Sometimes It's Best Not to Ask (Ask)

[Mirae Rystar]

"C'mon you freebirth scum! Load! Load the stravag batteries! Load! Load!"

Hands reached towards the forward magazines, the trembling fingers wrapping around the energy shells. The shells were heavy. Probably too heavy for the hands. But the hands had forgotten what heavy meant, had forgotten ages ago. Maybe not ages, but it seemed like ages. The hands couldn't remember when they had forgotten. Perhaps they had never known what heavy was, and the weight of the shells was normal. The rounds were not heavy.

The hands dragged those energy rounds, capsules of deadly cargo, dragged them to the hulking breech as instructed. The voices screamed around the hands, calling out orders, roaring through the sweltering space. They cursed the hands, they praised the hands, they droned on and on until they bled into the cacophony of noises that made up Weapon Bay Alpha Three of the cruiser Intrepid Bounty.

The hands ignored all of it, and lifted the shell into the breech.

And then the job was done. The shell was gone, loaded and nested safely within Cannon Four. The hands moved away, back to the magazine, just barely aware of the commotion around her as Cannon Four discharged its horrendous cargo.

Back to the magazine. Back to the waiting shells and rounds and ammunition. Back and repeat.

This was the life of the hands. The being to which the hands belonged, the being no longer existed. She had sought to not exist. Why did she exist? Her existence was to support the hands.

And thus she ceased to exist.

The hands. Shells. Cannon fire.

Wait, did she exist? Of course she existed. Otherwise the hands.

The hands. She looked down. At her hands. They were not covered in grime and soot and dirt. They were clean. Calloused but clean.

Her vision wavered. It shimmered, as if she were gazing through a haze of super-heated air. She felt vertigo and nausea, and then it was gone. The world stabilized.

What?

The hands clinched into fists. The hands were connected to scarred wrists. Scars that were fresh and old. She turned her fists over, and the backs were crisscrossed with pale gashes. Some were healed over. Others not.

She looked up. Others. There were others. No weapon master shouting. No Cannon Four belching steam and death and thunder fury.

Someone looked at her and smiled.

She looked down again.

What?

Vertigo. Her vision swam again. And then her hands caught the seat. Stabilizing her.

She blinked. Sighed. And remembered. Fire. Smoke. Flash. Silence.

Nar Shadda. Mission.

Her violet face, remarkably soft and unmarred, smiled. Sharp teeth were bared.

The transport would be touching down soon. And then he would die. Yes. The Hutt would die.

 

[Ignatius]

Nar Shaadaa. A planet of scum, creeps, and the like. A place that was here for a reason. To resist the law. Most of the police here were to scared to capture the Hutts in their dirty deals. Talk about the CIS and their job of keeping people free form the Rule of tyrants. Gearing up, I was on the verge of breaking.

I settled my ship down in the city. Placing the mask over my face. I smiled as I walked off the ramp of the Telgorn Class dropship. Up on a landing pad that I had paid for, I smiled as a shopkeeper came up to me. Dasher. An Arkanian Offshoot. Pointy ears and four fingers and all. I smiled as he hugged me. A while back I had helped the man in getting rid of a few unsavory customers. He Patted my back and walked me off the ramp that he owned and loaned to me. "Hey Erin, or should I call you Black Swordsman now?" Laughing at how I had my mask on. I placed an index finger to the red painted smile on the mask. "Sadly I am not here for fun." The Pale man nodded his head with a sad smile. Know already why I was here. I raised his finger and led me to his shop.

A little place that sells trinkets and the like. I saw a few blaster on the counter, but nothing I wanted. He walked over to the others in the shop and showed them out the door and flipped the sign around to be closed. I huffed as he would be telling me something. Walking over to me, he smiled. "I think you need to have this, it may help you." Pulling out a long box, he opened it to reveal a shotgun. I started to shake my head and walk when he grabbed my arm. Smiling brightly. I stayed still and he moved the shotgun out, and lifted the board underneath to reveal a Black Sword. It was beautiful in my eyes. he smiled as I raised my head to him.

