Delivery: Peace of Mind [Sarge]

[Hazel Scheler]

To Miss Hazel Scheler:

I have been assured of your care and discretion in handling sensitive materials. I trust this crate will reach its destination without issue while under your care. It is to be taken to the Katarn Homestead on the Sullust moon, Sulon, and delivered into the hands of Jedi Marshall of the New Jedi Order, Chief Healer of the Circle of Healers, Master Avalore Eden and no other.

If any difficulties should arise, please contact me directly.

Amorella Shamalain
Eve Foundation, CEO


~~~
Sullust
Capital Starport
Holding Wing


"Eve Foundation, Mizz Shamalain's front desk, Iloan speaking, how may I direct your call?"

"Ilone, was it?"

"Iloan, yes."

"Listen Ilone,"
"Iloan."
"Yeah, this is Hazel Scheler calling for Miss Amorella Shamalain. I was asked to speak to her directly should I hit any snags in delivering her package to the Circle of Healer's Chief."

"I'm afraid Miss Shamalain is out of the office for the foreseeable future."
"What do you mean, foreseeable future? How long we talkin' here, Ilone?"
"Iloan."
"That's what I said."
"Miss Shamalain has embarked to lead one of the present Foundation Reconstruction and Humanitarian Projects. Her projected date of return is in approximately one galactic standard month."
"A month? What do you mean a mont- listen, Ilone,"
"Iloan."
"Right. I was told to speak to her directly, right here in the delivery orders. Are you familiar with the Mercenary Agenda?"
"I am not."
"Didn't figure. Look, rule #23 Follow the mission parameters. I'm following mission parameters: call Amorella Shamalain directly."
"...how many rules are there?"
"That's not the point, are you going to connect me to Shamalain or not?"
"Hold please."
"What? I just sat on hold for twenty fethin- oh, there you go again."

She must have looked a bit odd, pacing back and forth before the viewport of the holding room at the Sullustan starport. With the comm linked directly into her helmet, Hazel might as well have been talking to herself for all the standard outside viewer knew, gesticulating with a fair amount of fervor as she was, yet again, placed on hold with that infernal hold music.

What was this? Yoga music? Next time she wanted to fall asleep she was just going to call the Eve Foundation Headquarters and ask to speak to the head honcho. Honchette? Fething hell...

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

It wasn't particularly hard to arrange entrance into a holding room on Sullust. Perks of being the ex-ruler of a tremendously influential - if short lived - empire. Born from the flame of battle, snuffed out by the gales of time. It had been an easy choice to make, ceding planetary defence control back to the planet's that had so long relied on the Pyre - and by extension the Protectorate.

They'd outlived their usefulness.

The frontier had been 'tamed.'

What wasn't tame was the woman inside this holding cell, flailing her hands about like a blind student first learning to defend themselves against multiple opponents. A pair of carapace armored guards flanked the door as he approached, knowing to keep anyone away, and he smoothed the front of his deep navy turtleneck. Black dress pants, crisply creased, clung to the tops of his immaculately polished shoes.

Shoes as black as the eyes set below his bushy brow.

And, for once in his life, he was relatively clean shaven. Rough palm raising, he ran his fingertips pensively along the trimmed length of his beard and he smooth the faint part of his hair. Were it not for the pistol hidden beneath the back of his shirt, he'd have passed for a 'young,' hip college professor. In actuality, he was a middle aged retired soldier with more demons than Mandalorian's had trophies.

The door hissed open and he stepped inside, arms folding over his broad chest, wool fabric clinging to his lean frame, saber visibly dangling from a hip. "Hazel." He says gruffly, "...why are you in a holding room on my planet."

It wasn't his planet, not anymore. But it sounded good.

 

[Hazel Scheler]

Gloved hands wrapping around cold steel, Hazel stood hunched before the viewport with a headache budding at the forefront of her skull. It had been a long time since the woman had been through puberty, but she could have sworn it bore the exact same pain as a burgeoning zit. Those kind that show up on the hairline and throb for days before surfacing.

