Kaboom.
There was something comforting about making a bomb.
This was an opinion held by no one in the galaxy, with the exception of one Dresden Verbrennung. The former mercenary sat behind his desk, in a nondescript office in a little building that no one paid much attention to. The room was smallish, for an office, the walls bare save for a couple of shelves. There were a couple of cheap office chairs, a cheap prefab desk, and a filing cabinet. The only expensive items were a large, sturdy looking safe in the back of the room, behind the desk, and a very nice rifle propped up against the desk, within easy reach of the room's sole occupant.
The man behind the desk was tall. That much was evident, even though he was seated. His arms seemed overlong, his hands overlarge. His fingers were long, nimble. They were manipulating a ball of putty, into which were connected various wires, which were in turn hooked up to a circuit board. The putty looked an awful lot like detonite, but Dresden wasn't completely crazy. It was an inert lookalike he kept around to keep his hand in when not in the field. The real explosives were in the safe.
Okay, maybe he was a little crazy. The contents of the safe could level the building. Hell, the block.
The planet he was on didn't matter. From the First Order's perspective, it was a relatively unimportant ball of rock. Some industry, some agriculture, nothing major. It was worth keeping a presence on, but not so important to warrant a full occupation. Dresden had been assigned here as a minor chastisement for mouthing off to a superior.
It was a temporary assignment, enough to get the point across, but clearly not a permanent exile. He was supposed to cool his heels, think about his sins, and move on when his time was up. No loss in rank, he was still a Station Chief, but there wasn't much of a station here. A few operatives in the sector would report back to him on occasion. A technician monitored the mostly electronic surveillance assets. No one expected trouble here.
No one, except Station Chief Verbrennung, professional paranoiac.
As a matter of course, when taking over what was supposed to be an unimportant backwater, he had kicked the asses of all the agents under his supervision. They had become complacent, lulled into a false sense of security. Within a day, he had uncovered a number of shortcomings, had reported them up the chain, and kicked back as the heavy hand of God smacked them into the ground. The old station chief had been fired, the other agents either fired or demoted. New hands, less complacent, had been brought in.
In a few minutes, Dresden was to meet with one of them. He had never heard of her, which, for a man in his position, was unusual in and of itself. He knew things. That was sort of his shtick. The agent wouldn't have been here if she wasn't good at what she did, but she had no reputation. That was, in its own way, impressive.
Exactly why she had called this meeting, he had no clue. She had been reticent, unusually so, even for an FOSB Supervisory agent. That probably meant something important that she didn't want getting out.
Maybe this boring post would get exciting after all.
[member="The Major"]
This was an opinion held by no one in the galaxy, with the exception of one Dresden Verbrennung. The former mercenary sat behind his desk, in a nondescript office in a little building that no one paid much attention to. The room was smallish, for an office, the walls bare save for a couple of shelves. There were a couple of cheap office chairs, a cheap prefab desk, and a filing cabinet. The only expensive items were a large, sturdy looking safe in the back of the room, behind the desk, and a very nice rifle propped up against the desk, within easy reach of the room's sole occupant.
The man behind the desk was tall. That much was evident, even though he was seated. His arms seemed overlong, his hands overlarge. His fingers were long, nimble. They were manipulating a ball of putty, into which were connected various wires, which were in turn hooked up to a circuit board. The putty looked an awful lot like detonite, but Dresden wasn't completely crazy. It was an inert lookalike he kept around to keep his hand in when not in the field. The real explosives were in the safe.
Okay, maybe he was a little crazy. The contents of the safe could level the building. Hell, the block.
The planet he was on didn't matter. From the First Order's perspective, it was a relatively unimportant ball of rock. Some industry, some agriculture, nothing major. It was worth keeping a presence on, but not so important to warrant a full occupation. Dresden had been assigned here as a minor chastisement for mouthing off to a superior.
It was a temporary assignment, enough to get the point across, but clearly not a permanent exile. He was supposed to cool his heels, think about his sins, and move on when his time was up. No loss in rank, he was still a Station Chief, but there wasn't much of a station here. A few operatives in the sector would report back to him on occasion. A technician monitored the mostly electronic surveillance assets. No one expected trouble here.
No one, except Station Chief Verbrennung, professional paranoiac.
As a matter of course, when taking over what was supposed to be an unimportant backwater, he had kicked the asses of all the agents under his supervision. They had become complacent, lulled into a false sense of security. Within a day, he had uncovered a number of shortcomings, had reported them up the chain, and kicked back as the heavy hand of God smacked them into the ground. The old station chief had been fired, the other agents either fired or demoted. New hands, less complacent, had been brought in.
In a few minutes, Dresden was to meet with one of them. He had never heard of her, which, for a man in his position, was unusual in and of itself. He knew things. That was sort of his shtick. The agent wouldn't have been here if she wasn't good at what she did, but she had no reputation. That was, in its own way, impressive.
Exactly why she had called this meeting, he had no clue. She had been reticent, unusually so, even for an FOSB Supervisory agent. That probably meant something important that she didn't want getting out.
Maybe this boring post would get exciting after all.
[member="The Major"]
