The Blockade Runner--Personal Development/Development

[Brent Smith]

Legacy. That sort of thing was important. It mattered what kind of legacy you left. What legacy you followed in the footsteps of. Legacy was something that Brent had found himself drawn to. It made you feel bigger than yourself. It was about more than rules and stuffy ideals or things you didn't really care about. No, quite the opposite. Legacy was about leaving the galaxy better than it was before you showed up.

As his speeder crossed its way to the countryside, Brent couldn't help but wonder what kind of legacy he was building. The Smith legacy was about hard work, standing up or others and loving your family. It was about selflessness. And Brent's dad had shown him that so much. As the agent pulled up to the small suburban home his mom, dad, two younger brothers and teen sister lived in he tried to brush those thoughts from his mind.

The moment his feet touched the permacrete driveway his family flooded out.

"Brent! Brent! Brent!" little Fenn shouted as he collided with his older brother, "Your home!"

"I missed you too little brother," Brent said tussling the kid's dark hair. "Now quit feeling my pockets for your gift."

"Aaaaawwww," Fenn said with a half pout.

"Probably because it's in the suitcase, " Yarr, the 16 year old brother said offering his hand, "glad you home safe."

"Come on, you may be growing up but we are still brothers," Brent teased pulling the teen in for a hug.

"Don't forget to save room for your aging mother," chided Lesley extending her arms as she approached with hurried steps.

"Oh never," Brent said hugging her. He whispered in her ear, "How is dad doing?"

"Why don't you ask him yourself?" Lesley said turning her oldest child towards the door.

Brent's father, John, came wheeling through the door, Mara behind pushing him, "Hey, sport! Back from putting down the rebels and marching in line, huh?"

Painful memories of Dredd and fighting the GA threatened to rise the surface of his mind. The agent suppressed them with a tight smile, "Just trying to make my old man proud."

"Oh you do that plenty. All he talks about is you all the time with his buddies," Mara chuckled.

"Hey those are private conversations!" the dad objected.

"Not the way you hold them," Mara teased.

"Alright, alright, let's get in before dinner gets cold," Lesley interjected.

((Pics of family found in bio. I tried linking them, something broke in the code. I will add them later, probably.))

 

[Brent Smith]

Family dinners were the main thing he had missed. Around the table it didn't matter too much what had happened the day before, they were all family and there were laughs to be had and life to be shared. Before he had enlisted, before his dad's injury they had been every night. Brent supposed he had begun to take them for granted but now they were his most cherished memories.

"You seemed quiet tonight, sweetheart, " Mara observed as they cleaned the dishes together.

"I suppose it's just been too long since I've had good food," Brent said with a forced smile.

She grabbed his soapsud covered hand without warning. Brent flinched, dropping a plate back into the soapy water as he struggled to not revert to his combat training. Her other hand guided his face to hers as she looked deep in his eyes. "You know you don't need to lie to me. We can be honest with each other."

His eyes grew tired and heavy, like the months since his last leave had aged him.

"Just something dad said made me think," he whispered.

Mara's hand tightened on his slightly as she gave an encouraging nod.

"Who am I fighting for? What am I really fighting for?" he asked, his voice still low. "There are some horrible things out there. Some I've been face to face with are enough to make you question you humanity. The things I've--" he stopped short, drawing a sharp breath. Visions of blood sprays and dead bodies he had made played before his eyes, fresh as if they had happened moments ago.

"I love you," she whispered, wrapping an arm around him. "You fight to protect people. To keep those bad things from happening here, to your brothers and sister and mom and dad. Your not a bad man. Your all that stand between us and chaos. I think that's worth a lot of somethings, Brent. A lot more than you allow yourself. I know I'm not allowed to know some of the things you have to do but I know why and you are a good man because of that."

"Thank you," he managed. The agent swallowed, struggling to not be overcome with emotions. "And I--I love you too."

Mara planted a gentle kiss on the side of his neck, it was as high as she could reach. "Come along now. Let's finish our work."

 

[Brent Smith]

Two weeks of leave gave Brent enough time to make precious memories with his family. Every free moment was like a golden ring that was cherished forever. Unlike gold rings, these memories would never rust away or risk being stolen by theives. It was almost easy for him to forget he was a trained killer with few equals.

