Imposters

[Jeryd Redsun]

Outside, a storm raged. Behind a grey veil, the world lost its shape as it succumbed to the encroaching downpour. Black clouds boiled, gathering about the Citadel summit like smoke. The sky flashed violently, and in the distance, stratoscrapers loomed like shadowy giants. Rain battered the expansive window pane, a thousand silent droplets at a time. Another silent flash; Jeryd caught his reflection in the glass, lost, vacant, and utterly bored.

The lecture was in its 88th minute, and Major Gundyr showed no sign of letting up. He was a tall slender man, impeccable in uniform, with a grey bushy moustache and a pallor that betrayed long years behind a desk. His watery gaze was keen, beady, and meticulous. On the one occasion they spoke, Jeryd was given the distinct impression that he was not listening to what he was saying, but rather decrypting the private thoughts in his head. At least the creepiness was interesting. For a lecturer, one might concede he had other redeeming qualities. Intelligent? Yes. Well-read? Undoubtedly. And he drew on decades of experience working on some of the most covert intelligence operations in the Empire. But, by the Emperor’s shrivelled scrotum, was the man dull.

Presently, he was gesturing at an old holo taken some years before the birth of the Empire, taken by a probe droid surveying a separatist base. With idle swipes of his finger, he cycled through a variety of scans and data, taking time to point out a solitary plume of gas illuminated orange by a heat sensor reading. The glow made Onika’s skin look almost red. At regular intervals, she surfaced from her diligent note-taking to spot details on the holo, her nose wrinkling every time she narrowed her eyes. Jeryd watched the stylus move in her fingers, and recalled the drawings she shared with him during one of Ivy’s classes. He found himself wondering if she still liked to draw or if the cadet program had broken the habit. He suspected her palms were calloused from all the training.

It had been nine months since he last saw Jo-Jo. She had very soft hands, moisturised, manicured, and clean. She smiled so easily for him. Nine months. He could be a father by now. Sometimes, when he looked out the window and imagined a life beyond those walls, he pictured her, cradling a little boy or girl, still smiling, asking him to come home. But the call never came. The reality, he knew, was that she was probably working at her parents’ law firm, in a smart dress suit, decidedly not pregnant, and not thinking about him. Not when there were so many big city boys in their big city suits, taking her for big city drinks in their big city cars. While he was still stuck in school with his thumb up his arse.

The holo changed, the separatist base was now a smouldering ruin. The Major pointed this way and that, droning in a way that could shut down a protocol droid. Jeryd studied the images, and found himself replaying fantastic combat scenarios that led to the aftermath. He recalled his training, and his friends, and wondered if they were yet caught up in some bloody conflict, storming enemy lines, basking in the glory of victory. In all likelihood, they too were in some miserable classroom, gazing out of a window, longing for something more. He considered his current comrades, then. His new friends. Some were soldierly, like him. Confident, capable, skilful and bold. Some had brilliant minds, they were prodigious, geniuses even. Some boasted incredible technical skills, engineering and computer wizardry. Others brought more unorthodox talents to the table, making their unit a crucible of different cultures, backgrounds, and experiences. They all walked the same path in their own way, they did it together, and they had at their disposal the very best of the Empire’s resources, be it equipment, training, vehicles, weapons. He wondered if they felt it, too; Jensen, Khoovi, Onika, Kass, Tolomy, Thida, and Neb. Together, they could change the galaxy.

“...And that was what brought the insurgents to their knees. All it took was a single plume of gas.”

There was a beat of silence, pregnant with the hopes of every cadet in the room. Then, bliss. The hologram vanished and the lights came on. Ripples of applause broke out around the room for their guest speaker. Jeryd summoned the strength to offer two whole claps, before gathering his things. Over the clamour, Major Gundyr invited questions but his audience was already in full retreat. Later, when he was duplicating Tolomy’s notes in bed, Jeryd would curse his own infantile attention span, but in the end, it came down to a choice between ignorance, or throwing himself through the window to a wet and violent death. And as he joined the deflated ranks trudging from the classroom, he wasn’t wholly convinced the right choice had been made.

“Cadet Redsun.”

Outside the classroom hovered a small droid, about the size of a smashball. It had large insectoid ocular sensors and a square vocabulator that lit up when it spoke. Upon hearing that dispassionate drone, for a moment of fleeting horror, Jeryd thought the Major was summoning him back for question time. Shrugging off the survivalist tension, he approached the droid.

“You are to report at once to Knight Rayner. Level 36. Besh-44.”

“Knight… Rayner?” He repeated, in confusion. By now, he knew every ranking officer at the Citadel, and had never heard of a- Rayner. His face dropped, suddenly grave, “Wait. Why?”

“Do you not understand the nature of an order, cadet?”

Jeryd opened his mouth, then reconsidered, “I’m on my way.”

Making good on his word, Jeryd set off at once, an old fire rekindled in his belly. Since his promotion, Kyle Rayner had been mercifully absent from Jeryd’s day-to-day existence. As cadets, they learned to co-exist, an effort of mutual survival, if nothing else. They mixed like oil and water. Kyle Rayner was a gifted cadet: skilful in practical matters, extensively knowledgeable, and gifted in the Force. If only he could chalk his animosity down to Rayner’s previous life as a Jedi padawan. It would’ve made sense, and given Jeryd’s background, it was even understandable. But it was more than that. There was something about the guy that just pissed him off. He tried to ignore it, to rise above it, but he was always there, chipping away at his defences. A smug, self-satisfied clown.

And now he was an Imperial Knight.

As he walked, Jeryd reasoned with himself. All the same arguments he’d told himself before: Kyle Rayner had the experience, he'd been around long enough, completed his training, proved himself capable. He was qualified to be an Imperial Knight in every way, but one - he was still Kyle Rayner. As he stepped out of the lift onto Level 36, he expelled his frustrations with a sigh. Nowhere was it stated that he was expected to like everyone. There was always at least one superior officer who was a bit of an arsehole, and if nothing else, Rayner was unquestionably his superior officer. We respect the rank, not the man, Jeryd reminded himself as he closed in on Room Besh-44. He braced himself for whatever tedious onslaught Knight Rayner had in store for him, and rang the door chime once.

[Halajiin Rabeak]

The muffled call of, “Enter!” wormed its way through the door's seal, muffled by thicker layers of acoustic dampening than Jeryd’s bunkroom could boast. A soft click of lock solenoids disengaging at the base of the door scarcely registered before the two panels split and pulled aside with their familiar pneumatic hiss.


It could be debated which senses were alerted first, upon the opening of the doors. Most would state that sight prevailed as a messy, haphazard set of living quarters made themselves known. Bed partially made, rumpled clothing either half-in, or scattered on the floor near the hamper, a near-dead potted ficus somehow clinging to life despite having likely not been watered in weeks - if you didn’t count the empty, lidless stimcaff cup laying beside it. A desk stood somewhere beneath an avalanche of datapads, technical manuals, schematics, loose flimsis, and a nested stack of empty take-out cartons. Even the boot-polishing kit which stood at the foot of the desk seemed in disarray, with more of its contents simply strewn about rather than stored inside its box case.


Sight clearly had the advantage, yet it would require time to take in the extent of the dishevelled apartment,, whereas smell came instantly.


Not acrid, nor pungent, yet there was a distinct odor which wafted from the room. An odor slightly sweet with hints of sweat, sour with the mildest scent of laundry, musty with a cry of help from the imprisoned, sorely mistreated ficus, and savoury from the remains of the last take-away meal. The type of scent typically only noticeable when you realize where you were had no scent at all, and the type which seemed to vanish after only a few breaths. Not that it did vanish, but you simply grew used to it, or found a way to be distracted from it.


The sound of a refresher being activated, followed by the clink of a belt being refastened could easily provide sufficient distraction, and did, especially when accompanied by a voice.


“Sorry, Khoov, didn’t realize you’d - oh.” The words came easily at first, before tripping and stumbling to a stop as Imperial Knight Kyle Rayner emerged from his unit’s refresher. Or at least to everyone else at the Citadel he was Kyle Rayner. Really, Kyle Rayner had never amounted to anything more than a middle-management position at a plumbing supply company, and had been dead for eighty years. In his place, using his name, stood one Halajiin Rabeak, with his paws held paused on his belt buckle, while his pink eyes looked at Jeryd in his doorway, nonplussed.


“Oookay, not who I expected,” he found the way to carry on, then stood at ease. “Huh.”


Outside the window, a heavy cargo speeder rumbled by, giving Hal a moment to bite his lower lip with his fangs, chewing it slightly. “Cadet Wan isn’t out there behind you, is he?” he finally asked. Jeryd’s face alone was enough to give him his answer. A sigh, and he waved the human cadet in. “So, um, how’ve you been enjoying your classes, Cadet Redsun?”

[Jeryd Redsun]

From the safety of the doorway, Jeryd surveyed the scene with the same morbid curiosity with which one might regard a speeder crash. Assuming Rayner not important enough to be assigned his own office, he had, safely, he thought, assumed they were about to meet in an empty classroom, or a briefing room, a storage room, even. Instead, he found himself staring down the wasteland of Kyle Rayner's personal quarters. And much of what his dubious host had to say was met with muted bewilderment, until, that was, he was invited inside. Stepping over the threshold felt like a misdemeanour, encroaching on a personal space that he was not equipped mentally or physically to face. He was reminded of his days captaining the Manarai Mantasharks, and the rowdy, chaotic lair of secrecy they called a locker room. In truth, Rayner's room was nowhere near as messy or musky, but, compared to his own living quarters, it was practically an active warzone. Unquestionably, this was a domicile free from the threat of inspection.

And what luxury! Larger than his own humble quarters, where he was required to share a bunk, Rayner's room was impressively furnished and boasted its own refresher. Was this what he had to look forward to when he became a knight? Privacy, it was the stuff of legend. The disorder, though, it was an assault to his sensibilities. Years removed from the bark of drill sergeants, he suspected he could never allow his personal space to fall into such disarray. How quickly Rayner had shed the habit. He shuffled to attention, ignoring the radioactive presence of a pair of underpants near his foot.

"Sir..." Jeryd's response was immediate, a practice ingrained from an early age, but he faltered. Of all the things Rayner could have said, that was farthest from what he anticipated. He chose a direction, and silently committed to it with the faintest of nods, "Sir, the classes are challenging. Today, we were visited by Major Gundyr for a lecture on data analysis. And owing to the weather, field exercises were cancelled in favour of a morning of diplomacy studies and political theory."

There was no shrug, no eye-rolling, no groan of all-encompassing misery that should accompany such a statement. None of it was needed. Rayner knew precisely what kind of day that was. He knew first hand how the frustration swelled up inside, ready to explode at any given moment, when you take a group of young men and women, in the peak of physical fitness, and you fill their heads with combat drills and promises of violence, you feed them well to keep their energy up, and then, against all logical sense, you make them sit in classrooms all day long. After a day like that, it was small wonder Jeryd found himself struggling to comprehend the purpose of his visit, or divine Kyle Rayner's reasons for summoning him there.

In his Knight's blues, Kyle Rayner cut a handsome figure, though Jeryd attributed that to the uniform itself more than anything else. As much as he wished to be rid of his cadet grey-and-whites, he longed more to see himself in that royal blue, like Baastian Cain. It was a striking uniform, bold, refined, and unmistakeable. Rayner wore it well, but it was strange to see his typically oiled headfur looking more natural and untidy. For a fleeting instant, he seemed a different person, until Jeryd's survival instincts kicked in. Mercifully, Rayner had unwittingly provided him a lifeline, which he seized with both hands. He dared a glance at the door.

"Sir, if you were expecting Cadet Wan, I would be glad to send him your way."

[Halajiin Rabeak]

"Oh nah, no need for that," Hal waved a dismissive paw. "Doors, close and lock."

Behind Jeryd, the two panels of the door slid shut, nearly goosing the cadet in the process, and their hiss nearly muffled the sound of the lock solenoids. Nearly.

Thunder rumbled outside, and lightning ripped through the sky, illuminating sheets of glittering rain as it coursed towards a rod atop a nearby structure, its electricity routing directly into a storage bank. Yet somehow the thunder seemed quieter inside Hal's quarters, as did the rain. Everything was quiet, in fact, despite being an exterior room with massive windows. Another glance would reveal a second pane of transparisteel just beyond the first, a feature not seen on most other rooms in the Citadel, while the air vents in the ceiling had fine mesh screens behind them instead of a black void. Of course, there was a reason for all of the sound insulation: it's easier to hear even whispered conversations if there's no other sound to compete with, and Hal had known his room was bugged with both audio and visual devices since the day he'd arrived at the Citadel. Never had he shared a room as a cadet, instead returning nightly to these quarters, on a floor which seldom saw use beyond temporarily housing visiting ambassadors.

After all, when needing to monitor someone, it's easier to put them in luxury than it is to hurriedly bug a standard cadet's quarters.

"Major Grundyr," Hal repeated. "Hoo-whee, I should probably be offering you a double stimcaff. It's amazing you made it here awake, after that."

His easy smile returned, and for a split-second he was eerily lit by another flash of lightning, his left eye squinting while his right remained open and staring at Jeryd. "I've got an assignment. A mission, you could call it, and I've been instructed to take a cadet with me. I put in for Cadet wan, but the brass must have decided you're the prime choice, so, I'll make you an offer: What would you say about getting out of classes for a week, and hitting the field instead?"

Behind him his tail swayed, apparently possessing a mind of its own, willing to idly fidget while the rest of him maintained focus on the young human before him. That smile morphed into a smirk with just the slightest curling of his muzzle, and Hal added, "And, you're free to say no, but I'd treat this as if the brass were here to hear your answer." With that, his tail flicked a bit harder, its tip pointing at what simply looked like a comm outlet, and he wondered if Jeryd would get the point.

[Jeryd Redsun]

A year ago, Rayner's subterfuge would have been entirely lost on Jeryd, who, prior to his assignment to the Citadel, had met two aliens in his whole life. A person with a tail was once a novelty, a thing to be observed from a distance, but never remarked upon. Growing up, he surrounded himself with, and was surrounded by exclusively humans. And not just any humans, but those from a very specific caste of wealthy, powerful, military families. Needless to say, when you were building a team entirely from Force Sensitives, the melting pot of recruits was markedly more diverse. And, while it wasn't like he made a point of studying Kyle Rayner's tail, at a glance, he could tell when something was natural and when something felt off. Coupled with his interesting choice of words, Jeryd pieced together the deeper meaning behind them.

They were being watched.

This new knowledge has no outward affect on Jeryd's behaviour. Indeed, growing up in Imperial institutes, especially of a military flavour, he was used to the feeling of being watched. It was an unwritten rule and it was certainly safer to accept the probability you were being monitored at any given moment, than not. It never concerned him because he had nothing to hide. Still, it was peculiar to make a point of monitoring a newly-promoted Knight so closely. Unless this was standard protocol; Imperial Knights, after all, were surely keepers of all kinds of secrets. It stood to reason that the Empire would want to keep those secrets closely guarded. Jeryd supposed it was the price one paid for privacy. So, outwardly, he was tranquil, but on the inside, he changed directions so hard it was a wonder he didn't have a concussion. It looked like tagging Khoovi in to take his place was completely off the cards.

"Sir, I would be... honoured to join you."

In that moment, he might as well have been gagging on Rayner's furry cock. Working the balls while he swallowed the indignity of his words, and maybe a tickle of the taint to go along with the eye-watering sycophancy. Behind the mask of calm, his jaw closed like a bear trap.

So he was to suffer Kyle Rayner for a whole week. At least there was a silver lining: no classrooms, and actual field work. The promise of a real mission seasoned the bitter taste in his mouth to make it palatable. Suddenly, the storm outside looked inviting. It meant time away from the Citadel, and a chance to put his training to the test. Hells, it was another step on the ladder to promotion. Another step towards those beautiful blues. His spirits lifted an imperceptible fraction.

"What kind of assignment do you have in mind, sir?"

[Halajiin Rabeak]

"Not what I have in mind." The reply came with a raised finger, before the paw went down to sift through the stack of datapads on his desk. Fingers deftly flicked some out of the way, turned another one over, until he selected one to withdraw. "Imperial Knights do not decide their assignments doing whatever they wish - that's why they're called assignments."

The datapad was tossed to Jeryd, and Hal didn't even look to see if he caught it before pulling the chair from his desk and wheeling it over towards the bed area. "Have a seat," he said, then sat down in the chair, indicating that the bed would be good enough for his guest, and now sidekick, to sit on."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but you've lived your whole life in Imperial space, right? Never traveled to the outer rim, or into Alliance territory?"

He ran a paw through his dry headfur, pushing it off to the side where it usually remained when oiled.

[Jeryd Redsun]

When Rayner challenged him over semantics, Jeryd felt his insides coil tightly, like a viper waiting to strike. It was starting, already. When the datapad was tossed his way, it was snatched out of the air and Jeryd took that as an invitation to not stand at attention anymore, such were Rayner's ways. He knew him to not be a stickler for protocol, which suited him just fine, as it meant he wouldn't have to "Yes, sir. No, sir. Three bags full, sir," his way through the whole mission. He studied the datapad in his hands and started thumbing his way through its contents.

At Rayner's invitation, he moved instinctively towards the chair, only to find when he looked up from the datapad, that it was already occupied. He looked around for a moment, confused. The only other place to sit was his bed. His unmade bed.

