heavily on Vittore; it'd probably only stoke his irritation, emotionally stunted jerk that he was. Talking was for women.

He tossed the handful of cards on the table, sent them scattering across the top. "Whatever. I'm tapped, man, can't afford to lose any more. You want a beer?"

[Vittore Montegue]

Now there was a universal concept: no matter how dire or awkward a situation got, it was always made better with beer.

Same is true of sucky dates, Vittore mused with his brow creased in a frown, part concentration on the efforts of reigning back his emotions and soothing his nerves, and part straining against the urge to yawn. He rubbed a hand over his face to wipe away a little of the tiredness. "Yeah, bro - beer sounds good. I'll take mine on the bridge though," he answered, jerking a thumb over his shoulder towards the hatch and already backpedaling towards it. "Wanna check over the next set of jump coordinates before we get too close to Telti."

Well, that was a half-truth, anyhow. The other half was that Vittore wanted to lounge around in the cockpit and play star pilot for a while, because doing so made him feel even more awesome than normal. Turning seamlessly on his heel and triggering the door release with his knuckles, Vittore scratched at the bare skin just above his elbow, and wondered if stopping by his bunk to grab a leather jacket and a pair of shades might be taking things a little too far. He decided it probably was.

Later. Once Cammy is asleep.

Sauntering down the short corridor from the communal area that doubled as lounge, commissary and kitchen he stepped into the glorified cockpit that he'd insisted that they refer to as "the bridge", just to make it seem more impressive. The hatch ahead opened in response to a finger jab this time, and Vittore - Captain Montegue? he mused - stepped over the threshold.

"Oh, Master Vittore!" exclaimed the synthetic voice of the protocol droid that had come part and parcel with the ship; CZ-41 was it's official designation, but the droid had made the mistake of admitting to the nickname 'Sleazy' early on, and the boys had decided to stick with it. Vittore winced, suddenly remembering why they'd chosen to hide elsewhere in the ship. By apparent intentional design, the door sensors aboard the ship seemed to have been replaced with manual controls that Sleazy apparently lacked the manual dexterity to manipulate; presumably an attempt the ship's previous owner to keep the irritating contraption contained. "I just recieved a priority -"

"Not now, Sleazy," Vittore cut in, punctuating his point with a resonant double-knock atop the droid's cranium as he passed. "Daddy's busy."

Continuing past the aft communications station that the droid occupied, Vittore sidestepped the ramp that descended towards the gunnery station, stepping up instead into the left of the two twin helm consoles; which vaguely reminded him of the bridge of the old Coromon they'd grown up on. The design of their Headhunter II's bridge was weird he decided, not for the first time; it had apparently been designed to be operated with a standard pilot and co-pilot arrangement, with a third station in the nose of the ship to control the weapons systems installed aboard. Yet, every console contained redundancies, allowing it do perform most of the functions of the other consoles, though admittedly with reduced functionality. In theory, one could fly the ship and fire the weapons from down at gunnery; no doubt so that solo owners could escape from tricky situations all on their lonesome.

Ordinarily, that's what Vittore would be doing: sitting pressed up right under the forward viewport, watching the stars stretch off into the distance, and occasionally fiddling with the weapons controls and throwing in appropriate sound effects to indulge the inner child that still thought Republic Rangers was pretty damn awesome. Unfortunately, whoever had patched the systems together hadn't provided the gunner with access to the jump computer. Best guess - especially given the astromech port opposite Sleazy - was that the previous owner had an R2 or something to do that for him; unfortunately, the Montegues didn't have the cash handy to build one of those just yet.

Punching the jump data up on the screen, Vittore frowned, throwing a glance over his shoulder towards the still closed door. "Yo, Cam!" he yelled, loud enough for the sound to travel through the mostly sound-proof doors; "Where's my damn beer?"

[Cambrio Montegue]

"Frell you!" came the ringing reply, though it was laced with good-natured ease. Vittore and his cocky sense of entitlement. A grin tugged at the edges of Cam's lips as he fished a couple of beers out of the smaller of two refrigeration units in the mess. They'd chosen to fill it with various alcoholic indulgences rather than waste space with perishable food products. They generally dined out at local greasy spoons anyway and when they did stick close to home they were easily satisfied; the cabinets were well stocked with MRE's and Cheesy Bantha Noodles.