Nodding his head he motioned to it for me to take it. Picking it up, I smiled as it was hefty, but not to heavy to swing for me. Almost perfect. He started to talk to me about it. "They calls them Obsidian swords. Sharpest parts of Obsidian are used and made into dem blades on Mustafar. Now, I bet you n'ver been there!" He started cackling at me as I hefted it around. I shrugged my shoulders and tried to put it back, "NO! You need it more than I do, if I lose my shop, I can move somewhere else. The man who sold dis hur to me said that he felt as though he should, that maybe it could help someone. I knew exactly then and there to give it to ya! I bought it off of him and he promised to bring me more if I gave it to you. I told him I had a friend that was looking for swords and the like. He was a very generous man!' I nodded my head.

Smiling I set the sword down on the scabbard and hugged the man. I mean a full bro hug. "Thank you so much, You... You..." He pushed me away slightly and looked at me in the eyes through the mask, "You owe me nothing boy! As long as you come here, you are my best costumer. Now take it, and get out of here!" Cackling he handed me both of them. I grabbed the scabbard and geared up. Moving it to be on my back in place of the twin vibroblades. Putting the twin blades on the inside of the coat I wore, along my sides. He nodded and pushed me out of his store. "Oh, and I hear there is a new Crimelord in town. Lives out on the southside of here. Go and test out that sword buck-a-roo!" Nodding to him, I thanked him and walked to the Speeder Shope.

Less than 15 minutes later I was loaning a Speeder bike and headed south. Here is where I would start a new life. Maybe Dasher could help me later on, if he wanted, I could probably move his shop to my ship. Get a personal ship for me that could grab attention. but first, I had to speak to a hutt about my sister.

[member="Mirae Rystar"]

 

[Basara]

The Wookie Cyborg was running business like usual, selling his blasters to the highest bidder, mostly other smaller gangs, or mercenaries. Corruption had grown, this corruption was owned by Basara, many had heard his name now, he was fearless, and ruthless. The crime lord had recently supplied weapons to a recent Hutt in the area, for a large amount of credits of course. Five million to be exact, this was the most money he had ever gotten, and this was done illegally. The Robber Baron, decided to walk about in his territory, officially he owned a lot of this sector in the district, unofficially he owned the entire sector whether they liked it or not, he had been getting his credits from the tax payers. His security regiment was not just there for show, they were just a higher trained brand of thugs, they guarded the governmental banks in the area, allowing them to falsely cause people to have bad credit scores, for apparently not paying there debts. Very few were untouched from this, accept the other powerful counterparts like himself, this allowed him to have a decent amount of new dead beats to replace those he thought were becoming too ambitious. Five bodyguards escorted him, all behind him in a long column, three where armed with the average blaster pistol, while the other two had average blaster rifles. The bodyguard's that where protecting him where not apart of his "security company", these where the traditional thugs protecting him. The swine's would be easy to kill, but they at least they would provide a decent decoy for Basara's escape, if someone was ever stupid enough to attack him.

 

[Mirae Rystar]

[member="Asemir Lor'kora"]
[member="Erin Darkstar"]
[member="Basara"]

"Thank you, ma'am," the vendor says with a smile.

The Togruta returns his smile with a weak one of her own, takes the offered deep-fried naiji and walks away. It isn't much, just something to give her energy and sustenance. It will have to be enough. Right?

She's not sure. She's never sure. There's no way of telling how long she'll be on this accursed planet, or any planet. Sometimes, it's only for a few days. Other times, it's been as long as a few months. But she'll stay here until she can accomplish her mission.

It's always the mission.

The flash, the smoke, the flames. They are always there, in her mind. Clouding her mind. The screams. It's never happened before. But it has, this time. It actually isn't a big surprise, given that the Intrepid Bounty has always been involved in the thickest of the fighting, and weapon bays were always some of the most vulnerable areas of any ship.

Weapon Bay Alpha Three was no different, so when that final broadside had eviscerated her work crew...

She glances at her hands, as they clutch the wax paper wrapping. The grease of the naiji is bundled safely within. The flaky crust is salty to her lips. Not unlike tears, she realizes. How cliche, she thinks a moment later.

Chewing, she follows the crowd as the throngs of beings navigate Nar Shadda's upper levels. Here, it is relatively safe, only relatively. Certainly safer than the under levels. But not much more.

