Private Angles and Edges

[Shade]

Shade ran the overlay one last time, letting the HUD feeds settle into the rhythm of her breath. The mist clung to her visor, blurring edges and softening depth cues—every shadow needed a second look. She felt the weight of the team behind her: Bre-7's shield a reassuring bulk in the distance, Mark-7's tracer flickers over the rooftop line, Tech-7's jammer a steady pulse in her ear. The alley smelled of wet cardboard and ionized air; the pallets creaked like old bones under the rain.

Her steps tightened, measured. She slid her hand along the butt of the restraint cuffs at her belt—a small, practiced check that steadied her more than the comms. The pallet route was the fastest cut but noisy; the duraplast boxes could cascade into chaos if handled wrong. That margin of uncertainty was hers to accept.

She keyed the mic, voice low and exact.

"Copy Team-7. Visual on two casuals—a cantina worker smoking. Non-hostile; maintain non-lethal posture."

She let the words sit, then added the practical detail everyone needed to adapt to.

"Pallet route is fastest but unstable. Expect noise on contact. Adjust for scatter and be ready to cover egress."

Her gaze tracked the loading bay as the two Kiffar moved the crate, calculating timing and vector. The breacher's shield caught her eye, and she nodded at its placement, the way one might admire a tool set—no fanfare, simply competent.

"Breacher shield visual. Mark-7, rooftops steady."

She breathed once, aligning her movement to the team's metronome—patient, precise. Then, intention folded into motion.

"I'll move across the pallets, low and slow. Non-lethal first. Moving."

She eased forward, every motion economy and care, the rain soft underfoot, the team a moving lattice of safety.

Thalen Elaeko

 

[Thalen Elaeko]

Hand signal given for Mark-7 to continue toward the canals. Thalen remained still, tracking the worker's path through his binocs, tint of his visor in the lens.

Below, the pallets were as bad as Shade suggested, rickety and uneven. The three operators with Shade moved carefully, using short jump bursts to cross the unstable sections. Med-7 waited at the alley mouth for evac support, tucked away. Tech-7 rigged the elevators override's but left them unset until Shade's order. Heavy-7 moved into cover behind stacked crates, with sight on both the loading bay rear entrance and the main dining-hall door.

Bre-7 gave Shade a short nod as he moved in step with her, watching the Kiffar pair haul the crate toward the private zone to the side of the Salon. "Confirmed. Casuals in motion, possible mules moving toward exchange site with cargo." He glanced around to get a bearing. "Canal hover-skiff visual, tied behind the Salon. Possible exit vector." For the targets, or for the team.

"Ready position on overwatch," Mark-7 comm'd in, their marksman settling into the roofline and taking control of the target tracking. "Copy. Com-7 transferring overwatch," Their procedure to cover each other. "Going mobile." At the stall's roof edge, Thalen paused, checking the lower buildings for movement. When the route cleared, he triggered the jump-assist, one push down across the divide, another upward, landing softly on the Salon roof. Voices came from below, hard to pick out.

"Com-7 position ready," he confirmed over the channel. "Audible voices inside Salon, multiple speakers. Holding until visual confirmation."

"Eyes on Blue Rodian, moving to private access court. No contact visual yet. Two Kiffar arriving with cargo," Mark-7 reported. The Rodian's path took him from the Salon toward the marked exchange on their HUD's, exactly where they expected the handoff to be.

Another figure left the dining room, moving across Shade's position, also toward the meeting spot, hard to make out and dressed to obscure. It might be nice to know exactly who was selling the republic out… and why…

Shade

 

[Shade]

The shadowed figure peeled away from the salon's side entrance with the kind of confidence Shade recognized immediately—no hesitation, no wasted motion, head angled down just enough to avoid the roof-cams. Not a worker. Not a patron. Someone who knew where he was going. Someone with purpose.

Thalen's voice crackled softly in her ear. "Unidentified mover. Not on Blue Rodian's known list."

Shade watched the man angle toward the private courtyard—the same place the Rodian was heading. That alone made him worth catching.

She gave a small gesture with two fingers—the A-TRD sign for do not engage, eyes only. Bre-7 held position, shield lowered, stance quiet and ready behind her.