Almost.

But reality has a way of reminding you who you are in the cruelest manner. He hadn't seen much of his sister Ann since he had gotten home. She was distant, more than she had ever been, every day she seemed to have an excuse. He was too smart to believe her in his line of work. He could see strait through her half-hearted, mumbled lies.

And as he pulled up to the local high school he felt a pang of protective nature rise in him. She was sitting on the lap of a local boy, wearing what he deemed to be something incredibly cool, rebellious, and gangster. And under his bantha leather jacket, he could see the symbol of anarchy and death. He cut the speeder engine off and watched for a moment, his knuckles gripping the steering wheel with anger. His lips formed a terse line as they flirted, touched, and kissed too fondly--over spice. After several minutes, he rose and strode towards them. He could hear his heart beating in his ears, his rage was so severe. But the agent had learned early on to control himself, to hold his rage in, and let it keep him sharp.

"What you want, emo-boy?" asked the teen, shifting his head to the side.

"I want you to let go of my sister," Brent said tersely. "Now."

"Oh my God, Brent what the hell are you doing here?" Ann shouted, under her show of anger, he could see fear in her wide eyes.

His sunglasses-covered eyes turned to her with a steely gaze, "Is this where you spend all your time?"

"Yea--well no--what the hell do you care? Your not my dad!" She rose, slapping his chest with every word, "Oh my god your such a pain in my ass! Why do you have to ruin everything! You are such a--"

He caught her hand in mid swing, stopping her words without a second sound, "What would mom say?"

 

[Brent Smith]

Ann swallowed, her face registering the severity of it. It was only made more evident by her silence.

"I'm sorry," she said softly, lowering her eyes.

"Hey emo-boy," the teen sitting on the steps said, "let go of my girl."

Brent looked passed his sister, staring down at him for a moment, "You will leave her alone if you know what is good for you. You do not want to mess with me, trust me."

"Oh really?" the boy said in a haughty tone. He waved his hand, and out of his peripheral he saw four others dressed like his underlings move into positions around him, "I ain't gonna say it again, damn it, let go of my girl."

"Jax, please--" Ann began.

"Stay close to me," Brent whispered in her ear. He looked back at the ring leader, "Tell your men to stand down before this ends badly for all of them. You don't know what your asking for."

Jax gave an arrogant laugh, "Try not to get his blood on her, boys."

All four of the underlings charged, attacking Brent like a pack of uncoordinated, wild dogs. The agent easily dodged the first wild punch by jerking his head back. His fist darted out, countering with a hard jab to the jaw. A second punch a fraction of a second later came aimed at his ribs. Brent easily blocked it on the back of his forearm, his left foot hooking behind the boy's leg and dropping him onto the permacrete. He caught a kick on the flat of his shoulder, his right fist coming down on the boy's head in a hammer fist that leveled him. He around Ann, his right leg coming up in a high round house. His foot made solid contact with the boy's face, spit sprayed through the air as he fell down with a thud.

Brent adjusted his sunglasses, eyeing the irate Jax coldly, "You may want to call an ambulance," he gripped his sister's hand to take her back to safety before adding to the defeated cronies, "And you may want to reconsider your career choices."

 

[Brent Smith]

It was several minutes in the ride back home before Ann spoke up, "You just beat the four biggest and toughest guys in the school without even breaking a sweat. How did you do that?"

"You should really get better tastes in men," Brent said, his eyes glued to the road as he side stepped the question, "and quit doing glitterstim. Its going to kill you."

"You don't understand, he said he loves me," Ann said crossing her arms, "Is that too much to ask for."

"It wouldn't be," Brent allowed, his head inclining a fraction of an inch, "If he really loved you. Jax is just a lost boy going nowhere, he is never going to love anyone but himself. He has no problem making you and anyone else burn to light his path of self-destruction."

"Oh God, you were always such a drama queen," Ann groaned rolling her eyes.

Brent didn't say anything.

"They are going to kill us you know," Ann said in a softer tone.

"I'd like to see them try," Brent said with genuine amusement.

