Private Already Bokken

[Orson Thorm]

It was a job like any other, if a bit higher paying.

That was how Orson had pitched the idea to his comrades, the core five players within their mercenary outfit who'd been by his side since The Empire. Hatch, Benta, Lars, Kaplan, and Thane were dear to him in a strange way, so were Glassman and Pasha, but neither he or the others put any stock in their decision making skills. The six of them with something resembling a functioning brain made the calls, but in the end he had the final say, and in spite of their reservations, he'd said yes to this job.

A Noble with deep pockets, a high-end Star Yacht, and a voyage that had been described as 'bold'. He supposed he'd see the truth of that in a few moments. The pilot hired to ferry Orson's cadre of guns for hire handled his boxy freighter well enough, but the nearly half-century old YT model looked like a junker next to the illustrious vessel it docked with. There were no pleasantries exchanged between the mercenaries and their chauffeur, they were not friends, or even frequent business partners. More than likely, this was the last they'd ever see one another.

Orson was thankful for that, the Kel'Dor spacer was unsightly anyway, particularly when Orson recalled what the things looked like beneath those masks of theirs. They filed through the airlock in a fashion that would pass as orderly, rucksacks slung over their shoulders, armor and weapons sealed in black cases that each soldier of fortune carried themselves. Orson himself wore a long black shirt, and olive drab utility pants, a pistol stowed in a holster on his right thigh.

He wondered if their highborn beneficiary was expecting a more regal look, part of him hoped the stranger was, Orson did so love seeing the nobility of the galaxy discomforted, particularly when they still had to pay him.

The first to greet them was a servant droid, the latest model of course, all gleaming metal and shining photoreceptors. Orson scoffed as he looked at the thing.

"Tell your boss we're here."

Kalon Sal Aleksandr Stirsea Sylas Corak

 

[Sylas Corak]

The droid would nod to acknowledge Orson’s command, before going silent. Evidently, the droid was transmitting a message silently. After just a moment’s delay, the droid spoke in its metallic voice. “He will see you now. Please follow me.” The door behind the droid would open, revealing a luxurious interior, housing multiple similar droids, as well as a few organic bodyguards, the species of which were unidentifiable due to their full armor. Soon, the droid would lead them into a rather spacious recreational area. Inside sat their employer, a brown-haired man who sat upright upon a quite large couch.

The man gave a slight smile as the party stepped inside. “Thank you for escorting them, Z6. You may exit now.” He addressed the droid first, who hastily left the room at its master’s command. Then, the man would turn towards the mercenaries, quickly identifying Orson as their leader by body language alone. If he had any concerns about their appearances, he did not voice them. “Before we go any further, I would like to set some expectations. If any of you have problems with these expectations, I bid you to leave the ship.” He spoke in a tone that was somewhat cheerful, but also very clearly had an undertone of seriousness.

“First, your presence on this ship is not to be revealed to anyone. Not a stranger at a bar, not a friend, not your parents, nor any authorities. I will prepare suitable alibis for all of you, and you will use them without question, even when the job is finished.” He paused for a moment, making sure he had covered his first stipulation. An assassin droid had been planted in the ship of the spacer who had transported the mercenaries, so at the very least his bases were covered. The droid would simply murder the spacer, and then fly his frigate directly into the nearest star.

“Second, you are not here to investigate, give advice, or question your orders. You are here to fight. In between battles, feel free to use this ship however you please, so long as you cause no damages and do not touch my private quarters. I will have Z6 give you an orientation of the ship in due time.” He stopped speaking, once more reviewing his speech in his head. He had missed one critical point. “Oh, and one more area you must leave alone. There is a storage closet to the left of this ship’s entrance. It contains a highly volatile material, and could endanger the ship if mishandled.” In truth, the closet contained a Dark Trooper, but Sylas hardly felt the need to reveal such a thing.

“Finally, I’d like to negotiate your payment. I’m willing to pay a fee up front to secure your services, along with a much greater sum once the contract is complete. If you all are willing to agree with these terms, you need only name a price.” He finished laying out his terms, looking at the leader of the mercenary company expectantly.

Orson Thorm

 

[Orson Thorm]

This one was professional, to the point, if a bit smug. Orson did not question for even a minute of whatever was behind Sylas Corak’s hidden door was dangerous, but he doubted it was for the reasons he’d said. This expedition had mentioned combat in ‘extreme’ locales, and though it’d largely spoken of the Outer Rim, he had come to expect these noble types to go rooting around in Wild Space. They couldn’t help themselves, they had money to burn and ambitions to fulfill, so they went kicking around in the unknown with grunts like him to protect them.