He chose a Hydrian brew that they both enjoyed and, after uncapping his own bottle, Cambrio gave Vittore's beer a good shake and ambled up towards the bridge. Almost immediately after he keyed through the door a high-pitched mechanical voice assaulted his ears. Somehow, despite the limited capabilities of his voice modulation simulator, Sleazy had managed to perfect a distressed tone that was near paranoid in it's insistence. "Master Cammy--"

Cambrio narrowed his eyes at the droid and clenched his jaw in mild irritation. "I told you not to call me that."

"Master Vittore assured me that you preferred--"

"Vittore's an idiot," Cambrio replied, loud enough for his brother to hear. He gave the unopened bottle in his hand another shake. "He still fantasizes about being The Red Ranger, for Kenobi's sake."

Sleazy made a little wheezing noise. "Master Cambrio--"

"Later, " Cam brushed by the unit, ignoring it's protests and eased his frame into the helm. He held out Vitt's beer, took a long pull of his own. "Here, man."

[Vittore Montegue]

"Thanks," Vittore muttered casually, reaching across and snagging the bottle without taking his eyes off the screen. Employing practiced skill, the uncapped the bottle one-handed - still at arm's length - and slid his thumb over the neck. Leaving only a tiny gap for the build-up of pressure to escape, Vittore aimed the bottle towards his brother, a high-speed spray of foamed beer spraying out all over Cambrio, a few extra shakes of the bottle thrown in for good measure.

As the stream finally abated, Vittore glanced over, struggling to keep a mischevious grin from his lips. "Whoops. Sorry, bro."

[Cambrio Montegue]

Sometimes it was like his brother was the favoured son of a galactic deity. The unlikely idea that Vittore was omniscient was slightly more reassuring than the thought that he was simply that predictable.

After the first hiss of spray hit his face, effectively drenching his shirt and assuring that he'd have to hit the head for a sonic shower later so as to avoid smelling like a cantina crawler, Cambrio twisted out of the way, taking cover by following the ramp down to the gunnery station and hunching his sprawling frame against the paneled wall. Vittore chuckled; Cam tilted his head back and rolled his eyes at his brother, who was peering down at him over the guardrail and looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"You're an absolute fuckhead," Cambrio told him pleasantly, calloused palm coming up to scrub at his face. "I hope you die in your sleep."

Any reply from his brother--and with Vittore, there was a guarantee of some smartass retort--was cut off by Sleazy, who tottered in with the anxiety of a school marm about to go into fits.

"Sirs, I am afraid I must interrupt--"

"You really don't have to, Sleazy," Cambrio assured the droid, exchanging a look of shared amusement with Vittore. "Trust me. We don't mind."

"But Master Cambrio, your father has been attempting to establish communication for some time and is becoming quite vexed at your continuous refusal to accept his call."

Cambrio choked on his beer and came up spluttering. "What do you mean? Sleazy, we've been sitting around doing nothing all frakking day! Why didn't you say something?"

"I made several attempts--"

"Nevermind, nevermind," Cam shook his head and turned to Vittore, who was already busily pulling up the vidscreen. "What the hell's the point in keeping him around, again?"

[Vittore Montegue]

Vittore wrinkled his nose at the sheer stupidity of the question; after a moment of endulging that particular sentiment he shrugged off-hand, spinning slightly in the seat he'd settled into. "If you think you've got the time and the slicer stones to put together all the hacks and fake ID's we'll need on the job, then be my guest; and shut old suck-face down."

He frowned, facing the computer terminal directly. "Frankly, I can't be bothered with the effort." Shifting his focus ever so slightly, he cast a comment over his shoulder. "Sleazy!" he instructed, "Bounce the feed over to my station, would ya?"

