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Thread: A Lesson in Trust

  1. #21
    Ivy
    Guest
    ####


    Much time had passed since the voyage began. Ivy knew the duration precisely, of course, but his programming had been adapted over the years to dismiss such specifics as irrelevant. Organic beings seldom cared about elapsed time with any degree of specificity, and the rare exceptions would usually be explicitly stated.

    Despite the timing data being earmarked for deletion, Ivy was able to use it to calculate their approximate position in space. As anyone with even basic astronavigation software was aware, Ubrikkia lay a few lightyears from the edge of Hutt-controlled space. An error flag encroached on Ivy's operating system. In reality, Hutt controlled space extended far further: in earlier periods, the Hutt Empire had extended as far as worlds like Tatooine and Ryloth, and despite repeated conflicts with the Galactic Republic over the millennia, and the sterling efforts of the Galactic Empire to clamp down on their illegal activities, the Huttese underworld still exercised a disproportionate level of control.

    If Ivy were to be accurate - which his programming stipulated he must be - then Ubrikkia lay a few lightyears from the edge of the Hutt frontier, as defined by the Galactic Empire in the wake of the Clone Wars. Typically the Galactic Empire had shown little interest in the region, but ensuring that the Hutts remained firmly in their place had been an ongoing concern for the Imperial Governors of the region. Unwisely, the Alliance of Free Planets had forced the Empire to withdraw from that region, and had - initially at least; Ivy required far more data for his tactical projections to make an accurate current assessment - lacked the resources to enforce control of the area. Certain sectors had been left abandoned. Alliance politicians branded them as Free Sectors, part of a network of buffer zones that they presumably hoped would avoid the kind of tensions that a rigid border might create. In reality, they had simply become avenues for smugglers and subterfuge which, currently, was a category of individual that included Ivy and the organic units aboard.

    Though the area surrounding Ubrikkia was not controlled by the Alliance, almost all routes leading to it were. The simplest path from Coruscant to Ubrikkia was to directly follow one of the old hyperlanes; perhaps via Lantillies and Kashyyyk. Both worlds were unfortunately Alliance-controlled, and their territory stretched toward the Outer Rim in either direction. Flying around was out of the question, and flying above or below the plane of the galaxy was a tactic fraught with danger: the slightest complication or failure, and a ship and crew might simply disappear. Instead, Unit Jibral had chosen - shrewdly, by Ivy's calculation - to fly through the Free Space surrounding Zeltros, seeking to pierce through Alliance space at one of it's narrowest points. It was a strategy that still carried considerable risk; but between the stealth capabilities of the shuttle that Unit Jibral had wisely selected, and the tactical projections of Alliance patrol movements that Ivy was currently calculated, their chances of success fell within the parameters of what Ivy had adapted to deem appropriate.

    The specific value of their survival chances was automatically flagged for deletion as well.

    For the duration of the flight so far, Ivy had merely sat in the hold and calculated; but as they approached Alliance space, there were preparations that perhaps should be made in the interests of efficiency and preparedness. It simply would not do for them to be caught unawares by a Free Planets boarding party all because the organics were busy mingling in the cockpit.

    "Unit Redsun," Ivy vocabulated, standing at the base of the ladder and aiming his headpiece directly upwards. "I require your assistance."

  2. #22
    For the past three months, Jeryd had woken, washed, drilled, trained, studied, shot, piloted, talked, eaten, washed, and slept to the same rhythm, with the same people, in the same place. As it was, the placid journey, in the relative comfort of the shuttle, with no-one else to talk to except Knight Jibral - Lúka - was a dramatic shock to the system. By the end of the first hour, he felt like a spice junkie in need of a fix: his body tingled with unspent energy, turning him into a one-man percussion section - his fingers drummed, his feet tapped, his knees bounced - if it bothered Lúka, he declined to say so, but Jeryd stopped himself as often as he could; his mind was buzzing, too, desperate for distraction. Conversation helped, and, whenever he felt his attention wandering or his gaze drifting to the chrono, Lúka always had a question at the ready.

    Jeryd told stories about his time at Carida, and his experiences with the Sub-Adult Group, before that; they talked wegsphere, and grav-ball, and life on Coruscant; thoughts about the Citadel were shared, as well as a couple of amusing tales about his fellow cadets. It wasn't until he stopped talking, in those quiet moments in between, that Jeryd realised that they had been almost-exclusively talking about him. And, every time conversation resumed, he made a deliberate effort to learn more about his companion, who he was, where he came from, what he liked and disliked, and, every time, he ended up talking about himself again. What an egotistical arse, he must seem!