"You don't understand what they are like, these men mean business," she said gravely. "They will find kill us."

"Those boys will learn their lesson," Brent corrected her, "And I doubt after that they will ever touch me or come near you again."

"I wasn't talking about them," she said quietly, she glanced at Brent who gave her the nod to go ahead. "You promise not to tell mom?"

"If you promise to learn your lesson."

Ann bit her lip, "You see, we didn't just do glitterstim. We--we had handlers."

"We?"

"Well, Jax."

"What did you deal?" Brent asked a moment later.

"Whatever they gave us."

"Just spice?"

"Yeah, what else would we deal?" she asked, giving him a pointed look.

"Slaves, guns, illegal literature, explosives, poisons, prostitution--"

"Ok, ok, I get it," she said with a sigh, "we just dealt drugs. None of that. They won't be happy. Jax was a big dealer. He and me."

"Do you have a name?"

"No," she confessed as they pulled up to the house, "I just hope they don't come looking for us."

"I doubt they will even know where to look," Brent said, but his gut said otherwise.

 

[Brent Smith]

The next day was without issues--until Brent came to pick Ann up again from school that day. As he pulled up he didn't see Jax or his sister. He took a deep breath and told himself to relax, that it was nothing and he needed to relax and trust himself. He wasn't back on Dredd, he told himself, he was here, home, and safe. Bad things didn't happen..... right? He checked the clock, it had been ten minutes, most of the students were gone. That was long enough for him.

The agent casually strolled into the empty school hall and looked through the locker-lined room. Even most of the staff was gone. He was used to blending in with the surroundings, so Brent began to calmly walk down the halls. He could feel a sweat begin to bead on his forehead and feel his heart race. Echoes resounded from his memories, screaming in his mind from the days that haunted him now in his worst nightmares.

He leaned against one of the walls, feeling the world spin around him. Faces of the dead and dying flashed before his eyes as his knees grew weak. Roars of pain, the explosions of bombshells took over.

Then he snapped and was back in the school hall. Huddled. Sweating. Panting. Covering his face. He stood on shaky feet. Ann. She was missing, still. How long had it been? Seconds? Hours? He didn't know. He began checking the doors. The first unlocked one he found lead downward into the basement. He came into the great, cavernous room that looked like it had been long abandoned. There was a pallet standing by with a container of bagged drugs. And beside it, tied to a chair was unconscious Ann.

"Ann, Ann, are you alright?" he whispered, tapping her cheeks. He couldn't see any visible wounds on her, but that could be deceiving still.

"W-wwhat-? Where am I?" she asked sleepily.

"Your in the school basement, are you alright?" he got busy cutting his sister's bonds.

"I-what am I doing here? I was just drinking a soda," she muttered. "Don-t tell mom."

"Don't worry," he said, grabbing the drugs in one hand. He helped hoist her over his shoulder, "I will take care of you. Mom doesn't need to know."

 

[Brent Smith]

"You mean he took the girl and your whole shipment?" the man in the shadows snarled, "You turned no profit on that load?"

Jax lowered his eyes to the dirty club flooring. He was terrified inside, he heard stories of what guys like this did to those who lost their shipments. He had promised it would never happen to him, that he would always be smarter, faster, stronger, and slicker than them all. But here he was, on the verge of wetting himself in fear at a fate worse than losing his life. He licked his lips managing to get his voice, "Well, we did kinda get his face on video."

"Oh, really? How lovely, maybe some director will see it and get him a career in acting," the man sneered, "At least your death and life would have been good for something."

"No, wait, wait, I will get you that," Jax said, his mind finding his last lifeline, "The school cameras, they will have him on them, since he passed through the doors. We can use it, get him and the girl back and the drugs. We can all walk away ok from this, boss, everything can be alright."

"You are so pathetic, groveling for your life like the swine you are," the man sneered.

"Please," Jax lurched forward, onto his knees, "You need me. No one else can get in that school without getting noticed."

"I will take my chances and send someone else, fool."


The single sound of a blaster shot resounded in the club, before an eerie silence covered the place.