If the droid said anything, Vittore didn't register it, or respond; all he did was shift sideways ever so slightly, making space for Cambrio to lean across and get a view of the screen. A moment or two later, the droid complied with the instructions given to him, and the display of HyperNav data vanished, replaced with the tired, grizzled, and chronically unshaven face of their father. Frustration riddled his face, no doubt at having been kept in call-waiting by their droid for so long. Even so, the second the connection was established, a sparkle appeared in his eyes, the slightest of smiles bringing a little warmth to his expression. "Hello, boys."

Despite himself, Vittore couldn't help smiling back. Cambrio would probably make fun like he always did, about how Vittore was the dutiful, respectful son, always waiting like a little wide-eyed saberhound puppy, and yapping happily in compliance with any instruction they were given. But frak it: dad had been missing three years. Cammy had been gone for a while too. And okay, so it was just a vidphone call, but they were a damned family again. And that felt good.

"Hey, dad," Vittore responded, managing to restrain his smile into a more socially acceptable lopsided grin. "Sorry to have kept you waiting, but, uh -" He glanced in his brother's direction, searching for a suitable excuse. "- Cambrio needed to, uh, 'emote'. There were tears." His gaze flicked back to the screen. "And hugs. Manly hugs though, dad: with lots of back-slapping. Nothing lame or sissy, or anything like that."

[Cambrio Montegue]

"Yeah, well, Dad never had a droid and he managed just fine," Cambrio muttered, bracing a hand on the console and leaning against the back of Vittore's chair. The vidscreen shifted as the feed connected and he took advantage of the delay, taking a pull of beer before setting it aside and leaning down just a bit more.

As his father's grizzled visage appeared Cambrio's stomach couldn't help but tighten in a confusing mix of nerves and fondness. The relationship between them had always been a disarmingly static one, alternating between all-out warfare and periods of tenuous truce. They just operated too differently, he reckoned, although Vittore had said more than once that it was the exact opposite that made for their constant bickering; they were both too damn stubborn to concede or back down.

That didn't change the fact that this was his father and despite his age, Cambrio still couldn't entirely shake the rush of little-boy eagerness to earn the man's approval.

Of course, Vittore was always there to nudge things the other way. Cambrio glowered down at his brother's skull before rolling his eyes.

"I was not, Dad," He countered, wincing internally at how young the comment made him seem. Vittore's making fun of me, Dad! "Where are you, anyway? We were getting ready to head to Junction 'cause we hadn't heard anything."

[Vittore Montegue]

Vittore rolled his eyes. Cambrio was such an easy mark at times; it hardly counted as sport. Still, he did it anyway: on long-haul missions like this, it was the closest thing to exercise he could manage to get, save for a little asymmetric work on one or other of his arms - depending on his mood - whenever he managed to get a private few minutes with the holofeed in his bunk. That was one thing he did miss about the Coromon: while the Headhunter II might have been a sexy as hell thing to fly around the galaxy collecting ladies in, it lacked sufficient space to make it feel as much of a home.

Or maybe it's just because dad isn't here, he mused, attention drawn back to the matter at hand, stalling his other thoughts to listen to what their father had to say.

"News has been a little slow," dad conceeded, his voice - though warped a little by the sheer distance the transmission was being forced to traverse - still commanding the same twist of nervous, dutiful respect that it always had in Vittore's gut. "Everyone made a big damn fuss about this new Guild being set up, but the fact is that most of the work we did back in the day wasn't on commission; we had to go out and find these bastard sons of bitches ourselves. Now I'm back, it's taking time to patch back together the old network of informants we used to have. Getting there, but we ain't there yet."

Though he managed to hide it fairly well - dad's face wasn't fantastically expressive even at the extremes of emotion - he couldn't quite manage to disguise the frustration he felt about that from his sons, or from his eyes. Vittore shared that sentiment, to a degree. The Hunters Guild was a double-edged sword, and to an extent their father had been strong-armed into membership. The idea was that if the majority of the galaxy's hunters were members of the Guild, the Guild would become the place to go if you wanted someone or something killed; and in time, it'd be impossible to make a career as a hunter without being there, so it'd snowball. Problem was, while the Montegues did rely on the occasional big contract - and they were admittedly big contracts - that the Guild would hypothetically be able to bounce their way, the rest of their work was generally low key, small scale, and off-the-books. Working with the Guild tied their hands far too much; which was why dad was back on Junction, playing call centre switchboard with Elroy.