The operative slowed at the corner, scanning the alley with a practiced sweep. His movements were too clean for a street-level thug. He adjusted something under his jacket—a comm unit by the shape. Professional. Perfect.

Shade slipped forward, each footfall absorbed by the dampened ground. Rain-softened crates muffled her shadow. In two silent steps, she was behind him. Her arm curved around his shoulders, one hand locking his jaw in place. Her other hand slid a slim, blackened blade beneath his ribs — its edge coated with a fast-acting, non-lethal compound.

A variant of what she'd once tried on Cassian. Stronger this time.

His body jerked, breath catching against her palm.

"Do not fight it." she whispered, her voice almost a vibration against his ear. "It works faster if you breathe."

He struggled once—reflex, not discipline. Then the sedative surged through his bloodstream. Three seconds. Five. His knees buckled.

Shade eased him down soundlessly, lowering him behind a stack of duraplast crates. Bre-7 stepped in without a word, securing the unconscious body with stun-cuffs.

Shade knelt, searching him with deft, clinical precision.

A secure comm device.
Encrypted.
A datacard with an unfamiliar sigil burned along its edge.
And a name stitched into the lining of his coat:

Tavian Rend.

Not on any Republic list for this operation. Not a civilian. And definitely not here by accident.

Shade pocketed the devices and rose smoothly, her voice low and steady over the comms. "Shadow entering exchange route has been neutralized. Unidentified operative. No alert triggered."

Thalen acknowledged with a curt click of his comm.

The Blue Rodian continued toward the meeting point ahead.

Shade slipped back into formation, boots silent against rain-slick stone. Her breathing calm. Focus absolute.

"Advancing." she murmured.

And the team moved again—the hunt resuming without a single sound to betray them.

Thalen Elaeko

 

[Thalen Elaeko]

"Heavy-7, secure neuralised threat. Pass to Med-7 to contain."

When Shade's target went still, their operation shifted into high gear. The Blue Rodian reached the private access court, overlooked by Thalen and Mark-7 from above. While the Kiffar's brought the cargo opposite him, their crate marked in smuggler's cant. They popped the top, light spilling against the misty rain. It contained small cryogenic capsules, cooling something important, and a rig monitoring it.

"Every replacement is there. It's all good. Want to check it?" The Blue Rodian rasped casually.

A teenager hiding behind the wall stepped out, draped in gang signs and neon, smoking and twitching at the edge of the court. Nervous and likely untrained. Perhaps a patsy or bait. On what was left of Denon's underbelly and Echelon replacing it, gangs recruited them young.

Shade's disruption had knocked how this was supposed to go off course; the teenager was hesitating. The Blue Rodian checked his wrist-chrono, his guards paced, restless. Armed Uos muscle, not known for tact or patience.

"Visual confirms four, and three armed," Thalen comm'd. "Mark-7, priority is Kiffar left, hand on blaster. I'm taking right Kiffar. Blue Rodian and neon contact on hold unless Shade calls otherwise."

Clear instructions, divide targets, and reduce risk.

Misty rain clouded the nervous teen, hand sliding into a pocket for a datapad. One of the Kiffar's fingers twitched dangerously on his holstered blaster. Bre-7 moved his shield forward to maintain formation with Shade for support.

Thalen shifted, moving along the Salon roofline to clear a roof beam and gain a direct angle on his Kiffar. Voices murmured beneath him, two, maybe three inside.

"Give the call," Thalen said quietly, ready to go weapons hot. The moment Shade ordered it, elevators would be cut, targets downed, and maybe they'd save one stupid teen's life. But which route would she take in?

Shade

 

[Shade]

Shade remained still for three measured breaths, letting the court settle into its tension—waiting for someone below to make the wrong move. The Blue Rodian's impatience, the Uos guards' twitching hands, the teen's shaking fingers… the whole scene was moments from collapsing on its own. No need to ignite chaos prematurely.

She tilted her head just enough for her visor to catch Thalen's position above, confirming his angle. Their coordination was clean, precise—refreshingly so. Even in the thick Denon haze, she appreciated the competence beside and above her.