 

[Brent Smith]

Brent helped bring his drugged sister into her room without their mom or invalidic dad seeing her. At dinner she was excused, Brent said that she was feeling sick with the Mynock flu. He hated lying to his family and his parents, which was an irony of ironies since he was a man paid to lie, but he did what he had to do to help fix things.

For two days it seemed that would be the last of things. Two sweet days of perfect bliss, peace, and happiness with his family. Ann came around, she wasn't distant and for the first time since dad's accident, Brent felt like she was the girl he has grown up with.

As he pulled up to the house with his car brimming with Astrian take out food and his heart full of hope for a night of family fun, his training kicked in. Something was off and he couldn't shake it. The agent tried to tell himself it was just the spooks, his PTSD was kicking in. But when he got closer to the door, the hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end. His free hand gripped the charric pistol concealed in his black trench coat. The door swung open and Brent's eyes scanned the area.

Signs of a struggle were clear: papers were strewn across the floor, the kitchen table and chairs were knocked over. One was broken in pieces. Several scratches were across the painted walls, but no blaster scorching or slug thrower rounds could be seen. He sniffed the air: there was no tale-tell smells of ozone or gunpowder that indicated the same.

Weapon ready, Brent snuck into the house. The bedrooms were in the same condition. Valuables were missing, but Brent was not a fool, this was no robbery.

On top of his dad's toppled wheel chair was a small recorder.

"Good afternoon Mister Smith," said a cold voice when Brent activated the tape. "I can tell that you are a man of great tallents and skills. You shut down my operation in the high school district. You took down my goons. Stole my drugs. You have taken something very valuable to me. This is something I cannot abide by. In return I have taken something valuable from you--your family. As repayment for what you owe me for stealing and breaking my things, normally I would kill you. But my research shows that you are an employee of the FOSB. You're particulars show that what you do is unclear so you are not a man I can easily kill."

Brent clenched his teeth, anger rolling off him like a storm.

"Now I know that every ounce of you says to get vengeance from me, to take me down and do your worst," the voice continued, "But know this: I have your family. It's natural for you to feel the urge to come rescue them. A biological by product. But I've got enough troops to swat you down without a second thought and put your family through worse than death. So for that I bid you goodbye forever, Mister Smith."

"We will see about that," Brent said pulling his sunglasses from his pocket. "We will see."

 

[Brent Smith]

Brent wasn't well connected with the criminal underworld of Duusun but that didn't make a difference for the man with a thousand faces and names, he would get his information and get his family back.

A little digging produced a location, a warehouse that served as a drug depot and distribution center. As Brent walked into the front calmly, he felt the eyes of several workers on him, watching in surprise. A few of the disguised guards shifted their weight, and Brent could see them settling their hands on their concealed weapons in what they considered a subtle act. But he kept walking. He didn't stop until half way in, one of the foremen stood before him, barring his way.

"Can I help you, bub?" asked the burly man crossing his arms.

Brent's cold eyes settled on him. "Perhaps."

There was a pause. "This is a place of business. I'm gonna ask you to leave. Now."

"And I'm going to ask you to get out of my way while you still can."

The foreman reached for his piece but Brent was faster. The agent's hands and trench coat moved, producing a pair of sub machine guns. Brent squeezed both triggers, letting a spray of lead fill the foreman's body. Out of his peripheral, all around him Brent could see others grabbing weapons. Some fled and those would get to live. The rest were dead men.

He twisted on his heel, bringing both weapons to bear. Brass cassings clattered to the ground in a metal waterfall as he carved bodies in a blood bath. When they were empty he tossed both weapons aside, sprinting along a row of pallets. Blaster shots hailed around him as Brent retrieved two grenades from his coat. One of the crewmen swung a crowbar at Brent, leaping from his hiding place. The agent easily dodged, bringing his back leg around in a deadly round-house kick. When his foot landed he depressed both, tossing them over the rows of pallets. The explosion sent a spray of debris into the air. The room went silent.

