Dris Negan
Jedi
Dris Negan currently felt like the dumbest Intelligence Operative in the history of galactic espionage. He was walking into the very heart of the enemy's capital with absolutely no back up and a set of obscure orders given to him by a Moff he'd pissed off for not murdering a woman unnecessarily. The only reason he wasn't executed on the spot was because of his absolutely stellar track record.
They'd have been better off to have shot him then.
Dris could still remember the smug face that bastard Moff had as he signed Dris's death warrant. His mission was to recon, infiltrate, and plant a bomb in the office of Vice Chancellor Halen on Coruscant. No backup, no support. It was completely ludicrous.
But Dris had sucked it up, thrown out a yes sir, and went to prepare for his suicide mission. Like he always did. Duty was truly a harsh mistress.
Of late he'd begun to question it. A nagging, gnawing doubt that attached itself to his long held beliefs and began working on them like a parasite. What did it say about his job if he got scolded for refusing to unnecessarily murder? It hadn't been the first time his attempts to retain a semblance of morality had gotten him into trouble.
What did that say about him?
Dris shook off the thought and focused on the extremely difficult task at hand. Fresh faced. Clean suit.
He looked a politician.
Dris whistled as he made his way toward the left wing of the Republic Senate's massive senate building. Dris's .45 suppressed slugthrower dug into his ribs.
Gods save him.
@[member="Flint Dexen"]
They'd have been better off to have shot him then.
Dris could still remember the smug face that bastard Moff had as he signed Dris's death warrant. His mission was to recon, infiltrate, and plant a bomb in the office of Vice Chancellor Halen on Coruscant. No backup, no support. It was completely ludicrous.
But Dris had sucked it up, thrown out a yes sir, and went to prepare for his suicide mission. Like he always did. Duty was truly a harsh mistress.
Of late he'd begun to question it. A nagging, gnawing doubt that attached itself to his long held beliefs and began working on them like a parasite. What did it say about his job if he got scolded for refusing to unnecessarily murder? It hadn't been the first time his attempts to retain a semblance of morality had gotten him into trouble.
What did that say about him?
Dris shook off the thought and focused on the extremely difficult task at hand. Fresh faced. Clean suit.
He looked a politician.
Dris whistled as he made his way toward the left wing of the Republic Senate's massive senate building. Dris's .45 suppressed slugthrower dug into his ribs.
Gods save him.
@[member="Flint Dexen"]