The woman rubbed absently at the plated helmet covering her skull, shaking her head.

It. Continued. To. Play.

"Hazel,"

Stiffening, the Merc turned to look over pauldron'd shoulder at the man emerging into the room. She didn't recognize him immediately - Force knew she'd had several hard knocks to the head over the last few years - and despite his otherwise business-casual attire it was impossible to ignore the hair standing on end at the back of her neck. Gut instinct recognized the man and the potential threat she learned about years ago.

"...why are you in a holding room on my planet."

"You know," the woman's voice sounded through helmet speakers, metallic in stereo, "I've been asking myself the same damn thing for the last two hours. ...cept the part about whose planet this was." That part had been rather clear: the Galactic Alliance was the ruling governmental body here and though she only knew just the details she needed, a singular entity leading the whole thing had certainly escaped her knowledge.

Hazel turned slowly, broad shoulders squaring at the man, helmet slightly tilted to the side, "...it begins with a P..."

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

"Palactic Palliance, yes, it does begin with a P." He says dryly, giving the woman's armor a once over. She was as stocky as ever, it seemed, and her resemblance to a young Ashin made him feel 19 all over again. At least mentally, anyway. Too many aches and scars for it to be physical. Moving over to a nearby chair, he settled himself into a cushion, pulling his right leg up over the left to rest across the knee.

Arm coming up to rest across the spine of the attached chair next to it, he frowned at her and then shrugged. "Ah well.

What brings you here? Specifically, to this room. It's not often I find old friends sitting in holding rooms. Usually they're the ones putting people in them."

 

[Hazel Scheler]

"Your name, wise ass," eyes narrowed in thought, a hand gestured nondescriptly, "callsign, whatever."

It hadn't been a real name. She remembered Tatooine, the sandstorm, the chat at the cantina, the criminal holdout.

The innocent she'd been too late to save.

Flashes of memory slowly filtered in to drop briefly before dissipating into nothing. Sand. Her lips drew a thinning line as she struggled with the repercussions of several difficult years. The infernal music wasn't helping despite lowering the internal comm volume, now more like the incessant droning of a bug in her ear.

The woman's posture straightened as she passed a glance around and leaned back against the railing running along the wall before the viewport, "I was delivering a parcel for the Eve Foundation. Supposed to take it to Sulon, Katarn Homestead. Didn't know the place was harder to get to than planetside Kuat."

Practically impossible without the right permissions, which Hazel didn't have.

"New Jedi Order has the place locked up snug from outsiders."

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

The man gave a smirk and a smug 'hrmm' of amusement at her plight, and it took him a moment to retrieve exactly what she was referring too. "I've gone by many a name over the years.

Sarge, Silencer, He of the Void - Witches gave me that one - and as a Jedi, Preacher. A religious title, for a non-religious man. You seem to be doing well though, Hazel. I'm glad to see that." Pushing himself up from the chair, he ran a palm along his beard again, moving over to her with a genial smile on his face. Despite the fissure of a scar across his throat and the pockmarks on his right cheek and up the right side of his face, it seemed a genuine gesture.

It was an alarmingly friendly smile, from a decidedly unpleasant looking man. "We take security quite seriously. I'm the Warden of their Sith Prison, after all." He says with another smile. "But come, come. I can get you to the homestead.

Can't let your reputation be hurt by bureaucracy when I can help, can I?"

Moving to the railing, he leaned forward onto it, scanning the view for anything amiss, gaunt eyes ever alert for a threat.

 

[Hazel Scheler]

"Preacher, that's it."

As if it had been there all along, shaken loose from clutter jammed into the outer branches of sub-conscience by all manner of blunt force head trauma. The woman looked at him through the slit visor of her helmet, remembering now how bristled and unkempt he'd been back on that sandy, Force-forsaken planet. He looked much cleaner now, healthier, younger even - despite the new additions to his facade.