    Another probing personal question was prepared, designed to unearth the mysterious story of Lúka Jibral, and just as he opened his mouth to speak, Ivy called out. His brow furrowed as he rose out of his seat. Every muscle in his legs rejoiced, and, instantly, he was glad to have an excuse to move. Once he was down the ladder, he turned to find Ivy almost on top of him. He recoiled an inch, to meet those glaring red ocular receptors.

    "You... wanted me?"
    Last edited by Jeryd Redsun; Mar 15th, 2017 at 10:38:39 AM.

  3. #23
    Ivy
    Guest
    Want. Require. Synonyms, Ivy supposed, if your linguistic capabilities were at a somewhat rudimentary level.

    "You are a Utility Unit, correct?"

    It was not a question, and yet Ivy's software compelled him to parse it as one. Perhaps it was a glitch in his subroutines, an artefact left behind from the various rewrites to his operating system. Perhaps it was deliberate; he had observed that organic units found comfort in slight ambiguity, perhaps allowing them an illusory sense of control or agency. Such things hardly seemed relevant, but then organics were strangely inefficient machines. While there was a certain logic to their inbuilt power generation, and the ability to extract and process raw fuel from a variety of sources in a broad selection of environments was certainly a commendable design trait; but the amount of waste byproducts, and the sheer scope of potential system failures, errors, and variations sometimes made Ivy wonder how organics even functioned at all. Surely it would be far more efficient to charge their internal batteries from a direct feed? With their onboard processing systems made redundant, the rear disposal port would be a prime location to insert a power conduit.

    Ivy spun at the waist, his feet lagging a second or two behind as he reorientated himself towards the stowed cargo. Bending slightly, his broad shouldered frame easily lifted a wide storage container, and deposited it on the ground between himself and Unit Redsun.

    "You will assist me in checking this ordnance, and preparing it for potential boarding by Alliance patrols, pirates, or other such aggressors."

    His head ticked to one side slightly, processing an additional calculation.

    "As well, you will select the weapon with which you are most proficient. Your file states that you are also rated as a Combat Unit."

    The last sentence was uttered with a droid approximation of surprise, and perhaps misbelief. Ivy flagged his estimations of Unit Redsun's mission usefulness for recalculation: clearly his initial assessment had been run prematurely.

    "Perhaps you are more useful than I thought."

  4. #24
    The last remark made Jeryd's gaze tick up from the unopened crate, and onto Ivy, "Let's hope so."

    The eye-contact lingered long enough for him to weigh Ivy's choice of words, and to dismiss them as the soulless prattle of a machine. There had been a moment, though, when the tactical pause and the slight tilt of the head looked a little too human for his liking. He'd never been sassed by a droid before, and he wasn't about to get into the habit, now. Without further ceremony, he threw open the container.

    There was a gasp, that Jeryd later realised had come from the releasing seals, although it could've just as easily been produced by him. Inside the container, a pair of square shelves rose up on hydraulics, each carrying a blaster rifle and pistol - to his left, there was an A280c and a DH-17, and to his right, there was the more familiar E-11 and its rowdy counterpart, the SE-14r - Jeryd reached out to claim his would-be stormtrooper weapons, when, with a hiss, the shelves parted to either side, revealing a second layer beneath.

    "Frak me!" he blurted, his eyes blossoming like supernovas. "That's..."

    Inside the container, rested a DLT-19 heavy blaster rifle, it was much larger than the standard E-11 and was typically reserved for elite stormtroopers. Jeryd had fired one once, when the academy was visited by a grizzled commando, intent on turning them all into sharpshooters. He couldn't just leave it there. He reached out, took it in his hands, recalling the weight at once, the smooth black finish, the sturdy grip, the firm clasp of the stock against his shoulder. Stars, it felt like it was made for him!

    "What do you think, Ivy?" he took aim, with a grin, "This is one sexy piece of kit, right?"

  5. #25
    Ivy
    Guest
    Ivy's linguistic subroutines processed the choice of language. Curious. A confession of sexual attraction towards an item of ordnance. A literal application of the terminology seemed unlikely, though his operating system flagged a few suggested articles which documented cases of humanoid sexuality directed at inanimate objects. A quick review found no suggestion of such preferences in Unit Redsun's file, but he made a note to esearch the issure more comprehensively as soon as they were in range of a secure Imperial Holonet tranciever.

    In the meantime, his operating system calculated likely alternative definitions. Perhaps this was an attempt at interpersonal bonding. Discussion of sexual preferences was among the topics of idle conversation that Ivy's analysis software deemed socially normal. Perhaps Unit Redsun was attempting to foster such a conversation, using the blaster rifle as a proxy for something that a mechanoid might desire to interface with.