"I have been ice-sailing on Arkania," he offered, somewhat distracted as he inspected the bed, before taking a precarious seat at its edge. When he looked up, he could tell from Rayner's expression that this was not the answer he was looking for, "No. I've never left Imperial space."

[Halajiin Rabeak]

Hal nodded at that, unsurprised, yet not in any way judgemental. "I didn't think so. It's a long way, and not really worth it unless you have somewhere particular you need to be," he replied with a light shug. "Most here haven't left Imperial space. I mean, I have, obviously." A paw was swept down over himself, as if there were any question that a Nehantite could be from anywhere but Alliance space. Well, technically one of the five kingdoms of his homeworld was aligned with the Empire, but that was a trivial matter.

"As far as food, entertainment, employment, and sights go, it doesn't really offer all that much that's different to Imperial space, so, why do you think people would want to leave here, and go there?"

The knight's words weren't leading, not were they criticizing, instead posing a simple, straightforward question. Meanwhile, the datapad housed the unspoken side of the tale. Transports were getting off of Imperial Center with people being smuggled across the border into Alliance space, or the outer rim. An attached file read as a list of captured spies or criminals, each of which was using the identity of someone who had been smuggled out.

[Jeryd Redsun]

"Criminals," he said, without so much as a glance up from the datapad.

It was the obvious answer - perhaps not even the answer Rayner was looking for - but where else was he to start? People fled the Empire because they had a reason to run. In broad strokes, it painted the Outer Rim and Alliance worlds as lawless lands. In some cases, that may be true, but he was sure for the majority there was at least some form of law and governing body in place, even if they were more forgiving than places under Imperial rule. But for Rayner to brush them off, collectively, as not having much to offer? Surely, that wasn't true. Jeryd's previous travels were, without exception, expeditions of pure luxury. Even so, he got to visit places and see sights he could never have imagined. There had to be so much more out there. Perhaps his senior was attempting to discourage him, in some way, or perhaps he was trying to lead him down a particular avenue of thought. He elaborated:

"Why else would someone want to leave behind a life in Imperial space if not to escape its laws? Big credits to be made in the spice trade, weapons, and secrets, too. And the Empire has many enemies willing to pay through the nose for them."

[Halajiin Rabeak]

The brow over Hal's left eye rose, allowing more light in, which revealed that eye to a shade of pink ever-so-slightly darker than his other one, with flecks of red seemingly stuck in his iris.

"Do we not have the spice trade in Imperial space? As well as gun runners, intel marketplaces, slavers, and more? Aren't such criminals, and other lawbreakers what we attempt to clamp down on as Imperial Knights?" he asked. "And if we have enemies so against us that they are willing to pay dearly for our secrets, would that not suggest that perhaps we are not the utopia we believe ourselves to be? Enemies so evil, that..."

He leaned forward using a finger pad to swipe through a few documents to show holophotos of a woman with three young children boarding a suspected transport vessel. "...someone would take their own children to be in their presence? Paying a considerable sum to do so, I might add. Is this woman a criminal? Is this baby one? How about those toddlers? Clearly they're hardened spice smugglers, right? No? Gun-runners? Just imagine the heavy arms you could smuggle in those diapers."

[Jeryd Redsun]

"If she is subverting Imperial law, then yes, the woman is a criminal." Jeryd fired back, "It doesn't make her children criminals, of course. They cannot be held accountable for her actions and the law is clear on that."

He was careful not to clench his fists, or square his shoulders, or cock his head, or to show any outward signs of aggression. Luka taught him all about his tells and how his hot-headedness could be exploited by his enemies; he had said he wasn't so much an open book as he was a collection of pages, torn from a book, and scattered for all to see. He worked on it, but Kyle Rayner always made it difficult, and had succeeded in making him go from annoyed to incensed in less than a minute. Why was exaggerating so much? He knew there were people listening to them. Was this an attempt to belittle him?

He took a long breath, which, in itself was a tell but he didn't care. Instead of staring daggers at the man across from him, he took refuge inside the contents of the datapad. Reading nothing while he stewed.

"No-one ever claimed the Empire to be a utopia. There is always work to be done to make things better." He looked up, "Now, with respect, sir, can you just tell me what the fucking assignment is?"

[Halajiin Rabeak]

With a tight sigh of frustration which was impossible to miss in the insulated room, Hal leaned back in his chair, his shoulders hitting the backrest hard enough to make the chair bounce slightly, and he pursed his lips. Those pink eyes studied Jeryd before another sigh and he looked away.

"I'm sorry to have wasted your time," he said. "This assignment clearly isn't for you."

If Jeryd had been Onika, he would have seen an intense green glow brighten the Knight's arm before he lashed out with such speed in the Force that the datapad was snatched from Jeryd's hands in less than the blink of an eye, and it looked as if Hal hadn't even moved, aside from the pad now resting in his own paw, face-down.

[Jeryd Redsun]

"What the-!"

Before the curse could even leave his lips, the datapad was gone. Jeryd looked down at his empty hands in shock, reeling from the dramatic change of course. The mask of calm was contorted with confusion and disbelief. He looked at Rayner, with an accusation in his eyes. But no words came. In the beginning, he couldn't find the words amongst the frothing boil of insults flooding his brain, and then, when he could, he'd summoned the good sense not to act on them.

It was a trap. The whole thing had been a trap from the start, to make him look foolish to his superiors. Even now, as he boasted the Knight's blue, Kyle Rayner was still the same petty asshole who thrived on tormenting him, and he needed to get out of there before he said or did something that he would regret. Gladly, he rose from the corner of the bed and fixed his gaze on a single point on the wall.

"Permission to leave. Sir."

[Halajiin Rabeak]

Hal simply shrugged, using a footpaw to gently rotate his chair from side to side. "Door's right there."

[Jeryd Redsun]

Needing no further invitation, Jeryd made for the door at once and hit the panel beside a little too hard. Nothing. He tried again, more gently. The door was unresponsive, and the light on the panel was still red. With his back to Rayner, he closed his eyes, and stifled a sigh with gritted teeth.

"Sir. The door is still locked."

[Halajiin Rabeak]

"Of course it is," Hal shrugged, now twisting in his chair a bit more. "I mean, I didn't say you could leave. This is the Empire, after all, and I didn't give you permission, even when you asked. So, no, you can't go."

His fingers began to play with the datapad, scrolling through images as he continued with a wistful lilt in his voice. "Besides, why would you even want to leave? Sure, no one every claimed this to be utopia, but we could always work to make it better."

[Jeryd Redsun]

While Rayner delivered his absurd spiel about the door being locked and denied permission to leave, Jeryd felt his entire body tense up like a clenched fist. He tried not to look, his face scrunched up, sealing the words away. But he had never heard anyone sound so pleased with themselves. His defences collapsed and he wheeled around to face his tormentor.

"Okay...!" He fired up, ready for action. And to his astonishment, Kyle Rayner was not yet done. When he heard his own words regurgitated back at him, he froze. The point, at last, sunk in like an icy blade. Dumbfounded, he blinked. His mouth was dry. From a hurricane of thoughts, he snatched for a counterpoint, an argument to be made, but his thoughts were red hot to the touch. The silence drew out for too long. His shoulders slumped.

"Fine. You've made your point," he said, his voice hoarse from all the shouting he didn't get to do, "Now, can I leave?"

[Halajiin Rabeak]

Using his toes, Hal turned the chair to face Jeryd, looking up at the tall, visibly frustrated cadet. To his credit, Jeryd hadn't yelled, or burst into a rage, whereas a few months ago, he likely would have. He'd grown. A bit. Matured. A bit. And possibly even learned the tiniest bit of humility. Maybe.

It was a start.

"I'm sure you're capable of leaving, yes," Hal shrugged, then held up a paw as his smile faded. "But right now you have to ask yourself if leaving is what you really want. If you go through that door, you will not be on this mission, and you might be overlooked for many others, because of it. I need you to swallow your pride, and climb down from your fucking ivory tower, and think about things from the ground level for a moment. Because right now, let me tell you, you're acting like an officer, but not at all like a Knight, and there's a very big difference there."

Getting up from his chair, Hal didn't move toward the door, instead crossing to the window to gaze out at the storm raging beyond. Droplets of rain refracted the lights from thousands of signs and billboards, and the tens of thousands of speeders which clogged the airlanes. Left to his own devices, he would have simply watched the rain and been happy, as rain in the kingdom of Nehantish was a rare sight indeed. But this was not Nehantish, nor did he possess the luxury of simply letting his mind relax in his current surroundings.

"This situation we're in; do you not find it interesting?" he asked, stifling a bit of a chuckle as he spotted an open-roof speeder stuck amongst the traffic, its driver miserable and wet. "I did not ask for you, I asked for someone else. Yet someone in authority here selected you instead. Selected someone they knew I do not get along well with. Was that to punish me? Or was it to punish you for something? It's clearly one or the other, right? Unless it's not."

Turning back from the window, he arched an eyebrow at Jeryd. "You have no idea of what life is like beyond the grasp of the Empire, nor do you scarcely understand those in a lower economic class than yourself. Sure, you study hard, you excel in your classes and your tests, and that'll make you a fine poster boy, someday. But you'll never get the hard missions, thinking like you do. It'll be the photo-op softballs for life, while Knights like me get the real work done. Knights with greater perspective, with knowledge of all that off-limits stuff in the archives. Knights who have lived beyond the reach of the Empire, and among the normal people out there just trying to get by."

A step forward, and he began to draw closer, having to look up at the taller cadet. "I was hunted by the Empire, did you know that? Literally hunted. And while looking for me, Imperial soldiers brutalized, and murdered innocent people, and were prepared to put an entire lineup to the firing squad because they lacked perspective, and lacked insight. There is so much more out there than black and white, Cadet Redsun. And I have seen your so-called good guys operate in some of the darkest, dirtiest shades of gray. And I have operated in those shades myself, while wearing this uniform, because I understand the galaxy as it really is, not how it has been presented to you. You'll get to operate in the light, the purest, most spotless light, while the real work is done in the shadows. And you just told them that's what you want, by how you've failed to even remotely grasp how to approach the assignment someone picked you for."

Nearly in Jeryd's face, Hal's voice lowered to a whisper, though it was not in an attempt to hide something from whoever was listening. "Because the way I see it, someone sent you here to test you, and me in the process. So tell me, do you still want to go out that door, or are you starting to understand things a little better?"

[Jeryd Redsun]

Jeryd braced himself for a dressing down, for a scathing remark, or even a thinly-veiled insult. He just wanted the door to open. He wanted to leave and put a safe distance between himself and Kyle Rayner before he made a poor decision. He listened carefully, weathering his words, waiting for the bait. Where there once was an almost patronising calmness to his voice, Rayner addressed him with what felt like sincerity. Inexplicably, he made it sound like there was still a place for him on the mission. Coming down from the tumultuous clouds of his own internal storm, Jeryd struggled to follow. He referenced his ivory tower, as so many had done before. Indeed, had he received a brick for every time someone mentioned his ivory tower he could've actually built himself one. A year ago, such a remark would've been taken as a slight, disregarding his own journey, and the hard work he'd invested in his own achievements. But now? It was just a statement of fact. He'd heard the stories of his fellow cadets, of Neb, and Thida, and Pash. He'd visited Khoovi's home, met his father, and saw first hand the background from which he hailed. None of them chose how there stories began. What mattered were the unwritten chapters ahead.

The story of Kyle Rayner, on the other hand, remained very much a mystery. In part, this was due to the fact that they had never really gotten to know each other. Jeryd had some suspicions, and there were always rumours, of course. Now Rayner offered up the detail freely. What kind of a life had he lived as a lesser-known alien, in a galaxy that was unkind to aliens? To be hunted, captured, broken, indoctrinated. Just another worldview of which he was wholly ignorant. It was not his fault, he reminded himself. He wasn't going to be made to feel ashamed for it. But that didn't mean he wouldn't do something about it.

He met Rayner's gaze where he stood.

"You're right. I enjoyed a privileged upbringing. I don't know how the galaxy works because I haven't seen it. And I sure as hell haven't lived it." His eyes narrowed in a challenge, "So, how can you expect me to explain things I don't understand?"

The unspoken truth was that Kyle Rayner did not expect him to explain, or to understand, which was precisely why he'd asked for Khoovi in the first place. Even Jeryd had to concede Khoovi was the better choice; the kid was a prodigy, and came from a background that provided him invaluable insight into the people they sought to understand. There was nothing Cadet Wan couldn't do when he set his mind to it. Except beat him in an arm wrestle - for now. Jeryd would not begrudge the kid a place on the mission, were it in his gift to do so. The reality of the matter, however, as Rayner would put it, was not so black and white.

He lowered his voice to match the Knight:

"I may not be your first choice, sir. I'm probably not even your last choice. But I want to learn, and I can't do it stuck inside a literal fucking ivory tower."

[Halajiin Rabeak]

Hal held his close position for a short time after Jeryd spoke, letting the silence become awkward, before leaning back on his footpaws. A satisfied smile worked up his face, and being so close, Jeryd could see the difference between his left and right eye clearly. The Nehantite's right eye appeared almost as normal as a human's aside from its pink iris, while his left iris held flecks of red, and was contracted a touch more, resulting in a smaller pupil. There had been times where Kyle Rayner had been seen wearing a patch over his left eye, though he had never explained to his fellow cadets just why.

Those eyes studied Jeryrd again, measuring the man before him, before the Knight gave a curt nod. "Good," he stated. "In that case, our first step is getting out of this tower." Turning his head, he spoke loudly, "Excuse Cadet Redsun from his classes for the next week. My performance reviews will take place of his grading."

His face coming back to regard Jeryd once more, Hal gave one of his typical, carefree Kyle Rayner smiles. "Sometimes life's a bit easier when you know you're being spied on. Door unlock, door open."

Behind Jeryd, the locking solenoids disengaged, and the door itself parted with its customary hiss, exposing the wide hallway beyond. It, too, was quiet, but more from no foot traffic than additional insulation. Grabbing up the datapad once more, and then a small rucksack from beside his bed, Hal looked back up. "After you. We're heading down to garage, to start with. See what speeders they've got available. And, not a word about anything you saw in this," he tapped the datapad, "until we've cleared the Citadel. Also, you more of a nerfburger, or nuna wings kind of guy, Jeryd?"

[Jeryd Redsun]

"Nerfburger," he answered immediately, "Wings are great, but they're small, and fiddly, and the sauce has to be right. You can't beat biting into a big juicy burger, almost too big for your mouth."

Jeryd realised just how hungry he was, then. It felt like a hole had been scooped out of his middle, rendering his extremities weak and heavy. His mood soured like blue milk in the sun. He had to watch that. Instead he focused on dreams of a nerfburger, loaded, stacked high, with crisp fries and a thick shake. For the sake of his own dignity, he suppressed a groan. Why did Rayner have to go and mention food?

He couldn't stay grumpy. The day had taken a dramatic and unexpected turn for the better. He was leaving the Citadel. Today. His unuttered prayers had been answered, even if they had come in the unlikely form of Kyle Rayner. They had a mission, and though the details were still unclear, he could safely assume it had something to do with people smuggling themselves out of Imperial space. And, if he was going to keep his unlikely partner happy, he was going to have to put himself in the shoes of someone in that unenviable position. Not literally, of course. Empathy. That was the key. Neb was always telling him off for judging people too harshly. For speaking without thinking. He didn't get it. Sometimes, it just felt good to ignore the brakes, to swing your dick, now and then.

Speaking of which...

"Wait. We're getting our own speeder? That is sick. Have they got the new Meresti Fang?"

[Halajiin Rabeak]

A chuckle which developed into a full laugh was response enough to that question, and Hal shook his head when they stepped into the turbolift. "Ha, no, nothing that fancy," he replied. "Besides, that'd draw way too much attention, especially paired with our uniforms. Nah, it's mostly run of the mill stuff, aside from the armored transports."

The disappointment coming from Jeryd's side of the turbolift was palpable. Hal could just reach out and palp it. He didn't, of course, but he could have if he'd wanted to.

A bit of light humming to fill the silence, then Hal glanced over. "But, if we're lucky, there might be something you'll get a kick out of. Let's just say I'm on good terms with one of our fleet technicians."

He refused to elaborate, instead changing the subject back to food. "Burger almost too big for your mouth? Can't say I've ever had that problem," he said, then faked a yawn. Animalistic jaws spread open wide, revealing his fangs, and teeth meant for rending flesh, with some mild evolutionary concession towards just enough in the way of molars to make being an omnivore possible. "You're old enough to drink, right?" he asked, but it was more of a statement paired with the wink he gave, and he certainly wasn't looking for an answer. "Think I know just the place."

The turbolift did not lead directly to the garage, so the pair had to cross the main floor of the Citadel, and punch in a keycode on the service lift to head down. More humming from Hal, who also rocked forward and back, riding up on his heels or toes to amuse himself, as if all was right with the universe, and he hadn't a care, until the doors opened to the garage at last.

Fleets of speeders, armored personnel carriers, service haulers, and other vehicles stretched out before them, each tethered to their own charging post. Here and there was a gap where a vehicle was missing, but most were available. And, much like Hal had said, there was little to get excited about. No sports speeders, nothing flashy, just reliable, respectable, forgettable transport. But Hal wasn't looking at the fleet, instead he was looking for someone, and led Jeryd away from the paddock of speeders towards the repair bays, where he scanned each stall until at last he saw what he was looking for. A brown tail with a dark tip jutted out of the seat of a pair of pale blue coveralls, while the tail's owner was elbow-deep in an engine bay.