He'd have no trouble fitting that beard into a helmet now. Had to be at least a third the size of what she recalled.

Arms crossed at her front, the Merc gave a faint nod, "Thanks. Diplomacy isn't exactly part of my skillset." She didn't mind getting her hands dirty, but politics was a stain she'd prefer to keep off of them.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

"Now, the real question is... before we depart for the homestead - who is the package for...?"

 

[Hazel Scheler]

Hazel lifted her left arm and unlatched a cover plate on the gauntlet to expose a command console beneath. Tapping through, she brought up the original message from the Foundation CEO.

"New Jedi Order Marshall, Chief Healer of the Circle of Healers, Master Avalore Eden."

The woman gave a sniff and snapped the cover shut.

"Sounds like an important gal."

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

His nostrils widened, and his brow furrowed, void black gaze falling to the floor as his mind slipped across the sands of time and into a far off past. Or, at least, it felt far off. Eyes closing, he gives a huff and nods. "Haven't seen her in years." He says finally, turning to Ivy before giving her a pat on the shoulderblade. "We can take a Pyre dropship. It'll be easier that way." Moving across the door on light feet, he opens the door and steps out first.

Guards turning, their weapons remained at a low ready - nonthreatening other than that they were primed and ready to fire. They were high powered and functional, and much like their armor... they were of Sarge's own design.

The battery wells were connected by thick cables to a portable power pack on their backs, giving them tremendous stopping power at the expense of a pack of supplies. Worth the tradeoff given his proclivity for small unit, fast insertions and extractions. If he was staying for a prolonged amount of time, the mission was FUBAR anyway.

"...I trust you don't mind leaving your ship here a spell?"

 

[Hazel Scheler]

"Depends on how exorbitant the docking fees around here are..." Hazel made an attempt at a joke that fell flat on the reality of her monetary situation. Her own steps weren't so light as the man she followed. She remembered how soundlessly he moved in the criminal den. The weight of a full suit coupled by cybernetic limbs made moving quietly a bit of a chore. The passing years as a non-lethal Merc working less and less lethal jobs had perhaps made her lazy.

Or maybe it was simply old age catching her up with a body less and less capable of the finer control required for the deed. She wasn't as strong as she used to be, or as quick.

Stealth had never been her forte. She left that to her sister and look where it got her.

Dead.

"They've got the Egris gridlocked either way. We can shuffle the parcel onto your ship...that is, if it's made it through the scans."

Truth be told she didn't know what was in the crate. She hadn't opened it. Those were the rules.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

Sarge had always held a fondness for the battered woman behind him, if only because she was unapologetically, well, her. Gruff, a bit dry of wit, but generally good company when the concussions weren't out to send her into an old folks home before she hit 50. He almost missed the sound of armor shifting over a body suit, metal sliding across metal, fabric crinkling as friction was applied through the simple motion of walking in a straight line.

It put a smile on his face, in a forlorn way.

That'd been him, for a long time. Just a bit quieter. That had been his calling card, sure as sure; stealth. Blending in, rather than hiding. "Well," he begins, pausing with another faint smirk. "Lead the way, Hazel. We'll get it off your ship, one way or another."

 

[Hazel Scheler]

She paused along with him, albeit momentarily lagging behind; the Merc at least managed not to walk right into his shoulder. Hazel considered him for a moment and all the differences between then and now. Seemed he'd softened up a bit - something to appreciate having known the hardened cactus she met before, even if she could appreciate the prickly nature.

Hazel eyes looked him over. Just that which was immediately available to her without tipping her helmet much. A faint, half smirk formed on lips hidden behind the faceplate.

"Sure," said the woman as she turned to lead the way, "nice turtleneck."

