Public Asphalt and Ablutions

[Wedge Draav]

DARKNESS REIGNS ON THE JEWEL
LEVEL 1142


Coruscant.
​

It was now a world dominated by Star Destroyers, banners, marching armies, and the ever-gnawing presence of Big Brother. The center of the galaxy- literally and figuratively, was a decisive, disastrous blow to the Alliance. It was a failure on every level of Alliance leadership, military, government- every bit was their fault. He was not there to defend it a second time. Perhaps, with Revenant Squadron and the Starfighter Corps under his leadership he could have prevented some of the losses, or even helped defend the Alliance's jewel in the Core.

But, such thoughts were pointless and fruitless now.

Wedge Draav was not among friends anymore. In fact, he was alone. They did not know he was here. Nobody did. He had pulled many strings, lied, and coerced his way to get to Coruscant. Despite all the machinations of the Empire, it was entirely not impossible to get on the planet without being noticed. Billions upon billions of ships, crafts, and trillions of people moved around, in, away, and coming into Coruscant. The Empire controlled much, and it was vast, but the system to control the entire planet was not yet there. Not yet, at least. Wedge had no idea what a surveillance state in the Empire looked like.

And he didn't want to find out.

He was on Coruscant for one simple reason.

Find Reima Vitalis . Find anything.

To that end, he had contacted people from all over- and was heading to one of the many lower levels of Coruscant that was sparsely under Imperial control to find some forged documents and hopefully, intelligence to lead him to her. Whether the Empire cared to even bother with the lower levels of Coruscant was another question entirely. Perhaps it was better to simply not waste the resources and let the rot consume itself. But he found himself here.

His contact was roughly five hundred meters away, and through hundreds of denizens on this level alone. He wondered if it would go smoothly- or a bullet, knife, or blaster was waiting for him at the end of this.

​

 

[Hubert Starhopper]

Hubert stands outside of some dive cantina on the lower levels, a deathstick hanging from his lips as he broods over his escape plan. There were a lot of parts to his plan, but ending up in Coruscant wasn't one of them in the slightest. He detests the Empire... The blind eye they turn- or rather, the eye they use to watch the credits stack in front of them, selling slave after slave. Unfortunately, he was one of them, and that old wound leaves a sour taste in his mouth any time the Empire is mentioned. So needless to say, being surrounded by them makes his face want to pucker in anger.

He was to meet a contact at one of the spaceports between here and Tatooine, but there were... Complications...

Upon arrival at said station, the Empire was already swarming the platforms. He had heard one of them shouting at an elderly Rodian. something about looking for someone. Hubert hadn't paid it much mind as he tried to find the nearest exit. That exit just so happened to be a public transport to Coruscant, that of which was already boarded and searched by the Imperial party.

Ducking the view of any Imperials, be it by grace or luck, Hubert snuck his way onto the transport, and hunkered down until it reached its destination. Now it seems the Galaxy is against him. Stranded on an Imperial planet, wanted for murder, smuggling, and a few other things, no allies to speak of, and no exit strategy, he feels an impending sense of doom, and it shows on his face as he contemplates his strategy.

His best idea so far is to try and sneak his way back onto a transport, but there is a very high risk there will be a group of Imps waiting on the other side to rip any and all passengers out of their seats and take their identification. A long exhale blows through his nostrils, and he looks to the Coruscant sky, watching the speeders whiz by overhead...

...And a smile appears on his face, along with an idea in his head...

 

[Reima Vitalis]

Half A World Away
​

Had it been two days since the crash, or three?

The bruises from where the crash webbing had arrested her body hadn't yet turned green, so -- two, Reima guessed. She stood in front of a chrome elevator door, examining herself in its almost-mirror finish, blouse unbuttoned to examine her injuries. Thankfully, the bruising seemed to be the worst of it. She had experience -- from the last invasion of Coruscant, in fact -- what a broken rib felt like, what a punctured rib felt like, and what a dislocated shoulder felt like. That had come in slightly handy when she'd had to reset Noema Kintar 's dislocated shoulder. Reima couldn't do much for what she was pretty sure was a fractured wrist except a makeshift splint, but that was better than nothing.

Reima was debating tearing open one of the two remaining hygeine wipes -- showers in a disposable cloth, they were advertised as -- but decided she should give it another day or so. She felt a bit worn out, a bit grimy, but a discreet sniff confirmed that she didn't offend, but that would probably change if she went another day without a shower.

Not for the first time, she reflected on how dismal her timing was. If she had been but an hour earlier, she would still have been Revenant Twelve, would have been the property of Revenant Squadron. She would still have her GADF-issued communicator, which would mean she could be found. Even if that meant being found by the Alliance, that was preferable to dying in the warren of tunnels and corridors and maintenance shafts that Reima and Noema and the nearly 180 civilians who had survived the ship crash (and the subway derailment it had caused by plunging through the surface and into the tunnel) were using.

They didn't yet know where they were going -- other than away from the Federal District -- but they would have to figure it out sooner or later. Reima heard footsteps from behind her and tugged her torn blouse back into place for modesty, doing up the buttons as Noema rounded the corner. "The scheduled blind spot is coming in five. We need to get into position," the woman said.

"Coming," Reima said. She sipped a half mouthful of water from her travel water bottle, then held it out to Noema.

"Thank you, but no, I'm fine. I just had a drink when I took my pills." She fell into ginger step beside Reima as the women emerged from the disused turbolift lobby, left unpowered by years of neglect. "Lucky you had those in your purse."

"Lucky," Reima agreed with a mirthless smile. "Show me again where this tunnel will take us? You said it was the Corellian District?"

