After Laughter

[Eshtaol]

EFAVAN

She had to admit, smuggling never got dull.

Oh, one day she'd leave it behind (she was good at leaving things behind. But one day she'd abandon this life for one she wouldn't have to. She'd outrun the past and build her future and never have to run again. But dreams were a faraway thing). And when she did, she wouldn't miss it, wouldn't look back. Until then, well. She could certainly do worse than where she was now.

The ship came down on the surface of Efavan and Saoirse Flynn brought down the landing ramp as she picked up a suitcase and a knife. The suitcase held some sort of arms (her contact had been very clear she didn't need to know, but information was insurance)- the knife was insurance too. It hid in the lining of her jacket, ready to be drawn at a moment's notice even if Saoirse wanted nothing less than to use it. She had a strong hatred of violence, but the line ended at idealism--between alive with a guilty conscience and dead, she'd always choose the former.

Didn't mean she couldn't try to be careful.

More cargo was loaded into a speeder, and Saoirse checked the ship's lock three times before she took off. The craft was parked in the safest place within the area she could find, but considering the area that didn't mean much. It was only a handful of hours at most--a few courier missions, one passenger to pick up on her way out. She'd make enough to be comfortable over the weekend, at least. It was a start.

Finally, she drove to a halt outside a warehouse. As far as she could tell her surroundings were abandoned, but Saoirse wasn't big on assuming. Where she couldn't be certain of her safety, she would always be tensed, stretched like she might snap. But this would only take a few minutes. In, haggle for a few minutes over how much she'd get paid, out. All the same, she didn't like this place.

[member="Maris Fero"]​

 

[Maris Fero]

The Esatz family had not been idle since hearing the rumours of the Iron Fist consortiums arrival on Efavan. Word around the hive like streets said that the Iron Fist had brought more manpower, better discipline, and crucially, superior weapons to the side of the mighty Bogo the Hutt. Despite all of their best-laid plans, Old Man Esatz had been forced to conclude that the wily slug had escaped their assassination attempts, and was now so deep in hiding as to be practically unassailable. The truth, however, was far less straightforward.

Convinced by the tales they had been fed, the Old Man had scrambled to rearm and reinforce his own loyal men. The orders had flooded out to smugglers and mercs from neighbouring systems; premium runs paying better than the standard rate for risky weapons; bonuses offered for rapid delivery. It was a profitable time to be running weapons, armour and manpower to Efavan.

Insinuation and suggestion had pushed the mob to rash decisions, and a rapidly diminishing war chest was being drained to pay for weapons, not all of which could be accounted for when the time came to collect those goods.

Warehousing block Upper-R Q-12 awaited one such delivery; the courier had been sourced through third parties, neither side had any real chance of recognising the other through voice or appearance, only a cautiously shared set of instructions for a drop off location, a time and a contact name would close the deal. Proper care had been taken to keep any of the details from reaching the hands of the Hutt’s goons, but despite it all, they had failed.

The handover details had been compromised almost as soon as they had been arranged, and through the whispers of small folks and forgotten underlings, the words had found there way almost inevitably to the centre of a sprawling whisper network, at whose midst listened the Shrike. Eighteen high yield thermal detonators were bound for Efavan, in the unwitting hands of a young courier out to make some credits, a serious arsenal of restricted cargo that would not be allowed to reach its buyer.

The Esatz agents sent to collect the package waited impatiently in the gloom of the warehouse, becoming ever more concerned at the tardy arrival of the courier, she was meant to be there already. Little did they know that a little over a kilometre away, at an almost identical warehouse, a reprogrammed locator beacon was guiding a courier from distant worlds to what she would believe to be her destination, with recently augmented markers which changed Upper-R O-12 into Upper-R Q-12.

The Shrike leaned back against a stack of empty pallets, her people had been strategically placed about the area surrounding the warehouse to watch for trouble but the shrike had chosen to meet with the courier accompanied by only a pair of her trusted thugs. Artys and Mala both looked the part, older than most of her Shrike ganger compatriots and dressed in the guise of Esatz enforcers the pair did their best to play the role Maris had assigned them. In the Shrike, even a thug needed to have a hint of guile about them.

The raven-haired youth had taken on a similar aspect, though she was smaller than the other two and wouldn’t easily pass as muscle, she made no secret of the blaster holstered at her side, though she showed no sign of the long flat blade of a transparent ceramic strapped behind her shoulder, wickedly sharp, if terribly crude.

A single steel table sat upright in the cleared centre of the space, not a single piece of equipment or cargo had been placed within ten metres of the table, Maris had arranged the space just so as to ensure the smuggler had no easy opportunity for cover, should she try anything unorthodox.

“Greetings, Stranger, pleasure to make your acquaintance.” the slender youth offered a confident smile to the newcomer, taking a few steps toward the table whilst pulling the powerpack from her blaster and tossing the device onto the table effectively disarming herself for now.

[member="Saoirse Flynn"]