So a Shard and a Shapeshifter Beat a Guy with a Bar

[Rusty]

Minutes turned to hours.

The Mando's resistance to pain was impressive. Rusty had never seen anyone hold out for so long. It was clear that mere pain wasn't going to break the smith, so he turned his thoughts towards what he knew of the species and culture. Maybe there would be some clue hidden there.

On the grand scale of things, humans were about average. Not particularly weak or strong, neither stupid nor clever, their sole advantages were usually in the realms of adaptability and sheer numbers. It was no surprise that they managed to occupy more planets than any other species. They could make a home nearly anywhere, and they bred much more rapidly than many other sentients of their size and intelligence. Though census reports varied wildly on the exact percentage, it was clear that humans outnumbered other species by a significant margin, and exerted more political and economic power than any other single species. The one saving grace for the rest of the galaxy was that they were prone to forming tribes, and didn't much care to unite as a species. Their loyalty lay much closer to home usually.

Mandalorians were admittedly outliers. Though they had a tendency to adopt outsiders frequently enough that it was hard to pinpoint any real lines of consanguinity, Mandalorian children were indoctrinated into a culture of pain and hardship almost from birth. Their preternatural stubbornness was almost as legendary as their skill in combat, and the results were truly terrifying. Though their services were always for sale, their loyalty to their family groups, or clans, was inviolable. Mandalorians would often be hired onto both sides of a conflict, but it was extremely rare for members of the same clan to end up on opposite sides.

There were cases where, when the need arose, humans in general and Mandalorians in particular would go to extreme lengths to protect their family.

That gave Rusty an idea.

The smith was on the verge of unconsciousness, his brain far too stimulated by the signals being transmitted from his ravaged nervous system to be aware of anything other than the agony that suffused every fiber of his being. All it took as a minute adjustment to send the poor fellow over the brink into sleep.

The Shard turned to [member="Laguz Vald"] and grinned.

"Do you by chance have any of his clan mates in here? Preferably someone closely related, ideally younger and female. Someone he'd feel protective of. If so, we've been torturing the wrong prisoner."

 

[Laguz Vald]

Minutes turned to hours.

The mando's resistance to pain was… well, impressive, but mostly it was annoying, and it was starting to show. Laguz could be fairly patient when she was setting up with her ol' verpine and a a knowledge of who she was shooting, but this was a whole another animal. They'd been fishing for hours, without a clear goal or a way to get there, and without bacon to keep her occupied, the redhead was on the verge of snapping. It would be either her or the mando's neck, and the shifter wasn't fond of either option.

So when the metal-boy turned to her with a smirk and a devilish spark in his artificial eye, the sniper couldn't be more happy for a break in the agonizing routine. From the way she sighed, you'd almost think she was the one getting tortured.

"You always know just what to say, don't you?" she replied and met his diabolical smile with one of her own before nodding towards the door to lead him out.

Soon enough, her fingers were tapping away at one of the terminals, scouring their records for anyone who would fit the bill. They had mandalorians in droves, most of them from Wayland, and some from earlier still, when the Primeval-Mandalorian conflict had been in its nascent stages, confined to border scraps and skirmishes. Happier times for the men and women now rotting away in these cells, light years away from a homeworld they'd never lay eyes on again.

"There!" she exclaimed triumphantly, green eyes narrowing at the sight of a particular entry.
"Zulah Varad. Wife of Jango Varad, brother of… Seren Varad. Still alive, not battered too badly. Pregnant, too."

"Want to play 'How many punches 'till abortion?', [member="Rusty"]?"

Somehow, she already knew what the HRD's answer would be, and it made her smile a particularly hellish smile. If she wasn't going to Netherworld before, she was surely ending up there for this.

 

[Rusty]

"Depends on who does the punching," Rusty said thoughtfully.

That, apparently, was exactly the wrong thing to say. The Mando, who was seconds before a barely conscious heap of scar tissue and trauma, flew off the ground, his teeth set in a snarl. His hands were distorted into claws, ready to rend and tear at anything he could get his hands on. There was no finesse here, nothing but rage and adrenaline. Despite his emaciated state, he moved far more quickly than he had any right too.