“We won’t have any trouble with those stipulations. We’re professionals, we don’t ask, we don’t tell. Thank you for your generosity with the accommodations.” Orson was curt, flashing an empty but well practiced smile, that was only betrayed by the disdain in his eyes. It didn’t matter what he thought of the noble types, it wasn’t like the bastard was a mind reader. Feelings aside though, he’d see to it his cadre followed their instructions to the letter.

“Payment is what you outlined in your offer, we aren’t here to haggle, like you said we’re here to fight. If you need us to do something more, be it haul cargo, gather intelligence, take prisoners, that costs extra as we discussed in our correspondence. We agree to the terms.” He kept steady eye contact with the man, unflinching despite his shorter stature.

“One question though, do you know what kind of hostiles we’ll be faced with? Sentients or non-Sentients is the only distinction that matters, just need to know if there’s one group in particular to prep for.”

Sylas Corak

 

[Sylas Corak]

Orson’s mind was like a book to Sylas, but luckily he found nothing of note in its contents. At the very least, nothing that would warrant a betrayal. Something like a grudge against nobles was of little concern. At least the man knew how to keep up appearances, as well. That in and of itself was more than he could have asked for from a mercenary. Still, Sylas rather disliked the look in his eyes. He decided upon a slight show of power, addressing the man by his name before he had even asked for it. “I am glad you accept, Orson Thorm.” He said it with a smile of acknowledgement, practiced many times in court. Knowing Orson’s name was not enough to prove Sylas to be a force user, but it at least showed he was well-informed.

Sylas pondered Orson’s question for a moment. He hadn’t visited their destination before, but it seemed reasonable to assume it wasn’t densely populated. “Naturally, you ought to be prepared for both, but our main concerns are non-Sentients.” Sylas knew something about what he had just said was a mistake from the moment he opened his mouth. He had said ‘our concerns’ rather than ‘my concerns’. A minor slip of the tongue, hardly of any consequence. Still, he could not afford to be lackadaisical with his words. Ideally, Sylas would appear to be working alone.

Sylas realized he’d lost himself in thought, and quickly began speaking again. “Additionally, I’ve hired other freelancers for this contract. They’ve already arrived on the ship, so I trust you’ll meet them soon enough. If you’d like, we can go and find them now, and I can formally introduce you,” he said, his body language conveying that this was an offer, not a command.

Orson Thorm

 

[Orson Thorm]

Orson’s gaze narrowed at the use of his full name. He didn’t advertise that often, but it’d been on a few of the holdings their little group had owned. He supposed the man wanted to make a point of how well informed he was, which Orson found both petulant and annoying, but hid as well as he did the disdain he felt for the man.

“Sounds good. Won’t need to worry about using restricted ordinance then. Some folk get squeamish if we break out disintegrators on a person, but not so much on rancors.” If they happened to encounter anything that qualified as intelligent life in the field anyway, then it would just be an unfortunate day for those life forms.

“Others?” Orson had worked with lone Freelancers before, which was what this sounded like to him. They were arrogant, erratic, and entirely useless outside of drawing attention off of his own forces as they inevitably died. He’d have rolled his eyes if Imperial discipline hadn’t been so throughly beaten into him. “Well, let’s not keep them waiting then. I’d hate to be rude.”

He’d have loved to be rude, but he nodded to Sylas politely anyway, ready to follow along for this meet and greet.

Sylas Corak

 

[Sylas Corak]

Sylas had half a mind to dispel the notion that he’d find disintegrators unsightly, but he preferred to seem sane when possible. In truth, Sylas believed disintegration was a rather painless way to die, not to mention far easier to clean up after than most alternatives. Then again, nobles were all about appearances, he supposed. Very few nobles were like him, at least.

Sylas nodded along, deciding to list off the names of the two freelancers he had hired. They’d each been recommended to him by underworld contacts, so it was possible Orson knew of them already. Hopefully, there was no bad blood, but money got through even when emotions were concerned for mercenaries. “Indeed, others. Their names are Cassian Feryn and Halyn Fen. I’m not sure if you’ve heard of them, but I can attest to their effectiveness.” He threw in that last part to dispel the doubts he could sense within Orson’s mind. Though, to be fair, he had never seen either of the mercenaries in combat. Perhaps they were just as useless as Orson feared.

Sylas stood up leisurely, not making any rush. Then, he sauntered out of the door, leading the way into the great common room. Sylas turned to one of his servant droids, addressing it by its service number. “B9, please fetch the other hires.” The droid quickly scurried away, returning after a few minutes with the mercenaries in tow.