"Durias," Hal called out, and that tail snapped with surprise. Leaning up out of the broken speeder's engine bay, a brown-furred Nehantite stood up and looked back, appearing at least twenty years older than Hal.

A broad smile crossed the brown Nehantite's face, revealing a missing tooth, and a few yellowed ones, and immediately a conversation erupted between the pair in Nehantite. The language was fast, light, and flowing, with a hint of chatter to it like quick birdsong. Laughs were shared on both sides, and Hal approached to look into the engine bay, making remarks about things there, as well as nod in appreciation for whatever this technician had done. Glances were spared back at Jeryd, as well as some more laughs, and Hal shook his head before continuing on, knowing full well that Jeryd couldn't understand them. Durias's accent was thicker than Hal's, that was certain, but each spoke with ease and familiarity and seemed to range between several subjects based on tone and facial expression, before Hal asked a question. The smirk Durias gave back, and the smile that brought to Hal's face were apparently good things, as they shook paws, followed by Durias fetching a set of keys - actual keys - from a rack on the wall and tossing them to Hal.

The Imperial Knight gave an unmistakable thanks to his fellow countryman, and wished him well, before returning to Jeryd and switching back to Common.

"There we go, we've got ourselves a ride," Hal grinned, jingling the keys on their ring. "Fresh out of rebuild after coming in from the impound lot. Been waiting for this one to be done. Should be back in that corner, there."

It was no short walk to the corner of the garage, passing basic white speeder after basic white speeder, and the occasional pale silver speeder among them. Near the end of the line was a red, menacing machine with boxy form and dark tinted windows. Its brightwork had been brushed, and it bore the hallmarks of armor plating. Hal looked at it, and walked right on by to the rusted old speeder beyond it. It was at least four different colors of green and brown, with a single white fender which was half-covered in flat gray primer, the other half covered in badly-pulled dents. No panel gap could claim consistency with any other, and half of its trim was missing, along with its left headlight. The whole speeder floated at a bit of an angle, as if the gyros in it weren't capable of holding true, and there was a crack in the windshield. It was as beater for sure, yet it wasn't content with only looking that way on the outside. Its dashboard was cracked, one of its gauges was missing, the upholstery was torn, and the steering yoke was from some other speeder altogether. Worn silver tape was lashed over the worst of the seat tears, and no fewer than seven air fresheners hung from the rear-view mirror.

"Been waiting for this to be done," Hal nodded at their speeder, still smiling.

[Jeryd Redsun]

For the duration of Rayner's exchange with the mechanic, Durias, Jeryd remained still. He watched from a distance, unwilling to draw attention to himself. The alien pair talked, and laughed, and inspected the vehicle, then they looked his way and laughed some more. He looked away, pretended not to notice. His arms were folded, which, as a military faux pas, was second only to putting your hands in your pockets. He listened intently to the sounds they were making, unsure where one word ended and another began, but amongst the jumble, he was convinced he heard the following: "Empire," "secret," "gambling," "vegetables," "red boot," and "taxidermy." The relevance of these details was lost on him. So he distracted himself with his surroundings.

Rare was the opportunity for him to go to places such as this. He'd visited Engineering two or maybe three times before, always as part of some lesson or exercise. The armoured vehicles were his favourite, though they were kept at the other end of the facility. He'd read somewhere that the Meresti Fang was being adopted for broader use as part of the Empire's armoured transports for high-ranking personnel. It was beautiful, large, and luxurious - he couldn't wait to see it tanked up - but it was probably still in development, being put together in some research facility in the middle of nowhere. Still, the Citadel boasted some great kit. On their way to Durias's place, he spotted a chromium Luger Hulk, and a black EXO-9 with the new Seinar-Tagg 88's. It was one of the vehicles used to ferry politicians and ambassadors and the like from the starport. When they passed by, it was like being inside a sonic shower.

Presently, however, they were surrounded by some wholly standard fare. Non-armoured, but with signs of customisation. Jeryd was no mechanic, but he recognised a custom job when he saw one. He'd privately hoped, given the good nature of his relationship with Durias, that Rayner had secured for them a tidy ride. Nothing flashy, of course. Rayner was right about not wanting to draw too much attention. No. Something simple. Understated, but with an unmistakeable air of quality. He was thinking the rich smell of leatheris upholstery, he was thinking a smooth varnished dash, with maybe a bronzium trimming, here and there. He was thinking...

Rayner was smiling at the junk heap like it was a puppy that had taken its first shit outside.

"Been waiting for this to be done."

Jeryd snorted in amusement, "Shall we come back in a year, then?"

Rayner was still smiling, and looking at him expectantly, and then the speeder, and then him again. When the punchline never came, the creases of mirth at the corners of Jeryd's mouth collapsed in on themselves, as the gravity of the situation took hold.

"I'm not getting in that thing."

He saw it, the brightness in Rayner's eyes, the change in his muzzle, the lift in his body language. Some prepared argument about the benefits of subverting expectations, or, or learning the value of humility, or how fucking rust was in this year. It didn't matter. None of it mattered. And Jeryd cut him off before a sound left his happy face.

"I'm not getting in that thing!" He cried out, rounded the front of the rust bucket with purpose, and perched his boot upon the bumper. The whole vehicle lurched. His hands went into the air, "No! No. Absolutely not! I'm too young to die in a heap like that! I haven't even had my booster jab!"

[Halajiin Rabeak]

"Did you... not see the technician?" Hal asked, brow crimped as he shot a warning look in Jeryd's direction.

The keys jingled in his paws, and he came to the pilot's door and unlocked it. Mechanical mechanism, not even power locks.

"Did you not notice the registration tags?"

The door popped and creaked as he opened it. While most every vehicle in the lot had exempt tags, declaring they were government speeders, this one had a plain civilian tag. Hal leaned down to reach a lever under the dash, followed by clang of a spring-loaded latch coming free up front, the entire hood vibrating from being released.

"Maybe you didn't consider how fast we'd be shot if we pulled up in one of those other speeders? How quickly our cover would be blown?"

Reaching a paw under the hood's edge where it met the windshield, Hal pulled it up and tilted it forward on its brackets to reveal something which had no business in the speeder at all. A gleaming black-chromium engine, certainly from something modern and expensive. High-end stabilizers, custom intercooler, and a pair of compact turbolaser cannons mounted behind the grill, which appeared to be on a motorized hinge.

"Or were you too busy being up there to see the reality of what goes on down here among the masses? Get in the damn speeder."

[Jeryd Redsun]

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't notice the state-of-the-art engine under the hood. My x-ray vision must be malfunctioning!" Incensed, Jeryd threw open the door of the wretched vehicle and dropped into the seat, bringing storm clouds with him. "Stars forbid I show some reluctance to get into a vehicle that literally looked unfit for purpose."

He glanced across at Rayner, an Imperial Knight, and found no amount of rank could hold back the ocean of frustration he had been holding back, "This is precisely my issue with you, Rayner. You deny me the information I need, then hold it against me when I don't instinctively know it. And you cannot pass up an opportunity to give a lecture, can you?"

If Rayner was ready to respond, Jeryd failed to notice or care. Again, he scoffed, though this time gone was the mirth in his voice. Instead, his words dripped with disbelief, "And 'Our cover?' No. I did not consider how quickly our cover would be blown, because I had no idea there was going to even be any cover. I don't even know what we're doing, here. A few arbitrary questions and a datapad. That is not a briefing!"

In his temper, he struck the dash with palm of his hand. No damage was done but it served to punctuate his rant in a definitive, albeit petty way.

[Halajiin Rabeak]

Hal let the hood drop back into place with a thud, the metal panel latching under its own weight, before climbing into the pilot's seat and shutting the door. His smile was gone, and he rubbed his paw on the steering yoke before leaning back into the seat, venting a sigh.

"Jeryd," he said, losing all formality, "I'm not trying to make you feel dumb. Quite the opposite; I'm trying to show you a new way to learn. You excel in the classroom, and at challenges where you know what's expected, because you know how to study, and you study very hard. I have no doubt you're smarter than I am, when it comes to raw intelligence. You've certainly made me look like a fool more than a few times when we were cadets together, but this isn't any sort of payback for that."

His thumb traced over the worn enamel paint on the yoke, eyes looking at the damaged dashboard, yet not seeing it at the same time. "I'm trying to show you there's a different kind of classroom, and how to adjust to it. If you were Khoovi, there were some things he'd just understand, because he's lived them, and so I'd be working on other aspects instead. This is no dig at you. I know you want to be a Knight, and I'd like you to be one. But I want you to fully realize what that title means, and what we do. For you, today's lesson is on being observant of what isn't said."

The keys found their way into the ignition, and Hal turned them bringing the speeder to life, where it stabilized itself instead of tilting. With the flick of a switch, the air conditioning came on, helping to dispel the mugginess which was building inside the speeder. "When I showed you that datapad, and told you about those trying to get off-world, kind of a clue that we're supposed to investigate that. But where you - by no fault of your own - fell back on seeing these people as pure criminals due to how you have been raised, and your training, I attempted to explain that not everyone who breaks the law does so with criminal intent, or hate in their heart. I was implying that this assignment is not meant to be a crackdown, but an investigation - a compassionate one if possible. I gave you two choices of cuisine, both pretty low-class, indicating that we're going to be dealing with street-level groups. It was meant to be a lesson on observing those around you, while we ate, and how they reacted to the uniforms we're wearing, so there's a freebie. Now I bring you down here, let you see me working with a fellow countryman - both of us being from a race well-known for being mechanics and technicians, and we talked about his work, meaning I also understand speeders.

"From there, I am excited to bring you to this, you now knowing that this speeder was something the technician and I talked about, and it was planned for. The people you saw in those holophotos were working class at best. The food I brought up was working class. This speeder is working class. These are all clues I wanted you to pick up on, so you could start grasping the unsaid. I'm not blaming you for missing them, or berating you for missing them. But now that you know about them, I want you to take to heart that observation, connecting dots of information, can be the difference between success and failure on an assignment. We're in an unmarked speeder; smugglers of people generally avoid lawkeepers. Between just those two pieces of information, would you presume we're going undercover?"

He then looked over, no smile, no joke, just a frank expression of honesty. "I'm not here to make you feel dumb, Jeryd. I want to teach you how to better operate when you get out there on your own. I want to teach you how to keep your wits about you, and how to stay alive. I know we're not best buds, but believe me, I'd really rather not have to go to your funeral knowing I could have done something which could have prevented it."

[Jeryd Redsun]

Jeryd remained still, but underneath, his muscles felt like steel cables fraying from too much strain. He kept his mouth shut. By the time Rayner was done explaining, all the fight had gone out of him. And he had been so spoiling for a fight. All that unspent energy, wasted. He was a short fuse bomb, and Rayner liked to play with matches.

Twice he said it. I'm not trying to make you feel dumb. Yet, when he replayed everything Rayner said to him, from the contents of the datapad, to the images and his choice of questions, to the talk of burgers, and then Durias, the speeder, even the registration tags, all of that information ignored. How could he be anything but the dumbest person in the Citadel? Khoovi would've got it. Onika definitely would've got it. Jensen would've successfully completed the entire mission, by now. And there he was, fumbling with the most rudimentary concepts of investigation like a wampa with a facet cube. He could feel the shame, of both his stupidity and his outburst, burning his face.

What made the whole thing even worse, almost unbearable, was his companion's kindness. Kyle Rayner had been well within his rights, as his superior, to reprimand him for his attitude and his behaviour. That would've been easier to face. Or if Kyle Rayner had thrown a punch, instead. Sure, he'd be sore, but that would've have been nothing compared to this. Maybe it was a new kind of torture, to wield patience and compassion and understanding like weapons, to bludgeon him with generosity. Indeed, when Rayner claimed him to be the smarter of the two, Jeryd almost reeled. He hated that he was complimenting him, especially when it was so blatantly untrue. It felt like pity.

Making eye contact was not an option. Instead, he stared at the underwhelming dash in front of him, lost in a daze.

"Please," he said, after some time, "Can we just go?"

[Halajiin Rabeak]

"Yeah, we can do that," Hal nodded. "Buckle up, please."

He reached for his own restraint belt, pulling it over his shoulder and lap and clipping it into place, and waited for Jeryd to do the same. From there, he reached underhand behind the yoke to grasp the drive select lever, then tilted back on the yoke, causing the dilapidated speeder to rise slowly. Another crank of the drive select lever and they started into motion, Hal turning tightly and heading out over the field of other parked speeders and transports. The speeder was old, much older than Kyle Rayner appeared to be, yet the old-style controls seemed second nature to him. A far cry from the automated systems and push-buttons of modern speeders, it was a craft from another time. Even the windscreen wipers had to be switched on manually as they cleared the shields which protected the garage, and headed out into the torrential downpour of the afternoon's weather, where Hal joined in an airlane of traffic.

A few seconds passed, with Hal watching the other pilots, his lane, and also tapping a finger on the yoke each time they passed a kilometer. At the fifth tap, he finally breathed a deep sigh of relief, and began talking.

"Oh thank fuck, now I can actually talk," he said. "My quarters are bugged like you wouldn't believe, always have been. Most areas of the Citadel are under surveillance, if I'm honest, but not to the extent my quarters are. And it's not unheard of to have transponders sewn into our uniforms without us knowing, often disguised as a button or something, but those have a five kilometer range at best. I know Durias, so this heap isn't bugged. You're not supposed to know any of that, but I think it's better that you do."

Flicking his indicator switch with a finger, the audible click of an electronic resister could be heard as a little light flashed on his dash, and Hal turned off to another airlane, heading further from the Citadel.

"So, the assignment. Officially we're supposed to investigate where and how a group is smuggling people off of Imperial Center, and into Alliance space. Then we're supposed to shut it down, and arrest all involved. Short, sweet, to the point, right? We shut down one trafficking operation," he explained. "But that's not what we're going to do, because it's stupid and shortsighted. Shut down one operation, the others hear about it and just move, but stay in business. There's more than one group doing this, obviously, and it's important for them to know their allies in the industry, as well as their economic opponents. Why should we just bust one group when we can do a little more digging, and identify them all? And not only that, shouldn't we learn how they're getting across the border, and where to? We know they're successful, as the identities of people being smuggled are then used for those who are smuggled in from the Alliance side of the fence."

Reaching into his rucksack at his side, while keeping his eyes on the airlane, Hal dug out the datapad again and extended it to Jeryd.

"If you read the assignment as written, it just says we are to identify and shut down the operation. Doesn't say how, and doesn't say how big we can consider the operation to be. That's where we're given flexibility as Knights, instead of being military officers. We get the the assignment, and we approach it how we best see fit, unless there are additional specific guidelines. I'm going well above and beyond the basic written instruction, because otherwise what we do will have minimal impact at best. And you're going to help me do it, as we are going to infiltrate this network pretending to be people trying to get passage to Alliance space. If I'd said all this back at the Citadel, we wouldn't have gotten out of the garage, as the brass would want an extended plan briefing. Is this all starting to make more sense, now?"

[Jeryd Redsun]

Jeryd looked up from the datapad he wasn't really reading and offered him a nod. There was an uncharacteristic lack of confidence in the gesture. Not because Rayner's explanation wasn't starting to make sense, but rather because of everything else he'd just learned.

For the past five kilometers, Jeryd reflected on their exchange, back at the garage. About how Rayner had demonstrated exceptional patience with him, while he possessed none. How quick to anger he had been over something so trivial, and in front of a superior. The least he could do was explain why he lashed out and said the things he said. He owed him that much. Over and over, he told himself the same thing. And privately, he wrestled with the best way to broach the subject without seeming too needy or pathetic. He didn't want to make a further fool of himself. It was still Rayner, after all. Even if he seemed nothing like guy he knew back in class.

But it was Rayner who opened up first, spilling secrets and information like a gossiping infochant. He listened intently, stunned by the deluge. He knew about surveillance, of the methods used, and limitations of the technology. Extensive precautions had been taken to prevent excessive information leaking out through undesirable channels. He had trusted contacts at his disposal, people like Durias, who worked to his specification. And so arrangements were made for their transportation, tailor-made to the mission parameters. And then, there was the mission itself. Not content to successfully shut down one smuggling operation, Kyle Rayner had created his own mandate and had designs on a much bigger prize. It was a meticulously executed plan, with only one flaw: he was not Khoovi Wan.

"I do understand," he said, as if in response to Rayner's unuttered doubts. "It's just a lot."

And it was. More than he anticipated. Not just about the mission, but about Kyle Rayner, too. And himself. There was a divide between them, defined by their differences, and by their strengths and weaknesses. It had always been there. Jeryd used it to gauge his own capability, first, as a cadet, and then, as a future Imperial Knight. But this marked their first meaningful time spent together since Rayner's promotion, and it was becoming clear to him that there was no longer a divide between them. It was a gulf.

He glanced out of the window. Sheer faces of glossy stratoscrapers rose up on either side, and through the water-dappled glass shimmered the lights of hundreds of criss-crossing speeders, above and below. The din of rain bouncing off the rickety roof was relentless, and one could be forgiven for thinking it was rocks falling from the sky instead. The all-encompassing noise was strangely comforting, much like the sound of rain on a canvas tent. And it served to fill the void of silence rather before it became awkward. He shifted his weight in his seat, to adjust the place where a loose spring prodded him in the back.

