The Naked Empire

[The Major]

Faldos
Centaxday -near the end of 852 ABY
The City of Farport
Theme: Chinatown (X)

A police speeder dipped lower as it zoomed over the edges of the “Loop.” This was an industrial district extending outward from the spaceport, distending itself with concrete made warehouses or quick art decorative apartments with tiny, grubby windows. All manner of decrepit yards ranging in safety and visibility squeezed tightly in labyrinthian layers. An entire ward skirted the boundaries of a series of interconnected cuts: each a tiny canal which enabled the use of gondolas to transport material and contraband smuggled from the port and out into the Outer Rim. Even with the stark red banner of the First Order’s flag hanging from what passed as civic centers in this city an old time element of illegal enterprise dominated more than its fair share of the market. Here, this area was controlled by various gangs who wrestled for each and every block of influence. All the police could manage at its current budget was monitor the developments and tag all the bodies that came up floating down the rivers. Tonight, one of those particular bodies had drawn the attention of something far larger than a backwater planet’s municipal security.

As the craft dropped underneath the dark gray clouds drizzle turned the city streets a deeper shade of indigo beige. Neon lights of the district sparkled on, twinkling like stuttering stars as water short circuited some of the more gaudy and improvised signage. Everything began to leak, began to dribble —pattering on cobblestones so often slicked in bad life choices and the residual remains of life’s regret. Tonight, the drizzle mixed in morbid cocktails of crimson essence. Overhead, the wail as the officer driving the cruiser engaged the sirens pierced the monotony of the neighborhood. Each whine rebounded between the forgotten alleys, ignored by the street rats so accustomed to their eerie music, ignored by the ashen brothels fresh out of hope, ignored by the wage slaves cutting away at meat in the factories while reeking of cheap vodka.

Eventually the vehicle reached its destination: a parking lot filled with various police craft and technical service trucks already rife with activity in the ever increasing intensity of the downpour. The officers, low on morale and long abandoning an ardent zeal for justice, still managed to clamor past the barricade —chit chatting like rabid geese at the sight of something new within the crime scene. They made no effort to attend to the pair exiting the latest speeder. They weren't even rightly paying attention to the growing rabble of drifters who, like hounds, caught the whiff of blood wafting from the prospect of misfortune. This was the first impression the captain of the precinct was treated to as he slammed his door shut angrily. From the other side of the car came out a tall figure in a dark overcoat. Its face was hidden in the sharp shadows of a single feather toting Almanian tricorner hat.

It wasn’t the lack of protocol adherence that had Captain Jeose fuming —it was being forced to wake from his desk to ferry about this damned Deputy Leader of some karking place Fortan bound to the scene like some cabbie jack. Forced to have this insufferable witch gaze him in the eye as if being a Bureau dog gave her any clout over what happened in what the locals affectionately called “Freeport.” Force-be-damned this ugly broad had some nerve, because the ace captain was the kind of Mac who knew that any broad he wasn't poling was dump ugly. She was lucky: lucky that Jeose had the sense to not give her a quick lovetap across her jaw to show her what for; lucky she wasn't one of the usual dames he could slap some sense into. Scowling, the Captain purposefully avoided her bloody stare and walked over to the cheaply taped perimeter before hollering at his command.

As he approached a number of the detectives roused themselves from their work and approached. He bayed his next sporting a jaw twisted full with chewing spice. “Alright gents, pep up! Looks like the government sent us a person to finish our shift here. Please give, um, Major Director Shetard over here the… respect she deserves.” A vicious smirk crossed the captain’s face as the some of dimmer officers were already looking the Major up and down with an awestruck gape that screamed, that’s a woman?

“Sweet Bees, Cap, we gotta babysit this spook?” Jerked another cop with quick spit that punctuated his statement with an audible !SPAT! before his brain thought to restrain himself. A peel of laughter spread from some of those assembled. Not all here were scum though, and the FOSB representative betrayed no sting or emotion —nevertheless her dark eyes keyed over those within the impromptu assembly which hadn't participated in the immaturity. Though it wouldn't be something mentioned between those happy few, the lawmen who took this job seriously each were treated to a chill in their spines at the sight of this woman’s fathomless gaze.

The Captain made a note to share a cigar later on with detective who just spoke out of turn. “Now, now, Finbar, watch your mouth. This isn't just any spook. This is a Director they done sent. Top government employee.” Someone else whistled sarcastically, and already a number of hands were rummaging through their pockets, looking for something to smoke. Jeose continued, “Which means any of you flatfoots looking to huff it off this rock might do well to earn a commendation on this case. Might just be enough to earn you transfer papers to the Bureau.” This he said directed towards the officers listening who had on more than one occasion aired their grievances regarding the leadership of the 114th precinct. Those lot who he couldn't just have moved to another house, who were good cops but slag at playing the game. They were all on the fast track to palooka city in his book. Now was his chance to get those fools off his back.