    Or, perhaps it was simply an oversimplified similarity between the rifle and the genetalia of male humans. Ivy had observed a number of instances where males approaching the expiration of their service warranty requisitioned fast vehicles or large weapons as part of a process called compensating for something - the something, Ivy had concluded, likely being perceived anatomical shortcomings. Ivy found this notion problematic to rationalise. If one had an interface node of insufficient size to properly interface with the desired data ports, how did an oversized blaster in any way compensate? Surely a replacement part, or a handheld data spike would be vastly more effective.

    Ivy remained still as a statistical analysis evaluated his possible responses. One found, he turned again, retrieving a rifle case designed for a single weapon. Opening it, he turned back to Jeryd with a specislly customised T-7 ion disruptor rifle in his hands. He was a tactical droid by design, not a battle droid, but it had been prudent to ensure that he was programmed for at least some degree of combat; and this rifle, with a trigger specially modified for his dactyl manipulators, and a targeting scope that interfaced directly with his visual receptors, made for a devastatingly efficient contingency.

    "In that case, perhaps you will find my weapon of choice to be equally stimulating to you sexually."

  6. #26
    "No. Ivy, that's not..."

    At the prospect of having to explain to a droid that he didn't find blaster rifles arousing, a half-smile crept across Jeryd's face. It was with some reluctance that he lowered his beloved DLT-19 and turned to regard Ivy's weapon, with every intention of breaking the tragic news that it didn't quite do it for him. And yet, at the sight of the mighty piece nestled in the droid's dactyl manipulators, Jeryd felt a strong urge to drop trou and stand at attention. It was an urge he resisted, of course, for everyone's benefit. Instead, he stared, the words snatched out of his mouth, and scattered beyond memory.

    "Is that..."

    He'd never seen one before - outside of old holo-documentaries - but, stars, he knew one when he saw it. It struck him like lightning, and given the chance, it most certainly would. Slowly, he approached, taking in the bold chunky lines, and the brutal angular stock. It looked like a weapon designed to destroy, and destruction was something at which disruptor rifles most certainly excelled. And, of all places, he found himself looking back at the ladder that lead to the cockpit, and to Lúka. Who was this guy? And how the frak did he get his hands on such an illegal piece of hardware?

    When he returned his attention to Ivy, and his death cannon, Jeryd couldn't help but smile.

    "Okay, Ivy, introduce me to your lady friend. What's her name, and how did you two meet?"

  7. #27
    Ivy
    Guest
    Curious. Contrary to Ivy's calculations, Unit Redsun was now ascribing feminine characteristics to their arsenal, rather than male. That seemed incongruous, though it correlated with observations Ivy had made of the anthropomorphic projections that organics made towards ships and vehicles. When Ivy had queried this, an organic unit had helpfully explained: If I'm gonna ride it, it had damn well better be a lady. Briefly, Ivy calculated the possibility that Unit Redsun might perceive some sort of parallel between the differences in blaster versus ionic weaponry and the gender disparity of many organic species, but the statistical likelihood was well below probable. A projection of latent patriarchal sexism and moderate suppressed homophobia was the most likely explanation.

    Ivy's head tilted downwards, ocular receptors settling on the ion rifle, a query running through his database in search of a name variable. Did the weapon have a name? Was such a thing normal practice? Was there some corruption in his memory banks that left him unable to access the relevant data on these facts? The query yielded zero search results; Ivy accessed his maintenance log, and scheduled a full system diagnostic to be run at the mission's conclusion, just in case.

    His receptors targeted Unit Redsun, scanning his microexpressions for signs of deceit and duplicity. None were apparent, though Ivy was programmed for battlefield tactics, not protocol or human intelligence. Perhaps an upgrade was in order, to ensure his continued viability to Unit Jibral. A few possible emotional states were calculated. Friendliness. Pandering. Jealousy.

    The last one triggered an alert flag in Ivy's operating system. He regarded the ion rifle again, and then the utility unit once more, before his arms protectively pulled the rifle slightly closer to his body.

    "Her name is T-7 Ion Disruptor Rifle," he uttered, the hesitance in his vocal construction inadvertently conveying a sense of confusion and defensiveness. "We met in the weapons vault at the Black Archives."

  8. #28
    A short burst of laughter, like a cough, rocked Jeryd's composure. He bit down on his lower lip to keep himself in check, and rode it out in silence, until the shaking in his shoulders stopped. Ivy did not strike him as the sort of droid to take offence, but then, neither had he seemed like the kind of droid to get jealous over his possessions. But that response, it had been so... human.