This isn't a curtosy call though, is it dad? Vittore mused, and he was right; "I may have something for you though, boys," their father continued, and seemed as relieved to say it as Vittore was to see it. "And unless you royally fucked off course since I last heard from you, it shouldn't be far."

[Cambrio Montegue]

Thank the stars for small miracles. They weren't by nature - or perhaps, more accurately, nurture - a particularly sentimental family. They didn't take holostills or go on frivolous memory-building holidays and they weren't prone to contacting one another without reason. Cambrio felt the relief of that fact more keenly now, eager for movement and purpose. The stagnant mood lingering in the ship's passages was an ill-fit for he and Vittore. They'd never done well without a mission to fulfill, orders to carry out, groomed as they had been to value a sense of duty; and while he resented that in the stubborn place in his mind that insisted he was more than a grunt, damn it, he had to admit that perhaps his father had shown wisdom there, constantly keeping them busy as children. It still made him bristle instinctively but Cambrio couldn't hide the flash of gratified satisfaction that spilled across his face nor deny that they'd no doubt have stirred up trouble just out of lack of something better to do had Hugo's wave been delayed much longer.

"Wasn't aware we had a course to fuck-off from, Dad, seeing as how we're independent adults now and not under assignment," Cambrio replied pleasantly, flashing Hugo's wavering image a thin smile. It didn't falter when Vittore casually ground the heel of his boot into Cam's foot. Who knew if his father had meant to infuse the subtle barb into his words, or if it was even a barb at all, but Gods help him, Cambrio couldn't stop himself from answering back. Old habits didn't just die hard; the fuckers had a resurrection complex that rivaled any galactic deity.

If Dad was irritated by the comment, he didn't show it. It was slightly unnerving. Ever since they'd all tumbled back into a unit, the old man had been... hell, damn near relaxed. Maybe it was age finally catching up with him (although Cambrio doubted that; time didn't have the stones to try and cross Hugo Montegue) or maybe he was trying to actually let go of some of that ex-Commando control complex bullshit. Whatever it was, it left Cam feeling a little uncertain. It was too frakking normal.

And wasn't that the rub - him, grousing about things being too normal. "This a big something or an amateur gig?"

[Vittore Montegue]

There were times when Vittore was overcome with the urge to hit his brother, several times. Those were good days. Today was not a good day: instead, he was battling the impulse to blaster Cambrio, right in the face. With any luck, he'd be able to blow the disrespectful little git's jaw off; wouldn't get him to shut his mouth literally, but it'd work out okay for the metaphor.

Grinding his heel into Cambrio's toes was a show of incredible restraint on Vittore's part; perhaps too much restraint though, since the human whine machine obviously didn't get the subtle message. He would have said something - or more likely done something - if his brother hadn't blundered into a question that Vittore actually wanted to hear the answer to. He done hunts with dad for much longer than Cambrio. For starters, he was older - the fact that he was also better was kinda irrelevant. Vittore had even done jobs on his own; taken down tough sons of bitches with minimal difficulty.

But there'd been that Krayt that he and Cambrio had taken down together, and that had turned into something of a shambles. Vittore knew they were up for something tough. He knew they could handle it. He also knew dad; and he knew that he wouldn't take them fucking up against a brainless sand lizard - even if it was a frakking huge brainless sand lizard - all that lightly.

Strangely, dad's tone was almost apologetic when he answered. 'The information is pretty vague. No real casualties - just a lot of property damage - but some rich son of a bitch is getting fed up of his stuff getting trashed by whatever it is; and... well...' His voice trailed off into a slight frown. 'Lets just say that some of the evidence doesn't exactly make much sense. It's a real mystery, Cam: you'll like that. And besides -' He shrugged. 'This is the only bounty that the Guild has bounced our way so far. It may be a steaming pile, but hey. A job is a job.'

Mouth tight-lipped, Vittore's eyebrows rose in silent agreement. No matter how amateur, this was what they did: and satisfying as it was to separate Cambrio from his savings in their repeated card games, he was starting to get pretty damn bored.