Her voice came through the comms low, crisp, and deliberate. "We are not dropping bodies over a cargo exchange and a frightened child. Mark-7, hold your shot unless fired upon. Bre-7, stay tight on me."

Shade's attention slid to the teenager again. Barely old enough to grow into the jacket he wore, shoulders trembling, clearly realizing too late he wasn't built for this. The Kiffar's twitch toward his blaster could get that boy killed faster than any shot from Team-7.

"We separate the variables first." Her tone didn't rise or strain; it didn't need to. The clarity carried more force than volume ever could.

She stepped forward into the alley's dim edge, just enough for her presence to register without alarming the group. Her posture was neutral, hands visible, but the stillness in her movements carried an unmistakable threat.

"Tech-7, cut the elevators on my mark only. Heavy-7, be ready for crowd control. No ion until I say."

The rain dripped off the hood of her coat as she continued advancing with slow, silent purpose, guiding the moment away from panic and gunfire. The teen froze, uncertain of who she was but sensing—correctly—that she wasn't there for him.

Shade's hand slid subtly toward one of her knives, not to throw, not yet—just ensuring the paralytic-tipped blade was ready if anyone tried to force her hand.

Then, evenly: "Thalen—two targets only. We take the Kiffar clean and quiet. I want the Rodian talking."

Her eyes narrowed on the exchange site, already calculating where bodies would fall if this turned violent.

"Team-7—on my signal. We move in sixty seconds. Stay disciplined."

She stepped once more into the mist, a dark, silent presence closing the distance. Shade had chosen her route.

Thalen Elaeko

 

[Thalen Elaeko]

"Confirmed. Non-lethal rounds chambered," Mark-7 affirmed. No bodies, clean op.

"Sixty seconds. Marked." Thalen adjusted his body so no alley light caught the lens of his scope. "Heavy-7 cover the Salon front. Tech-7 shift to rear-door overwatch."

"Copy. Mobile." While Heavy-7 repositioned for better coverage on the Salon and Dining-hall entrances. Tech-7 drew into her new angle without a word, settling on the rear access point, hand on her bypass trigger for the elevators.

Though the team was accustomed to handling young streetrunners and gang members, the op stayed non-lethal, disciplined, and coordinated. Fully under Shade's direction. The pause bought them enough time to realign as the tactical situation developed.

Below, tension grew The first Kiffar's fingers drummed against his blaster. The second stepped in to take the datapad from the young denonite

"Like I promised, no glitches, data's pure," the kid said too quickly, dark blue smoke drifting from a vaporline, it smelled like burnt synthetic citrus and cheap plastic. He gazed toward the crate, probably wondering how he was going to move it now he was alone. Crouching to check the capsules inside, scanning readings, and pocketing a few choice ones when he thought no one noticed.

The second Kiffar slotted the datapad into a handheld scanner. The device blinked through several dermal-key layers, then flashed green with a chimed pulse. "Greenlined," he stated, Denon street-slang for the transaction verification.

The Blue Rodian side-eyed the Kid. "Brave to come alone," he rasped.

"All friends, no static right?" the kid stammered, fingers fumbling for something in his pocket, a lighter, shaking in his grip.

SCYLLA: THREAT INDEX RISING: 0.61. The AI advised them all over Hud or Comms.

Shade

 

[Shade]

Tension slid across the alley like a tightening wire. Shade didn't move at first; movement caused noise, and noise caused escalation. She let the scene breathe just long enough to watch each flaw emerge—the twitch of the Kiffar's blaster hand, the Rodian's eye-line drifting, the boy's trembling fingers slipping along the lighter. None of them were killers. Not the trained kind. But panic made amateurs lethal. And panic was seconds away.

She lifted two fingers—a barely perceptible gesture, almost lost in the misting rain.
Hold.

Bre-7, closest to her flank, stiffened in perfect stillness behind his shield. Mark-7 didn't budge at all on the rooftop. Thalen's scope stopped its micro-adjustments. The entire TRD-7 spine froze on that single silent cue.

