Private Efficiency Over Ethics

[CT-312]

//: Drystan Creed Scherezade deWinter //:
//: Fighting Arena, Bendeluum //:
//: Attire //:
//: EQUIPMENT: Halcyon Armour| M.I. 'Sunstroke' jetpack| M.I. 'Halo' jump boots | Contact Lenses | Wrist Mounted APG | Ancile Shield | Navi/Barca //:
//: WEAPONS: LO-18D | LO-22S //:
//: LO-KI/22 Standard Slug Round //:
//: ADDITIONAL EQUIPMENT: Kushute Grenades | Shiva Knife //:
//: 1 x Arrow head of Absence | Taozin amulet | LK Spider Slicer Droid //:
//: Bounty Hunting - Exotic Beasts | Felucian Rancor //:

Bendeluum’s skies glimmered with a thin layer of artificial smog and neon haze. A bustling planet known for its underground fighting arenas and vice-friendly policies. It welcomed criminals, mercenaries, and spectators. Anyone alike with open arms and closed morals.

Thud. CT-312’s boots dully hit the duracrete as she disembarked from the shuttle. With a place like this, surprisingly her camouflage armor wasn’t completely sticking out like a sore thumb. The Scout’s HUD blinked softly as the navmarker guided her through crooked alleys and glowing signs. Toward the designated rendezvous point. The Hollow Fang. Located into the side of a broken down arena wall.

CT-312 took a seat near the rear. Placing her back to the wall. Eyes scanned for all the exits. With the flick of her gauntlet, the data was pulled up.

<:// BOUNTY NOTICE //:>
<:// Bounty Hunter ID: CT-312 //:>
<:// Location: Bendeluum //:>
<:// Client: Threkkuss //:>
<:// Target: Felucian Rancor //:>
<:// Capture and deliver alive to the fighting pits of Nar Kanji //:>:>

Eyes lingered on the notice for a few seconds. Her gloved finger pushed the DeathDrop's internal encrypted network. A silent ping. An open invitation. ‘Let's see who bites.’

It wasn’t every day a bounty popped up involving a Rancor. Let alone a Felucian Rancor. The beasts were already volatile and rare in the wild. It would be inefficient to track one down. But this? The bounty never specified how the beast had to be captured. Just that it needed to be alive and delivered. Upside, this Felucian Rancor already has the taste of fighting in the pits.

And as luck would have it. A world where arenas were fed by a thriving criminal market, some be legal or not. One such of a Rancor just happened to be advertised on a haloscreen feed across from the bar.

“TONIGHT ONLY: The Felucian Terror RETURNS. Watch it fight to the death at Arena Nine.”

CT-312 leaned back. If someone else had done the hard part already. It’d be a shame not to capitalize on it. ‘Efficient.’ Especially if the right DeathDrop members showed up to help raise some hell.

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

Tags: CT-312 Drystan Creed

---

The Sith Warrior had two sisters; one by blood and Force-twisted circumstance that made most people's heads hurt when they tried to make sense of it, and the other who had once been ordered to watch over her before they chose to become sisters. And it was the latter that made this situation… tricky. Katrine Van-Derveld was a Witch. Not a Dathomiri, but raised among them (at least for a bit of time), and rancors were just a step shy of holy in their culture. It was something she had taken with her when she's put the Mandragora together. Did it count today as well? Well… If she ever caught wind of what Scherezade had agreed to do for a little pocket change…

Yeah. Best not let her know. It wasn't even about the creds.

Scherezade leaned back in her seat, only a few feet from where CT-312 sat. She'd been there a few minutes already, deliberately holding back, giving the woman the choice of when "hi" would stop being awkward and start being something else.

It was a strange place for her to be in. This was the third time, maybe more (she was great at math when she had her scrolls and papers around, and even though she could create full schematics without needing a calculator, being out of the moment sometimes made basic arithmetic not make sense to her) that they'd worked together. And yet… no one had kicked her out. No one had turned away. No one had given her that distant, polite smile-and-nod she'd grown so used to in the past.

The realization made her grin, sharp and a little giddy. Social acceptance was supposed to be weird for her, something that belonged to other people. And still, sitting there, she found herself actually enjoying it. Which was both terrifying and, annoyingly, kind of nice.

And the rancor? Well, rancors were easy. Easier than people. And she already had experience with them.

 

[Drystan Creed]

BENDELUUM

Drystan came to the operation with almost nothing in the way of gear. In a tropical shirt, cargo shorts, and rounded sunglasses to match his sandals, he looked more like a tourist on leave than someone running an op. By the time the others arrived, he was already seated with the locals, blending in over a card game.

A cigarette dangled from his lips as he held a quartet of cards, opposite three unsavory types—a Houk, an Ithorian, and a Gamorrean.

"That's 5000 credits. You in or out?" the Houk growled, impatience cracking through his voice.

Drystan hardly looked interested, a perfect poker face behind those shades. Finally, his lips curled into a smile.

"5000? That must be a peach of a hand." He slid the credits into the pot with a lazy push.

"I guess I'll just have to call."

Four aces hit the table. Victory. Growls, slammed fists, and curses answered him as the others reeled.

