Rebel Dawn [Dorn Force]

Glayde traced his fingers along the walls of the corridor. The unit hadn't been at their new staging post for long - hell, the unit hadn't existed for long, either - so he hadn't yet grown accustomed to the new surroundings. He was loathed to admit it, but he found himself missing the oppressive whiteness of the Mon Calamari vessel that had been his home for the last several years. This facility, constructed by the wide-eyed Sullustans, was at the complete opposite end of the scale; hence his fingertips providing a slight navigational and balance aid.

His mind wandered over the strangeness of the current circumstance: being summoned to his own office. The fact that he had an office at all took some getting used to - back on the Valiant, he'd had to share workspace with the adjutant and the other SpecForce officers aboard. Sure, the broom cupboard they'd put him in here was barely big enough to fit his desk... but it did have his name stencilled in aurebesh on the door; that was something.

Reaching the stretch of corridor that the writing he peered at in the dimness informed him was the correct one, he paced over to the appropriate door, and hesitated at the controls. This was his office, but the call had come from an Alliance Intel operative; who knew what they could be doing in there. Should he wander in blindly, and unannounced? Deciding that anything he witnessed couldn't possibly be as bad as the time he'd misidentified the - not very clearly labelled - doorway into the men's locker room, and had been forced to retreat under a volley of thrown items from Lieutenant Tur'enne, he jammed a finger into the appropriate button, and stepped inside.

* * *

Atton peered up from the datapad in front of him - in fact a rather amusing satirical parody of the early days of Palpatine's New Order, though no one would be able to differentiate it from one of the plethora of other documents littered about the desk without close scrutiny - and fixed his eyes on Major Glayde, probing the man's reactions and responses. First as an Intelligence Officer for the Republic, then as a journalist, an information broker, and now an employee of the Empire, Atton had picked up a trick or two about rapidly assessing the personality of an individual based on those initial few seconds of contact. The technique he employed on this occasion was situating himself in the Major's seat, behind his desk; a clear visual contest of his superiority within wat was essentially the Major's domain.

To the Commando's credit, he barely flinched, though did go to the lengths of remaining standing rather than accepting a defferential place in one of the seats opposite, adopting a confident stance; looking down on Atton. He fought back a smile. The Major had conceeded the comfy chair, but was making it very clear to the Intel Operative that such a concession was not the same as a surrender.

Such an individual would likely appreciate a succinct approach; as such, Atton dispensed with the formalities, and addressed the main subject of their conversation immediately. "I have an assignment for y', Major," he announced, swapping from one datapad to another, briefly scanning the first few lines to confirm the contents before passing it across.

Glayde didn't accept the device straight away. "If you're looking to engage the services of my team," he countered, hesitating only momentarily at the realisation that he knew no name for the man sitting before him, "I suggest you follow the proper protocol, and speak to Colonel Dalgas."

Atton's arm retreated, brow furrowing slightly as he nodded at that statement. "The Colonel is aware of th' situation," he revealed; "However, these orders are not for y' team." He offered the datapad again. "I have an assignment for you, Major."

Frowning himself, John accepted the electronic device, and studied the data displayed with intregue. Atton waited patiently, gauging from his reactions the progress he was making. Glayde's eyes widened in response to a particular set of details; Atton made a guess at what the context likely was, and offered his own input. "Given th' nature of this assignment, a low key operation is called for; Colonel Dalgas has approved th' deployment o' yourself and Lieutenant Tur'enne, but no other assets from this command." He engaged Glayde's eyes with a knowing look. "I'm sure y' can appreciate that in this instance, maintaining secrecy is of th' utmost importance. Y' can inform no one of any information that they do not need t' know. Is that understood, Major?"

Conflict warred with John's features, but he managed to assert enough control to arrange an expression of determined compliance. "Understood," he responded, with a curt nod. He glanced down at the still active datapad. "Anything else?"

Atton shook his head. "No; everything is on there." He hesitated for the briefest of moments. "Good luck, Major."

* * *

Glayde waited for the door of his office to drop closed with a clunk, before slumping back against it. Committed to his duties and responsibilities, Glayde wasn't the kind of officer to turn down or even question an assignment, but there were a few things about this mission in particular that made him uncomfortable. He glanced down at the datapad yet again; drank in the details; the destination; the target. He sighed.

Delving into the pocket of his fatigues, he pulled out his comlink, and thumbed it to life. "Glayde to Tur'enne," he called, "Meet me in the mess hall on level -" He peered at the dim-lit wall opposite, searching out the stencilled writing. "- six. Soon as you can."

Thu-thunk....smack.
Thu-thunk....smack.
Thu-thunk....smack.
Thu-thunk....smack.
Hit ball to the ground, watch it hit the the perpendicular wall...
Thu-thunk....
Altered trajectory, wait for it...wait for it...
smack.
Hit it again. Rinse. Repeat.

She'd been so social with her last squad. Shared drinks, jokes, stories, curses, sorrows, joys...why was this one any different?
Thu-thunk....smack.
Charlotte knew there was more to it than this just...well...not being the guys she'd joined up with when her days on Corellia ended and her days running with the Rebel Alliance began. Maybe it was because one of them had already seen her at her worst and none had seen them at her best.
Thu-thunk....smack.
It felt horrible to have to feel like you had to prove yourself all over again.
Thu-thunk..."Glayde to Tur'enne"...THUNK-thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk...

"Kriffing son of a..."
She watched the ball roll into view from under the cot after it had soared over her head, hit the wall behind her and fallen down under the bedding. Charlotte managed to bite her tongue to hear what Glayde had to say. Well, at least the Captain...(No, Major now. She'd have to remember that.) hadn't asked her to meet him in his fancy shmancy office. She snatched the comlink off the bed-side table and let out a breath.
"Got it."

The ball was kicked back under the cot as she left her quarters.

There was some unspoken rule in the Rebellion; an integral element of the Rebel mentality. It was a byproduct of their desire to restore the Galactic Republic, no doubt: some quantification of their collective ideal, and their ambitions to return civilization to the galaxy. It wasn't about politics; wasn't about law; yet it was a fundemental ideal that the men and women who waged war against the Empire on a daily basis clung to very tight:

No matter where you are in the galaxy, every sentient being should have access to boy caffeine and alcohol.

This unremarkable rock was no exception to that rule. An interesting statistic that Glayde had overheard during his first few days here: split between the various mess halls, crew lounges, and recreational cantinas, there were more bar stools on the base than there were starfighters; enough chairs and tables to seat an entire SpecForce battalion; and more gallons of alcohol were consumed in a week by the staff here than gallons of fuel consumed by the Air Group in a month. A little scrutiny shone doubt on the validity of some of those figures and statistics, but as a package they got the point across. The Sullustans, though they might have overlooked the slightly lesser visual abilities of many of the Alliance's personnel, hadn't neglected the requirement for appropriate venues to become inebriated to the brink of unconsciousness and - given that the ground crews brewed a lot of the alcohol themselves in one of the disused maintenance bays - often paralysis.

It was in one of these venues, consuming a beverage - a 'Corellian' Caf - that complied with both of Glayde's rights of consumption under Rebel policy, that the Major waited for his unit's resident Infiltrator to arrive. The datapad had long since been stowed inside his jacket, all the pertainant information committed to memory. Currently, he was busy mulling over the logic behind this plan; trying to unravel the thought processes that had brought Alliance Intelligence to the conclusion that he and Tur'enne were the right people for the job. They were both Corellian, granted, and skilled Infiltrators: Tur'enne had been trained as such by SpecForce, while Glayde had experience as a Storm Commando to fall back on. The Lieutenant had a vested interest in this mission; Glayde was unsure whether that would be an advantage or not. Ultimately though, his mind conflicted over a particular question: Are we really the best people for this job that the Alliance could find?

He supposed their current assignment was somewhat unorthadox - their crude mix of specialists from different backgrounds went against the standard SpecForce structure, and no doubt made the members of the unit somewhat more noticed by the Alliance community at large; certainly amongst the command staff. Perhaps then, this was an instance not of selecting the best suited personnel for the task, but rather of selecting the first candidates that sprung to mind.

He sighed, pouring another mouthful of the caf down his throat, relying on the somewhat generous measure of Corellian whiskey to generate the warmth in his extremities that the beverage itself had long since lost. His eyes caught sight of his officer over the rim of the mug. Setting it down on the table with a dull thud, he threw an attention-grabbing gesture in her direction. "Lieutenant," he added, voice just loud enough to cut above the ambiance of the moderately crowded room.

It didn't take the Major's call to get her attention, she'd spotted him the moment she walked in. Though it was the quick glance, and the lack of any of the other members of Dorn that caused everything to become a bit off-balanced. This wasn't normal, and honestly she'd started to grow comfortable with routine. Maybe that's why this suited her so well, some part of her genuinely enjoyed routine. Up early, get something quick to eat, head to the gym, have enough bouts with the punching bag until you felt like you were going to lose what you had to eat earlier, shower, go get some real breakfast (complete with a cup of stimcaf, or two...or three), kill time, kill some more time, go over some old missions to figure out where problem areas were, avoid the others (especially frakkin Archy), kill more time, try stay out of trouble, try oh so hard to not get in a fight of some sort when having dinner and drinks, go to bed. Terribly boring. But it made anything out of the usual all the more interesting, all the more exciting. Everything else was painful, comforting routing.

At least she hadn't ended up in the ship's brig...yet.

Today had been especially dull. Which is probably why she found herself in a rather foul mood. The whole thing with the ball had been to try and relieve some stress and not go back down to the gym. The bag there she favored had taken enough of a beating for one day. So it was probably that reason that instead of inquiring about what mission could possibly await she let this bit fly as she unceremoniously let herself drop onto the bench across from Glayde...

"Don't tell me this is going to be a 'Getting to know your squad' exercise. Spare me that skrag, please. You already have my file and anything you need to know is in there..."

She had to almost force the last bit out.

"...sir."

John's mouth stretched into a thin line. Tur'enne was correct - everything he needed to know was in her file, along with various mentions of insubordination, disorderly conduct, and violence visited against fellow and superior officers. Were this the Empire, she'd have been kicked out on her ass years ago. Unfortunately, given that the ranks of on-ass ex soldiers were a primary pool of recruitment for the Rebel Alliance, the officers of the Rebellion had been forced to relax their standards somewhat. These were desperate times; as such, a caustic attitude could be ignored, if suitably offset with other skills.

Unfortunately, while her towering stack of reprimands could be ignored, doing the same to Tur'enne herself was a somewhat more challenging task. For a moment, Glayde wondered if his recent promotion would allow him to get away with delegating this assignment to one of the other members of his team; preferably one of the ones who infuriated the Lieutenant as much as she infuriated everyone else. He knew already that the odds were against him on that one.

"For once in the pile of vos you call a life, Tur'enne, shut up and show some fedding respect." The edge of venom was unusual in Glayde's voice, supplanting the sarcasm that he usually employed in the face of attitude from his subordinates. With any luck, the verbal kick in the face would be enough to stay the Lieutenant's tongue, at least for long enough to brief her on what was about to happen.

His eyes narrowed as he continued. "If you wanna keep bitching like a whore, let me know - there are pleanty of rocket jocks out there with credits to burn; I'll happily pimp you out for a little extra in the unit budget. Alternatively, you can shut that fracking mouth of yours, and let me tell you about the real job I have lined up for you." He cocked his head to one side. "What's it to be, Lieutenant?"

Charles, quite literally, was forced to bite her tongue. There was a genuine want to hit the Major then, just reach over and clock him upside the jaw. If she'd had gotten to a pint or two of Corellian ale that day, it may just have happened. As it was her hand was already balling into a fist, fingernails digging into her palm. But a sober mind allowed herself to keep in check. So rather than the stream of biting comments that wanted to come pouring out from her at that moment...an eyebrow was quirked, the pain being applied to her tongue was slowly released and a deep breath was taken.

"Like any of these piles of slag around here could afford me."

An amused smirk was allowed for a brief moment before her eyes moved away from the Major and her right hand raised enough to allow the third knuckle of her index finger to brush against her lips, stop for a moment, tap a few times there, and then lower again. Her eyes flicked back to Glayde. As much as she could cork that inner seething from becoming verbal, Charles knew damn well there was no containing the spark of loathing still remaining in that look she gave him. It was a girl thing.

"Real job it is, then."

Surprise, relief, and disappointment swam through Glayde's mind. He hadn't yet had the fortune of finding himself on the recieving end of one of Tur'enne's 'striking a superior officer' charges, and half hoped he'd have the opportunity to literally knock some sense into the woman. Part of him wondered if she'd actually need that: some physical, alpha male assertion of his seniority. On the other hand, that could just have been his subconscious desire to beat the crap out of her on occasion making up excuses that sounded semi-plausable. Maybe he'd arrange something to let that happen when they got back; assuming he didn't wind up killing her while they were trapped together in Hyperspace, of course. For the first time, he realised how lucky he was having other members of his team who could bear the brunt of Tur'enne's attention on those long voyages, while he hid away in the cockpit.

Brushing his mug aside with the back of his knuckles, he interlaced his fingers mostly together, thumb, index and little fingers pressed together, tip to tip. The manual fusion drummed an irregular pattern on the table's surface as he scrutinised Tur'enne's features, trying to read whatever thoughts were swarming about in her mind. Giving up, he leant forward, elbows propped on the table as his fingers laced further into a childish hand-pistol, tapping lightly against his nose.

"Alliance Intelligence wants us to go to Corellia," he said simply, watching for the Lieutenant's reaction. "We're on defection duty. Some scientist or other has been feeling around for Rebel contacts; we're there to grab him and, if he seems genuine, bring him to a secure location for further evaluation by the big-wigs."

Held an inch or so away from his face, the tips of his index fingers tapped together a few times. "With me so far, or would you prefer I used smaller words?"

A quick succession of four taps accompanied her fingernails on the table, one by one. Glayde was trying to push buttons, trying to provoke her, and damned if he wasn't doing a good job at it. Not even the mention of getting to go home managed to lighten her mood any. Usually just a thought of Corellia was enough to bring a smile instantly to her, but at that moment she was still bordering on giving on either storming off, screaming at her superior, or...fighting it all in another way entirely. It was the third option that ended up winning out. There was just no way in hell she was going to give Glayde the satisfaction of letting him know just how under her skin he was getting.

"No sir, all understood."

It was said with an overly professional, albeit curt tone. It was hard to not let the small phrase have an edge of sarcasm to it, but it was amazing what Charles was capable of when she put her mind to it.

"Judging by the fact it's just you and I sitting here, I'm guessing it's safe to assume that the 'we' in all that is in reference to those of the team currently present? Or have you had this delightful little meeting with the others already?"

Well...almost capable of. She was Corellian after all. But the question was valid. Retrieval jobs similar to what she had heard so far could go any number of ways depend on the importance, or lack thereof, of the person in question.

Glayde paused for a moment, wondering if it would ever be possible to disguise Sergeant O'Hurn in such a way that he didn't look like some kind of soldier, mercenary, or thug. And trying to make Onashi seem like a normal, functioning member of society; there were some things that physics just didn't allow.

He decided to meet her sarcasm with a forced smile that radiated his own. "In their infinate wisdom," he revealed, "Alliance Intelligence seems to think that our Corellian status, our familiarity with the terrain, and the fact that we don't look like cliché characatures of our profession gives us better odds of completing this mission successfully."