Shade leaned forward a fraction, eyes calculating the geometry of the alley, the angles of fire, the path of ricochet, the places a frightened teen might run. Every variable folded neatly into place.

Then she made her decision.

She tapped two fingers against her thigh, the sign for staggered take. Not simultaneous. Sequential. Controlled.

A single glance over her shoulder brought Bre-7 a half-step closer into her peripheral arc. Her voice didn't rise above a whisper, and yet the modulator carried it cleanly to every ear.

"Breach in three."

Bre-7 braced.

"Two—Mark, stand fast. Teen is non-hostile unless spooked."

Her tone didn't shift, didn't strain. Calm. Clinical. The sound of someone who had lived through collapses far worse than an alley deal gone restless.

"One."

She moved first.

Shade slid from the shadow like a blade drawn sideways—fast, precise, and utterly silent. Bre-7 surged with her, shield tilted to catch any wild shot the moment the Kiffar flinched.

The teenager spun, breath catching—his lighter tumbling from his hand. Shade's hand snapped out. Not for her knife. Not for her pistol. For him.

She seized his wrist and pulled him behind her, one fluid turn placing her body between the boy and every weapon in the square. A calm, measured command left her lips:

"Down."

He dropped instantly under the weight of instinct rather than obedience.

Bre-7's shield crashed forward a heartbeat later, smashing into the nearest Kiffar before the man could draw. Mark-7's stun round cracked down from the rooftops—a single, perfect arc dropping the second.

The Rodian spun toward the crates, reaching—too late.

Shade was already there.

Her hand swept under his arm, wrist hooking, weight shifting. A pivot. A twist. Pressure applied with surgical precision. The Rodian hit the ground on his back with the force of a collapsed shelf. She didn't strike him. Didn't need to. The drugged blade she'd coated earlier kissed the inside of his elbow with a whisper-light draw as she passed. No pain. No struggle. Just the faint widening of his eyes as the neural agent chilled his bloodstream. He sagged.

Shade rose smoothly, turning her head slightly, eyes scanning every line of the alley.

"All hostiles neutralized. Teen contained. Area stable." Bre-7 signaled secure. Mark-7 confirmed no additional movement. Thalen shifted above, lowering his scope now that the geometry had turned cold.

Shade stepped back to the boy, who sat shaking against the pallets, staring at her as if she'd appeared from smoke. She didn't comfort him. She didn't need to. She knelt in front of him, voice low. "Look at me." He did.

"You're alive because you stayed still. Do not run." A pause. Measured. Deliberate. "We're moving." And with that, TRD-7 shifted seamlessly into the next phase of the op, the alley behind them quiet as a grave.

Thalen Elaeko

 

[Thalen Elaeko]

Thalen had already dropped from the roof on the jump-assist, landing as the Kiffar hit the ground. He closed in from behind, restraining the nearest one before the man could move. Stun-cuffs locked with a secure click. Bre-7 moved in on the second kiffar, driving him down with his knee, and securing the hold while Thalen shifted to anchor another set of cuffs

"Copy secure. Mark-7, switch to Salon overwatch. Heavy-7, Med-7 assist with detainees." Acknowledgements followed. The medic would check them over and secure them the other side.

"Sorry…" the kid whispered, wanting to disappear. "Glitched up... I... sorry.. ." Thalen's rifle light swept over the discarded lighter in passing. Up close, the boy couldn't have been more than sixteen, thin, wired up, a line of budget scrap cyberware along one wrist.

"Shuttle-7, four secured for pickup." Including their first target. Apex or the Compact had no real authority on Denon, but Shade hadn't declared hers either yet. Bre-7 knelt at the crate. "DNA match confirmed, republic profiles." He hesitated. "Three capsules missing."

"Search them." Thalen ordered before Heavy-7 started walking a prisoner. He noted Shade's proximity to the boy and paused, measuring the situation before treating him like the others. "The minor?" Deferring to her without interference, he'd make five.

Thalen scanned the canal behind them next, checking the skiff's profile, which he could barely see from here. Two options.

"Sweep the hoverskiff, could hold usable intel."
A breath.
"Second option: immediate extraction."