    "Alright. Alright. I get it." If he could have raised his hands in a display of surrender, he would've done. As it was, however, his hands were occupied with several feet of BlasTech powerhouse - which was, decidedly, less reassuring. "Look, but don't touch."

    The smile returned, however. He still felt warm from the residual glow of hearing a tactical droid describe how he and his disruptor rifle first met. And his mind started to wander in search of what other amusing things he could get Ivy to say - the potential for unintentional comedy was outstanding. Of course, there were other places for his thoughts to get lost, too. Darker places, like the Black Archives. According to Lúka, Ivy was archived at the end of the Clone Wars. Thirty years. Thirty years of waiting to be put to use, again. If he thought, for a second, that droids were capable of depression, boredom, or an existential crisis, he would've surely felt a twinge of sympathy for the old wretch.

    As he considered Ivy, he became aware of the extra weight in the DLT-19, and adopted the port arms position, both for comfort, and to reduce the risk of his jealous droid companion turning him into dust.

    "I bet it feels good to free of the Black Archives, at last." He leaned against the container behind him, and did his best to sound as casual as possible, "Is this your first mission since the Clone Wars?"

  9. #29
    Ivy
    Guest
    Never in a billion ticks would Ivy's operating system have predicted that change of direction in their conversation. He might have suspected an attempt at espionage, had the question not been presented in such a brazen manner, and amid such a display of what Ivy interpreted as positive human emotions.

    It completely interrupted Ivy's ongoing processes, which were in the midsts of updating Unit Redsun's file to catalogue him as an individual who had been appropriately informed of what Unit Jibral described as the droid's For Your Eyes Only Protocol - something the Knight stated with an odd additional emphasis on the third word. Unit Jibral seemed to consider it an amusing play on words, but Ivy found it fitting nomenclature for the protocol: not only should he be mindful of anyone interfering with the careful calibration of his ordnance, but also of any potential breaches to Imperial security that might transpire from letting an uncleared individual inspect a highly classified prototype.

    Ivy rededicated those interrupted resources to analysing the potential intentions that might lie behind Unit Redsun's intentions. Correlated with his earlier analysis, an attempt to broker friendship - or at least workplace civility - seemed like the leading possibility. Strange that Unit Redsun would attempt to foster such a thing with a droid. That observation was added to Unit Redsun's datafile.

    "My missions on behalf of the Black Archives are classified, Unit Redsun."

    Ordinarily, Ivy would have ended his explanation at that point: a simple statement of fact that provided an answer to the question posed. However, if Ivy was correct in his analysis of Unit Redsun's intentions, it would not adequately satisfy the parameters of what was intended. His response was ineffective. Incomplete. Unacceptable.

    "However, this is -" He searched his linguistic database for the appropriate vernacular. "- not my first rodeo."

  10. #30
    "I bet it's not." Jeryd's grin was broad. He had expected the secrecy; to hear an acknowledgement, a generous concession that hinted at Ivy's past experiences, was one thing, but to hear it expressed in such a colloquial way? It was a small delight. He studied the droid a moment longer, and wondered if he did it on purpose. Ivy was a tactical droid, after all. Perhaps it was his intention to seem more human to appeal to him, Unit Redsun. Did he seek camaraderie? Unit cohesion? Whatever his motivation - however artificial - it didn't matter. Jeryd liked him. He winked, "I'm glad to have a real professional watching my back."

    With one last longing look at the DLT-19, he returned it to its case. Checks were then carried out on the rest of the ordnance. It was the sort of routine stuff Jeryd had done, time and again, at the academy, at the range, and at home. The bores were clean, and clear of carbon scoring; the trigger pulls felt good; there was no jamming from the power cells, or the stun switches; the bolts were only lightly scratched - they were all relatively new, with very little work done to them. When he picked up the E-11, he handled it with the familiar intimacy of a lover, understanding every groove, every notch, every inch of the weapon in hands. Those checks, he could've performed blindfolded. And, as much as he horned for the exotic allure of the heavy blaster rifle, he knew, in his heart, where his loyalties lay.

    "This is my weapon." It came out like a confession. He regarded the rifle with fondness, enjoying the weight in his hands, "She might not be much to look at, but she's got it where it counts."

    With a happy sigh, he returned the E-11 to the container, and watched it vanish, with a faint hiss. Ivy was nearby, watching.

    "Need anything else, chum?"

  11. #31
    Ivy
    Guest
    Chum. Multiple definitions detected.