"The Corellian District," Noema agreed. "Five clicks from the equitorial line, which will be our fastest way out of the area. In theory we should be able to get some news there, too."

"Get a view of how things are elsewhere, so we can plan where to go."

"And how to get there," Noema concurred.

"Not concerned that we look like refugees?"

Noema smiled a smile that didn't reach her voice. "From what I saw and heard during the initial invasion, there will be plenty of people in the same condition or worse. If we stand out, there's no reason for people to think we're cause for concern."

"That's what I like to hear," said Reima grimly. "How's your arm?"

Noema smirked. This time the humor touched her voice. "Just ducky, as long as I don't move or walk or breathe."

"All set, then," Reima said.

Wedge Draav | Hubert Starhopper​

 

[Hubert Starhopper]

Objective: Get off-world



Tags: Reima Vitalis Wedge Draav

Gear: Tool Kit



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The idea storms through Huberts' mind like a typhoon. It's crazy, but it may just be crazy enough to work. Take a speeder, race to the shipyard, hotwire the fastest, closest ship, and bolt out. Of course, it was missing a few... Key elements... But his luck has held out for him through more dangerous, and much less fulfilling endeavors.

Now all he has to do, is try and blend into the crowd, and make his way up to skylane level without getting spotted by authorities. (Those key elements come into play at this point in the plan, naturally.) Another sigh departs from his nostrils, and he slips his deathstick back into his coat pocket, a cigarette between his fingers as his hand retracts from his chest. With the placement of the cigarette between his lips, and another reach into his pocket for his lighter, he begins to scan the streets, leaning against his place along the wall as the faces pass by with the seconds.

Maybe if he is patient enough, he can find himself a cozy little spot greasing the cogs and tightening the screws for some smuggler crew headed off-world. A sense of anxiety begins to creep through him slowly, as if he were being watched. But given the sorrowful, and tiresome expressions on the faces before him, this feeling is quickly pushed to the back of his mind. Yet the anxiety stays with him, right in his gut.

Now is only a matter of keeping his eyes and ears open, listening for any opportunity to get himself off-world. And if this doesn't work, it's back to plan A...

 

[Wedge Draav]

Reima Vitalis l Hubert Starhopper

​

He sat across from a particularly slimy man, and his cronies. Three of them, two on the left, and one on the right, plus the man in the middle. He rolled his hands on the desk, sliding across his payment. A lot of credits, and then UCs as well. He leaned forward in his seat, watching his contact-

His name was Styl.

Styl was a callous man, but not unfair, not unintelligent. And definitely a man of his word. In criminality, it was a more common occurrence than most let on. He took a deep breath, tapping his chin as he watched Wedge from across his desk.

"I tell you what I know- and you go down there. Find ya lady, do the thing. But even I am having problems getting off the planet." He said, turning his head to the compatriots in the room. He leaned forward, and his voice turned low. Genuine concern. "She must be some kinda woman, if you're risking all this, Wedge."

Wedge leaned back, the tone telling him Styl wasn't going to cause him any problems. But there was genuine concern from the man's voice. Perhaps he was a citizen of the Alliance and loyal in a way, or just concerned with sending a man to the depths of Coruscant. Wedge looked at the floor, gathering his thoughts, before raising his eyes to meet Styl's.

"She's the only one, Styl."

He couldn't articulate what Reima did for him, not fully. It would be impossible to quantify, to articulate that woman. She was more than his wife-to-be. She was more than a regent, a royal, a pilot, a soldier, a student, a scholar. She was all those things, but more importantly than all of those to Wedge, more important than air that he breathed-

She was his galaxy.

His galaxy was not stars, planets, lines on a map of hyperspace lines. It was the brown of her eyes. The silkiness of her hair. Her soft skin glowing in an afternoon light. The way she spoke- eloquent, articulate, beautiful. Styl looked satisfied with the answer, nodding his head. He slid over a dataset, a map, and nudged his head to one of his men. "I have some equipment for you to take. Couple of guns, communicators, and-" He stopped, reaching under his desk. He seemed touched, moved, almost. He thumbed something- and then produced a slugthrower. Integrally suppressed, magazine fed. A killer's weapon. A holographic optic on the top of the weapon, ensuring pinpoint shots. A weapon for an assassin. Or maybe, a man on the move. "Take one of those Pathfinder uniforms in there too. Alliance left lotsa gear around after the withdrawal." Wedge winced. The Pathfinder gear was helpful, surely. The uniform was sturdy and the gear on it was more than helpful to sneak around. That, and throwing a coat over it- which was helpful with the colder breeze coming in, and nobody would know.

Wedge stood, shaking Styl's hand. He was, despite his status, a good man. Wedge heard he had been helping people duck around the Empire. He was a good man doing something illegal before- but now, the galaxy could use rebels.

He changed into the uniform, ditching the helmet. Instead- he couldn't help himself. He donned his sunglasses, sleak, professional, dark, but unmistakably a pilot's choice. He crouched near the container, checking over the unfamiliar gear. He looked at the sleeve of the uniform- a hole right under the arm. He traced his eyes back under the arm. Another hole.

The uniform didn't come from a warehouse. He grimaced, but pushed thoughts of cleanliness aside. He had a woman to get to, sixteen levels below him. A speeder was taking him to the gathering, also arranged by Styl. He wasn't going to be able to intercept Reima's supposed movements- instead having to meet her nearest to the Corellian district.

A tunnel, a crashed pilot, her lover coming to rescue her, escapees, a tyrannical government over them all. Escape, subterfuge, criminals. It would make for a great novel premise, he mused as he set off for the speeder.

He had a woman to get to.

​