"You cheated," the Houk barked, stabbing a finger in his direction.

"Cards don't lie, my friend," Drystan said smoothly, reaching with his left arm to scoop his winnings.

The Houk's hand clamped onto his bicep. "You chea—"

WOOSH!

Drystan's right hand snapped forward, slicing the air, a hooked finger striking the Houk square under the chin. The movement was so fast it seemed like he'd plucked something out of the brute's mouth. The result was the same either way: lights out. The Houk collapsed first against the table, then to the floor in two dull thuds.

The Ithorian and Gamorrean froze, caught between shock and disbelief. Unbothered, Drystan calmly gathered his credits and rose, waving toward CT-312 and the girl beside her.

"Yo! Drinks on me." He tossed a few creds toward the bartender, sliding onto a stool and ordering his own like nothing had happened.

CT-312 Scherezade deWinter

 

[CT-312]

//: Scherezade deWinter Drystan Creed //:
//: Fighting Arena, Bendeluum //:
//: Attire //:
//: EQUIPMENT: Halcyon Armour| M.I. 'Sunstroke' jetpack| M.I. 'Halo' jump boots | Contact Lenses | Wrist Mounted APG | Ancile Shield | Navi/Barca //:
//: WEAPONS: LO-18D | LO-22S //:
//: LO-KI/22 Standard Slug Round //:
//: ADDITIONAL EQUIPMENT: Kushute Grenades | Shiva Knife //:
//: 1 x Arrow head of Absence | Taozin amulet | LK Spider Slicer Droid //:
//: Bounty Hunting - Exotic Beasts | Felucian Rancor //:

She acknowledged the woman, “Scherezade.” Who sat a few feet away with a short nod. The one from the spa and bank mission. The blood user. Glowing emerald green eyes, hard to forget. Very capable. CT-312’s tone was even through the helmet’s modulator, “Good to see you again.” It looked like they were waiting for their third.

A sudden crash cut through the haze. Across the room a Houk’s massive frame toppled. Slamming into the table before rolling to the floor. Drinks splashed. Chairs scraped back. For a moment, the noise of the bar stuttered into silence. CT-312 tracked an arm that lifted lazily in their direction.

"Yo! Drinks on me." He tossed a few creds toward the bartender, sliding onto a stool and ordering his own like nothing had happened.

Ah. There he is. Of course, Drystan. CT-312 lifted her hand. Two fingers and a thumb, flicking the wrist once. A scout’s version of a lazy wave. “And that’s our third.” muttered loud enough for Scherezade to hear. Her gaze ran over Drystan’s attire. Bright tropical shirt, cargo shorts, sunglasses while wearing sandals. An interesting choice. Vacation clothes. He looked out of place, but it worked. A tourist in disguise. Bendeluum’s locals loved dupe off-worlders in games and fights when they had the chance. A perfect mask to slip under. CT-312 signaled for drinks, placing an order for the three.

Tipping her helmet toward the haloscreen across them. The grainy projection flashed roaring crowds and the Felucian Rancor’s silhouette in an arena pit. Large text scrolling details of the event. “That’s our target.” The bartender came back with the ordered drinks. CT-312 gave Drystan a small nod of thanks as the glasses hit the table. Bloody red drinks, garnished with a singular large ice cube. Appropriately named: Bloody Rancors. Her hand reached out. Gloved fingers brushing the condensation from the glass. “Fifteen Minutes. So far, no one’s lasted the full time.” Visor tilted towards the two across from her. “Question is… Who wants to go in?”

Her hand came up to her helmet, lifting it up just enough to tug her half-mask down. CT-312 drained the drink in one go. The sharp taste of spice and iron cutting down her throat with a heat that lingered. Slipping her mask back up and setting the helmet back in place.

“And while someone is keeping the pit distracted…” A pause. Her visor looked at Drystan before slowly shifting to Scherezade. “I’ll be infiltrating their staff. If they’ve got more Rancors stashed away, I’ll find them.” Setting the empty glass down with a quiet clink. “The question is–” CT-312’s voice dropped lower. Calmer. “Who’s ready to deal with what we may find?”

 

[Scherezade deWinter]

Tags: CT-312 Drystan Creed

---

She'd received a nod! Scherezade almost bubbled over with excitement, taking her chair and dragging it along the dirty floors to join both CT-312 and Drystan Creed , who had secured drinks for them all. In her hand appeared her drink of choice; a Velvet Eclipse, though she'd asked to have ice added to hers. Ice just made things better, sometimes.

Once she had taken her seat, she nodded to Drystan. It was the first time the two had met to the best of her knowledge, and she had seen him take that dude out from the corner of her eyes. She'd even been tempted to join in on the fun, but it looked like he had it covered well enough without her needing to interfere. Still, the thanks were there as they ought to be. One never declined a free drink.

But then came the question of who would be the one to face the rancors.

Scherezade had lots of experience in that field. She knew nothing about Drystan's. And she knew even less about his desired.

"Wanna thumb wrestle for it?" she offered the man, grinning like a kitten from ear to ear. "Rancors are easy," she explained to CT, "like big ugly dogs. Pet them behind the ear if you can find it, you can win them over for forever."