    Ivy cocked his head to the side, contemplating the potential translations. A species of fish. A variety of tent used by nomadic aboriginals on certain outlying worlds. Bait used to lure out aquatic predators; also it's usage, as a verb; and metaphorically applied to provocation. Mon Calamari slang for the pilots of unshielded starfighters, likely derived from the previous definition. See also Chums, a short format situational comedy set in a subterranean tavern in the shipwright district of Corellia. CHUM, the Coronet Hyperspace University Museum, displaying exhibits on astro-sciences and stellar navigation.

    Likely definition found. Chum: affectionate term denoting fondness and kinship.

    Though it seemed the most relevant - or rather least irrelevant - of the options, but even then it did not properly compute. Was this some sort of obscure human bonding ritual that Ivy had stumbled upon, the comparison and sexualization of firearms creating some sort of unspoken alliance between the two? The confession of fetishes as a demonstration of trust? Ivy made a note to extensively research it later; to begin doing so now would take up far too much precious processing power, and thus was unwise in the middle of a mission as critical as this.

    "Your assistance is no longer required -"

    A momentary hesitation interrupted Ivy's response, as he searched for an appropriate synonym.

    "- amigo. I will ensure that your selected weapon is prepared and available for emergency use."

    Another pause. More hesitation. More processes clamouring for a percentage of Ivy's CPU power, draining the resources of his RAM. Ivy had no explicit desire to reinforce Unit Redsun's sense of kinship - he simply was not programmed for such things - but his analysis did suggest that it would be beneficial in the long term to maintain an amiable relationship with a strategic asset such as the Cadet. That meant rapidly calculating some sort of response that Unit Redsun might misinterpret as friendly. What options were there? A data file not accessed in an incredibly long time suggested that kinship was cultivated by expressing an interest in activities that the organic individual spent a considerable amount of their time doing. Ivy quickly calculated the Cadet's activities since boarding the shuttle, filtering out those which were essential to his basic operations. He found a match.

    "You may return to your unrequited sharing of personal history with Unit Jibral, if you like."

  12. #32
    Jeryd was smiling. Hearing himself being called 'amigo' by an old Separatist tactical droid might well have been the highlight of his brief career as an Imperial Knight cadet. It was a broad happy smile, full of fondness and amusement. There was no longer any question in his mind that Ivy was deliberately using language to forge a friendship between them, and it was working. He'd never been friends with a droid before. His father would've been scowling by now, having found the whole exchange pitiful and degrading - droids were things, like hydrospanners and swoop bikes - but then, his father had never had a droid attempt to sexually stimulate him with a disruptor rifle.

    Jeryd's brow creased in a flicker of revulsion, and shook it off instantly.

    He moved to the ladder, and had placed a hand on it, ready to climb, when Ivy said something that made him freeze. In silence, he repeated the words slowly in his head, and found himself wondering why he'd say a thing like that. Unless... Could he be jealous? Ivy, the cold calculating tactical droid, jealous of his developing relationship with Knight Jibral. No, Lúka. Slowly, he turned to regard him, with narrow suspicious eyes.

    "Unrequited... what!?" Just the thought of it prompted a snort of disbelief. He patted his hand on his chest, where his heart was, and addressed the droid in a serious undertone, "Me and Lúka? We're tight. Tight!"

    His words were punctuated by a warning leap of the eyebrows, and a finger, prodding the air in Ivy's direction. He opened his mouth to speak again, and, instead, finished on a stiff nod. With that dealt with, Jeryd promptly ascended the ladder to the cockpit, where he and Lúka were going to continue to bond.

  13. #33
    Quan Marivva
    Guest
    ####


    Quan Marivva stirred in his sleep. Where perspiration might have dotted the brow of a mammalian, the aquatic's usually soft and clammy skin had turned dry and wrinkled. Each shift, each shudder, came with a mumbled grunt of distress that set his tentacled jowls quivering. The soft, fleshy back of his head pulsed with each distressed and laboured breath.

    Behind the nictitating membranes of Quan's closed eyes, icy blue shifted back and forth, vision reacting to thoughts that weren't his own. Voices. Feelings. Flashes of memory. A nightmare, and yet not. Not some product of Quan's own subconscious, but something darker, more insidious, and far more sinister. Quan felt blackness. Confinement. An oppressive nothingness, a prison that fused and multiplied the solitude of prison with the silent oblivion of starless space. He felt lost and alone, blind and confused, drowning in fear and anxiety that clogged his gills and paralysed his air sacs. He struggled, but couldn't move. Shouted, but couldn't be heard. His eyes searched for restraints, but there was none to be seen; nor a body to be seen or felt around him. A chilling, icy realisation lanced into his soul. Was this death? Was this what lay beyond?