 

[Brent Smith]

Two blaster pistols out, Brent stepped into the center of the room and surveyed the damage. Twenty were dead, some blown in half. The shipments were battered, mostly destroyed. A cough behind him made Brent turn on his heel. The foreman, the first man Brent had shot was still alive. He was fading fast, the agent could see by the wounds his lungs, kidneys, liver, and intestines had all been punctured. Only the Gods knew what was happening to his spine. The man rolled over with great difficulty and began to try and pull himself hand over hand to somewhere safe.

The agent coldly walked up to the man, pressing the barrel of his pistol to the man's head. It was a mercy killing at this point, "Any last words?"

"W-w-why? Why are you doing this?" the man coughed, blood dribbling onto the floor.

"Your employer took something important to me," Brent adjusted his glasses, "Something that no one should ever touch. And there will be many many to pay until I get it back." he thumbed the primer, "I'm not a bad man. Its nothing personal."

"You--have--no idea--what your starting," the man wheezed, "Yo--you can't--finish this."

Brent could hear his breath getting more shallow. It was growing closer, his lungs would be mostly filled by now. "Maybe I can't. But I sure as hell am not going to stand by and let this happen without doing something."

He pulled the trigger and the man's breathing stopped. Brent rose and made his way to his real target--the records office.

 

[Brent Smith]

It was a simple thing of bypassing the system's security protocols and gaining access to the warehouse's logs. He plugged a flashdrive into it, stripping all information off the computer. Shipments, times, dates, pilots, crews, and ship codes. All of this was worthless to a simple bystander, but to Brent, this was a gold mine. He had no doubt that the names of the pilots and the ships, maybe even their codes too were counterfeits. But there was something better than that--there were patterns. He found one main consistency. Under 28 different names, and 16 pilots, HWK-290's were coming in. That model was rare, even in the outer rim, and the timing was consistent if you knew what to look for. There were two visits a week, Brent's conclusion was simple: It was the same ship.

Now it was time for the real work to begin. From this computer he sliced the local Flight control, gaining a rapid extrapolation of all HWK-290's that had entered the system over two years under all names. The pattern was consistent, someone was ferrying drugs within the system, and using a HWK-290 under different names and pilot aliases. He looked at the pattern with a quick glance.

How wonderful, he though to himself before looking at the clock, Two hours is plenty of time.

 

[Brent Smith]

The old ship wheezed with a sneezing-like sound as it came to rest on the rough permacrete slab that served as the makeshift landing pad. And out of it, stepped the male human, who was the captain. His name, at least for now, was Rick Morganstien, along side him were the eight other crew members and that included the pathetic thugs they considered security.

"Ugh where the hell are those lazy deck hands?" Grunted his first mate, a Rodien named Fitz.

The wookiee behind him gave a howl of paranioa.

"You always think that," Rick sighed, "Come on, let's get in there and get this over with, we got a schedule to keep."

The eight of them swaggered into the warehouse, only to feel the anger rise as they saw how empty it was.

'Lazy creeps probably took the day off," grunted an Irridonian among them.

"I bet--"

"Quiet," Rick held his hand up, "I hear something."

After a moment the small sound of static could be heard. Rick could feel his skin crawl as he slowly made his way towards it among the empty pallets. Laying on top of one of them was an old fashioned two-way radio.

"What you got there boss?" asked Fitz. "Toy of the foreman, that fat arse?"

"I dunno, this doesn--"

"Rick, this is Bishop one, do you read me?"

Rick blinked for a moment before depressing the button, "Uh, yeah, I read you Bishop, what is happening here? Is this some kind of trick?"

"Negative, Rick, this is a business offer. Are you interested?"

Rick looked at Fitz, then back at the radio. "Yea, what does it pay?"

"Your lives." Pause, "If you co-operate you will get to live. Do you read me?"

Rick rolled his eyes, "Look this isn't funny, ok? You all come out and we will get to work and forget this happened."

"This isn't a game, Rick, I am being very serious. Look behind you." After a reluctant moment, the captain turned around, looking at his crew with a non-plused exression, "Take a good long look at them, Rick. A good, long look at them."

"Yea but wha--" A spray of crimson emitted from the wookiee's head, before it fell to the ground limp. Before Rick had a fraction of a second to register what had happened a second spray came from the Iridonia's as he fell on top of the carcass. Before either body was still a third shot cut down the Twe'lik closest to the bodies.