Her op, they were already resyncing to her orders, and he'd move with her, back toward the alley or canal.

Shade

 

[Shade]

Shade didn't move quickly, but she moved with purpose. The moment Bre-7 and Thalen locked the Kiffar down, she stepped past the crates and bodies of the scene, letting the mist settle on her sleeves as her eyes lifted to the trembling teenager still hovering at the edge of the court. Up close, the picture sharpened—cheap cybernetics, neon-slick clothes, fingers twitching from nerves or stimulants, and the faint synthetic-citrus vapor still curling around him. He wasn't bold. He wasn't trained. And he wasn't here by accident.

Her gaze dropped, slow and deliberate, to his jacket pocket—where the outline of several slim cryo-capsules bulged just enough for someone like her to notice. Shade didn't speak immediately. She simply watched him shift his weight, watched his hand hover uncertainly near that same pocket again, watched the guilt rise in his eyes before he even understood it was guilt.

"He has them." Shade said it calmly, not accusing, just stating fact. Her voice was neither cruel nor sympathetic—it simply cut through the noise. She lifted a hand, two fingers flicking subtly toward the pocket. "Three capsules. Put them on the ground."

The boy froze, eyes going wide, but the steel in her tone left no room for debate. After one agonizing heartbeat, he fumbled, pulling the stolen vials free and setting them down gingerly on the damp permacrete. Shade didn't move toward them yet; she simply watched him do it, watched him straighten up again, hands trembling at his sides, waiting for a punishment he didn't fully understand.

Only then did she turn slightly toward Thalen, her posture never entirely leaving the kid. "He's a minor. Non-combatant. Scared, stupid, and used." A faint exhale left her nose, steeling the judgment call. "He does not go in with the adults. Escort only."

She stepped closer to the boy, but still kept a measured distance, her voice low and precise. "You walk out of this alley alive because we are choosing not to make you disappear with the rest of them." Her crimson eyes fixed on his, steady and unblinking. "Do not run. Do not reach for anything. You'll be escorted and released after questioning."

The kid nodded so fast the motion looked painful, relief and terror tangled together.

Only when she was satisfied the situation was contained did she shift her focus back to the canal skiff. Its silhouette rested in the rain like a shadow meant to be too convenient.

Thalen presented the two operational options. Sweep the skiff…or immediate extraction.

Shade's eyes lingered on the space beside the controls, on the potential hidden compartments, on every angle someone might hide an additional cache or a tracking device. After a long moment of silent assessment, she nodded once.

"Sweep the skiff." Her voice sharpened. "If the missing vials were part of something larger, this is where the real intel will be."

She turned her head toward the team, giving orders in crisp sequence.

"Bre-7, Heavy-7—secure adult detainees for extraction at Bravo. Med-7 verifies their condition. Mark-7 maintains overwatch on the Salon."
"Tech-7, collect the recovered vials, scan for tampering, then prep them for the evidence chain."
"Minor goes separate. Escort only. No cuffs unless he escalates."

Then her eyes cut toward the skiff once more, the rain beginning to slick the dark surface of her armor.

Shade took a step toward the canal path, lowering her center of gravity in a silent approach, her tone final and command-sharp.

"Thalen—on me."

Because if the skiff held anything dangerous—or if someone was still waiting inside—she wanted him at her flank when the shadow broke.

Thalen Elaeko

 

[Thalen Elaeko]

"Acknowledged."

A short nod from Thalen as he reset his rifle sights. Team-7 moved out in a controlled line, escorting the detainees, plus one shaken but relieved kid, toward the alley's rear extraction point. Thalen offered no opinion on Shade's call, his entire focus narrowed to the mission objective. When they shifted toward the hoverskiff, he fell into step behind and beside Shade, ion carbine braced against his shoulder, clearing angles high and low, checking rear arcs of fire in time with her movement.

"Tracking canal runner, civilian-class," Mark-7 comm'd from the rooftop. Thalen put his back against the wall, disappearing into shadow; planter boxes and low light gave cover. His matte-black armor almost vanishing from sight. When the boat drifted past. Silence remained, just rain and the faint flow of the canal.