He stared off vaguely in the middle distance, taking the opportunity while his brain dredged up the specifics of their cover story from memory to observe one of the Ground Crew having a little trouble with landing his backside onto a chair. Several attempts had ended in an abort when his alignment had been off; apparently the most recent had ended in a catastrophic undercarriage failure, that had deposited him unceremoniously on the floor. He rolled his eyes in disapproval, the motion efficiently aiming his gaze back towards Tur'enne again.

"Our cover is pretty straight-forward. We're posing as representatives of a small haullage firm, there to collect a shipment on behalf of a third party business; Intel has arranged the specifics with an insider we've got in their organisation." He jabbed a finger at a grain of salt that had managed to escape the attention of the table cleaning droid, fiddling with the crystal for a moment before sending it skipping down the mostly vacant table with a flick. "We're booked in on the public tour of their Research and Development facilities. We take the tour, find our bearings, and then return later that night to break in and snag ourselves a defector." He shrugged. "Piece of ryshcate."

While the phrase was cliché, the rather cheeky use of her typical codename wasn't appreciated and the glare he was given verged on matching the iciness of Ilum. It was short lived, however. Even if Charles wanted to let it linger until the universe in all its twisted ways actually managed to make the Major drop dead from the look. Those drenned Force Users could probably do it. But as soon as that strange thought entered her head it was instantly shoved away, rather violently so. Enough that it even warranted a subtle shake of her head that probably came off more as her brushing off continued annoyance at the man across from her.

The whole mission in and of itself sounded straight forward, simple, dull as all hell. But at least it'd get her off of the damn ship for a while and (now the smirk came) it'd be nice to see how the home planet was holding up.

"Fair enough. There any other special tidbits I should know about? Or you done with me until we move out?"

That you should know about? Sure. That I'm going to tell you about -?

Glayde sighed, and shook his head. Orders were orders, whether he agreed with them or not; for now, that was all she needed to know. No doubt she'd give him hell when she actually found out or worked out the rest; it was imperative then that he cling on to this blissful level of her irritation at him for as long as possible, while it was still more or less within tolerable levels.

He was about to dismiss her, when a brief spark of memory flashed in his mind. He snapped his fingers together, and dove into his jacket, retrieving the spare datapad that he'd transferred a few select files from the briefing document that Intel had provided. Sliding it across the table, the details of her half of their cover story displayed on the screen, he offered her a brief flash of a smile. He wasn't remotely happy about the identities that the Rebellion had concieved, but for now he had forced that reservation in his mind, and was preparing himself to relish every ounce of discomfort that Tur'enne endured.

"Congratulations," he added; "Looks as if we're engaged to be married."

"Oh goodie." Always wanted to marry a kriffing hard-nosed son of a kath-hound.

She managed to keep the majority from being spoken as she scooped up the datapad and offered a rather sickly-sweet smile that betrayed all the frustration she was feeling. Internally she was screaming, some part of her throwing a tantrum like some spoiled kid. Charles loathed that part of her mind just a hair greater than the hatred she was starting to feel towards this whole mission. It'd ease up eventually and she'd cool down to that silent calm that came with actually focusing on a task at hand.

For the moment though, if time allowed for it, that damned punching bag in the gym was going to get another visit after all.

"So when do we leave?"

"As soon as your gear is stowed," Glayde answered simply, feeling a little disappointment that Tur'enne's reaction was so minimal. He'd have to work hard to frustrate her on the trip Coreward, if he was going to get the satisfaction and gratification that he was looking for.

He rolled his shoulders, a tention knot between the blades causing his spine to pop momentarily. "We're taking the Queen," he added, as if there was some doubt about whether or not they'd be using the YT-2000 that the unit had borrowed for one of its earlier missions, and neglected to give back to its owner. It seemed the perfect, ironic choice, anyhow: a Corellian ship, carrying Corellian agents on a mission to Corellia.

"Report when you're ready, Lieu-" He stopped himself, part way through her rank. A slight smile quirked at the corners of his mouth. "Sweetheart."

"Yeah yeah, we'll see if you are still calling me that when this is all said and done."

There was all manner of nicknames wanting to be said in retort to that 'Sweetheart' bit. Most of them involving Glayde's newer rank coupled with references to one's backside. But that revelation that he was getting some sort of enjoyment out of seeing how far he could push her stayed them once more.

A necessary, albeit slightly mocking, salute was given before she headed back to her quarters to begin gathering what equipment she would need. The small ball even managed to find its way into her bag. It was going to be a long trip in hyperspace alone with the Major, after all.

Days Later - Corellia

It was good to be home, supposedly. Glayde didn't feel it. He'd left Corellia - run off to the Imperial Academy - for a reason. That reason unfortunately shared roughly half of his genome, as well as his surname, and his former rank; at least, according to John's latest intel on "Captain Glayde: CorSec's Finest". His father had been a Detective while he was a kid; that had been great when you wanted to brag about your father's occupation at school; less good when he turned his attention to your misendeavours, and decided that capital punishment was an appropriate parenting technique. Sure, it had been rough since their mother died; but it had been rough on both of them.

Such a cliché, he mused, eyes and limbs focussed on powering down the Astral Queen while he allowed his mind to wander. Simplify it down far enough, and Glayde was just the little boy with daddy issues, who ran off to the Empire, became disillusioned, and then threw in with the Rebellion. But, well, there was a reason why his nose kinked slightly to the left; why the knuckles of one hand didn't line up quite right; why the fracture scars in his bones ached whenever he found himself on a planet that was a little too cold.

He sighed, reaching above him to cycle the switches that would power down the ship's main engines. His head angled to read a particular display, his gaze captured Lieutenant Tur'enne in his periferal vision. She'd been uncharacteristically quiet for the bulk of the voyage; less than an hour into hyperspace, the banter had died away, and the two had fallen into an almost total silence. Neither of them was looking forward to this mission; an educated guess suggested that it was more than just reservations about their cover story that led to the Lieutenant's silence too. He probably should ask; find out if the specifics were likely to compromise the mission. But sometimes, it was best not to.

Instead, he decided to slip into his default mode of mixed cynicism, wit, and sarcasm. "You alright back there, precious?" he asked, fighting down the quirk of a smile that was trying to kindle on his lips, and bracing himself for whatever retort she conjured.

Charles replied only in a mixture of a scoff and a half-laugh. Making it rather obvious she was just fine and dandy and she didn't quite appreciate the question.

It was a strange sensation that she was experiencing. A full expectancy of homesickness and joy and excitement and anything else that came with the idea of being able to step foot on Corellia again was a false. Instead there was that nagging reminder of just how she had left, what had lead up to that, the terms of her joining the Rebellion. Where Charlotte had expected happy memories...only the rather grim persisted. It had quieted her down at least...which was probably a good thing for her own sake.

All in all it wasn't quite the homecoming she was expecting on her end which both annoyed and suited her just fine. Less stupid giddiness meant more time to focus on everything ahead of them and already that horrible knotting in her stomach was dissolving into that dreadful resolve that always seemed to get the job done.

With the ship secured, Glayde and Tur'enne were forced to place the success of their mission, and indeed their lives, in the hands of the Coronet Public Transportation Network. If there was one thing that Glayde regarded with more loathing than anything else, it was the CPTN. Public transport was hardly something that filled many with joy, but on Corellia - where the cities were still far enough apart for you to actually see broad swathes of space between them - the transit network was particularly bad.

Perhaps Glayde was biased; the CPTN had been the central focus of many of his undesirable childhood memories. Sure, the Empire had comitted its share of atrocities, but those had been to other people: impersonal by comparison. The Empire hadn't been responsible for the accident that had claimed the life of his first pet; nor had it cost him an evening with Eris Naidley - the girl from High School who was guarenteed to go all the way - because the kriffing sky train broke down and stranded him on the wrong side of Coronet. There were more instances, too - more traumatic experiences that had occurred either as a result of the CPTN, or with one of its services as an integral component or venue.

He scratched at his eyebrow, and frowned. Maybe it was all because of those god-awful commercials that had rotted his brain as a child. Guess what? After hundreds of years of distinguished service, CPTN is being promoted to Major! That's right: choose the NUMBER #1 transport network on Corellia today, for all your transit needs!

A shudder ran through him; one which he deftly disguised with a yawn. Moderating his pace slightly, he forced Tur'enne to stop wavering half a step behind as they filed out of the cramped transit carriage with the rest of the swarm of disembarking passengers. "I guess we should get into character," he muttered, extending a hand in her direction, and offering what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

If anything the trip into the city helped to calm her. There was something strangely soothing about the subtle sounds of the engines of the sky train and the fact she'd snagged a window seat that allowed the strange apprehension towards it all to melt away. There had even been a time when she'd glanced over at Glayde and let a small laugh leave her... amused at the fact that once again, even after all that time, she wasn't being allowed to ride the damn thing by herself.

Somewhere in the back of her mind she was remembering the first time she'd ever gotten to take the CPTN. She had to be on her knees to really get a good view out of the window...she'd been on her way to visit her grandmother in the city and the entire trip had been spent with her hands up against the transparisteel and her eyes practically glued on the passing scenery. She'd been on her way to visit her grandmother that time, her parents hadn't come along and so instead she'd gotten to go with the one person who had always looked out for her...

And just like that Charles was forced to push it all aside once more as the sky train came to a halt. There was no sense in trying to remember anything good about the planet anymore, it always just came back to the less enjoyable. That suited her just fine, they weren't here on leave anyway. Which is probably the only reason she managed to force a smile and place her hand in that of the Major's. She even went so far as to force a few steps to be taken to put herself closer to him.

It was all about the mission now, and despite whatever kind of frak-up she could be during the down time, Charles managed to take her assignments seriously. If that meant she had to be supposedly love-struck by her superior, it would be done. She could find whoever came up with the idea and file a complaint with them later.

No matter how much confidence and bravado Glayde threw into his conviction of playing the part, he couldn't help but feel a little awkward weaving his way through the crowd, hand-in-hand with Tur'enne. It wasn't the specifics of the part he was playing; while Charlotte was hardly the most agreeable of women that John had ever encountered, she was attractive enough he supposed, and being forced to wander around pretending that they were an item was filling him with a glimmering of smug pride at the attention it drew from fellow pedestrians, rather than nerves.

His reservations stemmed more from having to mask his true identity for the entire duration of their stay here. Granted, he'd done his fair share of pretending - hiding his sympathies for the Alliance for starters - but that wasn't nearly the same as this. The last time he'd taken on a full alternate persona he had been seven, appearing in a school production; things had hardly gone well during one particular performance and, of course, that happened to be the same one where his father was sat in the audience with a holovid camera. Far too often since, the movie of his blunder and forgotten lines had been displayed whenever his father felt the need to embarass him; his stage fright then, was understandable to a certain extent.

But right now, he couldn't let that get to him: this mission was important, and his own reservations and personal issues couldn't be allowed to get in the way. Besides, Tur'enne would never forgive him if they screwed up - not when she found out the full picture - and the last thing he needed was extra fuel for the inferno that was Charlotte's scathing attitude.

Keeping his voice low, Glayde gestured subtly in the direction of an important-looking person dressed in a suit and wielding a clipboard. "Here we go," he muttered, leading them carefully in the right direction. As their approach caught the attention of the businesswoman in front of them, he flashed her a smile. "Clark Anders," he introduced, keeping his face as pleasant as he could without provoking cramps and aches from the muscles. "And this gorgeous thing -" He released Charlotte's hand, and wrapped his arm around her shoulder, applying a gentle squeeze. "- is my fiancée, Kara Foster." He gestured towards the clipboard in her fingers. "We're here on behalf of Pegasus Transit; booked in for the 1100 tour?"

Every muscle in her body begged to be allowed to tense, to cringe, to yank herself out of the hold the Major had forced. All sorts of thoughts wanted to come to the forefront of her mind, the majority including imaginings of tugging the clipboard out of the woman's hands and using it to bludgeon the man at her side.

Instead, somehow beyond all reason, yet perfectly in sync with her cover, a gentle embarrassed blush rose to her cheeks at the introduction. With that just about to be married stupidity her arms wrapped around Glayde's waist and she tugged herself closer to him for an instant before giving him a soft playful shove.

"You mean you didn't put me down on the list with your last name? I'm shocked! I can't remember the last time you didn't refer to me as 'The Future Mrs. Anders.'"

That dumb giddy smile that always seemed to possess brides-to-be showed up, right on cue, as she put a hand to 'Clark''s chest and leaned in towards him again before speaking to the lady with the clipboard in a fake hushed tone.

"He's such a dork, it's completely adorable. Still won't tell me where our honeymoon will be, the meanie!"

The representative with the clipboard looked like she was torn between finding the whole situation endearing, or being sickened by it, either worked as far as the Lieutenant was concerned. The lack of a suspicious gaze meant the stupid little play was working off perfectly. After a small shake of her head in amusement she waved the two off in the direction of the tour's start point. Already there were three others waiting, all from the same company as far as 'Kara' could tell as they were already engaged in some seemingly important conversation. Good, it meant they wouldn't have to interrupt them with more silly introductions. The last thing she wanted to resort to was flashing about the stupid ring on her finger like it was a badge of honor.

Though the smile remained fixed on his face, and his breathing remained calm and relaxed, inside his mind Glayde heaved a sigh of disappointment. Normally, the intimate proximity of an attractive young woman woman would be something to be pleased about; but it really said something about the downturn his life had taken lately when you realised that said woman was only there because she was under orders to find him attractive.

He let his eyes sweep the crowd, military mind analysing the various businessmen, women, and transgendered visitors that were waiting patiently for the tour to begin. Unshakable instincts kicking in, he analysed each of them for threatening behaviour; planned his escape routes, if they needed them. He also felt himself subconsciously chastising local security for the blatant oversights they were making, and almost felt compelled to seek out their Chief and give him the run-down: what kind of supposed specialist could possibly make so many errors and still expect to keep their job?

He had to force himself not to; force himself to remember that every error on their part was an advantage to them. But it took an effort. I guess my brain isn't used to me being one of the 'bad guys', he mused, eyes still roaming.

A string of repulsor cars, tethered together, rumbled to a halt a few meters away. A stirring in the crowd began, as the various people competed with each other to snag the coverted social status of being at the front. Glayde didn't bother; the more inconspicuous they appeared, the easier their task would be. And besides, 'Clark' would much rather settle down and cuddle up with 'Kara', out of the way towards the rear of the group.

"Come on, sweetie," he said with a gentle nudge, aiming them towards the rear-most compartment of the landspeeder train.

No sooner than the landspeeder train began to move again with all its passengers on board than a hologram of a woman popped up at the front of each car. And no sooner than it popped up than it began to speak the usual "blahblahblahs" and "Welcome to Frohad Galactic Firearms!" complete with company mission statement and over-exaggerated corporate hoopla. In as few words as she could think of: Cheesy and cheap as hell. Leave it to an Imperial supported company to make things as painful as possible.

As the train moved along through the various areas at a relatively slow pace, Charlotte kept her mind focused as best she could on locations, what order they came up in, what each looked like, what security she could see, what security she couldn't see... All the while trying to keep her mind off of the moderately comfortable position she'd found, tucked against the Major's side with his arm around her. A position she'd actually encouraged and still was with her arm and hand resting on top of his. Force be damned if she'd go and blow this thing on flubbing their cover.