Rick dropped the Radio, "Move, move, get to cover!"

 

[Brent Smith]

As they jolted a fourth shot dropped his lover, their mechanic Lizz right on the permacrete. Rick ducked, taking cover behind the closest pallet. His eyes locked on the dead crew mates, he couldn't believe what his eyes were seeing. He could feel his world crashing around him as their crimson streams pooled on the concrete.

"Is this your fist time seeing death first hand, Rick?" the radio asked, a few feet away on the hard permacrete, "I deal with it every day. All the time. I never know where, who, or when it will be next."

Rick snatched it up, "What do you want? What is this all about?"

Pause. "I want information. Everything you can tell me about your businesses. Where you go, when, how, what you deliver, what you pick up. All of it. Tell me who you work for, where they are. Leave nothing out. In return, you and your surviving crew get to live."

"What? Are you crazy? I can't do that, he would slaughter us all," Rick exclaimed.

"I would start dealing with me, Rick. I will kill all of you without a second thought."

"He wouldn't just kill us, he would take our families, our friends, everything dear to us."

There was a lengthy pause, "Look at the Givin behind you, Rick."

Rick's eyes squeezed in together tightly, 'Oh God. Please, please don--"

"Look. At. Him."

Rick watched as his next crew member's body slumped to the ground lifeless. "You can kill us all, I won't, I can't give this up."

"I will find it one way or the other, Rick. When you are all dead, I will be able to strip the info from your ship."

The ship, Rick thought, he looked at Fritz and gave a nod, they both began creeping towards the back door. "I will take my chances then."

There was another long pause as Rick at last made it to the back door. "I suppose we all have our right to decide how and when we die."

The moment his hand touched the access pannel, Rick triggered the bomb hotwired into the warehouse, sending up in a massive ball of flames.

 

[Brent Smith]

As the warehouse exploded, Brent rose to his feet from the nearby bank, shouldering his rifle and marching towards the ship. Secondary explosions from fuel cells and gas canisters ripped through the building, sending debris high in the air. The explosion would be heard and seen for miles around, the agent doubted there would be any evidence left over, or anything worth salvaging after the shockwaves ended. He reached the duracrete platform and boarded the ship as the debris began to rain down around him. When he reached the cockpit, the viewport had been smashed in from the shockwave, splintered support frames had penetrated what was left of the spiderglassed trasparasteel.

The agent didn't have time to wait for the local law enforcement to show up, he pried the control panel open with his vibroknife and pulled the mother board clear, along with the navicomputer. Frayed wires splayed out, sending small sparks into the air as he removed them, giving him small burns along the backs of his hands. But Brent didn't care, he came here for something, and he was going to leave with it, one way or the other.

Satisfied, he tapped on what was left of the control panel, reeving the engines to life with one set of presses, and with the flick of the switch over rode the safety procedures, dumping all the coolant onto the duracrete slab under the ship in a nasty green gooey rain.

 

[Brent Smith]

"What is so hard about stopping one man?" asked the cold voice over the encrypted comm.

"We just need more time, sir," the voice on the other line replied in a controlled but angered tone.

"In a matter of weeks we've lost six warehouses and three casinos," the first voice said in barbed sarcasm, "Millions in losses just in profit alone. Nothing is moving, nothing is happening. I am losing men left and right and its just one man. How much more damage and time do you need before you can catch him?"

"He is no ordinary man, boss," the second voice said, their irritation rising, "He's an agent, you know that. First Order. He's probably working with his contacts to deal as much damage as he possibly can."

"We need to send him a message to stop or else," said the boss coldly.

"How would he know? How would we deliver that message?" the man asked.

"Leave that to me," said the boss sharply. "Since you are clearly too stupid to know how to deal with this."

 

[Brent Smith]

When the elevator doors opened with a soft ding, Brent was ready. He brought his two blaster pistols up, cutting down the waiting four security guards with pin-point precision. He brushed past their dead bodies into the hall. Another guard appeared before him, jumping out from the end of the hall, Brent's pistol cut him down with a simple trigger pull. His senses tingled, and the man twisted around, just in time to shoot down another guard on that side. Unslowed, Brent continued on his way to the office he had come here for, kicking the door down.