If and when Shade moved, he mirrored her.

The hoverskiff lay ahead, moored under a small arch. A Corellian snarler canine rested at a post, white, large teeth, tough muscle, a low growl vibrating its chest. Wearing a cheap scrap collar. A junkyard guard canine. Thalen marked its presence with a tap on his wrist control but left how to handle it to Shade. Noise could be an issue.

The skiff itself was a rustic, rusting relic. Once a tour craft taking couples on voyages, now converted into a smuggling duty. The interior was old denonite from hull through to the circuits.

Discarded Cyberware, sparking with unlicensed firmware. A chaotically colorful slicing deck, with a small green sickle in the corner, jury rigged like it might explode if dropped. A novelty jawa costume recently worn. Weirdly, a new Neoseeker-Brand passenger seat, including fractal NEO lettering, and behind it sat a puzzle box, with dim red static markings.

The box was wrong to the eye. Weird angles, shifting beneath the surface, AR (augmented reality) projection making understanding its shape difficult. Focus meant corruption of the shape and symbols on the box. There was a faint clicking inside.

Thalen's eyes narrowed behind his helmet. "Hoverskiff holds active unstable AR tech," he registered on comms, calmly clinical. Few outside of the Echelon corps knew how dangerous this tech could be. "Red Static signature, NEO fractal hardware. Recommend controlled retrieval." A gang and a corporation tech combined.

He shifted position again, rifle angled, guarding their rear.

Waiting for Shade 's Call.

 

[Shade]

Shade approached the skiff with the same steady, measured pace she carried through every op—silent footfalls, posture low, eyes tracking every angle of threat before she allowed a single step closer. The canal mist clung to her hair and armor, softening the gleam of the dim lights overhead. She lifted a hand once, briefly, signaling Thalen to hold position while she assessed the snarler.

The white canine watched her with a predator's tension, hackles raised, breath steaming in the cool rain. Shade stilled, shifting her weight just enough to broadcast calm in the way creatures like this understood—no noise, no sudden motion, no threat. When its growl cut sharper, she slipped two fingers toward her belt pouch, drawing a compact emitter no larger than a thumb. A soft frequency pulse whispered through the air, explicitly tuned for overbred junkyard guardians. The snarler's ears twitched, growl faltering, and after a few seconds of hesitation, its massive head lowered to the ground, body slackening back toward its original resting posture.

"Stand down," she murmured—not an order to the animal, but to mark the moment for Thalen.

Then she stepped onto the skiff.

The shift of weight made the old hull creak beneath her boots. She scanned the interior without touching anything, letting her eyes trace the detritus—discarded cyberware, rigged slicer deck, the ridiculous jawa costume still half-crumpled like someone fled in a hurry. None of it mattered compared to the seat and the box behind it.

Her gaze froze there.

The NEO-brand lettering on the seat's side caught her first—a strange luxury upgrade in a vessel this derelict. But the puzzle box… the AR-static shimmered around the edges, refusing to hold still, lines and symbols bending in ways that weren't physically possible. It shifted as if acknowledging attention, clicking faintly, as if something inside wanted out.

Shade didn't touch it.

She didn't move closer, either.

Instead, she shifted her weight subtly to distribute force evenly through the deck, then lifted one hand in a silent stop, keeping Thalen from crossing the threshold behind her. Her voice stayed level when she comm'd back.

"Confirmed. NEO fractal imprint. The AR field is active and unstable. No contact. We pull it intact."

She crouched slightly—enough to examine it from the safest angle without crossing into its projected geometry. Rain tapped lightly against the metal, a rhythmic hiss blending with the faint clicking within the box.

"This wasn't meant for the Rodian. Or the Kiffar. Wrong tier. Someone higher placed it."

A beat. Calm. Calculating.

"Thalen, bring the containment bag. We lift it straight into sealed carry. No scan, no pressure, no jostling."

She rose smoothly, stepping back with practiced precision, every movement measured to avoid altering the boat's balance or disturbing the box's field.

Her eyes tracked the shifting symbols one last time, crimson narrowing.

"Whatever this is… it didn't come from Denon."