The Shard absentmindedly recalled stories of mothers lifting speeders off children or fathers charging gunmen and the like for the sake of their families. Humans, he recalled, were only able to consciously access a small portion of their true mechanical strength at any given time. Their bodies limited themselves to safe levels to prevent damage. However, in extreme situations, adrenaline could override those limits, allowing them access to their true potential. It was said the average housewife was, potentially, as strong as a professional bodybuilder, but only in short bursts.

If either he or [member="Laguz Vald"] had been human, the frenzied attack might have worked. The smith practically exploded towards them. His brain would override any pain signals. His perception of time would have slowed to a crawl. On baseline humans, there was a chance that he might have even managed to overcome one or both of his tormentors, or at least stunned them long enough to make a break for it.

As it was, however, Rusty calmly backpedaled, flicked his wrist to extract the holdout blaster from its concealed holster, and pumped three stun bolts into the poor man before he covered more than a meter.

That was, apparently, more than enough to do the trick. He fell to the ground, muscles twitching. If not for the limited in his new teeth, it was likely he would have bitten clean through his tongue. The hatred in his eyes burned hot and heavy, enough that the Shard suspected that, had he been a Force sensitive, it would have slapped him across the brainpan.

The rushed the downed man and quickly restrained him with a flurry of blows to nerve clusters and strategic dislocations.

Once it was all said and done, Rusty straddled the Mando's chest, holdout blaster still in hand.

"It seems we've found the right lever, buddy," he said over his shoulder. He turned back to the Mando. "Okay, new deal. One time offer. You tell us what we want. You still get your clean death. The woman goes free, delivered to a neutral planet with enough credits to get home from there. If you refuse, she'll be brought here, and we will proceed to visit every horror known to this galaxy on her, plus a few we'll think up along the way. There will be no release, no turning back. She will die in agony, and I promise, it will take months. While all this is going on, you will watch, and she will know beyond a shadow of a doubt that she's dying because of you. That her baby is dying because of you."

The hate was replaced by horror as the Mando realized what Rusty was saying.

"But wait, there's more! Once she and her little bundle of joy are dead, they will continue to keep your sorry ass alive and suffering. Her flesh will become the only rations you have, and I assure you, you will eat. Once that's done, you will be starved, almost to the point of no return. Guess where your meat will come from after that?"

From the Shard's tone, he might have been discussing the weather, or something equally pedestrian. There was no hint of rage or madness or even the sadistic glee that normally accompanied such proclamations.

"So what's it gonna be, big guy?"

The fire went out of the Mando's eyes.

"Fine," he whispered. "I'll tell you what you want. It's not that big a secret anyway."

"Good," Rusty said cheerfully, hopping up. "We'll get a med droid in here to patch you up. Hell, I'm feeling generous, so we'll bring in a cot and a blanket too."

He didn't actually know if the facility had cots and blankets, but he assumed that was the case. A place like this always prepared to butter up subjects who were willing to cooperate.

As if on cue, the droid entered and began its examination. The Shard noted it wasn't your typical medical droid. It was a torture droid that some inventive fellow had slapped some med probes on and had implanted healthcare programming in. By the looks of it, the thing could just as easily revert to its original function as kill.

He and the shifter gathered up their things and headed for the door.

"Oh, and don't think about trying to off yourself. The girl will get the same treatment, only we'll make sure she makes her way to some customers that'll enjoy the dining experience," he said, right before the field reactivated.

They made their way to the lounge in silence. It had been a long day, and Rusty was pretty sure they could both use a drink.

"Well," he said as he filled a couple of glasses from a bottle of rare Corellian brandy, "That was fun."

 

[Laguz Vald]

Laguz barely had time to blink before [member="Rusty"] had already taken care of the mando's last stand, and so her contribution to that particular bout amounted to an appreciative whistle as the man collapsed to the ground like a sack of flesh. The comparison, it occurred to her, wasn't all that far from the truth after all the things the pair had put him through, not to mention the months of poor treatment and malnutrition in the facility before their arrival. Truly, his lunge had been a superhuman feat, worthy of a commendation. Too bad he'd never live long enough to receive it.

She crossed her arms over her chest and watched intently as the HRD rattled off the ultimatum with a tone that brooked no argument. Even for her standards, the sanctions he threatened if the mando attempted to cross them were, well… harsh seemed to fall quite short.

