The Arrival

[Wyl Staedtler]

The appointed time for his demise arrived with far less fanfare than Wyl Staedtler had anticipated. It came with neither a bang nor a whimper, but as an inconspicuous memo left in his quarters, a reminder to report to the medbay after his sparring lesson. The irony was not lost on the boy; that his death summons should come disguised as a standard health check was a brand of cunning that bordered on cruel.

But then, to expect anything less from a pirate was foolish.

There was no avoiding the appointment; he was well overdue and the last time Wyl had successfully negotiated his way out of being seen, the victory had been brought to a sharp halt by Daria's underwhelming response to his cunning exit scheme. Apparently, no amount of brilliant tactical execution - three minor explosions; air support; a cartwheel - could change the fact that falling behind on his adenovirus inoculations was irresponsible on both a personal level and for the general well-being of the Wheel's population - yes, even if the routine vaccinations were being administered by a paragon of corruption and dissent.

Since he could not escape it, the only choice left to the young padawan was to gather his courage and face the danger head on. By all appearances, exam room 2 was quiet and empty. The sterile field on the table was undisturbed, all instruments had been left untampered with, there wasn't so much as a cotton pad out of place. It was the perfect ploy.

Folded into the cramped interior of a low storage cabinet, Wyl waited. Captain Henning would make an appearance before long and by the Force, Wyl was going to be ready for him.

[Barton Henning]

“Captain Henning. How may I be of assistance?”

The Whaladon's resident 2-1B surgical droid brandished a syringe at Barton as it turned to greet him. Henning held up both hands and edged half a step backwards, fearing for a fraction of a second that the droids circuits had fried and it had a mind to skewer him with the needle. There'd been a turn of bad luck within the Wheel lately, so it a killer droid wasn't stretching the imagination too much.

“Doctor. Doctor Henning,” he added in quick clarification as the lights in the droids eyes dimmed then burned brighter in thought.

“Alliance has no use for a freighter captain when all flights out of the convoy are grounded. So off comes the captains hat, on go the scrubs.”

The droid paused – data rattling around inside of its metal skull – then gave a jerky nod.

“Doctor Henning. Please proceed to examination room two. Your patient is waiting.”

The droid rotated at the waist and lifted one servogrip pincer towards a half-open doorway, in a rough approximation of a gesture that said 'this way.' Barton followed its lead and shut the door to exam room two behind him. It looked like every other room aboard the Whaladon, though perhaps a little brighter on account of the fact that the walls, floor and surface tops were actually clean. The way Barton understood it, the Whaladon had seen mercifully few casualties. So far at least.

He shrugged out out of his flight jacket and tossed it onto a crate by the door. He glanced at the array of equipment already laid out for him and then frowned at the complete absence of his 'patient.'

[Wyl Staedtler]

One of the benefits to infiltrating the Whaladon's ventilation system was that Wyl's aural senses were particularly refined. One couldn't always count on grated panels to see through, but sound traveled beautifully through the air passages and the boy had become rather skilled at distinguishing the variant themes that played within the soundtrack of a room.

He counted - one, two, three, four steady footfalls; they were just slightly off-rhythm and missing that particular winding hum that would have indicated a droid. So, Henning was here.

Wyl closed his eyes and visualized the room. He tried to picture the broad-shouldered frame and how it would look, standing just within the doorway. A whuff of displaced air signaled some kind of disrobing - was the fiend preparing for battle? - and then another series of steps that grew softer as they traveled away.

Cautiously, Wyl eased the cupboard door open. Through the sliver of sight afforded, he could just make out Henning's profile, a soft frown of confusion creasing the man's face. The sight brought a dark twist of satisfaction to the boy. Here was visual proof that he had managed to secure the upper hand.

"Ah - " what was meant to be a fierce, resounding war cry cut off into a squawk as Wyl's cramped limbs mistranslated 'launch attack' as 'become hopelessly tangled'. He spilled out of the cupboard with a dreadful thump, hissing as his knee knocked against the floor.

Manfully working through the discomfort, the boy staggered to his feet, swaying as his asleep left leg setting him off-balance. He narrowed his eyes at Henning.

"Ah ha!" Wyl finished. "Didn't think I'd show, did you, Doctor? Or should that be 'Dread Pirate'?"

[Barton Henning]

The sense that he wasn't alone hit Henning a matter of seconds before the boy tumbled into view.

“Dread...” he started though couldn't think of the words to finish, his brow wrinkling into a frown that was becoming far too familiar.

Go play somewhere else, he wanted to say. I've got an examination to perform. The trouble was, the med-bay droid had said that his 'patient' was waiting for him. Short of being an invisible or microscopically small creature, that made this boy – wide-eyed, leering and wobbling on his own two feet - his patient.

Maybe he had brain-worms.

Barton gestured to one of the examination rooms' chairs.

“Why don't you take a seat and tell me what seems to be the problem?”

[Wyl Staedtler]

"Pah. You'd like that, wouldn't you?" Wyl scoffed. He crossed his arms over his chest and eyed Barton - if that was even his real name - with all the regard he would have granted a space slug.

All too often people made the mistake of assuming that youth meant ignorance. Children were discounted as being tiny little props, as if they didn't have the faculties to witness and absorb all that went on around them, and then to interpret those events within the very vibrant context they existed in. If Henning thought that his dandy bedside manner would fool Wyl, he was sorely mistaken. Taa had given him the lowdown.

Wyl took a step back, leaning nonchalantly against the cupboard he had just exited. As discretely as he could, he tapped his tingling foot against the floor.

"As far as I can see, the only problem aboard this ship," Wyl drawled, "is an infestation of immoral scallywags."

[Barton Henning]

“I haven't heard any reports about scallywags.”

Henning scrubbed one hand against his chin and narrowed his eyes, as if he were giving the matter serious thought.

“Are they contagious?”

[Wyl Staedtler]

The pirate wasn't taking this seriously. That was the problem with pirates.

"Do you think your heinous betrayal is a joke, Captain?" Wyl seethed, his face darkening. "Because I don't think it's very funny - you're a pox on this community and no more will we suffer beneath your pillaging reign!"

Sweet, righteous justice swelled to fill his chest and the boy lifted first his chin and then his fists.

"We'll do this as men," Wyl offered, though he held out little hope that the Dread Pirate would actually take him up on it. Dishonour was troublesome when it came to noble fisticuffs.

[Barton Henning]

The brain-worms diagnosis was looking more and more like it might be accurate. It felt less like the boy was playing at some game, and more like he was seriously ready to duke it out. Henning held up both hands. Not as fists, but with palms facing forward in what was hopefully the universal gesture for 'stop.'

“The only thing we're going to do as men is talk, alright? So how about we start with you telling me where you got these nonsense notions about.. betrayals and pillaging from?”

[Wyl Staedtler]

Ah-ha. So, the pirate wanted to invoke parlay. An interesting move. He was either very, very clever and had a plan up his sleeve, or Wyl had managed to drive him into a corner with the force of his accusations and make him desperate. It was a good thing, really. Wyl was a Jedi and even though he had an obligation to protect the galaxy, he preferred to do it peacefully. He would have gotten no pleasure out of beating the nefarious character to a pulp.

Well, not much, at least.

“It’s not nonsense, you fiend,” the boy declared hotly, crossing his arms over his chest. He kept his stance wide. There was no telling whether or not Henning would launch a surprise attack.

Loading a bit of ammunition into his gun, the boy added, “It’s intelligence gathered by the Baroness Executor herself.”