    Quan's eyes snapped open, a muttered gasp escaping from his throat, his impossible struggles suddenly manifesting in a spasm that left his hammock swaying. Breaths rattled as they were forced into his body. His eyes darted around him, startled and stunned by the overwhelming brightness of the dimly lit room. Moments passed before his senses returned, and even then, everything he had felt still lingered, lurking behind him, a heavy hand weighing down on his shoulders.

    Swinging his feet over the edge, Quan felt the hammock shift beneath him until his bare fins managed to find the floor. Something solid and tangible beneath him helped, a tactile reminder that the world really existed. He reached for the shipping container flipped on it's side, that approximated a bedside table in his cluttered and makeshift abode. A glass was raised, cool saline poured over his face, and blinked into his eyes. He shuddered as the dryness abated, only slightly; prayed for the humid air of the Ubrikkian night to undo some of what his sleep had inflicted.

    Something whispered to him from across the room.

    Quan rose before his mind comprehended. He felt himself fall into slow, staggering strides, feet slapping against the duracrete. He felt it call to him, drawing him closer, an impulse that he was too tired to resist, too lost to understand. His fingertips brushed across the tops of containers as he passed, finding their way to the case that held his latest treasure. His fingers shook as he fumbled with the latches, trembling like the hands of a withdrawing spice addict. It only abated as the case lifted open, the warm glow from within slowly seeping out, washing over him, driving away the darkness that had taken root inside Marivva's soul.

    They wanted to sell it. Fools. His crew looked in the case, and saw nothing but a benign trinket; a few thousand credits if sold to the right buyer. Marivva knew better. He could feel it's value: knew that this was not some treasure that one tossed aside for a quick payday. He let his hand rest upon it, feeling the warmth seep into his bones. Who would even dare to think of surrendering something such as this? To the Empire it had been a secret, guarded treasure. Now it was his.

    He would not let them take it from him.

  14. #34
    ####


    It was strange, being here.

    It had not been long in the grand scheme of things, and yet it felt as if it had. This safehouse on Ubrikkia had gone far longer between uses in the past, but only now did it feel as if it had been neglected and left vacant. Lúka's thoughts strayed to his last visit: a task that had seemed so simple at the time. As part of preserving the Black Archives' secrecy, as few resources as possible had been invested from the Imperial military machine. Funds were skimmed from budgets and invoices across millions of transactions across thousands of worlds, and then spent through shell corporations and shadow agencies on private contractors and third parties. Layer upon layer of subterfuge and anonymity, hiding their efforts from the Empire as much as from anyone else. Everything relied on being benign and unnoticed.

    A deviation from that had been the cause of his last visit here: an unknowing asset drawing a little too much attention to herself, and by extension to the Archives' business. Lúka had wanted to remedy the problem personally, but his superiors had insisted it be done through a proxy, a firewall to conceal the Archives from any investigation into her death. That had been a mistake. Never trust a Hutt to do an Inquisitor's job. Fortunately, fear had been enough to resolve the situation to the satisfaction of his superiors, for now at least. Lúka detested the loose end; but worse, he detested the sneaking suspicion that the task had merely been a distraction, a means to keep him occupied while the fate of the Black Archives was decided.

    That frustration was allowed to escape with a sigh.

    "Make yourself comfortable," he called over his shoulder, hearing the door of the modest studio apartment slide closed behind Jeryd. He didn't turn, didn't wait to pander to the Cadet and ensure that he was settled; instead he strode across the room, discarding the duffel bag from his shoulder onto the bed as he passed, and deposited himself into a battered but comfortable chair in front of the computer terminal in the room's corner.

    "The 'fresher is the door on the left; door on the right is a closet. Should be some non-perishable food in the kitchen nook somewhere. Might even be a few beers in the cooler if we're lucky."

  15. #35
    The moment the door closed, Jeryd's nostrils flared. His eyebrows crashed in sudden concentration. He sniffed again, this time pulling the corner of his mouth up, in a flicker of disapproval. That smell. What was that? He turned stiffly on the spot, nose twitching, like a dog trying to zero in on a bone. Except, in this case, it was not a bone he was in search of, but the source of the strange sickly-sweet smell that festered in the air. It was faint, and yet, inescapable. No matter where he stood, there it was. He dropped his bag in surrender, and made a beeline for the kitchen... nook? Was Lúka just making stuff up, now? A kitchen was a kitchen; this was a crevice with condiments.

    It wasn't easy, squeezing himself into the limited space, in the first place. But that he then had to reverse, in order to turn, and crouch to retrieve the drinks from the... He called it a cooler? It was a beer safe. Jeryd prized the bottles free from the beer safe, and hoisted them aloft, so that they could be reached by what limited light tumbled in through the window. He squinted to read, first, the date, and then, the brand. Some Corellian swill, by the look of it. Still, it was cold. The caps released with a satisfying hiss. One bottle was handed to Lúka; Jeryd considered his for a second, and took a swig. It was no Grand Admiral's Reserve. And now, he took in the apartment itself, in all of its... humility. There was that word again.