Each time the tour came to a pause in front of an area, she'd wait for any subtle movements coming from Glayde that would signal for them to make a breakaway from the train. And each time she would glance over at the others on the tour, making sure they were far more interested in the displays and the demonstrations, and information than the engaged couple in the back.

Glayde was actually paying some attention to the information being provided for them by the hologram woman; or rather, the kind of half-concentration that you paid to the person talking to you, when frankly you were more interested in whatever was going on with the holonet, neighbour's pet, or attractive woman across the street. Apparently, "due to recent terrorist activity", Frohad Galactic had become one of the premier suppliers of firearms for private sector security across the Core Worlds. Glayde couldn't help a quirk of a proud smile at that; he'd been part of the problem that had plagued companies trying to ship in supplies from the Outer Rim to the Core. The smile was son killed however, at the fact that despite their efforts, the Empire was still managing to profit regardless.

His eyes flicked across indicators on the wall, grabbing at enough letters to identify them as they trundled past. An ominous and subtly marked doorway flashed past, tucked away at the end of a short corridor, hidden from view; Glayde tensed, as the train began to slow, coming to rest beside one of the broad transparisteel windows that - according to the tour - would provide them a view of a demonstration of their latest incarnation of the Magna Caster. A subconscious tug in Glayde's gut compelled him to stay and watch: that inshakable, inner child that wanted to watch someone shooting the cool gun. Better judgement kicked the crap out of that impulse however, and dragged it - semi-conscious - out of sight into some dark corner.

Leaning close to Tur'enne, he whispered softly in her ear: "Lets go."

After a quick sweep checking that the coast was clear, Glayde vaulted from the car and landed silently on the metallic floor. He dropped into a crouch, hands holding the repulsor cart steady to stop the vibrations of his exit from attracting any unwanted attention. The hologram seemed unphased by their departure, busy running down a lowdown on the weapon being demonstrated. Glayde held their carriage steady for a few moments longer as Tur'enne disembarked; not a moment too soon, as the energy binders strapping one cart to the next strained, and the entire precession began to head off. Jogging silently as he could, he led the way back the twenty meters to the short corridor they'd passed, and ducked inside.

Back pressed against the passage wall, John glanced quickly in both directions down the main corridor that the tour had been travelling, while Tur'enne crouched down behind whatever security contraptions held the security door sealed. Glayde risked a look in her direction, and found the lump of security equipment both ominous and imposing. "What are we dealing with here, Lieutenant?"

"Nothing too serious, sir. Seems in line with the rest of this place, seriously in need of a security overhaul."

Of all the random things she'd been thankful for so far on this little outing, this may have been one of the shining moments. Had this been a proper Imperial facility a proper code, identification, or a damn good false for one input into the security panel would have been the only way to open a door with anything important behind it. Typically any sort of attempts to force the door open would just result in a blast-proof one dropping down behind it.

Though this was far from any Imperial facility, or even a company with secrets worthy of hiding. No doubt BlasTech and it's affiliates had the good sort of doors, it looked like Frohad just wasn't quite there yet. Either that, or they were just very, very good at making it look like they weren't. Charles couldn't help but cringe away from that thought as she pried off the panel and began unwrapping the wiring found behind.

"I know you're doing it...so stop give me that look. If you wanted a proper slicer you should have dragged along Jsorra."

She hadn't bothered to look up at the Major as she shoved the panel into his hands, nor had she when she began sorting through the small bundle of multicolored lines but almost as soon as she finished the comment about the Corporal, a glance was cast at Glayde and she smirked.

"...Though I don't think he looks like your type."

Fiddling wouldn't quite describe what she was doing to the wiring. There was some method to the madness that had been drilled and timed and drilled again enough to the point where she probably could have dealt with it in her sleep, but to the untrained eye it probably looked like she was just playing with the damned things. That was until a spark happened and the inner mechanics warmed up before a split second later, the security door slid open.

"Knew I was good for something."

John pondered the possibility of having brought Jsorra instead, and whether the man's insufferable personality would have been the lesser of the two evils in this case. Tur'enne - most of the time - was nothing short of insufferable as well; but she inspired a different kind of frustration in him. Jsorra provoked gruff, irritated retorts that usually shut him up in an instant. Tur'enne on the other hand inspired a desire to retaliate, and that was far more fun.

"Don't be stupid," he muttered, stepping past her to scout the room beyond - a room that was thanfully empty. That could have been awkward. "Turns out you're good at looking pretty and keeping your mouth shut as well." He glanced back to shoot her a thoughtful, sarcastic frown. "Its a shame you don't bother to do either the rest of the time."

Stepping into the room, Glayde scanned the available equipment. Tur'enne was right: she was no slicer, and neither was Glayde, but between them they knew enough for what this mission required. Hopefully. Picking the nearest computer terminal, he settled into place and cracked his knuckles, before delving into his pocket to pull out the computer gizmo that Alliance Intelligence had provided: apparently cabable of exploiting a loophole their would-be defector had worked into the Frohad Galactic firewall. Apparently his access wasn't enough to help them get past the security doors, but it could give them free reign of their computer access.

The prompt for a password rapidly disappeared, replaced with much more friendly screens; success, apparently. He unleashed a stealth sigh of relief, and scrutinised the screen intently, searching for the information required. A sidelong glance spotted Tur'enne hovering close by; a momentary stab of panic shot through his mind, as he frantically searched for an excuse to send her away without it being obvious he was hiding anything from her.

He turned, looking at her squarely. "You gonna just stand around there? How about checking out those security monitors, and keeping an eye out in case anyone is coming?"

The look she gave him made up for the absence of desire to tell her superior to go frak himself during a mission. And the sarcasm practically dripping from her next words only added to the unspoken sentiment.

"Just making sure you didn't need any help."

He did have a point though and she knew better than to leave anything to chance so the actual direction given wasn't too bad. As her eyes scanned over the security feeds she found herself severely wanting of a decent sidearm at that moment, just in case things turned bad on them. Hell, she would have settled for a combat blade.

The security guards she had taken note of were still in their same locations, another was on a rather short patrol area down a hall from where they were (she made special note of him, making sure his area of surveillance wouldn't include the office they were in), and a few others were scattered about, some stationary, some moving. She took a little time to watch each one, silently praying to whatever gods there were that the night watch had the same posts.

Other monitors showed the tour route and she was rather pleased to find that the cameras weren't actually very showing of the actual occupants of the cars. Frellin' idiots. Then again, the entire place had a nice calm atmosphere to it, they probably didn't get a lot of "trouble makers" and hadn't seen a real need to up their security to some insane level. No doubt that would change after their little stunt.

"Looks all clear, Major. This going to take much longer? That tour is looking awful close to getting to a stopping point again."

Glayde drummed his fingers impatiently on the desk, as a progress bar crawled slowly across the screen. Chunks of data raced from computer into the data module he'd connected up, downloading structural plans, security maps, deployment protocols, shift rotations; everything they'd need to successfully plan an infiltration, find the man they were looking for, and make it out before security had an opportunity to get a bead on them.

He felt sympathy for the man they were trying to rescue. Though a private sector business, the Empire had invested in various aspects of Frohad's R&D, and that - apparently - gave them certain privilages to impose 'security considerations'. That included, as the information scrolling across the screen informed the Major, a small contingent of Stormtroopers who, though classified as 'Security Consultants' and devoid of their usual armour, were quite obviously there to ensure that the researchers on those sensitive projects didn't leave the 'Staff Quarters' in which they were heald. Officially, it was to protect the researchers from being targeted; in truth, it was only there to protect the Empire and their damned secrets and lies.

The indicator finished moving across the screen, and the status display disappeared. Relieved, Glayde grabbed the device, and ripped it free of the data port it had been connected to, and tucked it back into the inner pocket of his jacket. "Got it," he announced, backing out of the operating system, and returning the terminal to its idle state. He turned to Tur'enne, and nodded. "Lets get the hell out of here."

"Kriffing brilliant idea, Major. Couldn't have suggested better myself."

A simple 'Yes, sir' would have sufficed but as far as Charles was concerned they had already spent too long in the office. Too long in one spot made for too many chances of getting caught and while they now had the information they needed, if anything went wrong at this point it would be devastating to the plan. Not that...anything going wrong at any other time would be any better, but if she could pinpoint a moment where it would probably be the worst, right now would be it. Unarmed, in a room they couldn't possibly be in if they were who they said they were, downloading information they had no reason to be looking at, unarmed. Yeah, not a good moment.

As much as she would have loved to run back down the tour route, pressed against the wall to keep in that nice little blind spot the cameras had proven to have, and then hopped back into the car they were supposed to be in, there was still one pressing little matter to deal with. The damn security door.

The last thing Charles wanted to do was tip off the security team that something wasn't normal and she was pretty sure Glayde shared that sentiment. So back to the panel she went, putting wires back where they needed to be, making everything all nice and neat and making damn sure to seal the door. There wasn't a reason to tell the Major to keep watch, she wasn't the one to give orders and both of them had more than enough training to make that an agreed upon without a single word passing between them... but it didn't keep her from making the associated hand signals anyway. As she was finishing up the job that strange tense feeling she'd come to loathe and trust on began creeping up on her. Just a few more seconds...just a few more frakkin seconds...

Outside, Glayde was a picture of calm professionalism, vigilantly standing watch down the corridor. On the inside however, the story was very different. A last-minute glance at the security screens before they'd departed the room had confirmed that their route was clear, but the delay as Tur'enne halted to tidy up after herself had thrown that intelligence right out of the window. Glayde cursed himself - and her - for not having restored the security door to some semblance of normality immediately, but their mutual haste had made them overlook that countermeasure. That said, there was a certain logic to it, if you looked hard enough: Tur'enne had disabled the locking mechanism, and there was no guarentee that restoring it wouldn't cause the door to lock - sealing them in - or close before they had an opportunity to step through.

In either case, it was too late to complain about it now; Glayde bit down his criticisms, and shifted his position to sweep the opposite direction down the corridor. His gaze settled on the approaching form of a security guard. Damn.

Tur'enne chose that moment to replace the cover on the locking mechanisms, but time was too tight for them to sneak out before they were discovered; and the odds of them going unnoticed in this little corridor - of the guard walking straight past without a glance in their direction - were so dramatically against them that even a Corellian had to pay attention.

As the Lieutenant rose to her feet, then, Glayde initiated the only plan that his mind was able to formulate in such urgency.

He kissed her. Stepping towards her, the proximity of his body pressed her up against the wall, his fingers snaking into the soft and golden strands of her hair as his lips locked with hers. His nostrils flared as her scent danced against his senses; his heart thundered in his chest in anticipation -

"Hey!"

Glayde turned towards the newly-arrived security guard, and did his best to rearrange his features into a look of shock and surprise. Fortunately, his last actions seemed to have provoked the same kind of expression on Tur'enne's features, mixed with a little panic and confusion. Feigning panic of his own, his hand snuck out and ensnared Charlotte's; the gentle squeeze he applied was a non-verbal instruction to the Lieutenant to play along.

Suitably thrown off-balance by the compromising position he'd found the duo in, the Security Guard's tone softened, although only slightly. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Glayde grimaced, sheepishly. "I'm Clark Anders; this is my fiancée, Kara. We -" He hesitated, the intonation of his words and the flow of his body language crafted to perfection. "- we snuck away from the tour to, uhh -"

A glimmer of amusement sparking in his eye - no doubt realising the potential retell value of this annecdote - the guard studied Tur'enne with an appraising eye. "This is a restricted area," he explained, but all the threat from his voice had gone. He fixed Glayde with a look that was a mix of sly and jealousy. His mouth quirked in a smile. "Better get back to the tour before anyone else notices you."

Glayde flashed his most appreciative smile and, without another word, dragged Tur'enne hastily away, back down the corridor in pursuit of the tour.

Safely out of sight of the guard, he ducked behind a pillar that presumably marked the location of a set of blast doors - he'd have to check the plans they'd stolen later to confirm that suspicion - he heaved out a sigh of relief, released Tur'enne's hand, and offered an appologetic "smile. Are you okay?"

First came the panic, that blind sense of What the frell is happening? Why is this happening?!; then came the urge to cringe away - from the situation, from the man kissing her, from the wall she was pressed up against, from her own skin, from reality; all followed in hot pursuit to do all manner of unspeakable meanness to the Major.

So when it ended and the security guard began questioning she was silent, cheeks flushed with a deep crimson, breathing erratic, playing right into the part of the embarrassed fiancée perfectly...even if she didn't realize it. She couldn't realize much of anything at that moment.
Hey! There's someone over here!

"I'm Clark Anders..."
The Major's voice was a million parsecs away. Like some sort of reversal of what was true and what wasn't.

Holy...
Hey, hey kid! You awake? C'mon...

"This is a restricted area"

I didn't know they had prisoners in here.
It wasn't in the damn intel, no one knew. Frelling spooks.
So what do we do?

"Better get back to the tour..."

Hey! HEY!...it's okay! It's...okay. No one's going to hurt you!
Sir, we gotta bail. Place is wired to blow.
Come on, kid. You're safe, but you gotta get up.
Frakkin Imperials...
Sir, we need to leave. Now.
Alright, alright. Captain, lead the squad out. We aren't leaving anyone behind.

She was on her feet, being guided, being lead away.

"Are you okay?"

Her eyes closed and reopened slowly. With the single question everything came back into full focus, sharp and brilliant, just like it always was. Frakking hell...since when did dreams decide to start invading waking hours? Force damn it, they better not make her go see a shrink for this dren. The Colonel said he'd make sure she never would have to, but he wasn't calling the shots when it came to her anymore. That was now utterly in the hands of the man in front of her.

"Sir, yes sir..."

There was going to be an expected reaction, and that sort of formality followed by stoic silence wasn't it. She caught on to that almost as quickly as the incident had phased her. Her eyes locked with Glayde's for a moment before the quick strike happened. It wasn't as hard as she would have wanted, that would have left her hand tingling from the impact, but the connection came anyway with a resounding slap that she hoped the guard was far enough away to not hear. Her voice remained hushed despite the apparent need to scream at him.

"Frakkin banthadren cover stories or not, sir. You had no kriffing right! Just...just....ask next time! Before hand if frelling need be!"

The words came out immediately following her hand and once said Charles instantly braced herself for the retaliation. Returned hit, instant telling of charges going to go up against her, at least she couldn't be demoted... Though at this point she wasn't sure what to expect.

He didn't recoil from the impact of her hand. It was hardly the first time he'd provoked that reaction from someone, and it was obvious that Tur'enne was holding back some of her full force; why, he couldn't be sure, but the fact that he likely wouldn't be left with a glowing red handprint on his face was a good thing as far as the mission was concerned, he decided not to look this particular gift-nerf in the mouth.

No, her hand hadn't hurt. Unexpectedly however, her words had; or rather, the subtext that came with it. There was a note of pain there, and of betrayal, that clearly went beyond the situation that had just occurred. That gnawed at him, twisting in his chest like a knife to the heart. An appology would be hollow, insufficient; besides, Tur'enne didn't seem like the sort of person who would appreciate being felt sorry for.

His gaze lingered upon her for a moment longer, deeply conflicted, and longing to somehow quell whatever suffering was plaguing her. It surprised him how swiftly this had occurred - how quickly he had adopted her as yet another surrogate for his Sora; another spare sister that kindled his desire to protect and defend. He forced those thoughts to abate and, as his eyes fell away, merely nodded. "Noted," he added simply, turning himself away.