The emptiness of the hardly-lit room almost shocked him. He arched his eyebrow in mild surprise. He could feel that something was wrong, something was off. All that stood in this room were twenty cubicals, fully stocked, like they had just been abandoned moments ago. Cubical by cubical, Brent cleared the room, inspecting each one before moving on. The room was empty, like a tomb and each of the computers had been sabotaged, their data casings totally smashed in beyond repair or melted to slag.

The last he turned to was still secure, untampered with, its bright screen lit up the dim room with a soft blue glow. On its desktop was one icon. Brent carefully clicked it open, his eyes vigilantly sweeping for any traps or tricks. The screen changed and Brent felt the strength drain from his body, the color drained from his already pale face.

Across the screen he could see the battered face of his Mara, her eye swollen shut and purple, with bruises across her face and a cut across her forehead. Beside her were his brothers, sister, mom and dad. All were bruised and damaged, like they had been beaten. The look of pain and horror in their eyes was unmistakable. Brent felt his knees buckle, they hit the ground as the horror of their pain hit him like a truck. A harrowed emptiness opened up inside him, it felt like reality was crushing him. Brent was vaguely aware of the feeling of tears streaming down his face. For the first time since the start of all this Brent was deeply aware of how futile this was, and the ultimate danger behind his family and all the people he loved.

 

[Brent Smith]

Brent was vaguely aware of the sounds of footsteps coming from down the hall, the haze of depression and helplessness had overwhelmed him. Four men in body armor came in the room, wielding assault blaster rifles. They surrounded the agent, a safe distance away the barrels of their weapons aimed at Brent's skull. His eyes never left the screen, they were riveted on the pain and suffering of his loved family. His hands hung limply by his sides.

A fifth pair of footsteps followed, slower, lighter, and more calculated. Unlike the others, he wore a navy blue suit and a matching crimson tie that contrasted his dark black dress shirt. In his left hand the man carried a shining sliver, pearl-handled pistol with intricate swirls of design across the barrel and chambers. He stopped right behind the men around Brent, a safe distance, but close enough to see the suffering in his victim's pained face.

"You have no idea how hard it was to catch you," the man said at last, "Or what it has cost me. I think we finally understand each other now, don't we?" he paused, waiting for an answer, but Brent didn't. He couldn't even find anything to say to what he saw. "If you never would have done this, we never would have had to go this far. Truth be told I hate going this far. So much effort, effort we could give to more lucrative things," he shrugged, "But that's how it goes, I guess. You see what you've made me do?" he waited again for a reply that didn't come. "But now, because of what you've done, I'm gonna have to kill you. Now, you can die here, like a dog, and then we will kill them too. I don't care too much either way, but if you care about them, you can come with us. You will die; slow and painful, I can promise that but they will get to live. The choice is yours."

Brent's eyes hovered over the pleading looks of his beloved family, trying to remember them one more time as he numbly raised his hands over his head, "Just let them go."

 

[Brent Smith]

Brent was vaguely aware of the armored men pulling his hands behind his back and cuffing them. He was vaguely aware as they forced him to his feet by their rough hands and being half dragged, half led through the halls. He was carried to a landing platform on the top of the building and tossed into an airspeeder, slamming into the unforgiving durasteel flooring and the door closed behind him. He couldn't forget the looks on their faces, the pain and suffering he saw. He was frozen in that moment of seeing their pain, their hurt. And the unsettling revelation came over Brent in that moment;

He caused this.

If he had only let the boy go, if he had never meddled, if he had never joined the FOSB, if he had distanced himself from his family when he got into the spy business instead of staying close to them, none of this would have happened. If he had just let his sister date that rebel, then none of this would have happened. They would never have suffered this way. But as Brent was moved along in the airspeeder he realized how selfish he had been. How arrogant. He thought he could control it all, he thought he could keep bad things from happening. He believed he was stronger than all of that, and the path he had taken to protect his family had led to their pain. But he had a chance now to make that right, and he knew what it was going to cost him. He had made this mess, and he would have to pay for it. There was no point now in trying to deny it any longer.