The details of Rayner's plan were marinating. It was a chance to identify all major parties in a significant smuggling ring operating out of Imperial Center, right under the Empire's nose. The chance to discover their benefactors, contacts, and to divine their illicit means of escape. On the ground level, and with enough preparation, he could handle something like that. It was a rare opportunity. He couldn't squander it by moping over the shortcomings Rayner was offering to help him overcome. Krast, he was getting soft. There was a job to be done.

"Okay..." He said, surfacing from his thoughts, "I take it you have some sort of contact on the inside who might be able to arrange a meet? Do we have a cover story? If you are going to give me some alias like... Zaladillo Maguiver, then I need to start practicing it now."

[Halajiin Rabeak]

It was a lot, and Hal knew it. The possibility that Jeryd would be a liability instead of an asset was high, and the Nehantite worked on considering angles and plays to lessen that risk, while maneuvering through traffic.

"We've got a contact, yeah, but as far as cover goes, I need you to come up with some of those details," he replied. "They say honest men make the worst liars, and you've been one of the most honest people I've ever met - at least who isn't Selonian, they can't lie. So, I would suggest taking elements from your real life and expanding on them. That way you always have truth to fall back on. Need an identity? Think of someone you knew as a kid, someone with the sort of personality you need to adopt, and take their name. They've given you mannerisms, behaviors, and physical tips and traits for you to copy, and you'll remember them much more easily than if you just made them up," he explained with ease - the same ease with which he could be such a convincing liar, himself.

"Don't try and copy something from holovision, though; too much chance of someone picking up on it. Heck, you could even use your real name for this one, if you want. Our records are sealed, so anyone trying to research us will hit a brick wall. Maybe you're trying to escape the pressures of your family. Maybe you don't want to be a soldier. Maybe you're running away with your handsome, dashing, suave, yellow-furred lover, because you know your family simply won't be able to accept our love."

[Jeryd Redsun]

Jeryd was only half-listening to Rayner, now. In his mind, a seed had been planted and was starting to sprout. It was great advice: pad out your fiction with just enough truth to make it believable. And stars know he needed all the help he could get, for he was, even by Rayner's admission, a poster boy Imperial. From someone like Rayner, such a term would be meant as a slight, but for Jeryd, being a perfect example of an Imperial man was all he strived to be. A model citizen, the favourite son, an heroic soldier. In his early teenage years, he fashioned himself after Baastian Cain, replicating the mannerisms, the tone of voice, even the hair style. As he grew, he became his own person - the hair style stayed - but he was still the quintessential Imperial Boy. Might as well have the gear emblem tattooed to his scalp. So it made perfect sense that, in his pursuit of a believable alias, he should lean into that rather than attempt to be something he simply was not. And that gave him some options to consider.

When he was kid, he had four close friends. First, there was Lex Rosco, a tough ginger-haired girl, who was raised with five brothers in a family very much like his own. Her father was an army general, and her mother, a notorious socialite who wrote sedate romance novels. Lex was argumentative, sceptical, and endlessly curious. She was the one who always found hidden places, and it wasn't a stretch to imagine her finding a place in some unsavoury underworld just to prove a stubborn point to her old man. But, it so happened that Jeryd knew that she was training to become a fighter pilot in the Imperial Navy. In fact, most of his friends were enlisted, which made their whereabouts a matter of public record.

This included Bashbie Quavering-Tosh, a fellow wegman, who was cursed with a bucket of untamed brown hair and a physique like a large sack of potatoes. Endlessly lazy, and utterly convinced of his own excellence. They shared a love of the game and had the same filthy sense of humour but that was where the similarities ended. Bash loved to grow plants, later graduating to plants he rolled into cigarillos. He was an only child to two low-ranking officers in the army, and followed in their footsteps.

Then there was Wyll, but he wasn't around anymore.

Which left Zep.

Zeppodor Bipplebix was once a sweet, sandy-haired boy with an unrivalled penchant for mischief. If something was off-limits, he'd find a way through, and if it was locked, he had to know what was inside. Contrarian to his core, the only way to guarantee he wouldn't do something, but was by ordering him to do it. A nightmare for his authoritarian father, no doubt, but he was quick to smile, and laugh, and was firmly loyal to his friends. But when Jeryd, Bashbie and Lex left for Manarai Military Prep, Zep changed. The drugs and the alcohol that were once a small act of rebellion against his father became a crutch, or so he'd heard. And after a string of minor misdemeanours, he ran away from home to become a dancer at the Starlight Empress casino. Six months later, he was jailed on two counts of larceny, one count of arson, and the attempted abduction of a preacher. The last he heard from Lex was that Zep served his time and had fallen entirely off the radar. It was perfect.

There was already the ghost of a smile on his face, as he recalled the eclectic cast of characters from his past, but when he realised what Rayner had said, the smile beamed broadly and bright.

"No-one would believe that. I'm way out of your league!" His mood lifted, he glanced out of the window again, and mused aloud while they descended between buildings, "You've got me well sussed out. The judgemental family, military pressure, the privileged kid who runs away... am I that obvious?"

[Halajiin Rabeak]

"Well, yeah," Hal replied. "But that's not a bad thing. It adds something genuine to your character, and people like those we're going to be tracking down can sense when something is genuine or not."

Tapping the indicator stalk again, Hal pulled out of the airlane and turned down into another, starting a descent. "And, unless you've had experience like I do, lying through your teeth, pretending to be someone you're not, and maneuvering through dangerous people without them realizing what you're doing, I think that a play based in truth is best for you. It's easy to recall, easy to keep straight. Me? I've had so many names, so many fake IDs, and done so many things to keep my head out of a noose, even I get confused sometimes."

The speeder came down near street level, and everything about their setting changed. The stratoscrapers still loomed above, but their tips were lost in the haze of rain as the surface of the street glistened with sheeting water and a rainbow of oil as it made its way to drainage slots. Bright billboards for upscale goods, and chain restaurants were gone, replaced by the dim buzz of neon, and front-lit banners calling out the services which independent shops offered. Tailoring, electronics repair, droid parts, legal services, hairdresser, and at least four places billing themselves just as a restaurant, while the bars were too many to count. In front of their doors, citizens rushed along with hoods pulled up, or umbrellas or other items held over themselves as faint protection against the afternoon's downpour.

"I've barely used my name since I was fifteen," Hal explained, driving slowly while appearing to look for some place in particular. "That's when I left Nehantish, and got trained to be a Jedi. Since then, I've been on more planets than I can remember, booked passage or stowed away on countless starships. Snuck into abandoned buildings for shelter, or shared someone's bed just for a warm place to sleep. I didn't ask for any of this. It was found out I was Force adept, and well, the rest is history. When the Empire caught me, I was trying to cross the border and go home. That's all I wanted; just to go home. And now that'll never happen."

He pulled the yoke, to one side, and the speeder creaked as it turned, easing into a parking lot where he tucked it neatly into a space and powered down. Yet he didn't reach for the door handle, instead sitting and staring out the windscreen as rain beat down upon it. "We're prisoners, you know that, right? We live in a gilded cage, but we're prisoners nonetheless. The Empire finds out you're Force adept, and you get brought here for testing, and are forced into the program. You don't have a choice. Resist, and you'll be arrested, or simply disposed of. It happens. But they're good about how they present things. Offering service to the Empire, doing good, being part of a team."

Leaning back, the seat creaked, and he let his thumb rub over the well-worn yoke. "On my world, long ago we had a band of mighty warriors, in our history. Fearsome, powerful, and respected. Hundreds strong, and trained from childhood to be the best warriors, the most noble, the most legendary. No army could defeat them, and so the kingdom of Nehantish grew and grew out of the blood this army would spill in battle. And as a kid, you think this army is neat. Then you learn the truth.

"They were slaves, all of them. Either sold by their families to the Sultan, or the male sons of captured or killed enemies. They were made eunuchs, the lot of them, and were given no choice but to serve the Sultan, and for their bravery and loyalty they were rewarded with ranks of honor and the adulation of the public. There was no life for them outside of their role as a warrior, and they served until they died. Serving so that their master could conquer and enslave more lands, under the guise of bringing order. And those who were conquered lost their sons to this war machine, which perpetuated until castration was made illegal. I wonder how many of them just wanted to go home. I wonder how many of them would have chosen a peaceful life if it had been an option. I wonder how such a system of oppression and slavery could ever have happened."

Again he tapped his thumb on the yoke. "But, at least today I still have my balls, so that's progress, right?" he looked over with a laugh. "And, trust me, Jeryd, I have had way above your league."

[Jeryd Redsun]

Rayner's stab at levity was met with a tight-lipped "Hmph!" of amusement. A token gesture in recognition of his attempt at lightening the mood, but in truth, he was still recoiling at the unwelcome thought of eunuch slaves. He didn't want to dwell on it any longer than he had to, but the reality of their circumstances was that they were just one bad executive decision away from the same fate. If the Empire was so intent on controlling Force Sensitives within their own borders, it was not a stretch to consider they might seek a means to extend that control to the population itself, specifically the means to increase that population. He squirmed in his seat.

"I was supposed to be in the army. Groomed for the officer programme - Captain Fisk, himself, had forwarded my recommendation - and I was one day away from the transfer date. One day. Then he called me into his office, gave me the news, and suddenly, everything I'd worked towards my whole life was gone. All because of one drop of blood. And that same night, I ran. More than that, I did what I swore I'd never do: I fled my duty, I shirked my oath. I betrayed the Empire."

The shame of his confession set his gaze was adrift, drinking in the sights. It was like something from a holo series he used to watch, about a genius but unorthodox investigator who slipped into the Coruscant underworld to solve heinous crimes. From the flickering haphazard signage above seedy shops, to the shabby attire worn by the locals, the holo-makers had certainly done their homework. The only things missing were sirens, the sound of raised voices, and maybe a blaster shot to punctuate it all.

"I got as far as the starport. One of the biggest, most secure starports on the planet," he said, with some small bitter amusement at his own stupidity, "I didn't know where I was going, but I had to get out. But what I didn't realise was that from the moment that test turned positive, I became one of the most watched people on the planet. They were waiting for me at the departure gates. A whole squad of them. And I fought like my life depended on it: I used my fists, I used the Force, I used my teeth. I guess they were under strict orders to bring me in alive, but they pushed the boundaries of their mandate to the limit. I woke up three days later in a military prison, and as soon as I was fit to stand, I was transferred to the Citadel."

Now, he glanced at Rayner, and shrugged.

"Maybe if I'd had your skills, things might have turned out differently."

Only two other people had heard the story: Jensen and Neb. Of all the things he could've imagined to come from this unlikely partnership, spilling the unpleasant truth of how he ended up at the Citadel was the last thing on his mind. But it seemed like Rayner already had him figured out. In fairness, it wasn't like he hid his resentment in the beginning, or his disdain for the other cadets. Maybe it was because keeping a lid on his opinions was not something he'd ever had to do before. They probably all had him figured out by now. And that was okay.

It helped, too, that Rayner had been so forthcoming about his own journey. There were truths there that Jeryd had similarly assumed - there was only so much time you could spend with the same people, every single day, without beginning to put together the pieces of who they were - but to hear them firsthand, and in such revealing detail...

"I denied what I was for the longest time, to myself most of all, and I hid it well. Our whole lives, we are raised to believe it is wrong, that it's an affliction, something unnatural, to be feared. Until the Empire has use of it. And the funny thing is I asked for this. All I ever wanted was to serve the Empire, but I wanted it on my terms."

Jeryd stiffened in his seat. A telling prickle up the back of his spine sent and icy chill deep into the pit of his stomach. He'd said too much. Scrambling for a way out of the hole was digging for himself, he flashed Rayner a smile, and decided to dispel his dirge of thoughts with some inappropriate humour:

"And you know all those hotties don't count if they're paying for it, right?" His smile faltered then, for he heard the words in a new light the moment they'd left his mouth. Given Rayner's history, it was not a stretch to imagine there might have been times- when things were tough- when he had to-

He held his hands up in apology, "Not that there's anything wrong with that!"

[Halajiin Rabeak]

"You kidding me?" Hal scoffed. "If they're a hottie, and they're paying for this," he swept a paw down over his body, "that counts double, my young friend!"

A good chuckle was had, before he shook his head and ran his fingers through his dry headfur. "But, in all seriousness, I wasn't telling you what I did in order to try and badmouth the Empire. I was just trying to give you a different perspective on it, one which might help you understand why someone might want to escape to Alliance space. It's something you'll need to grasp well, to play the part in a convincing manner. And here, this joint? Yeah, we're here for a damn good burger, but also so that you can observe the others there, and see if you can pick up influences or mannerisms which will help tone you down a bit. It'll help with your cover."

The keys were pulled from the ignition, followed by the release of his seat belt, and Hal looked ready to head inside, before he stopped.

"Speaking of cover, I've found mine in the most unlikely place," he said, a bit of a smirk on that muzzle. "Did you know that there was a Nehantite Jedi, like, over a hundred years ago? I didn't, and I'm Nehantite! If even I didn't know, ain't nobody else going to, so why not borrow his name for a while. Halajiin Rabeak. Probably just call me Hal. You settled on a name, yet? Or just using your own?"

[Jeryd Redsun]

“Zeppodor Bibblebix,” he said, sheepishly. It was difficult not to feel a bit daft about the whole thing; the last time he played pretend, he was a rosy-cheeked kid, dressed in primary colours, toting a water blaster in the sand pit at New Recruits daycare. He liked to imagine himself a frontier survivalist, like Rex Holdfast, fending off the alien hordes. Suffice it to say he was out of practice. But as he considered his new alias, the awkward tension in his voice started to melt:

“He was an old mate of mine, Zepp. Bit of a wrong-un, to be honest. Did a stretch in prison, then disappeared. He won’t mind me borrowing his identity.” In recollection, a gentle smile pulled at the corners of his mouth, “He was a wind-up merchant, but people loved him. He’d like this undercover stuff.”

The speeder door opened with a squeak, and he stepped out into the rain. Water droplets pattered on the grey starched shoulders of his cadet uniform, reminding him how ill-equipped he was to be slumming it far from the comfort of the citadel. As they walked, glassy veils of neon-streaked rain parted to unveil a cluster of feeble shops and eateries huddled together beneath their flickering signs. On autopilot, Jeryd pivoted left and right to avoid the figures that passed him by, catching glimpses of their faces, ghoulish in the sordid glare. He imagined they were looking right back.

When Rayner took a sudden turn, and vanished under one of the shimmering canopies, Jeryd followed. He led him through a narrow door and a curtain of large wooden beads into a place that did not smell like grease and the promise of nerfburger; what he smelled instead was a sickly scented candle with an undercurrent of… old. Before him, a long narrow shop stretched, lined with rows of clothes racks that were full to bursting with what, on first impression, seemed to be every article of clothing in the galaxy. Old clothing. Even the lighting was stale.

He had been deceived and a pang of hunger punctuated his indignation. He shot Rayner a look.

Not Rayner.

“Hal, never in my life have I felt further away from a juicy nerfburger than I do in this moment, right now. Explain yourself.”

[Halajiin Rabeak]

At most any other time, Hal would have found something to raise over his head to shield him from the rain and keep his fur dry. Aside from swimming or bathing, Hal hated being wet, as did most Nehantites. But today was a day outside of the Citadel. Outside of its walls, and free from the transparisteel roofed "open" spaces. For the first time in over a year, he felt rain - real rain, falling upon his head, and he stood momentarily, just drinking in the sensation of hard, fat, cold raindrops pelting against his headfur and face, seeping in down to the skin, spiking his short fur almost immediately. He could feel it wet his clothing, weighing it down just that little bit, and it was a welcome weight. Were he on his own, he would have let himself become soaked to the bone.

Instead he could only savor a moment before taking Jeryd inside. True to the young man's assessment, there was no food to be had here, only second, perhaps third-hand clothing and gear. His nostrils twitched and fidgeted, taking in scents and smells more fully than Jeryd's human olfactory senses could, and he knew he was in the right place.

Stepping forward, he began to inspect the racks, fingers filtering through hanging garments as he eyed them up. "Well, can't get mustard or burger sauce on those crisp, clean, eye-catching Cadet whites, can we?" he replied. "Have you never heard of... dressing for dinner?"

Hal let the question hang in the air like yet another well-worn jacket, seeing if Jeryd would pick it up. When there was a bit more silence, he added. "After all, an Imperial Knight and a Cadet showing up to try and secure off-world passage from some underground group? That'd go over well, right? I mean, look at the speeder we got, vs. the usual stuff they assign out."

[Jeryd Redsun]

“You’re not wrong about the uniform,” Jeryd conceded, wading amongst the cast-offs, “But when you promise a man food and take him clothes shopping instead… there should be a law against it.”

On the rack before him, a suspect assortment of garments in varying states of decay: a once handsome shirt with pinstripes long-faded into prison stripes, a light and airy summer shirt ventilated at its threadbare seams, and a jacket so ancient it crunched when touched. He pressed on, regarding a lime green bobbled sweater as if it were a nest of swamp needlers, and as he did so, he noticed another shopper who had been browsing the rack from the other side. Presently, she was admiring a blue silken blouse, pressed against her chest, arm extended like an invisible dance partner. She traced a finger over the delicate embroidery on the sleeve, and indulged a fleeting smile. When she looked up, he feigned interest in an ailing tank top and mirrored her actions, measuring it up against his chest.

“You may want to try something closer to your size,” she said, her accent was delicate and unusual, and her teeth were showing through a barely contained smile, “In the men’s section. Over there.”