"Come on; lets get back to the tour."

Returning to the tour was easy, apparently the security guard had informed the few ahead of him of what he'd discovered already, though none seemed too upset about the two that had wandered off. Charles had managed to push herself back into the mindset of the mission, though finding any further intimate contact with the Major to be awkward at best. It still worked for the cover though, especially considering they'd been "caught."

The rest had been passed in silence between her and her superior. No scathing comments, no mean jabs, no verbal assaults could be made. It was as if the antagonistic side of her had just been worn out. Even the ride back on the CPTN was passed without incident, her mind locked on the important part of this mission as she kept reminding herself that the easy part was what was done.

The Astral Queen was a welcome sight, but an even more welcoming one than that was her large duffel bag carrying her full infiltrator gear and various preferred weapons. She had to leave her favorite rifle at home base, but it wasn't going to be needed for this op anyway. A quick change out of the business casual clothing and into a pair of fatigues instantly suited her as well. Solid colored, she looked like half the other youth of Corellia. The Military and the Navy both were "fashionable", after all.

With the bag containing her gear slung over her shoulder she headed to the mess area of the ship and took residence on one of the seats there, leaning against the bulkhead she pulled a single object from her pocket and let the bag drop to the floor. Nothing to do now but wait a few hours until it began getting dark. Then they'd secure transport back to the city (thankfully not that dreadful public dren) and get this all over with.
Until then... well...

The red, spherical colored small bit of rubber was tossed.
Thu-thunk....smack.

Glayde had sequestered himself in the cockpit. It was safer in there; no awkward glances to contend with. In truth he was a little disappointed, used to a somewhat different reaction from women when he kissed them. Granted, the volume of her reaction had been about right; but though it had been a while, he was pretty sure they'd skipped over some fairly important stages in the middle. The first hour - or at least, as much of it as had remained after he'd learned to zone out the dull, repetative thud of whatever it was Tur'enne was doing back there; something he didn't allow his mind to speculate upon - he'd spent complicating the rammifications. Had he perhaps lost his way with women after so long sneaking about on behalf of the Rebellion? A glance at his reflection in the cockpit canopy however, and a reassuring eyebrow quirk and smile at himself set those fears to rest.

The remainder of the time had been spent staring out at the sky, watching the light intensity drop at a painfully slow rate, and wondering how feasable it would be to construct an exact replica of the YT-2000 he was sitting in, perhaps named the Ethereal Prince or something similarly witty like that, so that he didn't keep constantly having to borrow the craft from Amos Iakona.

In the distance, light-dependant sensors atop the artificial lighting on their landing pad unleashed a surge of power through the circuits, bathing the immediate surroundings of the ship with a pale and flickering amber glow. With an effort, he unhooked his heels from the corner of the cockpit console, and eased himself to his feet. His spine crunched as he flexed his shoulders; hopefully just the sign of poor posture in the flight couch, and nothing more sinister. With a grunt, he spurred his legs into motion, ducking as he passed to scoop up his wating duffel bag from beside the door, and propelled himself down the corridor towards the remainder of the ship.

"Wheels up, Ryschcate," he called, as he stepped into the mess, hoping the use of her codename would snap her mind into mission mode without the need to dwell on any of their earlier awkwardness. Before he managed to achieve the same zen state himself however, his mind threw up a question that it wouldn't allow him to leave unasked. "Why do they call you Ryschcate, Tur'enne? Something with a story to it, or just a generic Corellian thing?"

It worked like a charm, what had once been a point to give someone a dirty look over now instantly called all senses heightened by training into action. As the ball came back around for another pass her hand reached out, snatching it from the air before quickly shoving it into the bag at her feet. And then came a question that, well, she hadn't ever had to answer before. After all, her last squad had known all about the origins of the nickname turned into code name...they were the ones that had given it to her.

As she stood up, a mild smirk formed at his question. It was a decent enough thing though, Charles decided, getting back to the mission and having something else to take your mind off what had happened was just what she wanted. Well, actually what she wanted was a good stiff drink and the orders to go shoot a plastic soldier of some importance from a nice far away spot where she could then finish her drink before deciding to get up and move on... but that wasn't in the plans for this runabout.

The duffel bag with her equipment was hoisted back to her shoulder as she followed the Major down the ramp.

"Like that isn't fairly obvious? I ran with a bunch of guys who thought it'd be cute to start calling me something obnoxious. Had a few at first: puff cake, pudding, wasaka-berry... For a while they pretty much kept the cutesy dren to when I wasn't in the room. First guy to call me 'Sweetcake' spent two days in the med bay."

Charles couldn't help but smile at the memory. Mostly because the moron of a Lieutenant who had been guilty of the crime had later become one of those who had taken it up as a personal mission to watch her back in bar fights.

As they exited the port their ship was at she slowly walked down one of the alleyways and tossed her bag into the backseat of a landspeeder.

"So one day, we get this new smartass guy, fresh to the rebellion straight from Corellia. He overhears and instantly brings up ryshcates. Some of the guys didn't get it so he had to go and explain the fact it's a damn pastry."

She rolled her eyes and shook her head for a moment, waiting for the Major to follow her lead and deposit his bag before she herself jumped into the vehicle, taking the passenger side and, similar to how she had with the security panel earlier, removed a panel on the underside of the dash and began pulling wires.

"Rodder went so far as to go mention the whole off-world celebration significance and since I hadn't been home since they'd picked me up they instantly all joined in the name. Actually had me laughing the first time they all decided to start calling me it. Guess it just kinda stuck. Kinda always made me think of when I was a kid and my mom would make them...so didn't make me want to smack the dren out of them."

The engines of the landspeeder suddenly fired to life and she looked up at the Major with a half-satisfied smile.

"Guess it really just ended up being some Corellian thing after all."

If asked later she wouldn't be able to tell you why she'd gone off and told the whole damned story. Maybe it just helped to clear her head some more.

Glayde quirked the corner of his mouth in aknowledgement of the successful completion of her task. It took some effort not to allow the expression to become carried away, and melt into a mirthful chuckle at the story she had recounted. The tale reminded him somewhat of the origins of his own callsign; one of those things that began as a one-off phrase offered in jest, and then snowballed into something much more.

He allowed a single breath of his laugh to escape, lugging his duffel onto the rear seat of the speeder. "Shuffle over then, sweetcake," he muttered, a glint of mischief in his eye. The stare that Tur'enne countered with could have made a Tauntaun shivver, and those things were used to icy harshness. He made a brief attempt to counter with an expression of resolute determination, but after a few moments buckled, sighed, and conceeded. "Fine," he grunted, heaving himself into the back of the speeder, stepping over and into the passenger seat.

Settling into the number two spot, a wave of discomfort washed over him as his arm - the wrong arm - rested awkwardly on the hull of the craft. The mirrored view of what he was used to seeing was disconcerting and, well, the total absense of flight controls in front of him was down right odd. Glayde had no problem with letting other people fly him places. While competant enough, he didn't have the same passion for it as others did. But driving? There was something about the way the craft responded to your commands - and about only having to worry about two dimensions, without the ever-present risk of dropping out of the sky and impacting with the ground if any of a plethora of things went wrong - made him feel relaxed, and at peace. First time he'd taken a speeder out across the wilderness, he'd finally understood why fathers so often obsessed with the pointless past-time of "going for a drive".

No: when it came to flying, Glayde could happily sit and watch someone else at work. But watching someone else drive a speeder - especially one that you weren't expected to leap out of the back of, wielding a blaster - felt wrong; felt perverse; felt awkward as hell.

He forced a calming breath through his lips. "Take it steady, okay? We don't want to go getting ourselves arrested." He hesitated, the knot of discomfort twisting in his stomach. He glanced across at Tur'enne, whose small and slight frame and youth chiqué outfit made her seem like some kind of pre-teen joyrider. His eyebrows twitched, nervously. "Or killed."

The look given to the Major had warmed, no longer meant to cause sudden death but intimidation of a different sort. Pure mischief showed, glimmering in her eyes as well.

"What? Don't want to see if CorSec's up to taking down some car thieves?"

There was a strong urge to see just how fast the speeder could accelerate, what it's top maintainable speed could be, what sort of horrified expressions she could get out of Glayde. Even somewhere in the back of her mind wondered if mentioning her uncle's name could still get her out of trouble with the average member of Corellia's law enforcement. He wasn't one of the big names, but her mother's brother had carried a certain weight of respect with at least the local group where she'd grown up. Wouldn't that be a fun little reunion. "Uncle! It's been forever hasn't it? Look, I was going to return it, we were just borrowing the speeder to test out its condition. Or, you know, to help move forward some terrorist plans. Whatever reason you rather go with."

Yeah...that wouldn't go over so well. With a sigh of determination to, well, not muck up the plans, the speeder moved (at a reasonable, but not too reasonable pace... there was no need to look like they were purposely trying to avoid attention either), heading back to the City.

"So what'd those plans let on to you? This going to be a simple snatch and dash job or we expecting heavier security? Oh please tell me they have some deal with their cohorts and will have a few whitehats for us to rid the verse of."

Glayde felt a tug of frustration at the derogatory term that Tur'enne cast in his direction. It had been years since he'd served the Empire - longer since he'd been classified as a whitehat member of the Stormtrooper Corps - but still the term tugged at him. He loathed himself for his misplaced loyalties to the Imperial regime, the knot of regret for the actions he had performed on their behalf twisting in the pit of his stomach. Worse still, he'd shrugged off the white duraplast armour of a Stormtrooper, only to don the matt black armour of a Storm Commando; as a black hat, he'd been party to some morally reprehensible actions, when viewed through the lens of hindsight.

Granted, he'd come to see the truth for himself, and had chosen desertion and exile rather than continue with the charade. But it did make him wonder, every time he encountered fellow Stormtroopers in combat: how many of those soldiers were good but misguided men, whose only indiscression was ignorance? And how many of them might have made the same choice, if they had been given the chance to percieve the same truths as he?

He pushed those thoughts aside. "Whitehats in drag," he replied to Tur'enne's question. "They'll be unwrapped, in the guise of security consultants, but we're gonna have professionals shooting back at us, if it comes to that. Which is why -" He shot her a sidelong glance; his hand snapped out and grabbed the edge of the landspeeder as she turned a little more aggressively at an intersection than he would have preferred. The sinking feeling of panic rose up through him again; he squashed it down as best he could. "- I brought my expert infiltrator, to get us in without being noticed."

Eyes roaming the seating well in the speeder's design, he selected a non-descript scuff on the dashboard, and chose it as his point of focus. Eyes locked on there he concentrated on zoning out everything else that was going on; that way, at least he wouldn't see his inevitable death coming.

"Our target is being held in a residential annex to the compound. Seems like the researchers are working on something big for the Empire, hence all the extra security to stop people, well -" He smiled a little at the irony. "- trying to sneak in and do exactly what we're trying to do."

He reached into the combat coveralls he wore, and dug out a datapad; jabbing a finger into appropriate areas of the device, he managed to conjure a map of this particular region of the Coronet outskirts, and a flashing indicator of their current position on the screen. He paused for a moment, mentally calculated the icon's motion relative to the display, and then counted out thirty seconds under his breath. "Next left," he instructed.

The comment about her being an expert would have been mused over, mentally argued with, and finally laughed at...if it wasn't for the fact Charles was trying to shake off the fact she could swear she saw the Major flinch at her comment, even though she hadn't looked over at him. It was like some sort of mental image she couldn't brush off like it never happened. Frakin stress...pre-mission nerves... She rationalized it quickly as not being able to take that actual chunk of time out to mentally prepare herself. Everyone had their little rituals and the whole kriffing thing that had happened earlier had rattled her enough to make it so her routine couldn't go through like normal. Too damn bad, Charles. This aint basic and you're supposed to be a frakking 'expert'. Mental battle aside, she took in all what Glayde was saying, nodding her head in understanding.

With the Major's directions she guided the landspeeder back to Frohad Galactic Firearms' facility, letting the vehicle come to a stop a block away. Primarily in an industrial area, the streets were for the most part empty. A few lingering workers, a small handful of streetwalkers looking to give them entertainment for the evening, perhaps a few spice dealers... no one noteworthy (though each was taken into careful consideration, eyed for any odd movements)... more importantly, no one that would take notice of anyone else unless they had a prior mind to do so.

The duffel bag in the back of the speeder was grabbed for as Charles opened it and began to suit up to turn the simple set of fatigues into more proper combat attire, adding a belt here, gloves there, blaster and its holster strapped to one leg, combat blade to the next. As she began spinning the helmet in her hands she glanced back over the Glayde.

"First lock shouldn't be an issue, higher security is kept for deeper in. Though judging by how well they guarded those readouts you have, I'd say this should be a frakkin cakewalk. Only problem I can really see meeting is if they've got those damn scientists sharing bunks. If our man is the only one wanting to go, any others might get the nerve to call us out..."

A deep breath was taken as her head shook slightly.

"Understand it's our duty to do our best to avoid that happening..." Charles paused. "But I need to know if we're really looking at the possibility of civilian casualties here, sir."

Watching Tur'enne accessorising her combat gear was like waiting for a woman in a department store. What seemed like a fairly simple and straight-forward process - like, say, heading in to by a new set of work slacks because you snagged your previous pair breaking in to your appartment because you lost your keys - generally extended into an activity that lasted for hours. And why was it that women always chose the most awkward and uncomfortable places to leave their male companions standing? No matter how disinterested you looked, how laiden down with shopping you were, and how obvious it was that you were there with the woman standing not two feet away, everyone else in the store looked at you like you were some sort of pervert, because you were lingering around amongst the lingerie.

He sighed, dumping his now-empty duffel under the rear seat. "That's why they invented a stun setting, Lieutenant," he muttered. The blaster carbines he'd requisitioned from the quartermaster back at headquarters were ex-Imperial issue, and the Empire generally liked to be able to take its prisoners alive on occasion; they needed to cycle a certain number of suspects per annum, just to justify all of the money they'd invested in those damned interrogation droids.

"First thing's first though," he added, pulling the pistol from his hip, and checking it over briefly. Satisfied, he shoved it back into its holster. The tone of his voice suddenly changed as he tugged the helmet onto his head, and secured the combination communicator and breathing apperatus across his jaw. A dull click sounded in his ears as the vox kicked in, responding to each of his words. Glancing down, he checked the readout on the comm unit on his belt; a secure frequency, with scrambling enabled. He grabbed the carbine, and tossed it casually over his shoulder; the lopsided smile on his face was hidden behind the mask. "Lets go to work."

As she put her helmet on, Charles was glad that the communicator wasn't automatically on. There was enough tension between the two that she didn't think the Major would take kindly to the small string of curses, a mocking of his mentioning the stun setting, as well as a few other choice opinions that were leaving her. Lot of good a stun setting does when they can report back that it was 'those frakkin terrorists' that came and kidnapped their buddy. She was forcing herself to remember that most civilians in this case were just 'wrong place, wrong time' type of folks, that most had no real loyalties to the Empire. But hell, at sixteen she'd known the difference between right and wrong and had chosen a side...what the Frak was wrong with everybody else?