Orson Thorm Kalon Sal Aleksandr Stirsea

 

[Aleksandr Stirsea]

The star-yacht was entirely too luxurious for one man's flippant wonts. Ships of this size and caliber had been built for bustling crowds, a host of servant droids and cruises that spanned spirals and solar systems. Instead, it homed a single Duke. A single Duke and his sparse droids and trinkets. And now: him.

The Jedi Knight, Aleksandr Stirsea.

As he followed the protocol droid B9 to the yacht's Great Hall, he couldn't help but feel that no one man should have all that power. But that was nobility, that was great wealth to contrast all the hunger the rest of the Galaxy knew. If he'd been born to a different Stirsea, one of the mainline rather than a fourth sons fourth son, perhaps he too would have known this opulence. He grinned at himself. He'd been enough of an nerf herder back when he was broke, he could only imagine his arrogance had he been born rich.

Right now he was undercover. A different name, tightly cropped hair, wardrobe change, he'd let Alliance Intelligence do the works on him. That wasn't even mentioning the microthreading of his eyebrows, the months of practice to change his accent, his vocabulary, his body-language. The only service he had been spared was a stint with the ground troops. Intelligence had decided, he was mercenary enough.

The orders had been beyond vague. An investigation of an investigation, the follow-up on some Duke that was related in some way to Dark Side research. He wasn't even a primary target according to Intelligence, they simply had to do their diligence. Considering that it could, in some fractionally possible scenario, be tied to the Sith, they needed an agent with force sensitivity and a willingness to get dirty. Of course he had popped up in their search engine. Raised as much street rat as he had been Jedi, with the combat experience of someone twice his age he fit the bill perfectly. His education on Atrisia hadn't hurt, either. The Royal Academy for the Arts had taught him a little about Dukes and Duchesses.

So here he was, most likely wasting his time, out in the middle of nowhere with company he would rather not keep. Taking the mission unsuited for the robed, mannered, well-behaved Jedi.

He was in his element.

He looked the other mercenary up and down. Orson Thorm looked about his age, maybe older. The battle scars spoke to experience, his expression to jaded existence. At least this wouldn't be his first campaign, though whether the company attached to him was of the same quality he could not say.

"Feryn." He said to the soldier, sticking a hand out as he swirled spit in his mouth. "Glad to be working with a professional." To Sylas Corak , he gave a half-hearted bow, spread his hands and muttered: "Your Highness."

Cassian Feryn didn't know or care for noble conduct.

Kalon Sal​

 

[Orson Thorm]

Orson stared up at the taller, but younger freelancer with a look that spelled out his disdain plainly, his jaw tight as he forced himself to bury the worst of it. He looked down at the freelancer's hand, then back up into his eyes. Something about Cassian Feryn was familiar in a way that made him angry.

"Yeah," He flashed a cruel smirk. "I bet you are."

He turned his gaze back to Sylas, leaving the hand unshaken, and looking on the noble with condescending pity. The idiot had gone and let himself get swindled when he hired an amateur like this. Orson knew next to nothing about the customs of the wealthy and the highborn, but even he knew the honorific that Feryn had just utilized was for those at the top of the feudal pecking order only. If this one didn't even know that much, then Orson had his doubts that he'd even know which way to point a blaster.

Sylas Corak was smart enough to be flexible, but stupid enough to believe that meant he knew everything. Orson had worked with that type before, he'd served under them too, as one more cog in a war machine that had devoured his home, his family, and most of his friends. This job paid well, but already he questioned if it was worth it.

Aleksandr Stirsea Sylas Corak Kalon Sal

 

[Sylas Corak]

Sylas hardly needed telepathy to tell what Orson was thinking, but he peered into the mercenary’s mind once more all the same. Clearly, the man was steeped in doubt. That was rather irksome. As though a mercenary needed etiquette in the first place. In a way, though, it worked out in his favor. If Orson thought of Sylas as a mere fool, that was all the better. Perhaps he was one, after all.

Still, Sylas flashed a warm smile, attempting to calm the atmosphere somewhat. “No need for honorifics, Cassian. I find they generally get in the way of proper communication. So long as you are a guest on this ship, you may call me by name. The same goes for you and your men, Orson.” He hated using this gentle voice. Well, moreso he hated the situations that necessitated he use it. Droids were far better than humans to interact with, due in large part to their programming. That said, battle droids were less effective than human mercenaries, so the extra mental labor that came from unifying sentient beings was worth it.

Aleksandr Stirsea Orson Thorm Kalon Sal