~~~~

The Egris
Holding Dock 3

Had no trouble getting back onto her own ship. They'd given her the choice to wait out the holding procedure while somebody gained her clearance or, feth, figured out what the hell to do with her: on the ship or in the Holding Wing. Having spent the last several weeks in space transit with very little solid ground beneath her feet, Hazel opted to take a walk. She'd had to surrender over the weapons immediately on her form but there weren't no point to giving security any guff. You learned these things with experience and, the Merc would have been willing to bet, someone like [member="Dak Canton"] might've made a scene.

He didn't have a lot of guns left after Raxus Prime. They'd be hard pressed to take what he did have simply to follow protocol.

If Sarge remembered the gigantic beast she kept as a companion animal from years ago he'd maybe notice its stalking form absent from the freighter. There were no beasts of any kind, as a matter of fact, and Hazel rather hated the clean and quiet atmosphere this left behind. He might also notice a particular void in the Force, should he follow her aboard, surrounding a good percentage of the ship.

Hazel made way shortly for the cargo hold, muttering something about Customs Droids buzzing around her ship.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

"Thanks." He says quietly, running the pad of his thumb along his jawline as he imagined the smirk that was surely plastered upon her squared features. The guards fell in behind, and away they went.

-----

Arriving at the ship, the first thing he noticed was the distinct lack of animal. It was, in his eyes, her defining trait - mercenary woman, lots of scars, gigantic fucking hound. He was always fond of people who traveled with animals, as he thought it spoke well of their character. But what did he know, he tortured people for a living. But stepping up the ramp, he was puzzled by the sense of unease that settled over him.

It took him awhile to realize it, but the music of the stars faded into nothingness, taking him back to a time of swamps and calling his now-lover a queen. A frown settled over his features, and as they entered the cargo hold, he made a beeline for the cargo presently being scanned. Waving off the cargo drones, he looked to Ivy, and then did what she didn't want him to do - provided there was no countermeasures in place - he opened the box.

Why?

Because he could.

 

[Hazel Scheler]

The source of the void did not come from the box, that much was certain. Hazel's movements ground to a halt as the man immediately moved to open the box. Every fiber of her being wanted to box his ears and the words what the feth are you doing?! clawed at her throat to be spoken. The Merc held them back with a tight jaw and grit teeth. Gloved hands visibly coiled into fists. She remembered where she was, who presently stood in her cargo hold and his station within the Alliance. She also remembered the Guards. Didn't want to test their aim, nope.


The box was simple enough: a transit crate within which an antiquated chest of aged wood and brass fittings sat quiet and unassuming. It was unlocked and large enough to be cumbersome for one person to carry. A rolled scroll sat tied to a metal handle at the top.

To Master Eden:

I have watched your progress and work within the Galactic Alliance and the Circle of Healers for some time now. Like you, I once stood in a position of power where my whim and word helped save and heal thousands of lives. Many do not understand the great sacrifices made by Healers on a daily basis in what you do to make their lives better. It is my honor to gift to the Circle and the Alliance these tools to help further your efforts across the galaxy. Within you will find a variety of useful items as well the latest in rare Force technology that will be of great benefit to you and yours. As well, I believe news among the various Jedi Orders claims the Circle is seeking a place to create a headquarters. When you find this place please let me know - I would very much like to fund the design and construction of the temple.

The Mercenary I have hired to deliver this package will know how to use the items in the secondary box. Treat them with care. She can instruct you in their use.

Until we finally meet, kindest regards:

Amorella Shamalain
Eve Foundation CEO

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

Pushing aside the crate top, he looked to the scroll and the chest. Eyes narrowing, he gave a slow nod, and without opening anything further, he closed the crate top again. "Looks good to me." He says, turning to her with a look that says he knew exactly what he just did, and he didn't enjoy it. "It's clear." He says to the customs droids, and they all turned towards him.

"Search protocol disengage: Authorization code Cresh Isk Resh Aurek Four Four Six Three." Sighing, he clasped his hands together in the small of his back, looking to the armored mercenary who was now looking for a hint of a fight. His lips curled into a tight smile.

"My job isn't to trust, I'm afraid, Hazel. I'm still that dick you met years ago. I'm just a bit more... genial from retirement." Giving a small smile, he gave the lid a pat, making sure it was securely in place. "Give me a hand with the crate?"

 

[Hazel Scheler]

"Yeah," came a tight return through teeth yet failing to un-grit, "I get it."