A storm of thoughts and yet some part of her was entirely focused. Somewhere along the line she'd responded to the Major with a "Yes, sir." and had moved along with him towards a side door of the building. It was with that same almost seemingly automated precision that the door's code was cracked. Despite their communications being secure, Charles was moving on quickly to following rules that had been drilled into her brain. "We are Shadows. We don't exist. We don't make noise. We are not seen. We do not fail." Right...

The carbine was held at the ready as she stepped inside, yes, making sure it was on stun. Frakker.

Tur'enne entered first, carbine up and sweeping the dim-lit corridor. Glayde followed immediately, weapon sweeping high and low as his vision scanned for sensors, cameras, and unexpected security devices. He found one; mounted low, disguised as another kind of fitting, streaming some invisible beam across the corridor. The microphone in his mask picked up the silent notification aimed at Tur'enne; she nodded, hesitating for a moment to step carefully over the sensor's line of sight. Glayde did the same, feeling awkward as hell doing so, but the blessed alarm-free silence that filled the corridor was consolation enough.

Their chosen entrance had been a utility door that, after a hundred or so yards and a handful of corners eventually led to the kitchens that supplied the residential quarters in which their target resided. Before they got there however, a number of obstacles lay in their way; a few meters short of where the kitchen was supposed to be, a set of huge blast doors were closed so tight that they were practically a wall.

Glayde stepped up to the durasteel, and placed a hand against the metal; not that his gloved fingers could feel anything, of course. His eyes roamed around, drinking in the details. "Military grade," he said softly; no point in speaking at a normal volume if you had microphones and amplifiers and all manner of other electronic equipment to do the work for you. "Pretty much torn straight out of a derelict and grafted into the building." He gestured towards where the door met the walls. "You can see where they've had to replace those tiles after they cut the hole for this to go in."

Ingenious little bastards, aint they? The dim lighting made it obvious this wasn't a normal use hallway in the evenings, must it had enough to mark up to emergency standards and allow for the two Rebels two make it through without having to switch on any sort of tactical equipment. Charles was glad for that, something about laser sights and small flash lights mounted on fire arms you'd probably just end up using at close range always seemed rather silly to her. The lighting made it superb for moving around, dim enough to save the company some money, but bright enough to be able to see small obstacles. Minute details however...

Even the soft sound of the Major's voice caused a small cringe. There was no need for absolute silence, but frakking hell if she wasn't thrown off by it. He had the right idea though, even if he didn't know it. Using the strap on the carbine to cling it over her shoulder she used one free hand to tug off the glove of the other and placed it against the cool surface of the blast door. It wasn't overly textured, but not overly smooth either...which ruled out about a dozen various models in her mind. Next was letting her fingertips run over the tiny grooves where the pieces met, paying special attention to the feel of the edges, and more importantly, the shape where they all joined in the center.

It was a hard override of all sound reasoning in her mind that she managed to speak up, barely above a whisper but the comm system would bring it in clear enough.

"Weren't kidding. Looks like in exchange for their research Frohad got themselves some fancy Imp works. Last I saw one of these was in a frakkin bunker. Makes no sense..."

What the frak were these scientists working on? Her earlier impressions about them and their so-called innocence was wearing off in a big hurry and the greater impression that they were nothing but essentially paid prisoners was forming rapidly. A tiny spark of guilt threatened to creep up. They'd heard about the one wanting to defect, wanting to get out, did the rest share his feelings? Can't save them all... the thought was instantly, and accusingly followed by Leave no man behind. Bastards... maybe the others would have to unfortunately be test subjects for the stun setting regardless of her feelings on it. If nothing else it would give them something to fall back on later, might even save their lives. Better to be called a craven than a traitor and killed for it... Another argument: Better to die than serve the tyrants.

"Frink me..."

While more of an outward musing at the thoughts tumbling in her head, the words were just as directed at the wall in front of them. And even more so at the console controlling it.

"Military grade is putting it lightly, Major. Looks like they care more about the brains behind their equipment than the actual product. I can open it, but it's going to take time."

There was no point in waiting to hear a response, given her own appraisal. The panel itself wasn't going to be removed, and nothing was going to go easy. Taking out the combat blade she slowly began to pry off the keyboard, taking care to not put undue (and unexpected) stress on any of the internal components that could lock the entire door down.

Time was a comodity that they didn't have in abundance. Unfortunately, the same was true of second chances. Their perimeter breach had gone unnoticed, but if they were forced to retreat and attempt it again - try to access the facility from another direction, maybe - the odds of that repeating would decrease rapidly. And given what lay beyond these blast doors, draining their luck so early on seemed like a particularly bad plan.

Besides, knowing how paranoid these civilian contracter frakwits usually were, they'd probably installed blast doors like this on every kriffing access route. This was just as viable an access point as any of the others.

He bit back a sigh, eyes flicking across the walls and ceilings; his mind scrolled through his near-eidetic memory of the corridor they had traversed, searching for any access panels of ventelation hatches that might - for some reason - have gone unmarked on the security blueprints they had obtained. But there were none; not in this half of the complex. This side of the blast doors, they were in a single-storey, minimal security building, that relied on permeability to the outside for ventellation. On the inside, air scrubbers and recyclers filtered out the bad during those times that the facility was made airtight: wasn't enough to pressurise the place, but cleaned up the air pleanty, meaning that the Imperials could keep their pet scientists locked up nice and tight for as long as they wanted.

He sighed, and nodded reluctantly, turning his back to the blast doors and appropriating as much cover as he could muster. "Just get 'em open, Lieutenant," he muttered, rolling his shoulders underneath his infiltrator gear. "We've got all the time in the worlds."

Whatever smartass comment was lingering in response to Major this time around never made it past her thoughts as she went to work on the console. Tips of wires were being stripped, microchips moved, everything sorted and assessed and then finally reconnected. Charles tried to keep in mind just how long the process was taking, but when the majority of her thoughts were on getting the door open and keeping herself from getting electrocuted in the process, time seemed nothing more than an afterthought.

So it was that when two wires finally were tied together, a small amount of sparks occurred, and the door mechanics came to life and opened the blast doors, Charlotte honestly had no idea how long the procedure had taken her. There was a momentary semi-triumphant smirk that she was glad couldn't be seen.

"They should only have enough room to stick another one of these kriffing things in our way between us and those scientists. Should go faster next time but if they're stooping this low there's no telling what other sorts of damned surprises they have for us."

Glayde nodded, too busy waving his blaster around as he scoped the immediate vacinity beyond the blast doors to think of something to verbalise. Tur'enne's assessment was probably right, and that thought was unsettling; the thought of unseen surprises, rather than the fact that Tur'enne was right. Although, hearing a statement issued by the Lieutenant that had sufficiently little sarcasm and snark for a genuinely good thought to sneak in was a pretty rare occurance, and would under any other circumstances be worthy of celebration.

Right now though, all Glayde was bothered about was making it from here to the quarters where his information said their mark was located; preferably without being detected, shot at, gased, or exploded. There were probably more eventualities he hoped to avoid as well, but if they at least managed to avoid those few, he could go home happy. Or at least, less grumpy than he would otherwise.

"Alright," he stated simply, carefully stepping forward a few paces over the threshold of the blast doors. "Lets take it fast but careful; I have no desire to wound up dying today."

The rather humorous thought of taking home a jar of "chunky bits of the Major" had to be pushed aside again. There was a bit of a lament over the whole situation. Despite the normal need for utmost silence in most missions she'd undertaken in the past, Charles are her last unit had worked out a rather intricate set of hand gestures unique to them, the majority of which could translate into various insults and other quips that could often at least lighten the mood. They could be delivered, seen and responded to rather quickly while keeping some semblance of a professional situation.

Here, now, stuck with Glayde all Charles could do was force herself to just keep pushing the small loathing she had for the Major aside, without comment, and going through all the motions that would get them through this damned thing.

The blast doors proved to be the greatest obstacle they'd have to face for some time. Security cameras, a few sensors, and a small handful of guards on patrol were easily avoided or disabled and it wasn't until their current hallway came to a stop at a T-shaped junction that Charles came to a full halt. One of the break off hallways would lead rather immediately to the living area of the scientists, the other would lead off to their labs and other areas Charles had only quickly briefed herself on, only to familiarize herself with the 'worst case scenario' exit.

A deep breath was taken as she waited for the Major's next set of instructions. There was a growing annoyance at the fact that there was still a lot of the details regarding the mission that were a complete blank space to her. She was fully familiar with the whole 'need to know' status of most things, but it never quite sat right with her, moreso when there was only two of them and if something happened to the Major... well, there wasn't going to be anyone else to dodge the series of questions that might have some rather important answers.

Glayde's eyes flicked briefly closed, mind recharting the course through the network of corridors that he'd memorised from the blueprints. His momentary hesitation resolved in a satisfied nod. "This way," he said softly, gesturing down the left left half of the junction. He shifted his blaster slightly on his shoulder, barrel aimed a few casual degrees away from parallel with the ground.

Their progress was as swift as stealth would allow; the few remaining corners that separated them from their target disappeared in a matter of minutes. A short corridor loomed off to the right, a trio of doors spaced along each side, terminating in an ominous wall in the same drab gray as the rest of the building.

"Second on the left," Glayde instructed, positioning himself as a sentry at the corridor's maw. "Cut the alarm; bust the lock; don't open the door without me. We clear, El-Tee?"

A pity she couldn't bring herself to hassle the Major about that without me business. Charles couldn't help but smirk a bit at the thought that the scientist they were about to spring was probably some pretty little number and Glayde would get to play hero. The mischievous look in her eyes was probably the only thing giving away the line of thought that wasn't betrayed in her rather ridged "Yes, Sir."

Given the way the mission was going, the disarming of the alarm and disengaging the lock went smoothly, almost routinely so. Though it was once again brought to mind just how much it seemed the security was meant to keep the scientists in rather than keeping others out. Not that the system hadn't at least put up a good fight in the later.

A small series of lights near the panel switched from red to green and Charles raised a hand, giving the all-clear signal. If Glayde wanted the glory of being first to see who it was they were retrieving, he was welcome to it.

Glayde's stomach twisted into a tight coil as he waited, attention less on the contents of the corridor and more on the contents of the room behind than it perhaps should have been. The words Need To Know floated tauntingly through his consciousness, and he winced behind the relative anonymity of his mask. It was rapidly approaching the time when Tur'enne did need to; but now that it came down to it, his reluctance to leave her in the dark had inverted into reluctance to shead light on this particular mystery. Alliance Intelligence had it's reasons for ordering him to maintain the secret up 'til now; just as it had its reasons for sending the L.T. along in the first place. But now, at the wire, Glayde couldn't help but scowl at the thought of whichever desk-bound bureaucrat had elected to save himself some hastle by handing over this awkard revelation to him.

Seeing is believing, Glayde mused, as he silently aknowledged Charles' signal. He shifted his blaster's poise on his shoulder, becoming extremely dissatisfied with the comfort of absolutely everything about this situation. His nose wrinkled. She probably wouldn't believe me if I told her anyway.

Nodding a non-verbal to Tur'enne, Glayde swooped through the door the instant it shot open, eyes drinking in the details of the room in a few fractions of a second. Recognition matching faces to files from the briefing he'd recieved, he aimed the muzzle of his blaster at one of the bunks, the weapon set to stun spitting out azure rings towards their mark's slumbering room-mate. He counted ten, blaster sweeping the room; waited for the his of hatchways or the blare of alarms that would suggest they'd been overheard or otherwise detected. None came, but the momentary relief did nothing to uncoil the tension in his muscles.

His attention swept around, shifting to where the remaining conscious figure lay: half-dressed but mostly concealed - fortunately - by his bedsheets. Fingers retreated from Glayde's blaster, and clawed at the mask covering his jaw, tearing away the tech that would no doubt dehumanizing and intimidating to the scientist they had come for. "The Rebellion sent us," he stated, matter-of-factly. "You need to come with us."

A set of muscles contorted beneath the man's forehead, tugging at the eyebrows and surrounding skin. He blinked, trying to clear away the sleep and daze from which he had been startled by the sudden burst-entrance of his visitors.

Suddenly conscious of his appearence for no adequately explainable reason, Alex scrabbled around him for the shirt he had discarded what must have only been a few hours earlier, relishing in the momentary distraction that the simplistic task offered. It provided him with a blessed relief from the panic and doubt that would slam into him again as soon as he realised: Oh gods; I'm defecting to the Rebel Alliance. I'm going to get shot and killed.

He found the shirt, crumpled into a non-descript ball and shoved down beside his pillow. Unfurling it and taking a little longer than normal to ensure that the care label was aligned with his spine and not his chest, he tugged it over his head and down his body, wriggling a little as the subtly elasticated fabric snagged and rolled up underneath itself because of his still-seated pose.

Finally in a state where he felt moderately presentable - though, he realised with a wince, in a few moments he would vacate his bunk and reveal his sans legwear status - he turned his attention to the Rebels, and to the one who spoke in particular: the other, much shorter one didn't seem of any real interest at this point, busy standing sentry at the entrance. Finding his voice, he muttered an introduction - "Xander Tur'enne," - followed by a momentary wince as he realised that, obviously, his would-be rescuers knew damn-well who he was. He decided to cover his blunder with a dash of sarcasm. "It's about time you guys showed up."

The hallway was scoured, her eyes having long ago adjusted to the dimmer lighting that the compound used in the evening hours, she had been completely focused, all to aware of the fact that everyone had been going almost too smoothly. Charles heard as the Major first incapacitated the poor sap who was staying behind and his voice followed. Whatever tension was being caused by even the slightest noise created on his part was suddenly shattered after a small pause and their target muttered his name.

It was a strange sensation, to suddenly feel like every unit of blood in your entire body turned to ice. There was anger instantly focused on Glayde for not telling her something that compromised her for the mission in the first place, mad at whoever gave the order for him to select her among the Dorn group to accompany him, but mostly mad at herself.

After all, when she had first joined the Alliance, the situation had been less than picture perfect. When she had been informed that the local resistance movement of Corellia had taken the liberty of telling family members that their loved ones had been involved in an operation that had gone to utter chaos resulting in an entire squad being wiped out (She was sure they'd put it in a nicer way, but the truth was sometimes too simple)... they asked her if she wanted to contact her parents, let them know she had survived... Charles had refused. She could remember the look her new CO with the 5th had given her at the time, but no questions had been asked. That had all gone down almost four years ago...

A glance was cast back into the room, her eyes narrowed and first coming to fall on Glayde, letting him have the first hit from the glare she felt only partially conveyed all she was feeling at the moment. That same cold stare came to rest on Xander for only an instant before she turned back to the hall, fighting whatever 'stupid frinked up female banthashit' tears were trying to surface.

"Yeah? Well it's about time you figured out what side to be on, too." Her comfort zone had been broken already, so the snide comment left her easily.

The day Alderaan had been destroyed was the day her life had changed, she had left school and joined a local militia determined to do what she could to make sure such a thing never happened to her beloved Corellia, or any other planet for that matter. There had been full intention on eventually joining up with the Rebels proper, the whole group had the same idea. She had spent only a short while explaining it to her father who completely disapproved, said it was Alderaan's fight, said she would better serve Corellia in CorSec or something else prestigious, not some small group that was already labeled as terrorists. The conversation with her older brother, however, had lasted much longer. Charlotte had spent hours trying to convince Xander to go with her and his overly calm echoing of what their father had said now glaringly stood out to her all over again.