Before the captain could continue his assault, the woman stepped forward while waving her left hand down in front the man’s space, making him go red like if he were about to have a conniption. She didn’t care, and she had enough of these mooks making a mockery of the night. The Major pinged a button on the side of her glasses and a holo display projected her credentials on a virtual screen that wobbled as raindrops criss-crossed the data. Unimpressed with the level of professionalism, she left this for but a moment, leaving most the group slacking at the lips when the advanced projection neatly disappeared with a final flicker.

“Listen close: the Security Bureau is assuming control of this investigation. I need the first responding officer and a detective that doesn’t need a broken back in order to do their job. The rest of you can leave, and make it quick: your breathing is contaminating the scene.” Waiting not for the reaction or chide, she pushed past the group, in this case literally shoving the line of police like they were just a closed double door in her way. Behind her frown, she could hear one of the lot woop aloud while the captain made his unimportant, colorful acknowledgment.

“You heard her, boys. It’s not our problem. Shet, I’ve a thirst tonight. Let’s meet at the pub to celebrate a night off.” He trailed off as the assemblage entered their speeders, slamming doors wantonly before careening off in a trail of faux-moxie.

Another beat cop, presumably the initial contact’s partner: started herding the rubbernecking scum away from the holographic caution tape, nearly threatening the ragtag busybodies with a baton to get them to disperse. As the Major approached all she could think about was how much worse it was starting to smell without all the noise from before. She crossed the line into a dank, poorly lit alley. This is was when the rotting egg stink hit her square on the nose, reminding her that she was here to work and quickly at that.

“Uh… Director Shepard, right? You asked for me?” She paused to face the source: a clean shaven man in fresh blues with the face of young boy. Too young looking for a job like this with a group of animals like that. The fact that the officer had the eye to read the quickly flashed holo-ID from before meant the kid was quick for details -something that could be appreciated on a backwater like this. Internally, the young woman ignored she also was too young for the kind of responsibilities that she was expected to carry out. Shaking the thought off, she politely nodded for him to continue, noting another man in a suit standing right besides him quietly trembling.

“R-right. Officer Saroyin.” He stammered, confirming his name while tugging his cap before hooking his thumbs into his belt so they wouldn’t further fidget. “First on scene, Ma’am. I found the vic while on patrol at twenty-one hundred hours. Called it in, cordoned off the area. Put up a tarpaulin over the body. Saw the weather report for tonight. Uh, well. It’s not unusual to find a body, but this… well this is just…” The other man cut him off as the younger officer kept stammering.

“Detective Eckelkamp, Homicide. Pleased to meet you.” He got ready a pair of plastic gloves while taking the lead. “The victim. . . it’s better to just show you.” In that grim tone the man in the suit blazed the path for the Major around some garbage bins and a number of dejected looking crates. Her expression, steely and determined up until this point, dropped. Mouth shaped like an ‘o’ in surprise, she blinked stupidly while processing the scene.


Before her eyes, spread out like a silver platter beneath a tacky blue tent tapping away with the subtle drum of raindrops; there, laid bare between the grimy walls of a back alley next to a large gutter frothing with dirty runoff and the occasional bloated waterbug was a woman.


She was cut in half along the abdomen, completely naked besides the broken remnants of some steel handcuffs wrapped about her wrists. Along the center of her chest was a blob of ragged, deep red, although from this range it was impossible to determine the more gritty details. What could be seen was the sheer terror in those eyes, still splayed wide in anguish and set to pop out of the woman’s skull. It was the kind of image that burned into someone’s mind, kept them stuck in place until the almighty themselves stirred them to move. In this case, a single coroner took a picture of the corpse, the device itself flashing bright to pierce the low lighting. It was in the flash that the Director could just make out the fiery mane of bright red hair, flowing down the sides of the woman’s face and mixing with the sanguine still staining the street.

“We can step around this away to avoid the mess.” The man said, stepping gingerly over the mismatched stones. Forced stoicism marred his voice, but he kept it together.

