Milivikal k'Vik
Mar 21st, 2013, 09:25:18 PM
With her unexpected leverage given to her by an ancient cousin, she now had Sanya Tagge at her relative disposal. Although not the Empress herself, Sanya’s access to Imperial information was unparalleled. Her manipulation of Sanya had been subtle; an elevation of existing desires, an increase of present drives, a persistent push to Stockholm Syndrome. The Pretty Tagge Flower had found her Thorns and her Bee. Sanya had given to her long-standing desires toward her childhood friend.
The ever loyal Orem had been eager to provide information from the transitioning Alliance in regards to one Hugo Montague. The Imperial asset dossier stated he hunted the unusual, the overpowered, the differently dangerous. He hunted Force Users and Lupines, per the reports. He was former Senate Guard who had become a bounty hunter, and then a perhaps unwilling asset to Imperial Intelligence. He now pursued defectors on Junction.
For k’Vik, it was a simple equation: hurt Esalis by taking her agents away, by strengthening the Alliance, by weakening her apparent competence. Killing Esalis would not be satisfactory. The destruction of her position, her reputation, her self was k’Vik’s goal. It would be an adequate revenge for being an object of Esalis’s manipulations.
Milivikal rolled to her feet, having “booked” passage with an Alliance freighter. Or rather, exchanged credits for undocumented movement through Alliance space. The crew paid her little mind. She had kept to herself, listening to music, observing art. Whenever queried, she had been polite, but brief.
Junction was on a major trade route, and a border world. With the newly divided galaxy, worlds like this saw new trade as a grey market driven by an odd mix of smuggling and legitimate business sprung up.
The spaceport throbbed with the sounds of activity. Each being, transaction with it’s own rhythm. In the right scenario, these were the best venues for new art. Enough tension, danger and disdain for formal rules fused with a rapid exchange of goods, ideas and people. Fluid, sometimes thoughtful, always chaotic art would come forward.
Cantinas busied themselves nearly constantly with the stream of trade and traders. Without information, finding the two defectors would be a bottle of Corellian Reserve in the Outer Rim unopened, in the hands of a Alderaanian.
k’Vik’s casual, spacer dress allowed her to go relatively unnoticed. While her pale skin and eyes were relatively unusual, the rest of her drew no cause for alarm. Dark blue pants were equipped with many pockets and a boring, grey shirt pledging commercial allegiance to Bespin Motors and it’s iconic cloud car were partially covered by a thigh-length raincoat. There was no sign of rain. The weather was mild. The air felt slightly cool against Mili’s skin pushed by a light breeze from the hills on the other side of the spaceport.
She paused in front of a tapcafe, out of the main foot traffic. Mili knew where the exchange was supposed to take place and when. She had several hours to spare, but it was best to take full stock of the situation. Montague was not to be underestimated. Mili’s gait joined with the pace of the crowd until the flow deposited her into the establishment where the defection was to take place. There was no known information on the arrival of the agents. Mili had to assume the strike would take place here, Eular’s Exchange or near here.
She examined the large, vaulted dome of the restaurant/club. It was a multi-level affair that was free-standing within the mixed duracrete and transparisteel dome. On days such as this, many of the transparisteel windows were actually open to the outside, giving it an almost promenade feel.
k’Vik ran her fingers lightly across a polished wood handrail at the entrance as she walked toward the restaurant. A soft smile slid across her face when asked how many.
“One please.”
The ever loyal Orem had been eager to provide information from the transitioning Alliance in regards to one Hugo Montague. The Imperial asset dossier stated he hunted the unusual, the overpowered, the differently dangerous. He hunted Force Users and Lupines, per the reports. He was former Senate Guard who had become a bounty hunter, and then a perhaps unwilling asset to Imperial Intelligence. He now pursued defectors on Junction.
For k’Vik, it was a simple equation: hurt Esalis by taking her agents away, by strengthening the Alliance, by weakening her apparent competence. Killing Esalis would not be satisfactory. The destruction of her position, her reputation, her self was k’Vik’s goal. It would be an adequate revenge for being an object of Esalis’s manipulations.
Milivikal rolled to her feet, having “booked” passage with an Alliance freighter. Or rather, exchanged credits for undocumented movement through Alliance space. The crew paid her little mind. She had kept to herself, listening to music, observing art. Whenever queried, she had been polite, but brief.
Junction was on a major trade route, and a border world. With the newly divided galaxy, worlds like this saw new trade as a grey market driven by an odd mix of smuggling and legitimate business sprung up.
The spaceport throbbed with the sounds of activity. Each being, transaction with it’s own rhythm. In the right scenario, these were the best venues for new art. Enough tension, danger and disdain for formal rules fused with a rapid exchange of goods, ideas and people. Fluid, sometimes thoughtful, always chaotic art would come forward.
Cantinas busied themselves nearly constantly with the stream of trade and traders. Without information, finding the two defectors would be a bottle of Corellian Reserve in the Outer Rim unopened, in the hands of a Alderaanian.
k’Vik’s casual, spacer dress allowed her to go relatively unnoticed. While her pale skin and eyes were relatively unusual, the rest of her drew no cause for alarm. Dark blue pants were equipped with many pockets and a boring, grey shirt pledging commercial allegiance to Bespin Motors and it’s iconic cloud car were partially covered by a thigh-length raincoat. There was no sign of rain. The weather was mild. The air felt slightly cool against Mili’s skin pushed by a light breeze from the hills on the other side of the spaceport.
She paused in front of a tapcafe, out of the main foot traffic. Mili knew where the exchange was supposed to take place and when. She had several hours to spare, but it was best to take full stock of the situation. Montague was not to be underestimated. Mili’s gait joined with the pace of the crowd until the flow deposited her into the establishment where the defection was to take place. There was no known information on the arrival of the agents. Mili had to assume the strike would take place here, Eular’s Exchange or near here.
She examined the large, vaulted dome of the restaurant/club. It was a multi-level affair that was free-standing within the mixed duracrete and transparisteel dome. On days such as this, many of the transparisteel windows were actually open to the outside, giving it an almost promenade feel.
k’Vik ran her fingers lightly across a polished wood handrail at the entrance as she walked toward the restaurant. A soft smile slid across her face when asked how many.
“One please.”