Family reunions: somehow, as bad as reuniting with your own relatives could be, it was still a hell of a lot more awkward watching someone else go through that kind of ordeal. Glayde surpressed a cringe, squashing his emotions into a tightly contained ball which he planned to deliver via fist into the face of whichever desk-riding analyst had lumbered him with this damn mission.

He took a step forward, interposing himself between the two siblings, or half-siblings, or foster siblings, or whatever the hell the proper term for the duo was; admittedly, he'd glazed over that section of the report as best he could out of respect for the privacy of his Lieutenant, so hadn't paid too much attention to the specifics. In any case, he breached their shared line of sight, throwing an appropriate glance at both of them in turn.

"Much as I'd love to leave you to this wonderous family reunion," he stated, with an edge in his tone to forstall any kind of process, "The fact remains that we're loitering around in a secure facility, and the odds of our incursion being discovered are steadily increasing." His eyes turned stern, but appologetic as he directed his gaze squarely at the female of the two Tur'enne's. "I'm sorry; it was classified. I would have told you if I could." His tone softened momentarily, but he could tell in an instant that his rushed appology was far from sufficient; he'd make a more concerted effort as soon as they made it back to the ship.

He let his voice return to its military and professional timbre, barking instructions at the siblings to spur them into action. "L.T - the next set of security doors down that corridor leads through to the main barracks. Scramble the lock, bypass the activation protocols, or whatever the hell you call that magic touch of yours; just make sure it won't open. It'll probably buy us a minute or two at best, but -" He glanced back towards Alexander, wincing at the total lack of apparent preparation in the scientist's choice of attire. "- It looks like we'll need a little extra time while your brother slips into something a little more practical."

Xander glanced down at his pale and uncovered legs; the glare that he threw back was laced with venom, accompanied with a tight-lipped smile that would have threatened physical harm to Glayde had the scientist not looked completely incapable of delivering it.

As his sister disappeared through the doorway in a form of compliance that to Xander's trained eye looked particularly reluctant, he suddenly found himself half-naked and alone with a man whose name he didn't even know. Well, alone was a slight exaggeration - his bunkmate was unconscious on the far side of the room, just as he had been the last time Xander had been secretly visited by a man in the middle of the night. This time though, it had been a stun blast rather than alcohol that was responsible for the depth of Mikhail's slumber, and - to Xander's slight disappointment - the trousers that his Rebel visitor wore were considerably less assless.

Xander's apparent hesitation seemed to have earned him a scowl of frustration from the Rebel; abandoning his vantage point by the door, he strode swiftly across Xander's disappointingly small quarters, and ripped open the wardrobe. A few rushed scrabblings later, an assortment of clothes had been tossed in his direction, with little or no attention paid by the soldier. Xander held up a particularly dissonant combination of legwear and coat, quirking an eyebrow in the Rebel's direction. "These pants with this jacket? Do you have no comprehension of fashion at all?"

The Rebel's eyes narrowed, almost impreceptably. "Do you have no comprehension of the fact that I'm holding a gun?" The Rebel gestured with the weapon for emphasis but, surrendering in the interests of haste, plucked an alternative, more neutrally coloured jacket from the wardrobe, and slung it in Xander's direction.

Catching the garment, Xander hesitated for a moment while he weighed up the Rebel's case. "Your point is well-made," he concluded and, without further protest, preceeded to tug on the various pieces of attire. Unable to halt the perpetual motion machine of his jaw for long however, words began to tumble forth from his lips again after only mere minutes. "So, do you have a name?"

The look that the Rebel responded with was best interpreted as Of course I have a name, you feckless moron, with perhaps a dash of doubt over whether or not they'd actually blundered in the wrong room by mistake, and were in fact liberating a member of the janitorial staff rather than one of Corellia's leading weapons scientists. Eventually however, the Rebel managed to vocalise a token response. "Glayde," was all he offered.

Xander wrestled with a shoe that was particularly reluctant to accomodate his foot on this particular occasion. "That a first name or a last name?" he asked, between grunts of effort, as he tugged the laces looser in the hopes of easing his task. Rather than wait for an immediate answer however, his verbal waterfall continued to spew forth speach. "I read this novel once - a pretty famous one, actually; a romance crime thriller, about this Detective on Coruscant called Glayde Wesson. You kinda remind me of the picture on the cover. Well, except for the fact that you're wearing commando clothes, rather than a pinstripe suit, trenchcoat, and hat. But aside from that, totally the same."

He looked up as he tugged on the laces, seeking out the Rebel's face. Narrowed eyes from Glayde looked back. "Gun," he stated, simply.

Xander winced. "Right. I'll shut up, then."

There was nothing she could do but follow orders and continue through the motions, despite whatever tumult her mind was in. There was still shock, anger, though combined with a bit of disappointment. Sure they hadn't been on the best of terms when she had last seen her older brother, but would it have killed the bastard to at least have mumbled a 'Hi, glad to see you aren't dead.'?

Not that she had exactly asked what he had been up to for the last four years, but she was pretty damn sure there wasn't a grave stone somewhere with his name on it. If her family had even bothered with that. Neither of her parents exactly had been thrilled with her career choice and she was pretty sure somewhere in the screaming that went down that day her father had cursed the fact she was even born. Ah... good times.

It took a few deep breaths to knock the thoughts from her head and refocus. She could take the time to 'catch up' with her 'dearest' brother later. Maybe with some luck, and a decent amount of alcohol, she could invite Glayde to the party. At least then she wouldn't feel guilty and slugging the both of them and could damn the repercussions.

For now she had another door to deal with. At least this one she didn't have to worry about opening so much as making sure it would do the exact opposite. Part of her thought to just blast the control panel, it would have been the surefire way. Though all that noise was probably bad for the whole 'trying to get the hell out of there' concept. She opted for simply tugging out some wires that actually made the key panels work. No code, no open-says-me, it'd do.

"There," Alex said eventually, holding his arms out to show off his outfit. "How do I look?"

Glayde's response was a violent grab at the front of his shirt, haulling him across the room and throwing him out in the corridor. Under any other circumstances, Tur'enne would have been excited at the prospect, though convention usually had men throwing him into his room rather than out; but the sharp glare that accompanied the deportation forstalled those thoughts from forming in his head.

A firm hand in the centre of his back spurred him into motion down the corridor for the first few strides, until Glayde seemed satisfied that Xander had recieved the message, and could manage to keep walking on his own. Guns were waved around in front of them, snapped this way and that to sweep the corridors in the immediate area to check that they were clear. Xander was reminded of the holoshows he'd watched as a child; Republic Rangers in particular. He allowed himself to dwell on how awesome it had been going through school and sharing a first name with the venerated Red Ranger. Hell: it had served to boost his coolness factor even through his early twenties, thanks to spending his university education surrounded mostly by classes filled with guys that were equally immature as him.

"Stay close to your sister," Glayde instructed, with a helpful push towards the other Rebel.

Alex almost dismissed the statement without paying any attention to it, until his eyes fell on said other Rebel. Admittedly, he hadn't paid all that much attention to her, what with being female and all; though the thought that With that mask, she looks kinda like Charlotte, had briefly registered in the back of his mind, but he'd paid no real attention to it. She'd probably got her killed by now; and surely if she'd come all the way out here to 'rescue' him, she'd have actually identified herself. Taken her mask off. Called him names. Something.

Or she could have just made some bitchy comment about deciding what side you're on. That's the kind of thing that Charles would do.

A Death Star main reactor exploded in Xander's gut, the blast wave vapourising his insides. Charlotte was still alive; she was here; and she -

Oh, man, Xander scolded, inside his mind. I am the worst brother. Ever.

He strayed a step closer, advancing cautiously to where his sister knelt, working. What should he do? Run over and hug her? Brush it off like it was nothing? Stay clear, since past experience suggested that she'd lamp him in the face for some reason or other before too long? Hesitation left him hoverring in the centre of the corridor. Big mistake.

Everything happened at once. With a sharp hiss the doors that Charlotte was working to to seal snapped open, the minimal emergency lighting casting an eerie sillhouette over the two Stormtroopers that stood framed within it. Glayde unleashed some kind of a shout, one of his gloved paws once again shoving Xander in the back. This time it propelled him forward at some pace, staggering towards the corridor wall, barely dodging the blaster bolt that tore through the air where he'd just been. Blaster already raised, Glayde snapped off a twin shot of his own, effortlessly catching the 'trooper centre mass and felling him to the ground. Charles' response was less clean, but equally effective; springing to her feet, a blade materialised in her hands, and dove up beneath the second Stormtrooper's helmet, slumping his corpse-filled armour to the ground.

The adjective 'stunned' best described Xander's reaction, though a slight spark of 'awesome!' swam around in the background. His thoughts mutated swiftly however as the blaster dropped from Glayde's fingers, clattering to the deck a few fractions of a second before his knees buckled and sent his body tumbled after it, an ominous and still-smoking tear in his gut.

Xander's mouth, acting without conscious instruction, summed up his thoughts perfectly: "Oh. Frak me."

It never failed, there was always a rush that would go through her system, a spike of adrenaline when one of the boys in white could be taken down her way: either laid out after a single shot from far enough away she'd be gone before they could even think of looking for her, or alternately, nice and up close and personal before they knew you were there. The second method she had been taught by her squad when she joined the Alliance and she honestly couldn't say which method she preferred.

Either way, it was done and she felt more alive than she had the entire mission, senses completely heightened. So when the blaster slipped from the Major's hands she immediately knew something was wrong before her brother even got the chance to think about speaking.

The movement to kneel at Glayde's side was swift, picking up his Blaster and slinging the strap for it over her shoulder in the process, placing it on the arm opposite of her own. The wound was bad, real bad. If only they'd given her a few more seconds that stupid door wouldn't have budged.

"Never a kriffing medic around when you need one." She ignored the mumbles of the half conscious Major that seemed to equate out to some half-assed order for her to leave him there and get Alex and herself out of there.

The newly acquired blaster was shoved into Xander's hands as she stood back up. "Here, if you think you can manage it... shoot anything that even thinks about coming through that door. I'm going to do what I can for him and then all of us are getting the frak out of here. Like chaos I'm earning a field promotion today."

Xander stared down at the blaster in his hands, confusion painted across his face. "I don't- I-" He caught himself, the subconscious voice in his head taking on a scathing tone. You design guns for a living. Of course you know how the damn thing works. Just aim at the door and squeeze the -

Inspirating sparking in his mind, Xander's muscles sprung into motion before he even had the opportunity to act. Tossing the blaster over his shoulder, just as Charlotte had done, he crouched and snatched up two somethings that his uncanny holographic memory had spotted on Glayde's uniform the moment he'd entered his bunk room. At a sprint he dove through the doorway, slapping the small metallic - and thankfully magnetic metal block onto the controls off to one side. Backstepping through, he grabbed at the control box that Charlotte had torn apart, jiggled with a few of the components, and resealed the hatch. Another two steps back and he retrieved the second object he'd collected; selecting the appropriate channel on the comlink he sent out a spike. A dull thud sounded on the far side of the door; for good measure, he slipped the blaster off his shoulder, aimed it, and sent a few bolts of crimson onto the controls this side as well, for good measure.

Turning back towards where Charlotte was busy hunched over Glayde, he met her gaze and threw a shrug in explanation of his actions. "I've been planning my imaginary break-out from this place a lot longer than you have," he offered.

With a frown, he fiddled awkwardly with the blaster; silences like this were bad enough under normal circumstances, but when you threw in a shot guy, and a sister you hadn't seen in years -

"So," he tried, keeping his tone as light as he could. "Long time no see. How's things?"

Ok... that was marginally impressive. Though Xander always had been better at tinkering with things that she was. He had once taken a radio apart and put it back together only to receive signals from planets Charles didn't even know existed. Though whatever slight resentment she had for her brother at that moment kept any sort of compliment on the job from forming.

...Well that and the fact she was slightly occupied with applying a field bandage on the Major. A small vial of bacta spray had been in her medkit, it wasn't much but it would keep everything situated until she could get him back to a proper facility. At least he'd drifted off into the land of the unconscious, the small kit she had on her person was sorely missing any sort of painkiller.

"Well, I'm not dead." It had been far easier to say than 'Been better, been a whole druk-load worse. You know, joined the Rebellion, have killed a frinkton of people, Though Glayde may not be able to say the same right now though so shut up and let's get moving. Though what she did say managed to somehow hold the bite of the longer train of thought.

A small shake of her head came as she looked back at the Major. "I'm not going to be able to do this. I'm not strong enough... and the way back isn't exactly a walk through a field of ladalum, either." Her eyes almost rolled at what she was about to suggest. "You think you can carry him?"

Sure, his mind shot back, his voice mercifully neglecting to repeat the sentiments. After all those times mocking my scrawny man-muscles while we were growing up, and now you want me to carry a body for you?

Seriousness interrupted his thought processes; now was hardly the time for sarcastic quips. Though his first aid training was somewhat pitiful, he did have eyes, and he was able to see that the situation was grim. The tension in Charlotte's voice was evidence enough; she'd never have so readily amitted her own ability if the situation weren't incredibly grave.

His eyes evaluated the field dressing she'd applied; it looked sturdy enough, and it'd have to be. Eyes closed to summon and channel whatever reserves of adrenaline his body had pumped into his system. Dropping to a knee, he placed his shoulder into position just below Glayde's rib-cage and, moving carefully to avoid antagonising the wound, grabbed Glayde's arm and heaved him upwards. It took a staggered step to find his balance, the Major draped over his shoulder.

A mischevious thought flashed through his mind as his hand rose to steady the Rebel, hand landing towards the top of one of his legs. A scathing from his conscience replied, and he slid it reluctantly a few inches further down. "Okay," he announced, turning carefully towards Charles. "Lets go."

She nodded once, readying her blaster and looked down the hallway once and then back at the door that Alexander had managed to seal. The control panel looked pretty successfully ruined, but the amount of noise they had made when the Stormtroopers had come through the door had been far more than she was comfortable with. They'd been in one place for far too long.

Seeing as how her brother was unarmed and carrying the wounded Major, Charles took point. With any luck, their dispatching of the two Storm Troopers hadn't set off any sort of deadman alarms. It seemed a bit too sophisticated just for a weapons facility, but then again most of the security they had run in to and the fact they locked up their employees was a bit over the top to begin with.

The hallways seemed empty enough as she began leading the way back outside the way they came, and while most may have found that a blessing, it was constantly nagging at her sensibilities. If Glayde hadn't gotten injured she would say it was about time their luck ran out.

Xander followed several paces behind, his mind split between two distinct thoughts. One of those thoughts was that Glayde was a lot heavier than he looked. From the feel of him it was mostly muscle; and possibly all that combat gear he was wearing. For a moment, Xander wondered if they should stop and strip him down a bit; or maybe transfer some of his gear and equipment to Xander. After all, they were likely to get shot at, and military gear was generally quite useful when that sort of thing went down.

Mind you; it didn't help him much.

The other thought surfaced whenever he watched his sister, so at home and in her element here. The Charlotte he'd known had left in order to take up this life; he'd always seen the at home side, rebelling against the wishes of their parents, and pining to return to the lifestyle she'd chosen, rather than actually seeing the part of her that relished in her choice. To witness the comfort at which she moved down these halls; the strangely relaxed air that radiated only from those who felt at home and natural in their surroundings; it was a side of Charlotte that Alexander hadn't seen since before he'd become old enough to even take notice of it. There you are, he thought with a smile. There's my Lottie.