[Cambrio Montegue]

"If he's loaded we'll at least get somethin' out of this, even if it turns out to be small fish."

Which it normally did. Nine times out of ten when they were actually sought out for a job, rather than following a trail unsolicited, the bounty turned out to require little more than a steady hand and good aim; 'savage, horrible monsters' became bothersome wraiths with a little bit of research and diligent tracking, easily dispatched with a couple of blaster bolts to the heart (or, if Vittore had anything to say about it, a clean slice to the neck.)

Still, Dad was right. A job was a job. The unfamiliar regret in his voice, however, made Cambrio shift uncomfortably, a quick needle of guilt stabbing his stomach; it wouldn't kill him to be slower to draw on his old man, especially now after... well, they were trying to piece their family back together finally, and having to stop untangle threads caught up in old knots wasn't helping.

"You already patch the info through, Dad?" Cambrio asked, even as the data flashed onto the opposite screen. He glanced at it, forehead creasing and brain clicking into the comfortable study mode that prelims - or any other new information - always incited. Hugo was right; Cambrio loved a puzzle. It was perhaps the only thing about hunting that he'd consistently loved, the one common thread that he'd been able to find refuge in during those turbulent years when it seemed that everything and anything was an excuse for all-out war between his father and he, Vittore caught in-between while they tossed every low-blow and dirty move they could at one another.

Puzzles were everything the rest of this life wasn't; concrete, definitive, and always able to provide an answer. There was a distinct satisfaction when all the pieces finally slotted together, a completeness floored with a prideful rush of accomplishment. It was possible that he put too much stock in solving problems, that gold-star mentality, but damn it, Cambrio was willing to take what he could get. Hoard it, even.

And this? This was definitely one of those times.

Cam sank down absently into his own chair, long limbs splaying in that awkward way he'd never quite grown out of as he gnawed on the ragged edge of a fingernail, eyes flickering across the report. Six attacks in the last three months... never on the same edge of the property... fences undisturbed...

"It's smart, whatever it is," That was good. Smart was good. It meant a bit of a challenge, a bit of fight. Everything was a little sweeter with a bit of fire in it. "Skrag, look at that motherfrakking clusterfuck."

He whistled lowly at the enclosed images. The homestead - which was an understatement to say the least, if the elegantly arched brickwork, inlayed with some sort of azure stone, and elegant landscaping were anything to go by - was completely trashed. Various gears and bits of twisted metal that had probably once all fit together into operable farm equipment was scattered across the expansive lawn, a nearby speeder sporting a long, jagged slice along it's quarterpanel, hood crumpled and curled like tin. The ground was torn up in evenly spaced strips as though by claws, dirt piled along the edges of the deep furrows, and there were thick, ugly cracks in the stone walls of the structure pictured, chunks of rock missing entirely in some places. It looked sad and tattered, the dying site of a vicious massacre.

"No wonder he's pissed," Cambrio shook his head. "I'd invested that many credits into a personal oasis just to have it shattered, I'd want something dead, too.

"It's weird, though," He continued. "I mean, this place looks like it's been worked over by a pack of rabid dagerlips. Only this is Lantillies; they don't have any native species that could do something like that and even with the live market, they'd've had to seriously revise their trade regulations since we were there if they're allowing violent stock through. Didn't you almost get arrested for arms smuggling when they found the backup weapons cache, Dad?"

In hindsight it was pretty damn funny, that his father's paranoid insistence on being ready for every possible scenario was enough to paint the picture of a major assault dealer, but at the time Cam had been eight and convinced they were going to be thrown into some cell to rot away. They'd avoided that fate, clearly, and it had ended up being one of the more interesting jobs he could recall, the bustling trade auctions held planetside proving to be an incredible feast of the bizarre and interesting for a quiet, geeky kid with too damn much curiosity for his own good. He still had the notes he'd made after (the job had come during his self-appointed phase as family historian) and he clearly remembered writing with staunch approval about the strict enforcement of the import-export laws, the thorough policing of citizens. Lantillies had gotten an "S" on the Montegue Scale (copywrite C. Montegue), the highest grade a place could get - safe, later amended to as safe as is possible.