    "So, where's the other room?" he asked, and looked back at the 'fresher, then the closet, as if a third door was about to magically appear.

  16. #36
    A moment of confusion was followed by realisation, understanding, and then a snort of laughter.

    "Right," he responded, mostly to yourself. He knew Redsun's personnel file inside and out by this point, and had delved beyond that extensively, into information that was only of use to a mind such as Jibral's. School reports. Family financials. Holiday travel plans. Lúka had been baffled by the number of times the same people could go to the same destination, and ski down the same slopes without becoming mind-numbingly bored. But then, the prospect of hurtling down the side of a mountain at potentially deadly speeds, for fun, was a concept that he would never be able to consider normal.

    "This is probably your first time away from home in a place that doesn't have room service, right?"

    The statement was delivered deadpan, but with the tiniest hint of something playful; just enough so that Jeryd would, hopefully, not take the jab too much to heart. Lúka let out a good natured sigh, abandoning the terminal to turn in the chair. One hand rested against one half of a spread pair of knees, the other poured a refreshing mouthful of beer into his mouth. For an idle moment, Lúka pondered the beverage, it's origin, and the way it's circumstances had changed. Would the Blockade cripple the economy for Coronet Export, driving the brewery responsible for the cheap, ubiquitous, and mildly inoffensive beverage out of business; or would it become a boon, the rarity inexplicably bolstering prices and demand.

    Lúka's bottle-holding hand came to rest against his other leg, the coolness from the chilled rim of the bottle's base seeping through the fabric into his thigh.

    "A lot of the Empire's work isn't glamorous, Jeryd. Your operations budget won't always stretch to fancy hotels, and luxury is a long way from discrete. This?"

    He gestured at their surroundings with a finger, and the bottle.

    "This is discrete. And when you start to live this life, you have to learn to make the most of what little comfort you get."

  17. #37
    "Little being the operative word."

    The last thing Jeryd wanted was to appear ungrateful for the opportunity he'd been given, and yet, he felt his face twisting downwards, compelled by forces beyond his control. He surveyed the apartment again, and this time, he really tried to be generous in his appraisal of his surroundings, to make the most of small comforts. It was a spartan affair, furnished with the basic necessities for a civilised life, and where the decorators had taken creative liberties, it was all so hideously outdated - like the safehouse had been frozen in time. He took a sluggish route around the bed, and back again, inspecting the fixtures, testing the light switches; one swipe across a shelf left his finger thick with dust. This he revealed to Lúka, one eyebrow raised in silent protest, but Lúka... well, he seemed different.

    Since arriving at Ubrikkia, Lúka appeared to relax, and it drew to mind a snake, perpetually poised, ready to strike, that suddenly came uncoiled. That was Lúka: removed from the Citadel, and the uniform, and the protocol, he was becoming uncoiled. The sharpness was still there, of course. Indeed, Jeryd suspected the man would be a stranger without it. But he seemed more at ease with himself, somehow. And that put him at ease. He took a seat on the edge of the bed and it yielded like jello under his weight; his jaw clenched so tight, he could've shattered his teeth. The simmer of anger was transformed, for Lúka's benefit, into a tight-lipped smile. Another swig of beer.

    "Do you prefer this kind of work, Lúka?" Jeryd said, suddenly. He basked in it for a moment - using his first name never got old - then his shoulders lifted with a dismissive shrug, "You're a badass teacher, don't get me wrong, but this? It feels like a better fit."

  18. #38
    The question actually caught Lúka off guard. He was glad for the laugh that it startled out of him, leaning into it to provide a little extra concealment as he wrestled his reaction under control.

    "A badass teacher, huh?"

    The compliment meant more to Lúka than he was prepared to let on. While winning the favour and affection of his Cadets was not something that Lúka set out to achieve - preparing them to survive and serve with distinction was his central consideration - it felt strangely significant to know that at least one of them regarded him in such a way. He supposed he had brought this upon himself, engineered it even through the manipulations and machinations that had led to Jeryd being here as a viable asset; but knowing it on a strategic level, and hearing it stated voluntarily from the Cadet's own mouth were two vastly different things.