Suddenly overcome with the uncontrollable urge to reconnect with something that had been missing from his life for far too many years, he quickened his pace slightly, not quite drawing alongside, but close enough. He shifted awkwardly, partly from the dead weight on his shoulder, and partly from sheer panic at not knowing what to say. He settled for the first - and unfortunately, lamest - thing that popped into his mind.

"You seeing anyone?"

His question had been asked as she had brought them to a halt at a corner. There was a guard that had been patrolling this area on the way in and she was rather determined that, well, since Glayde couldn't tell her no and they were on their way out, to make sure the guard wouldn't be a problem for anyone any longer. ...Or at least for a few hours. Stunning the guy would suffice for now. He was only a civilian.

Charles rolled her eyes. Was he kidding? She had half a mind to tell him that Oh yes, didn't you know? The last name's Glayde now. You're carrying my husband. But the thought was... not pleasant. And caused enough of an uncomfortable cringe up her spine it never got much past the initial idea.

"No. Been a bit busy with the whole, oh, I don't know... killing Imperials thing."

Xander nodded sagely, as if her answer had been of some deep philosophical elloquence. He'd hoped for something a little more substantial; maybe a reciprocation - Not anymore; my fiancée left me for another guy, so I figured I'd go for another guy too; and another; and, well, ad infinitum - but no such thing was forthcoming. The options of hanging a decent conversation starter on her response were slim as well; it had been somewhat dismissive.

Instead, he settled back into the reflex reaction to pretty much anything that Charlotte had ever said when they were children: blessed, wonderous sarcasm.

"Figures," he said calmly, continuing his sanguine nodding. "Guessed you hadn't got any in a while, what with you being so uptight and tense and all."

The fact he was her brother meant far less than the fact that he was the reason they were there. He was the reason her CO was currently injured and getting him to saftey was their damn mission objective. Otherwise, Charles would have probably given right in to the desire to turn the blaster on the man that she'd once considered her closest confidante. Should have stunned him too and had Glayde carry him out. Of course that would have put her in a bit of a jam right now.

Though there was the voice of reason that tended to speak up during assignments. And right now it was telling her that her brother had no way of knowing why his comment would go above and beyond the normal sibling rivalry prodding they caused each other to endure.

She half thought to threaten him with a simple You know they didn't say I had to bring you back in once piece...just alive. But Xander was quicker with mind like she was quicker with fist and already she knew he would just counter with some stupid comment about if he was disabled who the hell would carry the Major.

"Yeah, well, shit happens, war is hell, and all those other clichés."

Black bones, Lottie; lighten up, will you? It's not like we're - The thought hesitated in its tracks. - walking through a high-security military facility. Okay, yeah. May not have been the best question to go with.

He followed in silence for a few paces, but the presentation of bitter metaphors that Charlotte had presented offered too much of a temptation to ignore. "Life is what you make of it," he offered back, struggling a little under the weight of the Major, who seemed to be growing heavier with every step. "Good things come to those who wait. Never judge a book by its cover." A hesitation came before the next. "Never swim after a meal?"

He fell back into silence again, leaving Captain Optimism, or Lieutenant Optimism, Major Optimism - what the hell was Charlotte's rank, anyway? Major sounded the most amusing, so he decided to go with that for now - to trudge along ahead. Despite his efforts however, he couldn't keep his mouth closed for long. "Got your eye on anyone?"

With every word that left Xander's mouth, Charles was forcing herself more and more to exercise the small amount of control she had and not break his jaw. Though with the way he was, she wondered if he'd still manage to squeak out his annoying little tidbits between whatever bellyaching he'd do over the pain.

The next question came horribly close to setting her off, but thankfully before she could actually start planning on doing something she might actually regret later the guard came into view, she moved back behind the corner and her hand raised in a signal she hoped her brother would understand as Shut. The. Frink. Up.

Her breathing became the only thing aside from the approaching guard's footsteps, thankfully. The blaster was shifted in her hands... and it was probably the fact only a few seconds had passed from her brother's question before the guard came close enough...

The blaster rifle was slung over her shoulder once more and the blade she'd used on the Storm Trooper came into her hand all too quickly. Can't take your frustration out on your brother, well...

She moved at the exact precise moment, left hand clamping over the guard's mouth as the right drew the blade across his throat. So much for just stunning the guy. Sadly the satisfaction that came with it wasn't nearly on the level that the Storm Trooper had been and she was sure that was because, while the man had been an Imperial employee...technically... he wasn't military. Just another casualty.

As she tucked the blade away and let the guard's body fall heavily to the floor, Charles glanced over at her brother. "No, as a matter of fact, I don't. Let's get moving."

Xander remained, frozen in place and stunned to silence as crimson began to seep from the guard's sundered throat and across the polished durasteel floor. It wasn't his first dead body by any stretch; but it was the first time he'd witnessed a corpse that was still warm enough for you to not have noticed. Well, aside from the whole gaping hole in the throat thing.

Grim fascination gripped him, wondering if it would be too much to ask to remain for rigamortis to ensue, so that he could witness that first-hand as well. Probably was too much to ask. Probably was damn creepy, too. He decided it best to push such questions and urges far into the back of his mind, and never, ever allow himself to remember he'd even thought them.

Switching his mind to an alternative thought, he glanced briefly towards the body draped over his shoulder. "Yeah," he muttered, stepping over the pool of blood to follow in Charlotte's wake. "My sister is frinking awesome."

If she hadn't felt cold and determined to get this all over as soon as possible, his absolutely brainless nitwit comment might have actually made her smile. Though some part of her couldn't shake the feeling he meant it in condescending manner.

The rest of the way passed in silence, and without incident. Her handiwork with the blast doors earlier still seemed to be holding out. Too easy... too easy... Her unease only became greater as the last door, the way out was spotted and the door opened...

And suddenly the eyes of far too many troopers and guards were on them. "Nine hells..."

Xander was shoved faster than her mind could process, pushing him (and subsequently Glayde) behind a large set up of shipping containers. A volley of fire followed from the rifle, managing to drop two of the guards before she ducked down next to her brother. "Well this whole thing just got a whole drukload more complicated."

Nine hells? There were nine of them?

Xander cringed, struggling and failing to keep Glayde aloft in the face of Charlotte's shove. He staggered, somehow managing to position himself between the Major and the ground as they stumbled towards it. With a heave he extracted himself from beneath Glayde, propping him up against a convenient crate. A groan issued from him; Xander offered him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Yeah," he muttered. "You and me both, buddy."

Xander felt the blaster from earlier shoved back into his hands, retrieved from Charlotte's shoulder. He nodded grimly, not protesting this time. He probably couldn't hit the broad side of a Battlecruiser with it, but he'd pot-shot at the guys shooting at them none the less. If he missed enough, surely that'd soak up the statistics and improve the odds of Lottie landing a shot, right?

You're a Corellian, his mind protested. You don't care about odds.

I'm a scientist, he countered. Go to hell.

Peering cautiously, his eyes picked out the ice-white figures in the distance. By his guess, the compound had broken out the rest of it's white-clad Stormtroopers, on loan from the Empire to protect their interests here at Frohad. That was potentially an advantage - unlike the regular Security Troops, the Stormtroopers lacked the grey jumpsuits that would blend themselves into the background, and were instead brightly coloured and easy to spot. Plus, given the utter redundancy of this assignment, the odds of the Imperials sending their best was pretty much zero. Two Tur'enne's against two Platoons of Stormtroopers? he thought to himself, popping up from cover to snap off a few shots towards the nearest flash of white, feeling distinctly awesome for doing so. Piece of Ryshcate.

He wasn't the best shot, but Xander never had been. That had always been her thing, ever since the one time their uncle had taken them hunting when they were kids. Xander had gone along but been rubbish at it, but the feel of the sporting blaster in her hands had just been natural to Charles and after the trip their uncle had simply given it to her. Best kriffing gift ever.

While accuracy was definetly out the window, at least her brother wasn't afraid to shoot the silly thing. And he provided, maybe unknowingly, a decent amount of cover fire so she could get a full count on just how many of the damn plastic men there were. Well... at least the ones still standing. And that magic number was... 30. No, wait, 29. "Lucky shot. You might actually be better than they are."

Regardless of the fact the boys in white couldn't seem to hit the chunky side of a Hutt, it still remained they were horribly outnumbered. Not that Charles didn't like those odds, but it did make getting out from behind the metal crates rather difficult.

She waited until Xander let off another few rounds before she looked at him gravely, her hands moving a dial on the blaster carbine, taking it from a multiple shot to single. "We'll need to thin their numbers out some. Don't keep popping up like that though, they'll figure that out real quick and just wait for you. The cover is big enough, move around, use the sides as well, make the movements random. Don't give them any sort of pattern to try and interpret. You're doing good, may not hit anything but you're keeping the ones you're firing at from being able to get a clear shot every time you do that. Try and spread your shots out more, though, don't focus so much on just one of them... I'll handle that."

Xander couldn't fight the subconscious urge to flinch as yet another blaster bolt collided with the crate he was using for cover, sending up another brief plume of melted duraplast to add to the fumes circling about his head. He hated himself for the involuntary display of how inept he was, particularly in front of his little sister - who by rights he should be protecting, not the other way around. Damn it, Xander, he cursed at himself. Why couldn't you be the cool older brother for once?

He drank in the instructions she suggested, and though he appreciated the token compliment she threw in, he focused most on the negatives; the obvious advice that she was giving which he should have been able to work out himself. He was supposed to be smart: of course he knew not to be so predictable; he knew to take shots of opportunity, rather than trying to concentrate and focus. Hell, that was the only small cluster of pride he'd been able to cling onto in his youth: his understanding of the mechanics of things was how he'd beaten Lottie time and time again in hologames, only to go outside and have her beat him at the real thing in pretty much every instance. Doing things live was different somehow: and that difference was apparently something he wasn't coping with particularly well.

"Okay." He blew out a breath to calm himself. "Be unpredictable. Keep it varied. Be random. Be random. Be -" He bit his jaw hard closed, fighting back the urge to wince. Random? Seriously? No neat little patterns, handy little sequences? Total chaos? His mind protested furiously, threatening to mutiny and drag him into subconscious repetition whether he liked it or not. There was no way he could ever get away with something truely ra-

Doesn't have to be random. Just unpredictable. Those Stormtroopers don't look too smart...

With a wordless nod to himself, he readied his blaster, ducked behind cover. "One!" he muttered, before rising to his knee and sending a spray of bolts towards the first cluster of white he spotted. He dropped back down, safe behind cover, all those years of converting everything into numerical code: A was One; L was -

"Twelve!" he hissed under his breath, the mental clock reaching it's next target, again rising, firing at the first group that his eyes - intentionally aimed somewhere new - spotted. He shuffled a first prime number of paces to the left, moving to his next point of cover as he zeroed the count. A deep breath drew in, and blew out at the same speed, words managing to sneak out along with it.

"Three, Four, Five!"

Rise again. More random shots. No hits; doesn't matter. A blast from Lottie, too; one guy goes down. He wasn't sure how many are left, and didn't bother to count; one less than a lot was still a lot, after all. Back down behind cover; back to zero again, longer to wait this time. Another prime number shuffle, left again; he'd change direction once he hit a square number.

He risked a glance across at Charlotte, but she was too busy to look back. He considered her for a moment, back in her element again as she expertly picked off the Stormtroopers as casually as if they were that fully complete and priceless collection of Republic Rangers action figures that she'd trashed with the sporting blaster their uncle had given her back home. Even so; no matter how good she was, and how passable he was, -

We're going to die here. His stomach crunched, a wave of regret slamming into him for all the things he wished he'd changed; wished he'd remedied. He thought of his - their - parents. He thought of his work: the dead-end job that had become his life; he'd always hoped he'd be able to squeeze something noteworthy somehow, so that his name would be remembered for something. He thought of her; he'd always hoped they could patch things up, someday. Thought maybe she'd come to her senses. Not that he hadn't tried everything. Maybe his funeral would be enough to remember; to regret.

Aww, hell, his mind muttered, determination drawn out from his resignation. At least the family is back together. His eyes narrowed for focus, another calming breath to steady his nerves, and his hands. "Twenty-four," he said aloud, not much of a whisper that time; with an added growl for effect, he shifted his poise, levelled the blaster, and sprayed the Stormies with red.

As Xander had managed to completely nail one of the troopers and apparently incapacitate two others with his last spray of fire, Charles had looked over to him, expecting to see a difference in his stance, the way he was holding the blaster, the way he was looking down the sights, something! But all she saw was a look she hadn't seen since their argument when they are parted ways. Note to self... Xan is far more affective when angry.

With their numbers thinned out a bit, Charles' attention was quickly returning to getting the kriff out of there. A speeder was spotted, almost too conveniently, a few yards off. It probably belonged to someone who worked at the facility...

"Alex." She gently shoved an elbow into his ribs to catch his attention. What the frak was up with the speaking of numbers... "Speeder." It was motioned to with the blaster in her hands. "We're making a run for it. You get the Major, I'll lay down suppressing fire until we get to it. Dump Glayde into the back seat. At that point we'll swap, you fire, I'll get the damn thing up and running... unless you can hot wire it?"

Overall a risky plan, very risky. Some part of her mind reminded her that she loved that.

Sure, sure. I'll just pick up the damn heavy Major, run through the kill zone of those Stormtroopers with him slung over my shoulder - making us both a damn big and easy target to hit - shall I?

He let out a growl, eyeing the speeder she indicated - "Five!" he muttered, popping back up and spraying fire at the Stormtroopers before ducking down and shuffling back to where the Major was lying - and wondering just how likely it was they'd actually get out of here in one piece. Any plan seemed like a pipe dream at this point, and the odds were stacked against them. Lottie would hate that: she was a proper Corellian, who didn't care for odds, or statistics, or... you know. Logic. Common sense. That sort of thing.

He glanced at the Major, contemplating her plan; imagining himself going through the motions in his head. Pick. Carry. Run like hell. Drop. Don't die. Simple plan. He sighed, resigned to the fact that he was going to die anyway; getting gunned down by Stormtroopers was infinately preferable to the torture followed by execution option. "Fine," he muttered, glancing back towards Charlotte; though in defiance he popped back up with a grunt of "Eighteen," to spray the Stormtroopers one last time and at least finish the damn number sequence.

Dropping down for the last time, he swung the blaster carbine over his shoulder, and knelt beside the Major, carefully inspecting his dressings. He groaned in protest, half-conscious again; pressing down firmly on him to stop him from moving, Xander insisted softly: "Don't move. It's okay, we have everything under control."

Glayde muttered something, but Xander wasn't paying attention to that. His eyes were settled instead on the crate that Glayde leaned against, eyes skimming across the reference number stensiled on a corner. It was sideways - the meatheads that Frohad employed in their shipping department clearly incapable of interpreting the "This Way Up" arrow emblazoned on the side - but with a slightly cocked head his mind was able to identify the contents. Were he not ellated at the discovery, he'd probably have been busy berrating himself internally for not thinking: We're at a weapons factory. I wonder what's in these boxes.

Instead, he merely turned back to face Charlotte. "Hey, sis: you got anything I can use to pry one of these crates open? I think Life Day just came early."

