Private [RΞDΛC✛ΞD]

[Agent Damocles]

⎯⎯⎯[ SΣCUNDUS ΛИDӨ ]⎯⎯⎯
⎯⎯⎯[ OPΞЯΛTION: FΛUSTUS ]⎯⎯⎯​

Her collar was cinched a little too tight. It made breathing a little more of a labour than it ought to be. Or perhaps the room was just that stuffy? Yes, it was probably the room.

Dray did not fidget, despite her discomfort. This was her contact, her mission, her design. She would see this through.

The Harch she had connected with had promised to meet her at this restaurant. It was a small, hole in the wall style diner. Nothing expensive. It was the sort of place filled with long haul shipping engineers and divorced fathers looking for a quick dinner. It was not the sort of place that would usually excited Dray, but today she felt alive.

Her hard work was about to pay off. Wend Marcion had made a massive mistake, and if the intel from this informant were as good as they claimed...well...Dray's promotion was all but assured.

"Hey darlin'...wanna 'nother cupa jamba juice?" Said a droid waiter in a tinny voice.

Dray just waved it off. For some reason, the droid put the beverage down anyway.

"I said no," she shot back.

"Apologies miss...it was free...courtesy of the gentleman at the corner booth."

Dray turned just for a moment, and narrowed her eyes as she assessed the seemingly innocuous blue-collar worker. Her attention came back to the droid, who was picking the cup of over-sweet juice up. "I'll just take it back."

"Thank you..."

Dray picked up her cup of caf, and sipped at it. It was still warm. But oddly more bitter than even it had a right to be. "That is...oh..." Her head grew lighter. "...oh shi..." Her vision blurred.

Rinea​

 

[Rinea]

When the agent awoke, she was bound to a chair, under the dimmest of light in a dark, cold, and sparsely furnished room.

Across from her stood a figure whose silhouette was scarcely seen, and best identified by the red glow of her piercing eyes. She sauntered forward with deliberate steps and lit a cigarra between her lips, offering a snapshot of blue skin and a white uniform under the brief spark of her lighter.

The Chiss stopped about half her body's length and blew smoke down at the Pantoran's face.

"How are you feeling?" She asked.

There was little inflection in her voice to suggest genuine interest, but the situation alone suggested quite the opposite.

A single door, located directly behind the captive, slid open and briefly revealed more light. A masked individual walked in with a tray of syringes and vials and placed them down onto a nearby table. An experienced operative would know the signs of truth serums, sedatives, and stimulants often used in interrogations and the like.

"Thank you. Leave us." Rinea ordered.

She took another drag from the cigarra. The orange glow of the burning end shone against the purple hue of her lips.

"I hate bad caf, don't you?"

Agent Damocles