It did the trick, however. Oh, did it ever. The merc barely suppressed the triumphant grin that wanted to curl her lips upward at the defeated expression on the prisoner's face. There was no mistaking the utter surrender that passed like a shadow over his gaunt features, and the man visibly deflated under Rusty's weight, fight draining out of him as if they'd severed the carotid.

Then again, ultimatums like that usually did. It's why they'd opted to use the pregnant girl as leverage in the first place; experience spoke for itself, and it was loud and clear. Men, but Mandalorians especially, were possessed of a protective streak nine times out of ten. That streak became painfully obvious when the life on the line was that of a female — double points if it was the same species — and if said female was with child… suffice to say it produced results without fail, as evident in the case of their beskarsmith.

"Fun? Kark yes," she grinned at him after a healthy sip of the brandy, falling into the seat opposite. "Now let's hope it's going to be educative too. That bastard was quite a bit of work. I'd hate to see it go to waste, wouldn't you?"

"And damn, this is some good stuff. You're learning fast, metal boy."

 

[Rusty]

Brandy, according to a discreet search of the Holonet made possible by the fact that, despite appearances, Rusty was still a droid, was distilled from wine. It was similar in many respects to whiskey. Once distilled, it was aged in wooden barrels for a given period of time. The wood used in the barrels, along with the temperature, humidity, and length of time, played an important role in the final outcome. Much like whiskey, the longer the brandy aged, the better it was said to be, and thus, the more expensive.

Though the flavor profile was completely different, it was typically bottled around 40% ABV, also like whiskey, and one could use the same snifter for both. It was worth noting that connoisseurs preferred it warm, whereas most whiskey was served either chilled or at room temperature.

Of all the brandy in the galaxy, the Corellian brandies were said to be the best. Part of this, Rusty suspected, was due to the increasing rarity. Though their reputation was already well established before the destruction of the planet, the fact that there was no more true Corellian brandy production meant that authentic bottles were getting increasingly hard to come by. The vineyards that had produced the base wine were long gone, and while many companies had seed stock stored offworld, it would be many years before they would start producing again. At a rough estimate, the first barrel of Corellian brandy produced offworld since the destruction wouldn't be available for at least fifteen to twenty years. And even if they did manage to carve a niche for themselves in the market, it would be another ten or fifteen years after that before existing stocks dwindled to the point that the offworld produced stuff truly eclipsed its predecessor on the market.

In the mean time, prices on authentic Corellian brandy were beginning to creep upwards. A bottle of modest quality might cost well over 100 credits, and the really good stuff, such as what they were drinking now, was worth more than its weight in gold.

In a decade, the bottle they were drinking from, if unopened, would be literally impossible; there was no upper limit on the projected price. Conservative estimates placed the ceiling somewhere around 10 million credits a bottle.

Rusty pondered all this in the time it took to swirl the stuff around in the snifter, take a whiff, and then drink.

"It's not bad," he said. "Not sure I see what all the fuss is about, but then again, I've been drinking for three days now."

The set the glass down, now empty, and stretched. His artificial muscles were sore from the day's work. Lots of it had been spent standing or squatting in awkward positions, and his arms and chest had both received a workout from the various beatings he had delivered. He noted in a distant sort of way that the skin around his knuckles was busted up pretty badly. It wasn't painful, as such. His body knew there was a problem and was working to repair it.

He rolled his neck, working the kinks out of it and his shoulders, before settling back down in the obscenely comfortable chair and propping his booted feet up on the ottoman.

"I have a feeling he's gonna be extra motivated to make sure we get it right. Craftsmen are funny like that. He might not like the idea of teaching us, but once his name's attached to the end result, he'll want to make sure it's done properly."

The Shard grinned ruefully.

"Force knows I would in his shoes."

He considered refilling his glass, then realized that would require sitting up, and sitting up would require effort. He was far too comfortable to worry about effort. Instead, he turned his gaze to [member="Laguz Vald], his expression equal parts intense and playful.

"I have to say, we make a pretty good team. True professionals are hard to come by these days. If you don't object, I think I'd rather enjoy working with you in the future when the occasion calls for it."

 

[Laguz Vald]

Laguz smirked over the rim of her glass, took another sip, and proceeded to play with the amber liquid, sloshing it around to see how her reflection rippled and distorted in the shallow waves across its surface. Of course, she could very well do that with her actual face, but where was the fun in that?

