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



-----------



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.

​

 

[Reima Vitalis]

Reima was bone tired. She had aced the survival training school, never had a single problem with the rigorous PT requirements that defined Alliance military life -- unless one counted boredom, but somehow no one ever did -- and had long kept up an active lifestyle, from racing and riding to hunting and dancing. But she was tired now. Days on the move without sleep, without more than a few minutes' rest at a time meant that her muscles cried out for relief that never came. Civilians had to be supported and aided, in some cases carried. Everyone helped each other, each providing the support they could while relying on the support they needed.

Reima held an unfamiliar child -- a Duros -- against her hip. His mother was slung over the back of a Wookiee, having collapsed an hour ago. The child was heavy, but would not be put down. Reima shifted him, gathering him up, and tried not to stumble over the wreckage in the tunnel. The Duros kept his eyes back, on the Wookiee carrying his mother. Noema Kintar walked at Reima's other side, studying an old paper map intermittently whenever the emergency lighting allowed.

"I have an idea," said Noema abruptly. She thrust the map at Reima with one hand, gesturing with all her fingers with the other hand. "At the Corellian Distrct if we take this interchange, we will eventually come to the recycling center."

"What does that do for us?" Reima asked, her eyes lingering on the spot Noema had indicated.

"The total tonnage of garbage Coruscant produces is too much to be handled here, on the world," Noema explained. "It's sorted, here, at recycling centers like this. Anything that can be salvaged for something useful is sorted out from the trash. Anything that can be used for compost -- same deal. And then general refuse is, uh, compacted for transport."

"Wouldn't it all be, uh, smashed up, more or less?" Reima asked.

"It's not really treated with any delicacy," Noema replied, "but it's not compacted the same way as the rest of the trash."

Reima raised an eyebrow. "What's your confidence level in that?"

"About... ninety."

A nod there. "I'll take those odds. So you're proposing that we -- what -- hijack a trash trawler and just... sail away with the rest of the garbage?"

"Something like that," said Noema. "Now, the security picture? That's Unclear. It wasn't really my area of expertise. But I don't remember there being a lot of chat about the recycling centers. People were more concerned about things getting in, not things getting out."

"The Imperials are likely different. But maybe it's soon enough that they wouldn't have changed gears yet."

Wedge Draav | Hubert Starhopper​

 

[Wedge Draav]

Reima Vitalis


SHE'S WORTH THE RISK​

The speeder ride was quiet. By Coruscanti standards, at least. The ride was short, and uneventful but rather cerebral. The driver didn't say a word. Probably under strict orders not to. Or, maybe he didn't want to ask what Wedge was getting into. Imperial patrols loomed in the sky, TIE fighters on regular intercept routes for off-world incomers. Anyone not having clearance was probably greeting nicely by Stormtroopers, or maybe not even making it into atmosphere, if he knew the Empire. His eyes went upwards, grimacing at the thought of the Emprie dominating the skies that once belonged to him.

He remembered the Crimson Liners, how valiantly they fought across the skies of Coruscant. He wondered if he'd have another enemy like that. Worthy. His eyes were cast into shadow as they pulled downwards and descended, leaving thoughts such as the sky and the stars above behind, and the reality of the gritty underbelly of Coruscant into view.

The driver stopped on a landing platform. Abandoned taxi stand, probably once authorized. He guessed it was a way to cheat the Imperial eyes on the planet now. Routes being monitored, the like. He climbed out of the speeder, grabbing the wrap-covered rifle as he darted out of the speeder wordlessly, without so much as a "thank you" or look back to the driver.

The sentiment was shared when the driver took off.

Wedge crouched in one of the many shadows that the skyline produced, watching, turning his head. He pulled the cloak over him. The incoming rain was a good reason to wear the cloak, and wouldn't attract too much attention. He checked his datapad. Though not a live update, the digital map was useful. He studied the route he needed to go on. With no location and tracking on, he'd have to be keenly aware of where he was in relation to the map.

The goal was a recycling center- whether that was the rendezvous or their way off planet, Wedge had no idea. The trek was quick and quiet, most turning inside due to the fear of the incoming rain. His footsteps were quickly, passing patrols, people, shops, buildings, neon swathes of light, hookers, alien hookers, the homeless and the downtrodden.

He marched quickly, fervently. He had to get to Reima. Had to.

---

The recycling center- which was a fancy way of saying "ships load up with bullshit then dump the bullshit into the nearest star", came into view. He had been running damn near for two hours straight. And he hadn't even stopped but once to steal water from a bodega. He left credits on the counter, but quickly ran out and smashed the camera on his way out.

He observed the center for a while- spotting an Imperial patrol. Four troopers. They stopped. They were looking. Something caught their attention. They cocked their heads. Underground. Something was there. Wedge's eyes widened. He was roughly a hundred meters away. He moved quickly, moving with a group of dock workers, union members who didn't take kindly to Wedge walking with them. His eyes turned away to avoid being spotted, he pulled out the pistol and stuck it in the union worker's chin. The Zabrak shut the fuck up after that, and let him walk beside him. Wedge dropped a hundred-credit chit in his hand and gave him a nod.

No harm, no foul, right?