    He found himself at a crossroads. Every instinct told him to weave this into an opportunity to advance his objectives. Offer the answer that would cement Redsun's loyalty, or that would push him forward on his path towards becoming a Knight. Yet beneath it all was the impulse to answer honestly. Had Jeryd not earned that by now, a reciprocation of the same trust that Lúka asked for? Disclosing details of their mission was one thing: that trust was professional. The trust that Lúka sought was more personal: Jeryd's trust in him, his faith that this mission truly was for the Empire's cause, and that his instructor was not leading him dangerously astray.

    "This is -" He searched for the word. "- familiar."

    Honesty it was then, after a fashion. It wouldn't be a whole truth, of course. No talk of how much time Lúka had spent in dives like this on worlds like this, barely a few scrambled steps ahead of the Inquisitors, Security Bureau, Senate Commandos, and whoever else Emperor Palpatine had set on their trail. No details on the kinds of missions experiences like this had entailed, nor the rare joy they had provided as a reprieve from his Archives isolation. If anything, the deepest concern was that Jeryd would relate too well. What Jeryd experienced now, a brief escape from the Citadel, the opportunity to be outside the confines of a certain structure and a certain set of expectations; that had been Lúka on missions such as this. That would all go unsaid; but he would offer Jeryd something.

    "You must get what it's like, right? For me, missions like this are like your time on Carida. It's not a matter of preference. The Citadel isn't worse, it's just unfamiliar. How you must feel when you get to run through Stormtrooper drills, or spend time on the rifle range. You know what you're doing. It feels comfortable."

    He poured a little more beer into his mouth, and shrugged.

    "This is all familiar ground to me. Not as uncharted as a classroom at the Citadel."

  19. #39
    While Lúka spoke, Jeryd felt a flutter of exhilaration that had nothing to do with the beer. It was hard to believe he would've ever found himself relaxing in the company of an Imperial Knight, having a beer, shooting the breeze, being treated like an equal, and yet, there he was. Another swig of beer disguised the creeping grin. He didn't want to ruin the moment by acting like a candy-loaded kid at the E.E.P. When the bottle was lowered again, he regained his composure. Lúka had so far shown an extraordinary amount of trust in him, a lowly cadet, to choose him for this mission, to share secrets - it was time he earned it.

    "I understand. The other day I was meditating coins into cups. I had to stop, and remind myself of what I was doing. It was like I was... spying on someone else's life."

    He shrugged it off, realising how ridiculous it sounded. It had been a degree of openness he'd not quite been prepared to share, as if he'd just revealed his secret crush or something. Jeryd's gaze retreated to the floor, where he inspected his civvy boots, they were clean enough to be brand new. He was already missing the uniform; it reminded him of who he was. Jeryd Redsun, Imperial Knight-Cadet. And Lúka Jibral was still his superior officer, and the boundary between them was sacrosanct. In relating to him, the way he had, Lúka had struck a nerve: while he might occasionally be free to return to the world of shadows and secrets, Jeryd knew that he could never revisit his old life. Carida might as well have been a place in a fairy-tale.

    "Where do we go from here?" he asked, suddenly, surfacing from his thoughts. Once more, he glanced around the apartment, "Not that this place doesn't have its own modest charm, of course."

  20. #40
    Lúka felt the slight flutter of emotion that trickled from the Cadet as he delved into his thoughts. Good. Nostalgia was a double-edged sword, and one that Redsun needed to be disarmed of. As long as thoughts of his previous life lingered, as long as he harboured the faintest hope of an existence other than this one, it would be an anchor slowing his progress. Short of unearthing a forgotten Death Star prototype and wiping the Carida Academy from existence, there was little else that Lúka could do except continue with the same subtle strategy, amputating Redsun's past from his thoughts one muscle fibre at a time.

    That Jeryd returned from his thoughts by his own volition was a promising sign; the fact that he did so to focus upon the mission at hand was even more so. Lúka turned in his chair, indicating the data terminal behind him.

    "We have a vague description of the ship that made off with our stolen item. No specific name or model, but we have markings and a manufacturer, which narrows things down. Based on their escape trajectory, they either returned to Ubrikkia, or at the very least relayed through the system. This terminal already has a back door slice into starport security, and landing control; and we have a few covert surveillance drones scattered about in a few different orbits. Either we find the ship we're looking for, and track down whoever is leasing the landing berth; or we pick up the ship as it arrives and leaves, and follow it to wherever it headed next."

    The Knight fell silent for a moment, draining a little more of the beer bottle before offering the Cadet a shrug.

    "You were probably hoping for something a little less analyst, and a little more Baastian Cain, right? Unfortunately, this is how real operations tend to go. A lot of time waiting, watching, and analysing to make sure that when you act, you aren't gonna screw it up."

    Lúka offered a small, knowing smile.

    "It isn't just you Cadets who are inundated with homework."

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