"Acquired taste, I guess," she shrugged, one shoulder, and smacked her lips in an imitation of a conoisseur. "A few decades rolling around in luxury, and you wont' be able to tell it from the next abandoned bottle you find in the trashcan."

Or at least that's how it had gone for Laguz. She presumed there were people — rich, important people — out there who continued to enjoy the taste even after it had become a quotidian pleasure. Some of them were regular customers of this particular detention facility. The merc would never name names, of course. Unless there was a sizeable enough sum of credits involved, but that was truly the only exception. Wasn't it always?

"If you say so, metal-boy. Have to say, I've never tortured someone for smithing secrets before. There's a first time for everything, right?" She tipped her glass in his direction, too lazy to reach forward for a proper toast, and by the looks of it, [member="Rusty"] wasn't feeling very athletic at the moment either. What most folks don't realize until they try it out is that 'enhanced interrogation' is just as likely to tire out the perpetrator as it is the victim.

The shifter tilted her head slightly at the proposition, settling back into the seat as she mulled it over. A few thoughtful swishes of the tumbler in her hand later, the redhead finally replied, not bothering to suppress the coy grin pulling at the corners of her lips.

"We do, don't we? I think the occasional… joint operation could be fun, yeah. I work with others here and there. All of them professionals, naturally." [member="Kiran Vess"]. [member="Kala Maedrin"]. [member="Arian Lenar"].

"Figure we can go grab the smithing supplies, then go check up on our boy?"

 

[Rusty]

"Probably a good idea," Rusty said thoughtfully.

It had occured to him that they would need to set up a smithy at some point. He had his own back on Dressel, though admittedly it was more of an all purpose workshop than a true smithy, but that didn't help him here. He was pretty sure this facility wasn't going to have what he needed. Once upon a time, a place like this might have included a workshop so wardens and prisoners alike could maintain the facilities and fabricate stuff as needed.

That time, however, was eons ago. Modern prisons rarely relied on onsite workshops, and a place like this, although probably equipped for whatever sick and twisted desires the patrons might have, was probably not equipped to handle one. Nevermind supplying power to the various bits of heavy machinery, just providing sufficient ventilation this far underground would be a chore.

"I'm pretty sure I can track down all the requisite tools and machines. I know a guy who knows a guy who works in this corner of the galaxy. Has a reputation for being able to track down just about anything for a reasonable price, for a given value of reasonable. I can probably get a full smithy set up by morning," he said. "What I don't have is a place to set it up, or the beskar."

The Shard pulled out a datapad and ran some numbers.

"I figure we'll need at least a hundred square meters of room, preferably aboveground, though underground will do so long as we can pump out the smoke from the furnaces. High voltage power would be nice, but I can make do with generators if necessary."

On a planet like this, floorspace might be at a premium, but he was counting on [member="Laguz Vald"] to be able to pull some strings.

"If you can set us up with a short term lease or something, I'll start putting all that together. All that'll be left after that is to get the prisoner and the beskar ore to the same place."

 

[Laguz Vald]

The mercenary nodded her head slowly in agreement, sipping at the remnants of her brandy as she peered at [member="Rusty"] over the rim of the glass. Delegation by connections, and knowledge, and skill. Oh, she liked this man. He knew how to get a job done, quickly and efficiently, and didn't het his metal knickers in a twist when dirty work had to be done to keep the business clean and running.

People with such competences were rare in their trade, and all the more treasured for it. Most of them she knew already, and Laguz was more than happy to add another quality acquantaince to her list. If nothing else, it helped recognize their methods when – not 'if', you will note – the time came when they were hired by opposing parties. Professional hazards, and all that. Still, it was better to have a friend put a bullet between your eyes, rather than an enemy, was it not?

"I have the beskar covered, don't worry," she said as she stood up from the obscenely comfortable seat, stretching like a lazy cat before she swiped her blaster off the table and holstered it once more. "And I don't figure the room should be a problem either."

A quick glance at her wrist-mounted datapad, and then Laguz shrugged on her coat as well, flashing a grin at the HRD. "Should have both on hand by the end of the day. I'll call you with our new location."

And then she was gone.