So while it certainly wasn't within the realm of possibility for something to have slipped through, it was unexpected.

Which was... exciting.

"Dude, how long will it take to get there?" Cam murmured, already sinking into the particulars.

[Vittore Montegue]

Vittore's brain jolted at the question aimed directly at him. As per usual, as soon as his brother had got more than two sentences into talking, he'd zoned out, disappearing into the special place in his mind that was populated by free alcohol and naked girls.

It took a moment for his mind to play back through what had been passively recorded, and an instant longer for him to actually come up with a reply. "If we alter course now," he answered, though his response was directed more to their father than anyone else, "We should touch down in about seven hours." His eyes flicked about with a hint of nerves, his mind deciding that he should say something to reassure his father's faith in him; or at least inspire his brother, a teensy bit. "Don't worry, dad," he offered: the best he could come up with. "We'll take care of it."

"I know you will, boys," Hugo responded, with the kind of smile that seemed unique only to fathers. "Comm me when it's taken care of, and I'll let you know if I have any more work to throw your way." There was the briefest of hesitations; if Vittore didn't know any better, he'd have imagined that their dad was trying to keep a grin under wraps. "Oh, and Cam?" he added, as an afterthought. "Try and make sure your brother doesn't catch anything this time, okay?"

Before any response could be offered by either son, the screen plunged into darkness; Vittore meanwhile felt the telltale creep of heat rising to his face, and battled against it as best he could. "Say nothing," he uttered in a menacing tone, not shifting his gaze in the slightest to look at his brother, "And I'll let you fly the ship the rest of the way there. Deal?"

[Cambrio Montegue]

Cambrio grinned smugly at Vittore, an almost gleeful sparkle in his eyes at his brother's obviously disgruntled countenance. Whether he was bothered more by the fact that their father had made the barb or the fact that it was actually a pretty useful reminder, given Vitt's indiscriminate sexual appetite, was up for grabs but it made for great entertainment, either way. Cam turned back to the vidscreen, punching a few keys to save the data so that he could access it from his quarters. He remained cheerily silent, his brother's tense shoulders adding to the tangible expectance hovering between them.


Finally, he cleared his throat.


"He hasn't changed a bit," Cam snorted, casually, shaking his head. "Always asking the impossible--"


Before the haymaker aimed at him could land, the younger Montegue was up and out of his seat, laughing as he retreated from the cockpit.


"Sleep easy, bro," He whooped, backing out with his hands up in surrender, face bright. "I stocked up on antibiotics and comics, so you're all set!"


"I should've smothered you in your crib when I had the chance!"


Chuckling, Cambrio ambled down the corridor of the ship, veering sharply at it's midpoint into the alcove that housed his bunk and belongings. Most of the time he was content to lounge in one of the common areas; when they weren't idling in front of the controls or eating in the kitchenette, he and his brother generally amused themselves in the cargo hold working out or doing weapons training, playing cards or the occasional game of hoopball. When it came to cycling through a problem, though - be it a casefile or something more personal - Cam always retreated to his private space. Unlike his father and his brother, he didn't find the lull of piloting a constructive backdrop for critical thinking.

There wasn't much to differentiate his quarters from the rest of the ship; he kept it simple and uncluttered, the bed made with military precision, datapads organized by subject and author neatly lined up in a sunken shelf, his clothes stored in bench locker at the foot of his bunk. There were two upright biometric storage units against the far wall, one for blasters and the other housing his collection of blades and other curious weapons, above which hung the only piece of artwork in the small space: a Dreadnaughts holoposter depicting all of Logo "Reboot" Urn's game-winning shots.

And yet, despite it's unremarkable appearance, Cambrio always felt himself loosen as soon as he entered the room. Perhaps it was just the knowledge that it was his and his alone that made a difference. Or maybe it had something to do with the fact that he'd muted the comm unit and rigged the doorlocks so that his brother - or anyone else for that matter - couldn't disturb him unless he allowed it. Whatever it was, he'd come to appreciate the importance of privacy.

He sighed in contentment then crossed to his library, scanning the titles and tugging a few that looked promising out before he collapsed onto his bunk. Research was always more satisfying when done vertically.