He approached the Stormtroopers who were assessing one of the many maintenance accesses of what the noise potentially was. It almost sounded like a crying child. The Stormtrooper popped open the hatch as Wedge walked forward, and the one closest to him noticed him. He pulled the pistol up, readying it. The locomotion drill meant Wedge went 45 degrees to where he was originally, and put two rounds into the first Stormtrooper, then the second, then the third. The last one quickly dropped the hatch, but the round came through his helmet, sending him tumbling aside. The brief light that was exposed in the tunnel was gone, and only the faint snap of the suppressed pistol was any evidence as to what happened to him quickly. Wedge ditched the cloak, and any onlookers recognized the Alliance uniform.

And then, in true Coruscant fashion, they simply kept walking. The business of the Imperials and potential Alliance rebels was none of their business. He stood over the dead troopers, ensuring they were dead by either kicking them or putting another bullet in their heads.

He breathed deeply, not having been that close to someone he killed in a long time. He looked around, trying to evaluate where to hide their bodies or how to escape quickly. He hoped he hadn't compromised-

He stopped.

He heard her voice.

He looked down at the hatch-

​

 

[Reima Vitalis]

Reima was unaware that her voice carried through the ventilation system, though she would be pleased to learn later that she left breadcrumbs for Wedge to follow and find her. They would need all the help they could get in this deathtrap of the former Alliance capital. The last words echoing up through the grate as they progressed, barely audible but to Wedge who would be listening intently, were: "It's settled. We head for the Corellian District recycling center."

Almost an hour later, Noema had led the group to a safe spot, and she and Reima found themselves in a massive industrial duct, overlooking the recycling center. Every three minutes, the fan would start up, sucking up the sweet stench of decaying garbage, ostensibly to prevent dangerous gas buildup in the area. It wasn't dangerous in small quantities, just absolutely disgusting, but at this point Reima was just enjoying the breeze. The fan clunked to a halt and their view of the center was restored.

"Trawlers come every half hour," Noema said. "Do you think you can fly one?"

Reima didn't think, but her answer was more world-weary than bravado by now: "I can fly anything."

"I was hoping you'd say that," Noema answered. "I can probably hack the recycling center. The place is probably minimally staffed, mostly with processing droids. But we should be prepared for some armed resistance."

"You can fight, right?"

Noema hesitated. "I -- I wasn't in the field, but I do have some combat training."

"Good. It'll probably be just me and you. Maybe the Wookiee."

"I like those odds."

Reima reached over and squeezed Noema's hand lightly. "Whatever happens, it's been good to know you. We wouldn't have made it this far without you and your expertise." The women traded weary smiles. "We'll make it, I think. Hang in there."

Wedge Draav | Hubert Starhopper​

 

[Hubert Starhopper]

Objective: Find a Way Off-World



Tags: Reima Vitalis Wedge Draav

Gear: Tool-Kit, Custom Blaster Pistol



-----------



It couldn't have even been a few minutes that Hubert was scanning the crowd, opening his ears fully to pick up on any opportunity that may arise, in hopes of finding a better plan before doing anything drastic. No longer than a slaves' meal break on Tatooine before blaster shots echo from down the street. A scowl sours his face as his chances of slipping off-world unnoticed have disappeared. With the active shooting, any and all checkpoints in a 6-district radius were likely to be pulling each and every citizen aside to check their identification, whether they're leaving or coming in.

He takes a drag from his cigarette, leaving it hanging from his mouth as he begins to walk towards his new hope. Maybe whoever was shooting needed help? And maybe, they can be convinced in a sort of... one-time alliance. It is no secret to be kept that Hubert is desperate, and that desperation will carry him to do what needs done.

He walks into the crowd, shoving past and shoulder-checking those whom paid no mind to the fact they were practically running him over. Like a fish swimming upstream, he pushes against the current of panic that only seems to grow more anxious.

Eventually he sees the culprit, a man in some uniform that seemed to dislike the Empire even more than Hubert himself, given the scene at his feet. A handful of dead troopers lie dead. For a moment, as the crowd keeps pushing past them, Hubert simply stands a yard or two away. His eyes linger over the scene of death, then carry themselves upward to meet the strangers' eyes. A piercing color, softer yet eerily menacing.

It takes him a few seconds to speak up.

"Want an extra gun? I can also fix any machine which needs it."


He figures there's no sense in wasting time with pleasantries or explanations of his skill. The man looks desperate for something, and in Huberts' own desperation, he is willing to help. Anyone who is a fiend to the Empire is a friend to Hubert. That is, as long as they share the same sentiment of friendship.

"I won't lie, it ain't purely altruistic. I need a ride, you give me that, I help you or die tryin'."


His words carry with a drawl known commonly from farmers on back-water planets, twangy and hoarse. He takes another puff from his cigarette, removing it with his off hand from his mouth, pointing at the man with the two fingers that pinch it in his grasp.

"After, if you never wanna' see me again, no hard feelin's."


A charming grin stretches across his face, revealing a set of slightly yellow teeth due to years of smoking- which, compared to the layer of black engine grease that clings to his skin, they almost seem pearl white. He knows the chances of him getting what he wants are slim, but Hubert won't die wishing he tried harder...