His gaze snapped across the room, to the place she was suggesting. He put the tank top down at once and cleared his throat for a masculine, “Thank you.” Now she laughed, and bowed her head, uttering something in a tongue that was at once delightful and wholly unintelligible to his ears. He responded with a small and knowing smile of his own, and shuffled off towards the men’s clothing.

“Okay. What would Zepp like…” he said, under his breath, “What would Zepp like…”

It was a mantra he used to remind himself that he was not shopping for himself, Jeryd Redsun, the proud and charming son of Imperial aristocracy. Today, he was dressing Zepp Bibblebix, the reject who rebelled against his privileged upbringing just to turn his old man’s face purple. Zepp, who lived for his own amusement at the expense of everyone and everything, and who would absolutely not shy away from a pair of namana-coloured trousers. He snatched them off the rail with a grin.

“Hey, Hal,” he called out, assessing the waist against his own, “What’s the word on the street? Is yellow in?”

[Halajiin Rabeak]

Hal watched Jeryd out of the corner of his eye, at first, but soon decided to just let the cadet bumble his way through the racks until he came up with something. After all, Hal had a more pressing problem: finding the right pair of trousers which would also accommodate his tail.

Sure, there were various species with tails, but the trick was ensuring it would be right for *his* tail. Reptilian species had tails too thick, and the tail fly would leave half his ass exposed. Lepi had those short, scut tails that seemed to point up, which would make their tail fly uncomfortable. On and on, Hal's mind went, running through tailed species, and what would fit him best. The odds of finding anything here which specifically came from a Nehantite were slim at best, so it would be a matter of making do, instead of a stylish choice.

The rifling of his fingers through the selection of work trousers in his waist size halted as he heard Jeryd call to him. Fortunately Hal was facing the other way, so Jeryd didn't see his wince at the sudden recognition of his own, real name. Instead he let the expression pass, and turn his head back slowly, to take in the vibrant tragedy of legwear Jeryd was half-modeling. Blinking, he looked at them, then at Jeryd, and back to the atrocious pants. "They're... a statement, that's for sure. Are they the right size?" Hal replied, inwardly praying they were not. But then again, part of him hoped they were, so that Jeryd could never live down the holopics he was going to take.

"If you're going that loud with your pants, you're gonna need a shirt and jacket to match. Or at least a hat, as a heads-up," he then added, turning back to flick through a few more pairs of trousers. More of the same, almost nothing with a tail fly, until at last he paused on a pair of dark brown oilcloth engineer's trousers, with a near-perfect tail fly. Pulling them out, he smiled as he saw leather-reinforced sides at the hip, and triple-reinforced knees. Slot pockets for a few tools on the right, near the knee, and a loop on the other side for a mallet to drop through. Everything looked great, except for the tear near the right main pocket, but a bit of focus, finding all the broken threads in his mind's eye, was enough to use the Force to pull them back together, and fuse their ends as if the tear was never there to begin with. That done, he folded them over his arm and began looking at shirts, where the selection to fit him was mercifully wider.

[Jeryd Redsun]

Jeryd re-evaluated the bright yellow trousers. He tried to imagine the kind of combination of clothes suited to such a bold base. Rayner had given him food for thought; he could always find things to match but he doubted he had the stomach for it. Before the trousers made it all the way back to the rack, he spotted a small tag hanging from the belt loop. He turned it in his fingers and his eyebrows almost leapt from his face.

“Three credits?” he said, shocked and indignant. He looked up, “Three credits!?”

The rest of the shop’s occupants seemed unphased by this outburst. Perhaps it was a common occurrence, because – and, here, Jeryd systematically inspected every price tag on the rack – there had to be some sort of mistake. But no, it was the same story, again and again: 3 credits, 4 credits, 5 credits, 2 credits. Impossible! The cheapest pair of trousers he owned had set him back 90 credits at a half-price sale. He could buy Zepp Bibblebix an entire wardrobe for that! This changed everything. The namana trousers were saved from the rack and tossed over his arm as he advanced at pace along the rest of the display.

Most of the stuff was garbage, probably stripped off dead paupers, picked up and disregarded as quickly as their previous owners. A glance across the room revealed that Rayner had finally unearthed a pair of trousers for himself. Jeryd frowned. They were a miserable and heavy-duty affair, but Rayner, who had a much better idea of the kind of company they were about to find themselves in, had chosen them for a reason. This forced Jeryd to recalibrate his own search. He backtracked and reluctantly plucked out a pair of brown overalls he avoided earlier. They were suitable for some kind of workplace, with only one shoulder strap instead of two, and a strip of breathable orange fabric that ran the length of the inside leg into the crotch. He spotted something else orange a moment ago.

It was a casual shirt, burnt orange in colour, with short sleeves. Age made the fabric loose and the collar worn. At least they suited each other, Jeryd thought, pairing the overalls with the shirt. At least there was some colour.

“Is this better?” he said, taking a temporary break from the bargain hunting to close in on Rayner, “Are we mixing it up with dock workers, tonight? Droid spanners? …Fresher divers?”

[Halajiin Rabeak]

"Add death-stick dealers, smugglers, code slicers, hookers, and more to that list," Hal replied before looking back over at Jeryd's selection. His eyebrows fell a bit, eyeing the more basic look the cadet was now showing. For as much as he had at first disliked the yellow trousers, the sight of Jeryd with actual work clothes looked... wrong. Hal could pull off being an engineer, or at least a hauler, without issue. His family's blue-collar background, his undercover work for the Jedi Order back in the day, and his getting by on the current Order's limited supplies on Ossus made that much easy. But Jeryd was a rich kid, one who'd never done a day's work in his life.

Oh, sure, Jeryd had done training for the Imperial Navy, and plenty of exercise and worked hard in the Imperial Knight Cadets, but that wasn't the same as really getting your paws, er, hands, dirty, and putting in an honest day's work. Or a dishonest day's work, for that matter. The Nehantite actually reached up to rub his chin, pink eyes going back and forth between a workman's clothing and the fresh-faced Cadet.

"Get those yellow trousers again," he said at last. Hal then draped a few more selections over his arm and came over, so that he could speak quietly.

"Slight change of plans," he spoke under his breath. "And... I'm gonna need your buy-in on this one." Setting his own selections down, he accompanied Jeryd to a rack of shirts, and continued to speak quietly. "If you dress like a working class young man, you'll be expected to know working class things, and... you don't know most of them. So right now, you can't use that as cover, understand? Put on what you had, there, and folks will guess you're a warehouse worker, and that you'll know models of forklifts, or that you're a delivery assistant for heavy equipment, and would therefore know certain locations or routes well. Slip up on that and folks get suspicious. I can pass as an engineer because, well, I'm a decent engineer. And if nothing else I can talk about bowling, or darts, for hours.

"But you, you're a model cadet, from a wealthy family. Hang on, don't take this the wrong way. Your family took things to the shop when they didn't work right. Or had plumbers or electricians come out when something wasn't working right at home. The time of your family was worth more money than the time they'd spend to fix something themselves, so they hired someone else to do it and never learned - that's not a bad thing, that's how the rich usually operate. And it allowed you to focus on your studies and your own pursuits, so it's totally understandable, between us, that you're not going to know a lot of working class stuff. So, that means we need to work on your persona. Zepp was a classmate of yours, meaning probably similar social status, right?"

Not waiting for an answer, he continued, "Meaning he probably wouldn't know how to rebuild an inductor, or clear the marzal vanes of a turbo retro-encabulator, either. But would he try and get away from under his family's thumb by escaping the planet or system with a lover that his family wouldn't approve of? Or at least use someone like that in order to get out of getting forcibly inscripted into the Imperial Navy, perhaps? We're going to be trying to convince some very suspicious people that we're legit, so we need our cover to feel legit. See what I'm getting at?"

[Jeryd Redsun]

When Rayner showed renewed interest in the namana-yellow trousers, Jeryd suspected mischief. What kind of ulterior motive drove him to such a sudden change of heart? He did as instructed, of course, but his guard was up. Had Rayner presented him with face paint and a pair of comically large floppy shoes, he’d have scarcely been surprised. As such, he did indeed find himself surprised by the sound advice his companion had to offer.

In light of Rayner’s words, he regarded the overalls afresh, and tried to picture himself dressed like a greasy spanner-turner, hanging out with drunken locals who spent the night complaining about their jobs, gambling on the nuna races, and talking about… whatever poor people have to talk about. The weather, probably. It was true: he really had no idea what he was getting himself into. Whatever objections he had were put to bed in favour of resuming his search through the densely-packed clothing racks. Idly, he nodded along with what Rayner had to say.

“Zepp came from money. He knew nothing about the lower classes. Poor people, I mean,” he quickly corrected himself, but it still didn’t feel right. His hand hovered, as if he could pluck the correct words from thin air, “That is to say, the less economically fortunate.”

From a tight cluster of fancy shirts, he untangled a long-sleeved emerald green shirt, it had a casual round neck and was covered in a subtle hexagonal pattern that caught the light. Go big or go home, he told himself, committing to the choice. He glanced at Rayner, recalling his old friend with a glint of amusement in his eyes:

“He made it his life’s work to disappoint his old man; the more expensive the item, the fancier the occasion, the better the target. He was a complete fucking delinquent, man. And when the rest of us left for the academy, he did a stint in juvie then fell off the radar. Let’s hope we don’t bump into him down here, eh?”

With a smirk, Jeryd gave Rayner a nudge. For a fleeting instant, he felt oddly at ease, even in his presence. Rayner, with whom he had a strained and antagonistic relationship. Talking about his old mate made him forget that. Hells, for a second, he even forgot that Kyle Rayner was no longer a peer, but his superior. It was enough to give him pause for thought. This tactic of his, of adopting a familiar persona to hide behind, it might actually work. And then there were his backstory suggestions: dodging military service? Check. Escaping a disapproving family? Double check.

Rayner was good at this subterfuge thing. And Jeryd was not above leaning on his expertise.

“Won’t I stand out like this, though?” he said, through a wince, as he held aloft the obnoxious garments, “I thought the whole point of this was to not draw attention to ourselves.”

[Halajiin Rabeak]

"Wish it hadn't been raining," Hal replied. And that's all he said for a moment, looking back toward the door they had entered through.

"Wish it hadn't been raining, so you could have seen the people on the street, or go look at them now." It wasn't much more of an explanation, but still he turned back to Jeryd. "If you'd seen them, you'd have seen several species other than human, and even among the humans you'd have seen a wide variety of appearances and attitudes. And each one would have looked genuine. Glance at 'em, they just feel right, so you move on. Doesn't matter how they look, as long as they seem to look right for how they're presenting themselves, you don't look twice."

He then nodded at the loud clothing. "Those, on this character you're playing, would feel right, in a way that a workman's clothes wouldn't. Or, like a nice suit on a poor person," he said, then paused. "And I do mean poor. Not unfortunate, not less fortunate, not financially-challenged, or any of that shit. Those are just words that rich assholes use to make themselves feel like they're doing something for poor folk, without actually doing a damn thing. Me? I'm poor. Always have been. Not even middle-class. Working class, blue-collar, oil-stained poor, and that's not an insult. That's how it is. From my end, there's poor, there's middle class, and they're rich fucking assholes who don't give two shits about anything but themselves. That's how the view is for a lot of those we'll be interacting with. And if your character is out to stick it to the rich, that'll get you some brownie points."

[Jeryd Redsun]

A nerve had been struck, Jeryd realized, as he pressed his chin flat against his chest and fixed his gaze on the tacky green shirt, as if it was suddenly the most fascinating thing in the galaxy. It was pretense, of course, a ruse to bury his amusement while Rayner delved deep into the durni hole of his own socioeconomic grievances. It was but a chink in his armour, yet what issued forth was bloody passion dressed up as a limp-dicked lecture on semantics. Even though it came off a bit preachy and a little too working-class hero for Jeryd’s taste, he liked to see it. Vulnerability, revealed willingly or otherwise, was endearing.

As for Jeryd, it was not the first time it had been inferred that he was a rich asshole, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. He was, after all, the product of a couple of very rich assholes, who themselves came from a long line of rich assholes. Indeed, he was the poster boy of rich assholes.

“Stick it to the rich?” Jeryd repeated, looked dubious, “I don’t see me convincing anyone that I’m some kind of social justice warrior or champion of equality. No… Zepp is adventurous, and all for the sake of trying something new, that is why he mixes it up with the, uh, financially disadvantaged.”

Jeryd wiped the shit-eating grin from his face to concede, “But I don’t think poverty tourism is going to be a big hit with the locals.”

In each hand he held a shirt, one patterned, long-sleeved, and emerald green, the other was decidedly plain, burnt orange with short sleeves; they actually looked good together. The total sum of the trousers and two shirts was 10 credits. Criminally cheap, even for cast-offs. He felt the urge to add to this shameless new outfit, and to keep adding, so on he went, rifling through a coat rack. With each new disaster unearthed, he gained confidence, braving even the most ridiculous options, such as a long coat that appeared to be fashioned out of floral drapes and lined with rose-threaded white silk. To think, there was a time, once, when someone somewhere thought that was a good idea.

“I’ll play the rebellion against authority angle,” he said at last, then with a cynical smirk, elaborated: “A hopeful youth hellbent on breaking society’s rigid mould, forsaking tradition and privilege, and taking refuge from the creeping grasp of military conscription in the bosom of his lessers, while squandering daddy’s hard-earned credits in pursuit of the debauched hedonism that hides in places where the sun doesn’t shine.”

On cue, he picked out the perfect compliment to his ensemble: a puffy, bottle green, sleeveless coat, with yellow stitching and large bold Aurabesh lettering on the back. It read:

WHY NOT

It was loud, it was obnoxious, and most importantly of all, it was completely devoid of meaning. A statement for the sake of making a statement, just like a rich kid who runs away from home. Jeryd held it up high, and regarded it at arms’ length, as one might a work of finest art.

“Hal, I think this might be my masterpiece.”

[Halajiin Rabeak]

The Nehantite looked at it, blinked, and simply replied, "Someone bought that to get laid." And then he nodded.

That was it. No further explanation or reaction. But he also wasn't saying no. Instead he headed back to his own section, to now find a jacket to go along with the shirt and pants he'd found. Jeryd's picks would work, especially with that cover story. And if Jeryd's cover came into question, Hal knew he could swoop in and save Jeryd if needed. But that meant his own cover needed to be good, and that meant just the right jacket. He'd decided he was going to be a transmission specialist, with a secondary specialty in power relays. Stuff no one wanted to do, but he knew how to do on most ships. After all, back home he was supposed to either go into heating and air conditioning, or work at his uncle's transmission shop. Between the two, Hal had preferred working on ships and speeders, so that choice was simple.

What else was simple was knowing that this could be his escape. He could find the right ship and get out of Empire space, back to the Alliance, to his friends, and the Jedi Order. If Jeryd were to try and stop him, Hal could deal with that to. But he didn't like that idea. Sure, the kid might be Captain Coruscant Jr., but he was still a kid, still a person. Deep down, Jeryd might still even be able to be swayed, and this mission could do that. In Imperial missions, people tended to get hurt, and Hal was going to do his best to avoid that. Distracting himself from the thought, he selected a dark red leather jacket, with some faded and worn black trim. It would go nicely with his fur, and worked with the gray tee shirt and brown technician's pants he'd picked up. All that, and Jeryd hadn't even noticed Hal was back to the boots he'd been captured wearing, instead of uniform Knight boots.

A quick rummage through a tool bin found him the minimum acceptable selection of various tools for his cover trade, and they went into a beaten, but sturdy, tool bag. "Zepp," he called out. "You good to go? Gonna ring up at the register, then we're headed next door to the gun store."

[Jeryd Redsun]

From behind a privacy screen, Jeryd negotiated a truce with his eclectic selection of clothes. While the long-sleeved emerald shirt clung to him like a wet sheet, this was offset by the loose orange shirt that slipped over it, and further still by the bulky bottle green vest coat that fit like a glove. The earthier tones on top were doing a lot of work to balance out the bright namana yellow trousers, which, for all their absurdity, were of excellent quality. They sat low on the waist, and were complimentary around the crotch and thighs, with room to move at the knees. The lining felt great against his skin when he moved, and even the silken pockets had their own elaborate pattern inside. To finish the look, a pair of green leatheris ankle boots fastened with faded silver buckles – not the most sensible footwear, given the rain, but a rich kid from the upper levels wouldn’t be thinking of function over fashion. If his feet got wet, they got wet.

He had toyed with cheap jewellery; gold rings, clip-on studded earrings, a fake nose ring, a gaudy chrono, but in the end, he took pity on his own reflection as it begged for mercy in the full-length mirror. He settled for a simple gold chain, another fake, for 5 credits, which peeked out from the open collar of his burnt orange shirt. It pained him to admit that it looked quite good – his brother had always been the one for flashy chains and fancy bracelets. Jeryd had always, rather childishly, considered men’s jewellery a step away from men’s make-up. If his old man could see him now.

Rayner’s voice snapped him out of it. Did he say something about a ‘gun store?’ Surely not.

“I came into this place hungry for a nerfburger,” he said, appearing from behind the privacy screen, “But I leave with a newfound fever for fashion. You have awoken something in me, today, Hal. Who knew 20 credits could go so far?"