Now is NOT the time to try and take some of the goods from you- ...wait... Kriffing... Yes! The combat knife was quickly plucked from where it was strapped to her leg and held out. "Better be worth the time, Xander. We're running short on it as is."

A few more of the Stormtroopers had the unlucky pleasure of being at the end of her sights while Alexander pried open the crate. Three more down and she ducked back behind the crates again, hoping that she would see her brother with something more handy than some fancy ceremonial pistols. What she saw... well at first she wasn't sure what the hell it was. Bits and pieces were being pulled out and being assembled by Alexander. Right... weapons designer... obviously he knows what the hell it is...

"That thing better be capable of pulling some right fine miracles out of its mechanical ass. We're sitting ducks here while you put that thing together." The frustration in her voice was present, but being held in check. As much as she wanted to get out as quickly as possible, having the option of getting them all back to base was a better idea. Though part of her wasn't exactly happy with her brother completely reworking her plan. Frinking civilians...

As Alexander set about piecing the weapon together, Charles took the time to thin the crowd a bit more as they steadily were advancing. "Kriff... think they've finally figured out that there's only two of us over here."

Charles turned to Alexander again and couldn't help but actually smile at what he has assembled. She was no heavy weapons expert, but it certainly looked like Xander had himself a heavy rotary blaster cannon. "Ha... that thing better have a tripod, or you better have some serious skills I don't know about."

"Tripod?" Xander blasted out a snort between his lips, shaking his head at his sister's complete lack of faith. Attatching the last component - a fibreweave strap - an hooking it over his shoulders, he rose from his knees and began to stand. "I don't need -"

As soon as the weight of the repeater bit on the strap, Xander ground to a halt; it took all the effort he could muster to avoid tumbling backwards and falling on his ass. Slipping the strap off his shoulder, he shot a scowl at the weapon, and another towards his sister to forestall any sarcasm she might be preparing to unleash.

Returning to the crate, he extracted the last few components, assembling the rudimentary weapons stand and attatching it to the base of the repeater. It was difficult enough to flip the weapon from horizontal to standing, but after a great deal of heaving and leverage, the trio of feet dropped to the duracrete with a thud. Determination resolved on his face as he reached forwards, grabbing the locking mechanism that prevented the rotating barrel from moving and pulling it back with an immensely satisfying clunk.

A few clicks and flips later and the sights were in place, power pack connected, and firing servos primed. "Alrighty then," he muttered, beginning the warm-up process, the barrel spinning into motion with a whirr that slowly built up. He pointed the barrel roughly in the direction of the nearest Stormtrooper and, hands grabbing the twin deadman triggers at the back end of the weapon, unleashed hell.

A rain of crimson spat forth, leaping across the distance between the weapon and its targets in a mere instant or two. Shots flew wide, biting into the ferracrete walls, chewing chunks off everything in its path. Those that landed on target tore into the Stormtroopers, melting their way through their armour as if it was paper. The gun bucked violently as the barrels span, Xander's aim bouncing up and down in an undulating wave more violent than a sea storm on Kamino.

It did the job though: as his fingers released the controls, and the barrels slowly whirred to a standstill, nothing was moving on the far side of the courtyard. Xander slumped back onto his heels, eyes surveying the dozen bodies with their heavily cratered armour. He blinked, numbness creeping into his mind. I just killed twelve people.

Affective. Sloppy... but affective. And it would have to work for the moment. Another glance at Glayde case a sense of urgency upon the entire situation once more. The remaining handful of troopers now seemed to be either looking for a way to get away, or at least dazed in a sense of hesitation. Charles had a very hard time, for a second or two, trying to tell herself to continue with her original plan rather than just wipe the remaining men out. There's more whitehats in the galaxy, Charles... A small nod of her head accompanied her decision.

"That'll do nicely. Now, time to go." A point was given to Glayde and then to the speeder before she placed a hand on Xander's shoulder and gave a small shove for emphasis.

The contact jerked him reluctantly out of his reverie; with an effort, he mustered a nod. "Yeah, yeah," he muttered, peeling his eyes away from the carnage he'd wrought. For a moment, his gaze lingered on the repeater, wondering if they should somehow try to bring it with them; mount it to the back of the speeder they planned to steal, just in case? Xander certainly remembered seeing the necessary parts in the crate for doing that. But then, the weapon weighed more than Glayde did; carrying the Major to the speeder would be tiring enough, without having to dismantle the weapon into carryable chunks and making several trips. With a reluctant sigh, he disconnected the main power cell and, with the combat knife that Charlotte had given him earlier, sliced off the main connector. At least no one would be able to do to them what he'd done to the Stormtroopers; not with this particular unit, anyhow.

Ducking down next to Glayde, he rolled him stiffly into position atop his shoulder and, keeping as low as he could without compromising his balance, jogged in pursuit of his sister, heading towards the speeder.

Charles had to avoid the silly urge to slide across the hood of the speeder to reach the other side of it. While it may have been fun, and probably looked pretty damn badass with a blaster carbine in hand, it did tend to put you in a rather unguarded position when there still were some of the Stormtroopers left. But the thought was enough to draw out a small smirk from her as she wondered just how many others in SpecForce would have even thought of that and if it only went to prove just how much she really, honestly, didn't seem to mesh with the majority of the members of Dorn.

She looked up long enough to make sure Xander had made it across the courtyard, her eyes narrowing as one of the troopers seemed to get his nerve back and attempted to pick a bead on him. Nah uh, wagyxhole... if anyone's going to shoot Xan its gonna be me when this is all said and done. The shot was simple and the toy solider crumpled to the ground.

Her eyes remained scanning the remaining troopers, praying those that retreated weren't going to be bringing in backup. As Xander got Glayde into the backseat of the speeder she let a quick glance be cast at him. "You never answered my question, you think you can get this thing running or am I going to have to put some more trust in your random number yelling if they bring in reinforcements?"

Oh, sure, sis. Let me just get right to splicing my way into the locking mechanism, bypassing the various immobiliser subroutines on both the repulsorlifts and the thrusters; all one handed, because my other one is busy stopping this frelling friend of yours from toppling off my shoulder.

He refrained from voicing that particular string of thoughts aloud as he trudged over, but couldn't help a brief comment under his breath. "You're the one with the juvenile record for joyriding," he muttered with a scowl. "You get the damn thing running."

With a heave, he shifted Glayde on his shoulder again, settling him so that he perched, almost seated, on the speeder's edge; with considerable care that was made more difficult by the Major's completely dead weight, he lowered him down until he lay more or less flat across the rear seats, feet hooked casually over the edge. "That'll do," he decided to himself, sweeping the blaster off his shoulder and bringing it into position, ready to fire.

Eyes narrowing as he surveyed the eerily still and silent courtyard, he wondered just how patiently the Empire would wait for them to make their next play; and how long it would take before the inevitably summoned reinforcements arrived. He guessed, from the somewhat sloppy reaction that he an Lottie had mustered at the last minute, that this overt escape hadn't been part of the original plan. But then, the man with the plan was lying unconscious; that generally hampered even the bet laid plans.

"Sis," he muttered softly, fighting hard to keep any insistance or impatience from his words. "How's it coming?"

"Almost there..." The hint of annoyance in her voice wasn't even remotely attempted to be kept back.

The first speeder she had 'stolen' for their cause had been a fun sort of thing to acquire, but having to do it a second time in one day made the entire effort lose its charm. Not to mention, it seemed the designers of this particular model had caught on to the faults in the other and had 'improved' its security. All in all, with the addition of a bit of stress knowing an entire extra platoon of Stormtroopers could appear at any moment, it was a right pain in the ass.

A sigh left her as the speeder's engine came to life, feeling as if a weight was taken off of her. The panel she had removed under the passenger side of the dashboard was left undone as she moved into the driver's seat. She hadn't let Glayde drive earlier and like hell she was going to let Xander do it now.

"I'd ask if you're coming or staying, but you don't get a frinking choice. Take a seat and let's get out of here."

Apparently, having escaped from a veritable army of Stormtroopers, he was about to commit suicide by climbing into a vehicle with a dangerous loose nut behind the wheel. Words danced around in his mind, forming into scathing sarcasms, but he stayed his tongue; a heavy sigh sagged his shoulders. "Yeah, yeah," he muttered, clambering with a groan of effort into the speeder. His shoulder ached, furiously - Glayde owed him one, when they got out of this. Assuming he didn't die from his injuries before then, mind.

He allowed himself a lingering look back in the direction of the building he'd escaped from. It had become his prison of late; before that it hardly been a homely place, but it had been a home, none the less. It had been the only life he'd known for years; it had been the -

His eyes narrowed. Burn in hell, Frohad, he muttered in his mind. He'd been freed from that; freed by his sister, and by the man lying barely conscious on the seats behind him. Maybe Glayde wouldn't owe him one after all. He sighed, tore his eyes away, and flipped his gaze towards Charlotte, busily prepping the speeder for motion. He leaned over, gently planting a kiss on her cheek. "Thanks for coming for me, sis."

As soon as Frohad had been enough behind them, the helmet had been practically torn off of her... It was bad enough they were driving late at night, two of them in full Infiltrator gear, with two blaster carbines, and one of them badly injured. Charles figured it was best she didn't draw any other unwanted attention from any patrolling authorities by keeping the helmet on.

She had expected her brother to start chatting up again as they were on their way, she hadn't expected the peck on the cheek with a thanks. "Yeah, well... you can thank the Major when he gets better." If... her mind chimed in. "The whole op was practically a secret from me, didn't know who we were bailing out of that place until your door opened up. I was just doing my job. Still am."

A sidelong glance was cast over at Xander. When she spoke again she attempted to make her tone slightly warmer in nature, though only succeeded in taking the edge off. "But... you're welcome anyway. I guess."

We're not done. The reminder came loud and clear into the forethought of her mind. She had to get Glayde somewhere he could be treated, and fast. Problem was, no hospital in their right mind would tend to such a wound without asking a drukload of questions. Questions like that would lead to her seeing Stormtroopers again a lot faster than she wanted.

There was only one other place to go... and now all that was left was for Charles to hope they hadn't moved locations.

For a moment, Xander contemplated pretending that her frustration stemmed from that secret: anger directed at her Commanding Officer for not having informed her that it was her own brother that they were trying to save. But he knew better; even if he hadn't, the evidence made it obvious that her anger was directed as much at him as anyone else. Glayde had made a good call, not keeping her informed: she'd probably never had come if she knew.

Much as it tallied with his expectations, the realisation that the fact drove home crushed his insides none the less. Sure, things had been rough between them when they'd parted, but years had passed since then. Xander was just happy to learn that she was alive - and thriving, it seemed. Did she not feel the same?

His gut twisted. Had she really grown to hate him that much?

With that train of thought speeding through his mind, his prison back at Frohad didn't seem so bad after all. But now wasn't the time to dwell; not to cultivate those kind of notions. Instead, he fought his mind into some kind of neutral, objective set, eyes focussed squarely on the view ahead. "So," he said, as calmly as he could. I just became a fugative from the Empire. What the frak was I thinking? "What happens now?"

"Now?" Her eyes glanced at him again before a small motion with her head was made towards the back seat. "Now we get help for him."

The place Charlotte was thinking of was underground, literally. It had been one of he compounds belonging to the Corellian resistance, probably part of the actual Rebellion by now. Getting to the location would be easy enough... but getting there without being seen was another issue entirely. Especially with the spectacular leaving of Frohad they had just conducted.

Though one hour, a change in speeder, and several creative routes later the trio arrived at what appeared to be nothing but a large group of abandoned warehouses in an overall slummy industrial center that was filled with similar. It only took one rather severe look to Xander to get her point across that he'd be waiting in the speeder along with the wounded Major.

The buildings themselves were as vivid in her memory as they had been when she had once called the area home. The door to one of the warehouses was slid open slowly, the inside just as empty as anyone would expect it to be and Charles let a small sigh leave her. So far, just like old times.

Her footsteps, as light as they were, couldn't help but echo softly as she made her way to a console that rested against a wall next to another door inside. The lack of dust on the actual pad brought a small smile to her lips as she keyed in a code she could only hope was still active.

The silence that followed lasted far too long for her liking.

She was about to give up, head swimming with what the frell do I do now?? when the comm next to the panel crackled with static before a voice addressed her.

"You better start explainin' where you got that code. Turrets are locked on to ya so you best start talkin."

Charles frowned slightly before shaking her head. "Visuals down again, Arkada?"

There was another lingering pause. "No fah'kin way... You aint Charlie Tur'enne. She's been dead goin on four years now."

"You really think the Empire could down me for good?"

"Nah, I always figured you'd go and come back from the dead if it still was abouts and well... You know, you got some nerve showin up in the dead o' night too!"

"Stop stalling. I got a man down out here. The doc still around?"

"Yeah yeah, hang on, kid. Sendin a team up right now."

"Thanks."

"They find you in a stormy suit though and they aint gonna be afraid to put you down though. Don't matter if you were one of us or not."

Charles laughed slightly. "Don't think you have to worry about that."

A few more agonizing seconds passed until the door opened, Charles was at least somewhat comforted to see the men that came through had blasters at the ready in case it was some sort of set up. A quick show of identification and she was leading them to the speeder outside. Two men carefully removed Glayde from the speeder, one of them commenting they'd seen worse in an attempt to provide some form of comfort to his teammate.

She began to follow them, determined to make sure the Major pulled through okay. It was a strange feeling to be seeing and instantly a part of the group she hadn't seen for several years. Though not as strange as it was being anywhere even near the brother she hadn't seen in an even longer time, however. Charles glanced over her shoulder at Alexander who seemed rather dumbfounded by everything. With Glayde's life now in the hands of those she trusted she couldn't help but let the full realization of what her brother must be going through slowly seep into her mind.

"Hey, Xan... c'mon. If I remember correctly there's even a bar down there. You and I have some catching up to do over an ale or two, I think. Promise I won't hit you." She smirked, winked, and without waiting for a reply returned to following the group into the underground encampment.

So, this was the Rebellion: hidden in a location so text book that it went beyond mere cliché. It wasn't much to look at; neither were the soldiers that the building Lottie had entered disgorged, swarming over to secure the speeder, him, and their new patient. By contrast, Imperial Stormtroopers were far more impressive, far more intimidating, and far better equipped and funded as well. He noted as the soldiers moved around him that many of them were carrying Frohad weapons; no doubt raided from a supply shipment en route to the Starport. He'd heard the reports while at work, but had mostly ignored them for fear of drawing attention to himself, lest he appear too pleased that Frohad resources had wound up in the right hands.

It seemed odd seeing those hands pointing those guns at him, mind. Not that he hadn't already begun to grow used to it over the course of the day.

When Lottie spoke, the edge from earlier had gone from her voice, and for a brief moment Xander allowed himself to hope that forgiveness for the past four years had been earned, finally. But there was no such luck; probably just a pity routine, to allow him to regain his strength and composure before she lashed out at him with her usual scathing onslaught. Wouldn't take long; should enjoy this while I can, he mused.

"Yeah," he threw back, flashing her a smile that was almost painfully forced. As she turned away, he heaved out a sigh, and extracted himself from the speeder with far more effort than it should have taken, the weight of the galaxy pressing down on his shoulders. Despite this, he trudged along in her wake, symbolially taking those first few steps that would lean him down into the equally symboli "Corellian underground".

With resignation, he sighed. "I'm right behind you, Charlotte."