Shade's tone remained level, but her stance had shifted slightly—more guarded, more alert. Not fear. Just understanding that something far more dangerous than a failed smuggling exchange had just entered their mission.

She glanced at Thalen through the corner of her eye, her voice low and steady.

"On me. We extract it clean."

And with that, she resumed her position at the skiff's edge, blade-ready, eyes fixed forward, waiting for his approach.

Thalen Elaeko

 

[Thalen Elaeko]

Walking the last few feet to her, he scanned his rifle scope over the snarler, then, while Shade searched, he maintained a close rear guard. "Tech-7, bring signal-cold containment to my position," Thalen called quietly over comms, dropping to one knee to keep his profile low while he waited outside, sweeping his view toward any motion or sound.

Their tech specialist arrived with an air-gapped containment pod, a matte black cylinder that wouldn't let a byte's worth of signal bleed through. Thalen carefully handled the device with insulated field-tongs, guiding it up and in without ever letting his armor touch the surface, then sealed the pod with a twisting lock.

He watched the indicator light go from red to orange and finally green, its environment stable and data-sterile. Scylla AI on the HUD presented a diagnostic ping to confirm. Tech-7 gave a short nod, running a sweep for any trace elements. Mark-7 adjusted his position to a high corner, ready to cover their route out.

"Package secure," Thalen confirmed to Shade. "Ready for extraction." The two of them shifted to move, the female TRD operator carrying the pod with the careful ease of someone used to dangerous ordnance.

"Shuttle-7 on approach. ETA two minutes." A near-silent descent in the black of night.

All that was left now was to leave without a trace, like they'd never been there. Awaiting Shade's command or hand signal. "Com-7 ready mobile. Prep detainees to move. Confirm Apex-Network-Control arranges alternative transport for the minor."

Shade

 

[Shade]

Shade rose from her examination of the skiff the moment she heard the containment pod seal with its quiet mechanical lock. She didn't rush—she never did—but her movements carried a precise efficiency as she stepped out from beneath the archway, her eyes adjusting immediately to the darker stretch of the canal edge. The snarler's low growl still vibrated under the rain, but a single slow turn of her head and a deliberate shift in her posture were enough to make the creature's gaze drop, its ears pinning back in a silent instinct of submission.

She didn't spare it another glance. Her attention was fixed on Thalen and the operators as they finished securing the pod. The green indicator light reflected briefly off the matte finish of her vambrace, and she absorbed the update with nothing more than a small, nearly imperceptible lift of her chin. Tech-7's careful handling, Mark-7's elevated angle, the medic positioning detainees for transfer—it all formed a precise latticework of motion around her, and she moved through it like a shadow, wordless and steady.

Shade stepped closer to Thalen, eyes narrowing slightly as she scanned the corridor beyond him for movement, the faint glow of her irises cutting clean through the rain. She lifted two fingers toward the alley mouth—small, subtle—just enough to signal she had eyes on the route and was ready to move. Her breathing was soft and controlled, blending into the steady rhythm of water striking the permacrete around them.

She gave the snarler one last, measured assessment, ensuring the animal was secured and unable to trail them, then shifted her focus entirely to the team. The detainees were being moved with quiet precision, the youngest lingering just long enough to glance back at her with something like confused gratitude. Shade didn't acknowledge it—gratitude was not why she intervened—but she did lift her knife just enough to sheath it cleanly, a clear sign the engagement was finished.

When the faint hum of the descending shuttle reached her ears, Shade pivoted smoothly, rain brushing the edges of her collar as she stepped into formation beside Thalen. Her posture was relaxed, balanced, and ready—never rushing, never lagging, simply threading herself into the team's rhythm with the ease of someone who had done this long before Republic Intelligence ever knew her name.

She lifted her hand again, palm angled downward, and swept it once toward the extraction point—a silent, precise directive.

Move.

Her voice followed a heartbeat later, low and even beneath the rainfall.

"Clean exit. No signatures left behind."

Then she fell into stride beside Thalen, silent, composed, and alert, the night swallowing their presence as the shuttle's shadows descended over the canal.

Thalen Elaeko