Though tongue was firmly in cheek, there was some truth to what he was saying: it was impressive someone could buy a whole new – well, newish – outfit for just a handful of credits. Every article of pre-owned clothing had passed the sniff test, too. He had one rule: if there was even a hint of stim smoke smell, it was to be immediately tossed. Fortunately, all was clean and suited his needs. He even got a genuinely good pair of trousers out of the trip. Indeed, his inner Zeppodor Bibblebix was sated. He watched Rayner pay for his gear and wondered if his inner Halajiin Rabeak was happy. It was an understated look, functional almost to the point of boredom, but the red jacket brought it to life. It really was a nice jacket, and it suited Rayner well.

“You scrub up well, Hal. For an everyman, of course.” He regarded their starkly contrasting looks, then, and frowned, “But what exactly is a common grease monkey doing down here with this very cool, handsome, and enigmatic young man from the upper levels? Are you fixing my speeder?”

[Halajiin Rabeak]

The moment Hal pulled on those trousers, he paused. Eyes closing, he recalled his former life. The tee shirt brought back more memories, and for a moment he stopped to look at himself in the mirror. Gone was the guise of an Imperial Knight; the stain of it all washed away, and for the first time in well over a year, Hal felt - and looked - like himself. The jacket came on next, fitting well, and he smiled at his own reflection. Yeah, it was workman's wear, but he could still score big at a club, dressed like this. The smile slowly faded, recalling the mission which lay ahead, and he pulled on his boots. If there was one good thing about being able to wear his old boots, it was the hidden pocket on the right one which held his lightsaber. Cash went into his pockets, spread around so that it wouldn't all be in one place, and his Imperial gear was folded into a neat pile, carried out just in time to see Jeryd emerge.

It took effort not to giggle at his appearance, but Hal did afford himself a smile.

"Like your dad would let you borrow one of his speeders," he chuckled. "Look good, though, kid. But I think the bigger question is: what's a rich kid like you doing slumming it with me? If I'm with you, we're trying to get into places well above my class level. But we're going to the lower levels, so that means you've got a stronger interest in moving down than I do in moving up."

Letting the question linger, Hal led them on so that he could pay the shopkeep. Twenty credits for Jeryd, but sixty-two for Hal's outfit, tools, and tool bag. Laying it out in paper notes peeled off of a larger roll, Hal then looked up at the shopkeep and waved his paw slowly from left to right, two fingers extended. "We were never here. You nevefr saw us," he said calmly. The shopkeep blinked, and just looked at him with a blank expression. With that, Hal looked back at the door, placed down another ten credit note, and headed out, pulling two umbrellas from a stand by the door as he went.

Outside, the rain hammered down on his umbrella as it opened, and he passed the second one to Jeryd before pulling his communication tablet from a pocket. A few taps later, and then a few seconds of looking around, an Imperial relay droid descended from the sky, and opened its storage hatch. Hal placed his uniform, rank badge, and even his keycard inside, followed by the tablet - leaving him with nothing on his person to identify him as an agent of the Empire. "Put your stuff in, too," he said. "All of it. This'll take it all back to Imperial Center for us. Can't risk anything that would identify us in case we're searched."

[Jeryd Redsun]

“This is some proper spy shit,” Jeryd said, as he placed his folded uniform into what was probably the droid’s mouth, his ID chit followed, and the droid sealed shut with a hiss. Jeryd watched as it hovered, glistening like oil in the dark, and then with a low burble, it ascended, vanishing into the night. It was those kinds of moments that reminded him why he loved doing what he did; the calculated precision of the Imperial machine, the slick execution, and with the most cutting-edge ordnance and technology at their disposal, it was impossible to not feel like a total badass.

“Looks like it’s just you and me now, Hal,” he said, with a sudden thrill that bolted up his spine. First, he smiled, drinking in their liberation. They were free to do as they wished. To go wherever they wanted. His heart was racing. What was that? He felt weightless, like an enormous burden had suddenly been lifted from his shoulders. Lifted into the sky.

And then, he was in free fall. Dread. He cast a wary glance at Rayner, and his wholly inappropriate smile faltered. They had a job to do, he told himself, and they would do it well. And then they would return to the Citadel to receive new instructions. It was his duty.

He bit down on the smile, forcing it to the surface once more, but this time as a meticulous construction, cultivated through years of fabrication. He soldiered on:

“Maybe you were my old man’s mechanic. You came to the house a few times and captured my imagination with stories of the sordid underworld, full of rough-and-ready characters who live life by the seat of their pants. Not knowing where their next paycheck is coming from – sounded like real frontier stuff to the ears of a pampered prince. So, I asked you to show me this real world, the place my dad could never understand.”

They walked at a brisk pace, like two normal pedestrians with somewhere to go. Through the transparent canopy of his umbrella, Jeryd watched the cold lights of mystery establishments go by in a haze, dispersed amongst chaotic rivulets of rainwater. What strange and wonderful ecosystems of cultural disarray lurked within, he wondered. Curiosity scratched at the surface of his thoughts, aching to get at the itch within, but he held fast to the task at hand. The cover story had to be impenetrable, and he was beginning to doubt the fond memory of an old buddy would stand firm. His face dropped in realization, “It’s still poverty tourism, isn’t it?”

[Halajiin Rabeak]

"A bit, yeah," Hal replied, though no nod accompanied it, this time. "But we can work with that. You want adventure, huh? The thrill of seeing the galaxy from the front row, instead of in the designated guest area with champagne and canapes, and food that tastes bad, but it's expensive, so therefore it must be good, right? Maybe you want to rough it a bit, at least until you can call Daddy to send the ship out to fetch you. I've seen the like before, it's a reasonable cover."

He paused outside another door. It wasn't right next door, as he'd said, but it was close enough to ring true to the gist of the expression. "If we get you a blaster, you know it's for absolute emergency use only, right? I don't want violence on this mission, I don't want casualties if we can avoid it at all. No one knows you have it, and it only comes out if your life depends on it. Are we clear?"

Taking a nod as confirmation, Hal pulled open the door to a blaster shop, and carefully closed his umbrella before placing it in a stand just inside the door. The shop wasn't large, but it appeared to be well-stocked. Handheld blasters and firearms of all makes and models filled transparisteel cases which comprised the counters, while longer guns adorned racks behind the counter. Accessories, tactical clothing, long-term stable dried foods, and even some body armor filled other shelves. Hal simply nodded hello to the man running the place, and led Jeryd over to one of the cases of. A case of *used* pistols. There were some flashy, tricked-out blasters, some over-the-top, heavy firepower ones, some tiny subcompacts, and then a host of various mid-size blasters. Each had a price tag for its own unique attributes.

"Anything I can help you with?" The man behind the counter asked. He was a human, middle-aged, dark hair, mostly unremarkable aside from a mustache.

"Yes, please. My friend here is looking for his first blaster," Hal replied. "Something with enough power to stop someone, in case he needs to, but compact enough that it's not going to be obvious that he's carrying."

Inside, Hal could feel Jeryd's longing for the gold-plated fashion disaster sitting on the top shelf of the display cabinet, or perhaps the super magnum Blastech Eliminator next to it, but either would be totally wrong for their mission. He had his eye on another Blastech, a smaller mid-sized number, black with wooden scales on the grip. It was a fine blaster, good quality, good condition, but not too fancy. The perfect blend of rich-boy option and reliable operation. But he wanted to see what Jeryd thought might be the right choice, so he stepped aside and asked, "Anything here jumping out at you?"

[Jeryd Redsun]

Jeryd felt buoyed by Rayner’s assessment of his cover story. It sounded like he had some real-life experience of the privileged and clueless encroaching on lower class spaces. Now, he could start easing into the part with confidence. Drifting back through his memories, he summoned Zepp’s easy smile, and pulled it on like an old coat. From this moment onwards, he was to consider everything and everyone as a source of personal amusement – not with the cold callous indifference of an Imperial officer, nor with the lecherous possessiveness of entitlement lordlings – the balance had to be right. He had to be likable.

While Rayner broke the ice with the serious-looking shopkeeper, Jeryd moved between displays with keen interest. His eyes were bright as he marvelled at a rack of rifles, some were made from brushed metals, others from smooth alloys, each with a different composition of components. He was thinking about the first time he saw naked breasts; how long he had thought about them, visualised them, and indeed dreamt about them, and yet, when at last the game was on, he scarcely knew where to look or what to do. And that was precisely how he regarded the weapons on display.

“These are incredible!” he said, beaming, “I’ve never seen so many different kinds of blasters in one place. What a collection!”

The armouries at the academy put this dusty hole to shame, but Jeryd took no pleasure in the lie. His sole concern was the unremarkable man behind the counter, and if he could make him feel even the slightest bit proud in his own establishment, he would consider that a mission accomplished.

When finally he joined Rayner at the counter, he crossed his arms tightly across his chest and sucked the air through his teeth as he considered the assortment of blasters laid out before them.

“Blast, man! I don’t know,” he lied. What he wanted was something smart and compact enough to tuck into a shoulder holster, with enough stopping power to one-shot a large Barabel. But he pretended not to notice the A-180 with the custom barrel, and instead addressed the shopkeeper, “What about you, sir? I need something I can conceal but access in a pinch. And it has to look cool, of course.”

“You’ll find we have all kinds of cool stuff to suit your needs, chief.”

The man behind the counter did a fantastic job of not giving his questionable outfit so much as a passing glance, but there was a tug at the corner of his lips that suggested he had an alternative definition of the word ‘cool.’ And if the request had caught him off guard, he was quick to recover, and eased himself into a familiar routine. From the display case, he produced a small BlasTech pistol and offered it to him. It had a good weight, and a solid build. Jeryd did not play the fool with a weapon in his hands – if he was to walk out of the store with one of his own, he had to at least look like he knew his way around a blaster as he inspected it. There was an arch to the grip that he didn’t like and the scales were a deal-breaker.

“It’s a beautiful piece,” he began, with a note of apology in his voice, “But I’m not feeling the wood.”

“No hard feelings. Try this little beauty.”

The granddad blaster was swapped out for a measly DF number that was dwarfed by his hand. Jeryd held it for a beat, then said, “It’s not that I want to overcompensate for anything, but this makes me feel inadequate.”

“We all have our shortcomings, kid.”

As the straight-faced shopkeeper unburdened him of the peashooter, Jeryd noticed him sharing with Rayner the briefest glance of amusement. He pretended to be oblivious, and rubbed his chin, deep in thought.

“Did you ever read Captain Astra’s Blasters? It had this character called Raskallian Roche, and he was a suave gentleman spy, with a sort of roguish charm, and a penchant for danger…”

“Say no more, Agent Roche.”

The shopkeeper was generous with his time. Next up, the classic DL-44, but it was too boxy for Jeryd’s tastes. Then the DH-17, which he recognised at once as the weapon of choice for rebel scum, but instead rather diplomatically described it as ‘a little cumbersome.’

At last, he was offered the A-180. It was sturdy, with a finely-textured grip, black, with a snub-nose barrel of brushed gunmetal. It was perfect.

“This one, I like. Though, it seems familiar…”

Needing no further invitation, the shopkeeper said, “This is a modified A-180 from BlasTech Industries. It has always been a versatile blaster, but with this configuration, it is readily concealed and sacrifices none of its stopping power at close range.”

“The A-180! I knew I recognised it from somewhere! Sir, you are a poet.”

After one last look of longing, Jeryd returned the pistol. His attention then sought out the source of their finances, in his unlikely travelling companion, and he smiled.

“Hal, my friend.” At once, he descended upon him and threw his arm around his shoulders, pulling him in tight, “Have I ever told you that you are my favourite Nehantite?”

He patted his arm, and feigned surprise, “Have you been working out!?”

[Halajiin Rabeak]

The sigh Hal emitted was at once annoyed and exasperated, further punctuated by the rolling of his eyes. "Favorite Nehantite? I'm the only Nehantite you know," he grumbled. "And, yes, I've been working out."

Eye contact was met with the shopkeeper, who recognized Hal's position and had to stifle a chuckle. "The A-180 will run you six hundred credits," he stated.

Not the best price for a used model, but Hal could recognize the modifications, and overall it was reasonable. Nodding slowly, Hal looked back at the case and said, "Fair enough. Give you six-forty if you toss in four or five energy cells for it, too. Gonna have to get him some range time to get used to it, after all, and that should cover things."

"Can do. And good idea. Most dangerous thing is an untrained kid with a blaster. Anything else?"

Of course there was something else, or Hal would have started to pull money out already. His eyes examined the case again, then over at the next one, as if he were searching for something which could not be found. "Yeah," he nodded. "But I'm not really seeing it among these blasters."

"Looking for something a bit more your speed?"

"Yeah, with a bit of weight to its punches. I'm a Nehantite, sure, but I'm more mechanical than high-tech, if you get my drift."

The shopkeeper eyed him up for a moment, reading to make sure he understood what was - or wasn't - being said. "Think I might have something that fits the bill." Squatting down, the rumble and chunk of a drawer beneath the cabinet being opened could be heard, before the shopkeeper re-emerged and placed something on the transparisteel surface of the cabinet with a thunk. Wrapped in a piece of brown fabric, he unfolded it to reveal something which looked like a blaster, yet wasn't.

Slab-sided, the handheld firearm didn't appear special, but Hal went to reach for it anyway, only proceeding to actually grasp it once he got the nod of approval. It seemed to fit well in his paw, and he turned it over, inspecting it carefully while also ensuring it was never pointed at anyone in the store, and his finger remained off the trigger. It appeared to be missing its energy cell, judging by the hollow area at the end of the grip, but as Hal grasped the top half of the upper section and pulled back to reveal it was a slide mechanism, all was explained. This was no blaster; it was a slug-firing weapon. Purely mechanical, it was reliable and effective, with the added bonus of not setting off weapon detectors as it neither contained, or expelled, tiberium. Hal inspected it thoroughly, before pressing the lever to snap the slide shut again, and he laid it back on the piece of fabric.

"Hamad 19. Haven't seen one of those in a while. Not my favorite, but it'll do," Hal said, sounding unimpressed. "Presuming you have some mags for it, and ammo."

"Hard to get ammo for these, here."

"Hard to sell one of these, here, with so few looking to buy. Show me what you got."

Bending down again, the shopkeeper came back up with a few paper boxes of cartridges, and three empty magazines. Each of the boxes had different letters stamped on them, like FMJ, HP, and, FMHJ-SS, AP-U. Hal regarded them briefly before turning his eyes back to the shopkeeper.

"And I want the other part, too," Hal said.

"What other part?"

"Don't play dumb with me. Threading on the barrel is worn, this had a suppressor. I want it."

"That'll-"

"If you've had a hard time finding a buyer for this, imagine how long you're going to hold on to a suppressor for one of these, in this caliber. Either you sell it to me, or you're gonna be sitting on it for another six months to a year. This thing's been sitting two or three months as it is, and you know it."

The shopkeeper stared back at Hal for several moments, before frowning and pulling out a matte black metal cylinder and setting it none-to-gently beside the other items. "Two grand," he stated.

"All in, or-"

"For this. And six hundred for the blaster. Forty more for some power cells for it." The shopkeeper's words were firm, as was his price, apparently. When Hal nodded, he continued, "Good, now for the paperwork."

Hal withdrew a folded wad of cash from his pocket, and peeled off 2,700 credits in 100-credit notes, laying it on the counter. "Here you go, keep the change," he said. Then he peeled off ten more 100 credit notes, one at a time, counting from one to ten as he did so. They lay in a separate stack, though he kept his eyes on the shopkeep the whole time. "Think that'll do for our paperwork?"

A moment's silence passed in the shop, Hal and the older man eyeing each other. In the end, the man gave a curt nod, and came over to collect the cash. Hal smiled, pocketing his new firearm, and ticked his head to Jeryd to do the same. "Help ourselves to some holsters on the way out?" Hal asked, then thumbed another hundred-credit note onto the counter.

Taking that note as well, the shopkeeper shrugged. "Sure. Dunno what you'd use them for, since you didn't buy anything," he replied.

It took but a few moments for Hal to find an inner belt holster for Jeryd's A-190, and a bit longer to find a shoulder holster for his own pistol. With another nod of thanks, it was back to the door, and back out into the rain with their new umbrellas as protection.

"Let's head back to the speeder for a moment," Hal said. "Get these loaded and prepped. Then it's off for a nerfburger. For real, this time."

[Jeryd Redsun]

“I’m holding you to that, Hal.”

In private company, Jeryd elected to address Rayner using the name of his alias. He gave it some forethought and concluded it made sense, firstly, for the sake of keeping up appearances in case anyone was watching them, and also because it helped him develop the habit of using the name. In a tense moment, when reaction speed was paramount, he did not want to risk using the wrong name and blow their cover in the process. Oddly enough, the name was a good fit for him, too.

“I didn’t think you’d actually pick a slugthrower,” he said, giving his companion an amused side-eye. Even now, he half-anticipated a punchline, but no joke was worth 2000 credits. Not on the lower levels. It had been no secret Rayner was not only a fan of old hardware – anything with moving parts, grease, and smoke – but that he had also demonstrated a knowledge of these kinds of antiques, back at the Citadel. They had their appeal, Jeryd supposed, and a certain niche usefulness. He chalked it all down to Rayner’s oddball nature and left it that, “Good call on spotting the suppressor, though. No-one can say you lack an eye for detail!”