It isn't until after she's finished her snack that she realizes something is wrong. The flow of the crowds has brought her near an alley, like the currents of a stream bringing driftwood to the beach. Except in her case, the currents do not take her to respite from the tides.

The man, his acne-pocked face, leers at her. "Why hello there," he drawls, his bushy eyebrows bunching as his gaze travels up her body.

"Go away," she mutters. She tries to turn away, but another man, bigger than the first, grabs her shoulder.

"Why so tough?" the first asks. There is an unnatural gleam in his eyes, and she recognizes it for what it is. It's not like she's dressed immodestly. Her jumpsuit is tight, showing the curves of her body, but it is far from revealing. But men will be men. She sighs, resigned to her fate.

Acne-Face steps forward, his smile revealing broken teeth. "No need to run, honey." He reaches for her.

It's then that she sees the tattoo on his wrist.

That tattoo. That image.

The Intrepid Bounty.

The mission!

No, not resigned to her fate. To their fate!

The big man's wrist, the one connecting his arm to the offending hand that has secured her shoulder, shatters with a stomach-lurching crack as she yanks it down. He screams, a cry of agony born of pain but mostly shock, shock that this small creature, this small, feminine creature that should have been prey, has hurt him so badly. The shock is replaced rapidly with true pain and terror as she twists his arm, locks his elbow, and then...

Big Man is writhing on the ferrocrete floor, clutching his destroyed arm, the limb bent at the elbow at an absolutely unnatural angle. The jagged end of pale bone peeks from beneath the flesh, where it juts out like a crooked grave stone.

Acne Face has but a moment to utter a startled meep before he is on the ground, pinned beneath a smoldering mountain of fury. He winces as she takes his arm and shoves it in his face. She points at the tattoo.

"Where did you get this?" she growls. He responds with spit to her face.

She replies with a cruel grin and takes hold of a certain part of the male anatomy that is especially treasured. She asks again.

Acne face swallows hard. "Club. A few blocks to the north. Neon lights. It's called Sirens."

"Thank you," she says nicely. Her cruel grin turns into a genuine smile of thanks. Acne Face relaxes. And then she clinches her fist and yanks. Hard. With the Force.

There is blood. Lots of it. But Acne Face's agonies are ended mercifully a moment later as he suffocates from a crushed windpipe. Big Man's life is likewise gone to the void. He is left lying with his head at a painful angle.

She rejoins the crowds, who have wisely ignored the altercation in the alley. Her aimless wanderings now have a goal, and she makes haste.

 

[Asemir]

He remembered Nar Shadda. How could he forget it? It stank like over-refined food stuffs and over ripe fruit. The odor of the unwashed masses and raw sewage permeated the air. The stench of corruption and human despair hung like a literal fog, smothering all that resided on the miserable rock billions called home. Included in those billions (or trillions?) were pirates, thugs, gangsters, slavers, slaves, cartels, gun-runners, Hutts, gamblers, scammers, predators, murderers, thieves, and so forth. And, there were unfortunate beings who were trying to etch a living in the unforgiving universe, innocent in all ways except for being born to such a miserable existence.

But it wasn’t these foul physical characteristics that made the planet unforgettable in his mind. Nar Shadda was where he had met her, that insane abomination of Sylarian and mental instability known as Fiona. It was on this planet that he had really fallen into the traps of the Dark Side, surrendering his morality and soul to the thrall of the one (formerly) known as Sivter.

And so, Nar Shadda wasn’t really a place that he remembered fondly, and he didn’t really have a desire to travel back to the accursed place. And yet, here he was, stepping off the shuttle and into the muggy Nar Shadda atmosphere.

Asemir Lor’kora handed his papers to the customs official, who was a customs official in name only. In reality, the portly man served one of the Hutt cartels and collected the “optional” fees and taxes (read bribes) that were little more than protection money, necessary to keep thugs from trailing visitors and roughing them up. The “immigration papers” (credits packed securely in an envelope) disappeared seamlessly into the custom official’s pocket as soon as it left Asemir’s hand. The Forgotten returned the man’s nod, shouldered his bag, and headed deeper into the spaceport.