He thought he had done this for them, he thought he did this with their love and best interest in mind. But now as they were captured and beaten for his sake and he was kidnapped and being moved to god knows where, he didn't know. Maybe the attacks had all been for selfish reasons, and maybe he had committed all of this just so he could feel better instead of so he could rescue them and help make the galaxy safer for them.

The air speeder ground to a halt, the door was flung open and rough hands seized Brent once more, jostling him out of the transport.


It didn't matter much now anyway. It was about to be all over.

 

[Brent Smith]

Brent was lead past a pair of guards, deep down into the bowls of what looked like a grand castle, or at least what had once been a grand castle made from rough cut blocks of Limestone that were weathering from ages of natural decay. The halls were dimly lit, and dingy but lined with gawdy art and decorum. The agent was forced through the halls into what looked like a grand throne room. His heart leapted into his chest and Brent struggled against the guards who held him. "Mara!"

A blow to his lower back stunned the man into submission.

"Brent!" Shouted his girlfriend, struggling against the chains around her wrists. She was dressed in a revealing, degrading set of purple shimmer silk garments that were virtually completely see through. The chains around her wrist kept her bound down to the massive throne in the center of the room, made from gilded marble. On top of the throne sat a well dressed, well groomed human, not a single hair was out of place on his being or on his blue pin-stripe suite. Around him were guards, the same ones who lined the entire room armed with Force pikes and rifles. The man on the throne gave a cruel smile, "A pleasure to meet you in person at last, Agent Smith."

"Who are you?" Brent snarled, struggling against the arms that held him tight.

"I am the man who took your family, I am the man who is going to make you suffer more than you have ever suffered before, I am the man who is angry with you, furious beyond all measure," he said in cool, calm tones. "You took something that was valuable to me, a lot of things. You cost me a great deal of money. I gave you chances, chance after chance after chance to let this go. I told you to not feth with me. I gave you fair warning, but did you take it?" the man paused for an answer, "Of course you did not. So now, you are gonna make it right. I am going to take what is most important to you from you."

"Fine, kill me, torture me, do whatever you want, just let them go, that was the deal," Brent said, relenting.

A door to the side opened, and the rest of Brent's family came through; his two brothers, his sister, mother, and his wheel-chair bound father, all dragged or shoved along, bound at the wrists and badly hurt. The man quirked an eyebrow, "Who said anything about killing you? I said I'd take whats most valuable to you, and that clearly isn't your life."

 

[Brent Smith]

"No," Brent jolted forward, but a blow to the back of his knees sent him falling face first.

A hand grabbed his hair, forcing him to sit up and face foward, two more rough hands pressed down on his shoulders to keep him from moving. More guards grabbed his family, shoving them to their knees as the boss plucked a force pike from his throne. He twirled it over the back of his hand, humming softly. He paced back and forth in front of the family, eyeing them like a child eyes candy in a store. Silene covered the room, save the sound of his humming and his boots across the stone floor.

"Who should I take care of first? That is the hard question I just can't decide," the man gave a sickening laugh, "It was just so fun beating you all the first time, I can't decide who to off first."

"You will never get away with this, you sick bastard!" Yarr shouted, lurching forward, but the guard behind him kept the boy on his knees.

"Oh will I? I never will huh?" the man taunted, twirling his force pike behind his hand, "So I guess I will never get away with this," the boss put all his weight behind the force pike, bringing a heavy blow down on Yarr's jaw. The blow dislocated it, sending blood through the air and knocking Yarr off balance, almost onto his side. A muffled scream of horror rose from the captives, Brent included.

"Or what about this?" the man roared, bringing the pike around for a back hand strike. It landed right on the crown of Yarr's head, sending more blood into the air and a smell of roasting flesh.

"God, stop stop, stop it!" Lesley pleaded for her son's life at the top of her lungs, "Please, god stop!"

"Shut up, hag," the man bellowed, turning on his side and bringing his pike around for strike just under her eye. A chorus of fearful whimpers and squeals rose from the Smith family. "Your all gonna die, so quit being a bunch of damn children about it and at least die with some dignity."