The rain was unrelenting, making a neon watercolour of the pavement underfoot. He already missed his old boots; his new boots were cursed with thinning soles, and bit into the sides of his feet, but the green leather scales caught the light in a way that drew the eye, which in turn reinforced his flashy persona. It was a fun thought exercise, to consider all the different ways one might confuse or misdirect others, to hide in plain sight with nothing but a fresh change of clothes. Rayner seemed to have a knack both for understanding the art of obfuscation, and for seeing through it. There was but one flaw in their otherwise meticulously crafted cover story, which he raised the moment they were safely back inside the speeder:

“Do you think it’s a good idea to drop 2000 credits on an antique like that?” He said and, sensing that Rayner was about to leap to the defence of his beloved slugthrower with a seminar about the merits of old technology, he elaborated, “And a grand in bribe money? What I mean is doesn’t it undermine our story if you, the poor guy, are seen splashing your hard-earned cash like that while I don’t appear to have a pot to piss in?”

[Halajiin Rabeak]

"You see anyone else in that shop?" Hal replied, leaning back in his seat. His headrest was wrapped in silver duct tape, and the seat creaked, but it was comfortable. He let the question hang for a moment as he emptied his pockets into his lap. "I found this place a few weeks ago on a scouting run. Run by one guy, doesn't even trust having armed security there. He's got the bare minimum of registrations, and I never saw more than one customer go in at a time. Yeah, he knew something was up; that's why I had to bribe him a grand to keep our purchases off the books. He might be shady, but doesn't seem to answer to anyone but himself. Besides, who would tell? Letting it be known that he talks will damage his reputation with buyers like us. See, there's knowing the rules of undercover work, and then there's knowing when to break them."

As he explained, Hal opened one package of ammo, and began to feed rounds into one of the empty magazines. Each appeared to hold fourteen rounds of a fairly substantial projectile, and he was deft with the loading process. "Besides, if I thought there was a problem, I would have told you to pay for it. Check your vest's left pocket. There's four grand in there. Slipped it in as you walked by while I held the door. I'd recommend splitting it up among your various pockets, and only using it when you really need."

One magazine was loaded with one type of round, and he busied himself on loading another from the next package, followed by a third type in the final magazine. "Was this worth two grand? No, not on its own. But we needed it off the record, and you pay more for that. Also, slug-throwers don't register on tibanna sensors. Might be old, but it's more covert. Not to mention that instead of just bouncing off armor, they pack a solid punch. Among other good uses for these." Shrugging off his coat, he tugged on the leather shoulder holster, then hand-loaded a round into his pistol before seating the magazine, making it a 14+1. He couldn't holster it with the suppressor on, so that remained off at the moment, tucked into a tool pocket on his trousers, while the other two mags found homes under his opposite armpit. With the jacket back on, none would be able to tell he was armed.

[Jeryd Redsun]

While Rayner expounded on the tactical advantages of slugthrowers, Jeryd busied himself with a rummage through his own pockets. As his fingers dipped into his coat’s left pocket, he threw his neighbour a scandalised look. Unearthed from his jacket were 8 slender plates, pressed with dull gold and embossed with the Imperial crest - each was worth 500 credits.

“When did you-?” Jeryd began, freezing to replay in his mind the moment Rayner led him through the door to the blaster shop. “How in the hells did you do that!?”

Each of the credits was inspected for authenticity, the metal was unyielding and the markings exact. He even bit one for good measure. Satisfied that the credits were real and not some cheap imitation from a box of magic tricks, Jeryd split them into twos and tucked them into separate pockets as instructed. He found himself feeling a little uncomfortable in the wake of such a revelation; as harmless as Rayner’s deception had been, it also made him acutely aware of his own vulnerability, and of just how oblivious he was to things happening all around.

Spurred on by the crystalisation of his own shortcomings, Jeryd took comfort in something with which he had plenty of experience, and went about preparing his blaster. First, he arched his back and clipped the leatheris holster over the waistband of his trousers, on the right-hand side. Then with rote familiarity, he checked one of the power cells and slotted it into the base of the A-180’s grip. Before his weapon was holstered, he indulged in a further assessment of its build, acquainting himself with both its unique weight and balance. Compact though it was, the fit was very snug, which meant that when his shirt was pulled down, any traces of the concealed blaster became invisible.

By the time he was done, Rayner was wrapping up his points about his now-vanished slugthrower. He raised an interesting point about the tibanna readings – it was not something he had ever considered before. Indeed, the logistics of stealth were lost on him prior to his arrival at the Citadel. At the academy, the ISB had been considered a softer branch of the military, reserved for academic types with weak stomachs. How quickly the stigma of stealth was removed upon his first excursion with Knight Jibral. And now, with Knight Rayner. How much there remained for him to learn.

Still flustered from being caught so off-guard, Jeryd sent a look Rayner’s way, and summarised his feelings with an exasperated shrug.

“Where did you learn all this stuff?” he said, thinking back to the litany of prep work he’d discussed, “Is it a Jedi thing, the smoke and mirrors? Or did you go to magic school, too? I mean… what’s next? Am I going to find a bouquet of flowers up my ass, too?”

[Halajiin Rabeak]

"Jedi thing?" Hal chuckled. A handful more cartridges were dumped into a pocket of his jacket, before the boxes were stowed in the speeder's center console, out of sight. "Hardly. Deception is more of a Sith thing." Firing up the speeder, he ratcheted the drive select lever into position, and pulled away from their parking spot.

"You don't know much about me, do you?" he asked. "I've been on the run since I was fifteen. First two years I was with a Jedi who tried to teach me stuff, but we had to lay low a lot. After he got killed, I was on my own. Had to learn how to blend in, how to disguise myself, and how to read others, and read situations. Got by however I could. Found ways to escape whenever I got caught. I'm good at it. If I wanted, I could have been out of here within a week of capture."

The rain pounded on the windshield, the wipers doing their best, but Hal was forced to take it slow, cruising along with traffic. "And, don't worry. I won't be shoving anything up your ass unless we've gotta pretend to be lovers, in order to remain undetected."

[Jeryd Redsun]

“Hey, now. I don’t pretend to be the lover of just anyone, you know. I expect to be treated right. You have to tell me I’m pretty. Only then can you slip me the finger.”

It was a welcome return to the kind of crass humour that made everyday monotony bearable, and helped to beat into a bloody pulp Jeryd’s encroaching self-doubt. He was smiling again; the old confidence was returning. A crucial survival tactic cultivated in the cutthroat environment at the academy, where competitiveness was so unhealthy it was a disease. But it was also a very deliberate distraction, for at Rayner’s boast – no matter how empty or exaggerated – that he could have escaped within a week, Jeryd discovered that his gut reaction was to wonder why he hadn't done it, already.

Instead, he joked, and he smiled, and he allowed his thoughts to drift to more innocuous matters, like the Sith. It was not the first time Jeryd had heard of them, for they came up briefly during one of Ivy’s lectures, back at the Citadel. From what he recalled, the Sith were once the mortal enemies of the Jedi, powerful enough to raise entire armies and even seize control of the galaxy. Just another cult of renegade Force Sensitives who did as they pleased, unregulated, without any consequences.

“When I was 15, the most important thing I had to worry about was my next wegsphere game,” he said, reflecting on Rayner’s tale. As he attempted to put himself in the Nehantite’s shoes, his imagination was found wanting.

“You had to grow up fast, didn’t you?”

[Halajiin Rabeak]

"You learn a lot of things fast, when your life depends on it," Hal replied. There was no radio to fill the void in the conversation, only the sheeting, pelting rain upon the thin durasteel of the speeder's roof, and glass windshield.

It wasn't a lie, either. He had been forced to do things not of his choice, and become a man he never expected to be. And it was his fault, all of it. Slacking off in middle school meant his grades were poor enough to disqualify him from an academic high school, forcing him to follow his family's path in entering technical high school. Sure, there were still classes, but everyone knew you were going to enter a trade. He learned how starships work, how to repair engines, figure out electronics, and how to rebuild transmissions. It was easy, he knew he could do better, and so his mind wandered. Wandered off while he was in class, leading to a world of daydreams in his head as he began to fall behind. Then, once behind, he joked about it, and still failed to take things seriously, which only made it all worse.

Everything came to a head when he was fifteen, and received a report card of solid F's. Young Hal, considered to be a gifted engineer, had flunked out of technical high school. The kid who ate paste had at least managed C's and D's, but Hal had nothing. So instead of returning to class after winter break, Hal found himself in his dad's van, going with him to work as his apprentice. HVAC wasn't glamorous, and it sure paid less than being engineer, and it was only after three weeks of working in tight places, fixing heating that didn't work, and getting filthy in ductwork that he realized the error of his ways. But by then it was too late, and he'd have to re-apply to technical high school in summer, hoping to re-do his lost school year. The joy and snark that had led him to his rebelliousness and class clown nature was drowned out by dust, furnace parts, and hauling too bags. All the while, his friends were able to hang out after school, or play habatta, or... do anything, while he was working with his dad and not even getting paid for it. That was weekdays, at least. On weekends he had to ride his bike to his uncle's transmission shop and do unpaid work as an apprentice there as well. It was his own fault he'd made a mess of everything.

Things carried onin the same way for months, until the Saturday that changed everything. At his uncle's transmission shop, Hal was at a workbench disassembling a transmission not dissimilar to the one in the speeder he and Jeryd were currently riding in. His ears had perked at a strange creak and ping, and he looked over just in time to see a sports car starting to lean down as the lift holding it was about to give way, and his uncle was right beneath it! Crying out, Hal threw out his paw as if he could will the car to remain in place, but of course that's a thought of fantasy.

Instead, the car was struck by a wall of force which might as well have been an invisible delivery truck. It smashed sideways, in a twisted mess of creased and crumpled metal, while its shattered safety glass glittered in the air before raining down harmlessly on his uncle, as the car was blown clear through the wall beyond, taking half the lift with it. Hal remembered the dumbfounded look on his uncle's face before everything went black. When he woke, he found himself surrounded by paramedics, and police officers. He couldn't explain what happened, nor could it be explained to him why he was hauled off to jail, where he spent the night in a holding cell. As he lay on his cot, he could not know that blood work was being done on the samples taken from him while unconscious, nor could he even imagine the channels by which the word about the results was spread. Hal wasn't even sure he slept that night, and he had to blink to be certain that it was, in fact, one of the Sultan's royal guard who escorted him from his cell in the morning, and into a waiting car. All of his questions went unanswered, and before he knew it, he was being hauled in before the Sultan, himself, still dressed in his hand-me-down shop uniform from the day before. It didn't even have his name on the patch.

Everything was a blur, with people talking about him, and a camera crew entering. Like a nerf in the headlights, all he could do was look at everyone dumbly, until at last he learned what had happened - at the same time as the rest of Nehantish did. On live holovision, the Sultan announced that Nehantish had their first Force Adept, and that he'd be going to join the Jedi Order. And that someone was himself!

After the press conference, Hal was whisked home to pack and spend his last night with his family before being sent to Coruscant the next day. It wasn't enough time. How could it have been? A few hours to be with your family, to say goodbye to your friends, and to pack whatever you might need for a new life. He savored his mom's meatloaf, that night, not even complaining about steamed broccoli being a side. Everything seemed so surreal, and it failed to sink in as it was all happening. And then it was time for bed, sleep brought on by exhaustion, before being roused to catch his flight the next morning. Hugging his parents and siblings goodbye, he told them not to worry, he'd be back to see them soon enough. But he never was. How can a fifteen year old grasp that he'll never return, and that he'll never, ever see his family again? Apprehension filled his heart as he boarded the shuttle to Vendaaius Station, and it would be too late for him to do anything about it when the feeling of loss began to set in.

It all could have been so different, if he'd just tried in school. He could have been an engineer, had a proper job, gotten married, had kids, joined the bowling team, and grown old. Grown old surrounded by family both old and new, the years passing as they were meant to, just a normal man. It was his fault that he wound up losing everything. It was his fault that he lost his family, his home, and his time. Everything. Everything was his fault, leading him to that seat in the speeder in the rain, with a gun holstered beneath his arm and an Imperial Cadet by his side.

And in in that moment, all Hal wanted was meatloaf. Even if it did have to come with steamed broccoli on the side.

[Jeryd Redsun]

“Yeah, I bet you do.”

Even though he conceded to the sentiment, Jeryd couldn’t help but feel that the words sounded hollow falling out of his mouth. It was a throwaway expression for something with which he had no experience. Certainly, he knew what it felt like to have his life at risk; Knight Jibral saw to that on three separate occasions. But they were missions, each with a certain degree of control and expectation, with clear goals and even clearer endings. Only once was the risk unexpected, and Luka Jibral saved his life before he even knew it needed to be saved.

Never in his life had he ever lived that experience, of being at risk every moment of the day. He couldn’t even imagine it, a life as prey, hunted by powers far greater than you, a predator that never sleeps, and won’t stop until… well, until you are either dead or working for them. He regarded Rayner across from him in the speeder – his choice had been made for him long ago. It was no way to live. Indeed, Jeryd had a taste of that experience the night he tried to run and discovered the painful futility of it all. That Rayner lasted as long as he did was a resounding testament to his character.

They were truly worlds apart.

Before the creep of existential dread started to wring the air from his throat, he distracted himself with the rain-slicked dark of the undercity, its punchy lights, and the interlocking columns of tiny homes stacked like nursery blocks. They were in some sort of residential area, now, and he peered with shameless curiosity into the windows that zipped by, attempting to make sense of the blurs within, and the alien lives they lived. But they were moving too fast to make sense of anything.

A sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach told him they were descending again, and quickly. Lights from windows strobed past with each passing level, until they evened out, banked around a corner, and settled in the mouth of some seedy back alley. Given what he knew already, Jeryd had no doubt Rayner had been here before and could only assume it was safe enough. Then, as he stirred to rise from his seat, he felt the press of the blaster barrel against his hip.

“You got me dressed up. You got me tooled up. What kind of burger joint are you taking me to, Hal?”

[Halajiin Rabeak]

"The kind that doesn't usually pass health board inspection," Hal chuckled. "And the kind that doesn't do low-fat, or healthy choice options."

Easing the speeder to a stop, it rocket a bit, then gently powered down into hover park, before the front right corner dropped with a judder. Not to the ground, but enough to indicate that not all of its anti-grav drives were working. Unclipping his lap belt, the Nehantite listened to the rain beat upon the thin roof as he glanced around.

"This is where our intel says that people come to sign up for passage off-world. We're not sure the method they use, so for right now we're gonna sit down and just enjoy some good grub, but keep our eyes and ears open for anything that might be a clue," he further explained. "But, don't get the meatloaf; it's dry and not seasoned right. Came here last week disguised as a Galactic Express deliveryman. Ever need to just show up somewhere and not seem out of place, recognizable courier service uniforms do the trick. Couriers always need to eat, after all, no matter where their deliveries might take them. There's a decent supply of uniforms back at the Citadel. Lots of fun, covert stuff to be found there, really."

About to open his door, Hal paused again, then flicked out a few flimsiplast credit notes from his stash and tucked them into Jeryd's vest pocket. "Small bills, won't attract as much attention. I'll be paying, but in case something happens to me, you're not stiffing them on our dinner bill, okay? And I expect you to leave a good tip, if it comes to it."

Leaving no room for argument, Hal swung his door open and stepped out into the rain. He could smell the dirt on it, here, and made sure to purse his lips so that he wouldn't have to taste it, either. The speeder was locked once Jeryd was out, and Hal led the way to the greasy spoon, opening the door for his young sidekick. Out wafted several smells at once, in a dizzying rush of olfactory sensation. Grease, meat, beer, stim smoke, sweat, stale cologne and cheap perfume. Hal's sensitive nose wrinkled at the blast, but he stepped in, anyway, holding up two fingers to indicate his party size. A nod toward an empty small booth along the wall was all the response he got, but it was enough to lead Jeryd to their table.

Worn vinyl covered their seats, which could give the interior of their speeder a run for its money, and the layer of plastifirm covering the table top was worn through in some areas, exposing plywood beneath. A dispenser for paper napkins was hemmed in by salt, pepper, and hot sauce shakers branded by some company which had probably sponsored the diner some twenty years ago, while the menus were paper sheets stuffed into heavy clear vinyl folders. Hal plucked a pair out of their rack, extending one to his companion. "Don't say I never take you anywhere special," he said with a chuckle and a hint of a smirk.

[Jeryd Redsun]

Jeryd accepted the menu with bemusement. He brushed his thumb against the smooth plastic and tested its flexibility. Rayner glanced up, so he busied himself with the contents. Half of the words he didn’t understand. Though his classic nerf burger took pride of place in the centre of the menu, it was beset on all sides by unusual foreign dishes. Colourful rows of alien faces sat below each option, demonstrating which species it was suited for, and the pink human was, by far, the most prevalent.

“I’m sticking with the nerf burger. How wrong can they get it? Simple, safe, sterilised with heat,” he said, recalling Rayner’s remark about health inspections. Before returning the menu, he gave the edge of the plastic wallet a sniff, detecting a reassuring note of cheap cleaning agent.

Upon entering the diner, Jeryd thought he had immediately stepped in something unsavoury, but ripped his fancy 5 credit boots from the tiled floor to discover nothing underfoot. It wasn’t until he braved a second step that he realised that festering stickiness was just a quirky feature of the entire floorspace. As he squelched his way to the booth, he waded through a pungent yellow cloud of smoke that billowed from sizzling platters at a table of… the tentacled dome-headed aliens with goofy teeth. Warrens, was it? There was also a solitary Aqualish in blue dungarees, slurping from a large bubbling bowl full of what looked like tadpoles.

The challenge was to spot something out of the ordinary, which, given their surroundings, meant finding something - anything - normal.