It didn’t take long for Asemir to hail a cab and arrive at his booked hotel, called the Galaxy’s Star. It was some upscale gambling establishment located in the heart of the city. Gaudy fluorescent light panels greeted him as he paid his fare, and he was glad of his choice. The classiness of the hotel meant that the usual flock of vendors and beggars were kept far away by the bruisers. The ladies of the night, however, gathered around him, hoping to earn his business and no doubt steal his belongings after he had been knocked out for the night. He shoved them away, both physically and with gentle nudges of the Force, and worked his way into the hotel lobby.

“Good evening sir,” the Twi’lek receptionist greeted as Asemir stepped up to the front desk. “Are you checking in?”

“I am,” the Ingr’Nysk said politely. “’Orzos Isthill’ is the name.”

“One moment.” It took the receptionist no more than a heartbeat to find Asemir’s reservation. “There you are, Mr. Isthill. And how will you be paying for your stay with us?”

Asemir flashed an easy smile and placed two credit chits on the table. “The first will take care of the room reservation. There is more than enough to cover whatever expenses I might incur as well.” That was code for “Here’s a bribe so don’t disturb me.” “The second is a little extra for you,” he added with a glance at her name tag, “Mari.” That was another code for “Really, you don’t want to bother me.”

“Why thank you sir. You are too kind!” The second credit chit disappeared with practiced ease as Mari finished checking Asemir in. “And here are your room keys and a thousand credits on the house to be used in our casinos. Please enjoy your stay with us, Mr. Isthill.”

Asemir nodded his thanks, accepted the card keys and casino chips, and headed to his room located on the thirty-third floor. The elevator was fast, and he unlocked the door without mishap. Locking the door behind him, he paced the fairly large room slowly and carefully, searching for hidden cameras, holorecorders, and other eavesdropping devices. After a thorough search, he placed in the mini-fridge the few he had found. He wasn’t offended; it really was to be expected from a Hutt-run establishment. Satisfied that he wasn’t being spied upon, he took a chair and wedged it against the door. It wouldn’t keep a determined intruder from barging in, but it would warn him if someone were trying to discretely enter his room.

The Ingr’Nysk stepped to the window and glanced out, actually impressed with the view. Streams of white and red lights marked the speeder and hovercar lanes, as the traffic threaded its way through the cityscape. From here, Nar Shadda didn’t look too horrible. It was a nice illusion to the dismal reality of the planet.

He turned from the window and booted up the computer built into his room’s desk. A quick jaunt through the planet HoloNet brought him to the civil authority's computer core. He pressed a gloved hand against the computer’s memory slot, and his nano-armor created an interface jack. A moment later, his armor’s AI uploaded a virus to the ‘Net, and after a few minutes of waiting, he had access to the immigration database and archives.

Asemir let the virus do its work, as it sped through the various files and reports, pulling out the ones that were relevant to his mission. There was a call out to locate some treasured person that had gone missing when a "luxury yacht" had been attacked by pirates. It hadn't taken the Forgotten long to determine that "luxury yacht" was code for pirate vessel and "attacked by pirates" had meant either an encounter with authorities or another unsavory band of wanted men.

And what of this treasured person? He wasn't quite sure. His contract merely stated that the person was of particular interest to the pirate group, and they wanted her located immediately.

The Forgotten sighed. It wasn't his habit to take bounties or work from illicit patrons, but this particular mission intrigued him. It was not often that a pirate group would post a bounty, especially one of such magnitude. The payout was significant. And, he decided, it would give him the chance to maybe rescue the objective from his employers. To set her free. Or something.

And thus, Asemir sat at his desk, in a relatively luxurious room of a relatively luxurious hotel, and scanned the data files his little hacking program had pulled from the police database.

…And after an hour of this, he decided to order room service. Why not? He had absconded with millions in credits, accumulated during his tenure as a Sector Lord of the Sith Empire. Those credits were now deposited safely in a thousand different blind accounts, courtesy of some judicious hacking and techno-magic. Not that the Empire would even notice missing such a trivial amount of cash, given its multi-multi-trillion GDP.

Asemir leaned back in his chair and smiled a grim smile, and enjoyed the luxuries paid for, in effect, by the Sith Empire.