She, on the other hand, found herself wondering how many awful things the First Order was going to throw at her before she succumbed to madness…

[member="Tez Bola"] | [member="Sieger Ren"] | [member="Natasi Fortan"] | [member="Garnik Verita"] | [member="Ilya Cardonne"] | [member="Dresden Verbrennung"]​

Tying into events far far away, the mystery would soon run​

red​

 

[Progflaw99]

​

Rain. God's blasted rain. It made everything unbearable - from walking from office complex to the next to merely walking out to one's speeder or public transit. It wasn't so much the wet of the rain which peeved the otherwise impassable FOSB agent but the fact that she was expected to keep herself presentable. "No droplets of water, no splashes of mud. You're at the home office now, not some hidey hole on Terminus or backwater planet like Sump." Val could practically hear the pretentious voice of the flax-haired maiden of the West Staff Officer who'd been tasked with her orientation. It had taken all her willpower to resist rolling her eyes throughout the whole ordeal. Looking into the camera, she'd put on her most neutral expression. Moments later her badge had come spitting out of a console. A lanyard and a disapproving tut from the Staff Officer and they were on their way again, off to learn the secrets of the 'Home Office'. Dosuun was a different beast, and much to Val's chagrin - nothing like field work. Here things were expected to stick to a strict schedule, a specific set of rules for each task and numerous superiors sticking their noses in your business. Sometimes at the same time.

The splash of her dark boots in one of the many potholes along the side of the street brought her back from the internal monologue regarding her latest assignment. This of course wasn't Dosuun, but Faldos. *At least being assigned to the Home Office doesn't mean I don't get to travel.* she thought to herself. Val had been all over the galaxy, though the place she thought she'd never dare set foot on again was probably Bespin. Her peers couldn't understand why she'd deny herself the pleasure as Bespin was undoubtedly one of the more lush entertainment centers within the borders of the First Order. They also hadn't lost a part of themselves there - literally. Though covered by a heavy leather jacket, a metallic sheen peeked out between the agent's gloves and the sleeve. A permanent reminder of what she'd lost that day.

Lights ahead drew Val's attention, the familiar flash of a camera reflecting off the dim walls of the alley. Tarps lay over some areas of the roped off crime scene, others were nearly submerged in the water runoff from the drizzling rain. *What a mess.* As she drew closer, the grotesque stage ahead came into full view. A chill went up her spine though whether because of the chill of the rain or the barbarity of the crime she couldn't say. She recognized the Director ahead. A strange woman, resilient and tough, but almost akin to a spectre the way she was able to keep the FOSB one step ahead. Clearing her throat as her footsteps plodded up beside the coroner and the Director, she carefully avoided disturbing the scene any more than the current stock of weather had.

"Director - Supervisory Special Agent Kordova."​

​

Val extended a gloved hand, the cybernetic arm once again peeking through the small gap between her glove and the edge of her sleeve. Her introduction complete, SSA Kordova stooped next to the body as she retrieved a small penlight from her pocket. Shining the surprisingly intense light on various parts of the scene Val examined the collection of gore more closely, trying not to breathe in too hard. *There's one silver lining, the drizzle masks the scent.* The scent of death.

[member="The Major"] | [member="Dresden Verbrennung"] | [member="Ilya Cardonne"] | [member="Tez Bola"] | [member="Natasi Fortan"]​

 

[Dresden Verbrennung]

The sound of rain drumming on the cheap poncho was enough to drive a fellow mad.

High above the crime scene, and some 600 meters distant, a lone figure peered through a spotting scope, ignoring the fat, greasy drops that spattered off the plasticized fabric. It was hard to make out details at this range, let alone make any sort of intelligent guesses as to what, exactly, was going on.

The figure laid on a rooftop of a neighboring building, sheltered from the elements only by a poncho strung up between two aircon units. It was enough to keep him mostly dry, although there was enough water seeping in under the edges to make him uncomfortably damp. It wasn't cold, not quite, but it was damned unpleasant nonetheless. The ferrocrete beneath him had soaked up enough daytime heat that it the conditions weren't unbearable, but they were far from ideal.

His bladder was uncomfortably full, a condition not helped in the slightest by the moisture. He rolled to the side, selected a likely looking piece of litter, in this case a resealable plastic bottle, and filled it. The lid was screwed on carefully, and then it was set off to the side, where it wouldn't get in the way. All of this was accomplished with sloth-like torpor, with nary so much as an errant limb brushing against the tarp.

In an active combat zone, the figure wouldn't have bothered with the bottle. Far safer just to piss in place. And, as a bonus, it would help stave off the chill. Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately, depending on the core temperature of the individual in question, this wasn't that sort of mission. His boss wouldn't appreciate receiving a report from a man smelling of his own urine, though he suspected they would understand.