Even as he dumped himself into the seat, it gave a shriek of surprise. He hovered, half expecting to find a flattened Ugnaut beneath him. But no, just a strange slippery seat that squeaked and sang like the entire string section of the Imperial Capital Symphonic Orchestra.

Everything was new and unusual, and he fumbled at his surroundings like an infant with one of those cute rotating mobiles full of moons, stars, and TIE fighters. Indeed, no sooner had the menu been discarded than he picked at the frayed edge of the table, uprooting flecks of wood between his fingers.

“So what exactly is a meatloaf?”

[Halajiin Rabeak]

Hal's eyes had already drifted over the menu, mostly for the sake of nostalgia. Holoscreens and re-flashable flimsiplast were the order of the day, most places, but those were more expensive than the old-school basics, and there was just something nice about the feel of the semi-flexible clear plastic under his fingers. Behind it, the paper's weave distorted the edges of some of the print in a way which was charming. Beyond the paper, though, he observed Jeryd, a true fish out of water in such an environment. Then Hal's left eyebrow went up at his question.

"You've never had meatloaf?" the Nehantite asked, tilting his menu down to view Jeryd clearly over it. "Seriously?"

Reaching up to run his fingers through his headfur, Hal slumped back into his seat with a sigh. "Garfife, I've got so much to teach you. So, a meatloaf is just what it sounds like. You take ground meat, usually red meat, and you season it, add in some small veggies, maybe, some egg, maybe some oats to help bind it, whatever flavoring agents you want, and you put it in a baking dish. Cover the top with ketchup, and you bake it in the oven until it's cooked through. When done, slice it and serve. If it's done right, it's the best thing you'll ever eat. They overcook it here, though, and it's dry, not to mention under-seasoned. I'll have to see if I can get some time in the kitchen back home after this and make a good meatloaf for you to try. It'll change your life. Perfect with mashed potatoes and gravy, or peas and carrots, or even baked parmesan cabbage."

I can so go for some meatloaf right now. His base natures mused.

Yeah, but we already know that the meatloaf here sucks, his higher reasoning countered.

I know, but we could still go back to the Citadel make some kick-ass meatloaf, and then try this mission tomorrow.

No. No, we can't do that.

Yeah we can. We're capable of being back here tomorrow if we really try.

Not what I meant, and you know it.

Says the guy who keeps telling me I don't know anything.

Ugh, you are totally not helping right now. Just pick something other than the meatloaf, already.

Fiiiiine. Sheesh.

Scanning down the menu again, Hal settled on something difficult to screw up. Fried nuna and waffles, with a side of greens, and some dirty rice. He'd opt for the spicy fried nuna, of course, and naturally some buiberries in his waffles, and as much as he'd love to have a beer with his meal, sobriety was important when doing recon, so a glass of unsweetened iced tea would have to suffice. With lemon, though. Maybe extra lemon.

"What sides are you getting with your nerfburger?" Hal asked, tucking his menu away in its stand. So far he'd seen nothing to arouse suspicion in the diner, but on a slow night due to heavy rain, there would be plenty of time and ability to observe the staff, and see which clients stuck around longer than others. If this truly was where people found passage off-world, it would make sense that staff would be involved - though a regular customer could also use the place to do business out of. Racking his brain to recall which customers were there last time, Hal played each face against those he could currently observe, in a low-scoring game of Guess Who.

[Jeryd Redsun]

Jeryd gave a lazy shrug at Rayner’s question, and revisited his choice on the menu:

“Golden fries and a…” he gasped, eyes wide with false surprise, “And a sunset salad!”

It was commonly known that a sunset salad was just a mixed leaf salad arranged in a garish display of yellows, oranges, reds, and purples. At least this place attempted to make their food sound fancy. It was cute, which was more than can be said for Rayner’s description of a baked meat brick. The best thing you’ll ever eat, he said. Poor poor deluded Kyle Rayner; left to his own devices, he’d be sure to start waxing lyrical about the baked tuber and why it is the height of gourmet cuisine. As such, he neglected to return the question in kind.

“There’s a nice place on the Azure Promenade called The Nimbus Pools. Incredible food. They serve you with floating dishes of glass. In fact, everything is made out of this hazy kind of glass, and there are water features everywhere - pools, fountains, waterfalls. They even pump a fine vapour into the air which is good for your skin. If you go during the right time of day, it’s like you’re dining in the clouds. You’d lose your mind.”

While he spoke, he allowed his gaze to drift and inspect the rest of the patrons littered about the establishment. There was a feeble grey-skinned old man who nursed a steaming cup and muttered to himself while he stared intently through the window. He was no threat. At another table, a couple of young Rodians, sharing some kind of towering cold dessert with another young human, maybe a year younger than he was - they were probably students. If things got ugly, he could handle them: the Rodians were small and wiry, and the human looked scrawny under the layers of dull blues and washed-out browns he was wearing. In the far corner though, sat a Trandoshan. He’d been warned about that species. It wasn’t possible to make much out from where he was sitting, not without turning around and making it obvious he was staring. So he had to assume that, if there was trouble, he (or she) was the one who needed to be neutralised first. And, other than the Quarrens and the Aqualish - he could take them - there was just him and his furry companion, Kyle. No, Hal.

Rayner was right: they didn’t stand out, at all.

A sigh snapped him out of his tactical appraisal of the situation, to discover they had been ambushed by a short and stocky woman in a creased blue uniform and tiny white apron. From beneath heavy, violet-dusted lids, her hollow gaze found a well-worn spot on the wall, and there it remained.

“Welcome to Olga’s Hot and Snappy Diner,” she croaked, dead-to-the-world, “You won’t find a hotter and snappier dish this side of Level 83. Hoo-boy… that’s good eatin’. What’ll it be, boys?”

“Good evening, ma’am,” Jeryd said at once, infusing his military prep boy accent with extra lashings of jovial plumminess, “I will have the Olga’s Classic Nerfburger, please.”

“Regular buns or Olga’s Special Buns?”

“Well, I say- Who can say ‘No’ to Olga’s Special Buns?”

“Beautiful. Wet ya whistle?”

“...excuse me?” Owlish with surprise, Jeryd spotted Rayner miming a drink across the table, “Oh, I see. Uh. What’s popular with the regulars here at Olga’s Diner?”

“Stimcaf. Or chocolate milk, for the kids.”

“Then it will be the chocolate milk for me! We’re all children at heart, after all. Don’t you agree?”

From behind her ear, the waitress plucked a smoking stim, took a drag, then huffed, “Like a spring chicken, honey.”

She flicked some ash Rayner’s way, “What about you, handsome?”

[Halajiin Rabeak]

He is going to get us killed. He's just gonna get us killed. What is he doing?

Pretty sure he's ordering dinner.

No, I mean with this attitude. Whatever it is.

He has an attitude?

Yes! All peppy and cheerful! You didn't notice?

I dunno, once he started talking about eating in a pool, I thought about the last time we were in a Cizerack tea house, and the eating we did there.

Eating out.

Yeah, at a Cizerack tea house.

No, I mean, you were eating out, not eating. I just... nevermind, I better answer, here.

"Nuna and waffles, hot and spicy on the nuna. Greens, dirty rice. Unsweet tea," Hal replied, his voice mercifully flatter and to the point than whatever Jeryd was doing. Though he couldn't help but smirk and slip in, "After all, you're all the sweetness I need, tonight, darlin'."

"Flattery'll get you everywhere, honey," the waitress answered, her long, acrylic fingernails tak-tak'ing against an ancient datapad as she took their order. There was no more need for words as she turned and scuttled toward the window to the kitchen. Once there, her grating voice calling out, "I need you to burn one, drag it through the garden and pin a rose on it, frog sticks and dried leaves in the alley, hot yard birds on a checkerboard, squeal in the swamp, laundry grains, sweet brown Alice, and a cup of dishwater that ain't got no yum-yum."

It was all Hal could do to keep from chuckling. Diner lingo, it seemed, was universal, and had formed organically on each and every civilized world independent of each other, with exactly the same terms. If he had a glass of water to sip from, the Nehantite would have done so. As it was, he drummed his clawtips on the table, and quietly spoke. "Trandoshan in the corner, big gal. She doesn't have a plate, just a cup of stimcaff which hasn't been topped up since we've been in. Definitely not a customer. Could either be someone we need to get the attention of, or they're undercover security. Rodians and the human kid probably just celebrating a birthday or something. You don't eat that much sweet stuff outside of a celebration. And dining in a pool might be all well and good for humans, but now imagine doing so with fur. I'll stick with good, honest food over fancy experiences, any day."

Times like these, Hal would have expected a sudden rush of sound from an exceptionally heavy gut of rain upon the awning and windows outside, but with Coruscant - er, Imperial Center's - weather on a controlled grid, there were no such luxuries as being surprised by any form of weather. The rain mostly existed to wash things off, and regulate temperature, as there was precious little grow on what was effectively a massive city block. But still, Hal's eyes turned to the window, hoping for it. and in doing so he looked like he belonged in such a place even more than before. There was no hint of Imperial Knight about him. "Do you see a back door?" he asked, voice still low as he looked to the windows.

[Jeryd Redsun]

“Hm? Oh, no. I don’t.” Jeryd surfaced from the depths of a murky thought to consider Rayner’s question. There was nothing obvious in sight. “Maybe it’s in the kitchen.”

It was a smart move, to identify all available exits. If they were serious about this, they needed to know from which directions to anticipate any sudden threats, and to execute a swift getaway. Truth be told, Jeryd had been too distracted by the newness of his surroundings to spot a back door - a failing, on his part.

As it was, however, he was more interested in the toady waitress with the saggy jowls and an unnatural tower of ginger hair. With her kitchen staff, she spoke in riddles, which meant she was well-versed at communicating in code. And her demeanour was altogether off.

His eyes followed her as she shuffled to one of the tables with a fresh round of stimcaf, droning like a low-powered droid. Once she was out of earshot, he said, “It’s her. I know it.”

He leaned in, and proceeded in an undertone, “No eye contact. No customer service. She clearly has no interest in her job. She has to be involved.”

[Halajiin Rabeak]

"It's her job," Hal replied, doing his very best to hold in laughter. "Most people don't like their jobs, but they do them for the money. I bet she works ten hour shifts, six days a week, and rakes in better tips than those Twi'lek bikini baristas you see at stimcaff stands."

He leaned back a bit, smiling to their craggy, disinterested waitress as she returned, setting a pair of thick-walled drinking glasses on the table. "Tea and chocolate milk," she groused, then turned and trundled back toward the kitchen without allowing for any sort of word in edgewise. Hal slipped a plastic straw into his glass and took a sip, a sigh of contentment following.

"Places like this, it's not about service, it's about dependability. She does her job, no more, no less. We get what we ordered, things run smooth," he explained, then took another drink. "You're right, by the way. The only other door is through the kitchen. I looked up planning permission and building records back at the Citadel. This place is so old, it predates some modern safety code. So if people are booking off-world passage, here, this isn't the point of departure, and that does mean someone here is in on it. Maybe she's in on it, but I doubt she's alone, nor would she be primary contact with that attitude. And all that said, I've had worse waitresses."

Hal's eyes moved to scan the room as he took another drink. "When I was here last, one of the 'freshers was out of order. Wonder if they've fixed it by now. That'll be something to check out later; might be an exit in disguise. Either that or someone dropped a thermonuclear deuce and fragged the plumbing."

[Jeryd Redsun]

As Rayner spoke, Jeryd regarded their surroundings and, no matter how interesting and new they were for an upper level kid like him, he had to concede that no self-respecting person with the intellectual capacity to form whole sentences could actually find job satisfaction in a place like this. If the waitress seemed like a soulless husk in the workplace, it was in all likelihood not because she was a sinister rebel agent, but because she was, in fact, just a soulless husk. It was depressing to think about, honestly. As much as he loathed revisiting all the core lessons from basic training at the Citadel, it was never uninteresting. He always felt challenged. He always felt alive.

Not that it meant she was off the hook. Yet. If she really did work 10 hours a day, six days a week, then she had to have at least seen or heard something suspicious. She had to know something. He fueled this fresh line of thought with a sip of chocolate milk - his first in about 10 years - it was sweet, rich, and delicious. He was reminded of his school days, when he used to build model TIE fighters during recess with his first ever girlfriend, Opera Sveetlisse, who wore her blonde hair in braids and always had scuffs on her elbows and knees. They drank chocolate milk and when they got bored of holding hands, they wrestled in the park. And, for a fleeting instant, he felt strangely at ease in this scruffy watering hole.

“When we get out of here, you’re going to have to tell me more about those Twi’leks in bikinis,” he said, choosing to cast aside the memory. It brought him back to who he was.

“The sights in this place are rather lacking, after all,” he gave Rayner a knowing look, “Which is why I will leave the shitty toilet duty to you. Respectfully. Maybe you’ll uncover a secret meeting room where travel arrangements are made.”

It was said only half in jest for Rayner had captured his imagination with his talk of locked doors, clandestine meetings, and secret transports. How did it all connect, he wondered.

“If the diner is the precursor to off-world transportation, how do you suppose they first make contact? And in plain sight, no less. I mean, how would you do it?”

[Halajiin Rabeak]

"Code words, is my guess," Hal replied. Another pull from his iced tea, and he leaned back in his seat, the vinyl creaking and groaning in delight at accepting another into its worn-out cushioning. "Something blue collar folks would know, but wouldn't be common enough to be used accidentally. Honestly wish it wasn't raining, as there'd be more customers in and we could hear more."

His eyes scanned the room again. How the place ever got tipped as the meeting point, he was having a hard time understanding. No back door, no VIP lounge, no private booths, nothing that would make for a clandestine exit. And naturally no one had signed their name to the official preliminary scouting report, so he didn't have anyone within Imperial Intelligence to question. Yet there he was, dressed like a low-rent mechanic, with a handgun under one arm, and a suppressor under the other, and a few grand in cash in his pockets. A spicy recipe indeed, but one which could go south faster than a bad soufflé. Or even a good soufflé. To be honest, he'd never had success in baking them, and was certain they must be made using the Dark Side, as nothing that tasted so good could possibly be wholly from the Light. Good reminder to check the dessert menu later.

"Paper," he muttered. "It's gotta have something to do with paper. As much as I like this vintage touch, it's not normal. Holodisplays have memorybanks which can be searched. Flimsiplast can be recalled even after it's been wiped, if you know how. But paper? You can burn it, bleach it, or pulp it, and it's gone forever."

It was more thinking out loud for Jeryd's sake, as using telepathy would have given them both a serious headache. "I'll check out the 'fresher after the food arrives; ol' paw-washing excuse is always valid," he said while picking up one of the menus again and scanning over it. Pink eyes studied every word, every letter, every fleck in the paper, even going so far as to reach out through the Force to check its molecular makeup for signs of bleaching.

"Thinkin' of ordering more already?" The crackling voice of their waitress snapped Hal out of his study, and he looked up to see her there with their food.

"Oh," the word slipped out of Hal's mouth like a live mouse from the mouth of a startled lothcat. "No, I mean, not yet. Is this the whole dessert menu?" He tapped the section. "Might do something to go."

"To go? Different menu, hun," the waitress snorted. "That what you want? You too, sunshine?"

Hal saw her eyes go to Jeryd as well, and the Nehantite intercepted any possible response from him. "Yeah, both of us. If you wouldn't mind bringing us a copy before we're done, that'd be great."

The waitress looked between the two of them, beady eyes seeming to run on a rail along her half-lidded expression. "Sure thing," she croaked. There was nothing more to be said, it seemed, and she turned to scuttle off, leaving the pair with their dishes before them.

"Gotta go wash my paws," Hal said with a smile. A quick trip to the 'freshers verified that one was still out of order, and the door handle was locked. The other worked, but yielded no great clues about how one might exit from it. Still, it wasn't a bad idea to *actually* run his paws through the sonic cleanser, so Hal did so before returning to the table and dropping back into his well-worn seat. "All righty, let's dig in."

[Halajiin Rabeak]

To any average working man, Hal's nuna and waffles were nothing special. The fried nuna had only just barely enough seasoning, and Hal could taste that the fryer oil was well beyond when it should have been changed. Dirty rice was a bit dry, though the greens made up for it well enough, likely some old family reipe of the cook's. But Hal was no average working man, despite looking like one. Over a year of being cooped up in the Citadel, eating meal cubes, had made him appreciate real food of any sort. Well, almost any sort. At the very least he treasured diner food, even if it was mediocre.

That said, what it wasn't delivering in perfect flavor, it also wasn't delivering in intel. From the texture, Hal could tell the nuna had been brought in frozen. Waffle made on-site, from but generic bagged batter mixture. Rice was budget grade as well, though the greens seemed fresh. Freezing them would have hurt their texture, so at least those had to have a fresh source. Jeryd's burger could be broken down in similar fashion: frozen nerf patty, fresh veg, and possibly in-house buns, but likely bought-in as well. As he munched a mouthful of waffle, Hal kicked himself for not looking into the financials of the establishment beforehand. Laundering money was easy, but maintaining proper expenses for a legitimate business was vastly more difficult.

"This could be a dead end," Hal spoke quietly. He didn't look forward to heading back to the Citadel early. The expenses he'd outlaid hadn't been small, and returning now would likely get the assignment transferred to someone else. "No one's come or gone through the kitchen except the waitress, and I can only sense the cook back there."

(Will add more later, I have an idea to get things moving again, just too tired and exhausted to write more right now)