She wasn't want to deliver something dangerous into the hands of some who, from the sounds of it, was otherwise a very good and honorable person. Yet the life of a Mercenary was often little more than a missive, a mission. Hazel had done plenty of things she wasn't proud of - the dark bloodstain on the cargo bay floor from where First Order Bigwig [member="Ludolf Vaas"] had sawed off his own hand to get away from captivity still refused to wash out to this day.

Helmet panning to the crate, Hazel forced a slow release of breath through her teeth and stiffly moved to a hoverjack in the corner. She brought it around to scoop prongs beneath hollowed stands at the base of the crate. With a push of a button it lifted several inches from the ground as repulsors engaged.

"After you."

And the infernal hold music played on.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

That drew a sorrowful sound of vague amusement. "You get it. But you don't accept it." He remarks dryly, shaking his head as she hefted the crate on a jack. Moving out of the hold, expecting her to follow, he left her ship behind and made his way around the starport to the secure, Galactic Alliance section. After a brief check to ensure he and his guards were who they said they were, they were allowed in.

Ivy's name was simply recorded for anyone wishing to know who he had brought along. Simple enough, no ID check beyond the name. On a large circular platform sat a battered black M47, the sharp angles of the design standing prominent from the flank they approached from. The pilot looked over, and without a hint of recognition began to power up the vessel. The whine of the engines was heard, and the repulsors hummed with power - though they weren't active just yet.

"Go ahead and place it inside, and take a seat." He remarks dryly, motioning for her to go in first, guards on her heels.

 

[Hazel Scheler]

The Merc said nothing in response, following in a stoic silence until they reached the ship. She was, admittedly, mildly put-off by his Guards as they shadowed their steps. Hazel wasn't keen on being treated like a criminal and was becoming increasingly aware of how militant this Alliance really was. Supposed she could have done a bit more research, not taken a Humanitarian Foundation's CEO's word for their good intentions.

The best of intentions could be enacted through some of the most foul of actions, after all.

She moved the crate into place and disengaged the lift, turning next to engage two sets of magnets to lock it into place against the metal floor. It just so happened that as she took a seat she jolted awkwardly as a voice sounded in her ear.

"Mizz Schleler?"
Blinking, the Merc lifted a hand to the side of her helmet, leaning forward to plant an elbow on a knee, "Scheler. That you Ilone?"
"Patching you through to Mizz Shamalain."

Her fingers visibly seized at the side of her head as a screeching ping filled her eardrum. "Sithspit..."

"Good afternoon, Hazel."
Ah, yes, there was the CEO. She'd recognize that voice anywhere - equal parts gentle and commanding, "Ma'am."
"I apologize for the inconvenience. Iloan has notified me you have encountered some challenges in delivering my package."
"I got detained-" Hazel glanced at Sarge, wherever it was he ended up, then next at his Guards, then finally leveled her eyes on the crate, "didn't have proper clearance to make it to Sulon."
"I underestimated their security protocol. I should have foreseen this but I'm afraid my enthusiasm outweighed my prudent planning. You are not at fault. Are you still detained?"
"Not...exactly, no. Galaxy's a small place. Ran into an old Preacher acquaintance that works for the Alliance. Flying in on his clearance."
"...Preacher?"
"It's a long story."
"I see. Well, should you meet any further resistance, my contact tells me to pass along the message that Ereza Kep sends his regards along with the parcel."
"Ereza Kep? Odd name."
"Good luck, Miss Scheler, keep me informed of your progress. You may use this link to contact me personally."
"Roger."

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

Perhaps ironically, the only militant part of the Alliance was Sarge. He could never let go of his need for control, truly, and thus he kept his guards around at all time. Though not a particularly large target, he kept himself guarded like one. But he sensed her unease, and the guards took seats as close to the pilot as they could. By the time the maglocks were readied, the vessel was already in the air, taking them towards the destination as the ramp rose.

Hearing the faint mutterings from the helmet, he closed his eyes and settled in for the ride, arms folding across his chest as though committed to napping on the trip. "You reach who you intended to reach?"