His mission was far less hazardous. He was simply to watch, observe, and report on anything unusual. Not for him, then, was the drama playing out down below. His spotting scope was focused on the crowd, the buildings, the speeder traffic. Let the agents observe the grisly murder scene to their hearts' content. He wanted to know who was observing them.

It was a nigh impossible task, even with the smart scope that automatically compensated for atmospheric distortions, but the figure wasn't the sort to let that stop him. He'd made it through worse with less.

Ideally, this mission was simply going to be observation, but the man was never one to assume ideal conditions. In case things went kinetic, he had a little known but potent rifle strapped across his back, and a massive beast of a rifle snuggled up to his shoulder. She was a big girl, but if she couldn't shoot it down, he figured he had no business shooting at it.

It was going to be a long day, probably a long night too, but Dresden Verbrennung had seen worse, and he'd probably see worse again. That was just the way things went.



[member="The Major"] | [member="Val Kordova"] | [member="Ilya Cardone] | [member="Tez Bola"] | [member="Natasi Fortan"]

 

[The Major]

“Quite a sight,” murmured the detective unnecessarily, approaching the side of the corpse with his head bent down at an angle. As the flies scurried and leapt away from under the tarp he swatted them away, pinkish light from a sodium powered billboard washing the wet, red stained cobbles in the queerest sheen in the budding night. It wasn’t until he kneeled over the victim did the sound of the street seem to come sucking back into the Major’s awareness. Something of a lapse occurred and the sound of another operative’s voice adding to the jazzy notes of the evening made her flinch before the Director turned to face the new source.

Val wasn’t exactly a friend, but she was at least a recognizable face buried within the cogworks of the empire. It would be remiss to say there wasn’t at least some measure of sentimentality from the gawking Almanian -secretly she was the kind of person to remember and hold those kinds of things as dear even if it appeared that nothing could pierce her persona. So once her former recruiter had secured her own promotion she had to make sure the proper team of independent investigators here on behalf of the state were top notch. Nodding in acknowledgement to her presence and comment, the Major pushed on and moved besides the detective. Crouching down, her glasses began to glow as she examined the corpse in various artificial spectrum. Eckelkamp, bristling at more unknowns tried to talk out his nerves to gain a semblance of routine.

“So, we have a woman, human, clock her at about late twenties. Looks restrained, escaped, cut down as she was fleeing. Doubt she was fleeing in that lack of getup so it could be the murderer stripped her post mortem. No form of identification. Never seen her before so she’s not a local.” Something garish and harsh edged into his voice as mistrust gave his voice a mean garble. “How exactly did you guys know to come here? We don’t even know who this is.”

“We do.” Quipped Sybil, ignoring the formalities while grabbing one of the victim’s hands and examining the damage done by the torn cuffs. “This is, was, a former agent of the Bureau. Assigned to investigate a case here.”

“A spy?” Cut back the detective.

“No.” She retorted, almost exasperated by the asinine quality of the comment. Ignoring the need to explain the utility of IFF tags and the tracking, biometric scanning telemetry they provided. The Major then pointed at the most bit of wreckage on display, catching Val’s attention by waving her over.

“This damage is consistent with saber scarring. Are there silver jedi cells that operate here? Maybe another group?”

[member="Tez Bola"] | [member="Sieger Ren"] | [member="Garnik Verita"] | [member="Ilya Cardonne"] | [member="Dresden Verbrennung"]​

 

[Garnik Verita]

Faldos lay not too far from the Bando Gora headquarters on Terminus. In fact, Garnik knew its surface well having scouted its locations before either herself or through her shark-eyed initiates, so enamoured of their Priestess they often showed her their devotion in macabre ways.

At first, she’d welcomed their sacrifice as it gave a signal to fellow Bando Gora that her word was like durasteel. But then again, she’d allowed too many initiates their reckless endeavors to please her. The last one, a Gamorrean named Nejj had sliced his own heart from his lumpy chest - a sacrifice to the Priestess of Shadow. A horrid affair to say the least, though she did have a scientist remove the morrts from his green, misshapen body to study them or perhaps breed some as a particularly gruesome interrogation technique.

But after that incident, that particular form of self sacrifice had been discouraged. The Bando Gora were nestled too tightly in First Order space to leave bloody imprints. Better to eat the consume the entrails of their own enemies, Garnik had reminded them. Nejj had held promise after all. Despite his rudimentary intelligence, it proved difficult to find muscle that held such loyalty.

A hydrogen sulfide odor with hints of iron and dead fish assaulted her nostrils as she stepped off her personal vessel, but mercifully the sensory assault was brief as a speeder whisked her off to a Bando Gora safehouse in the serpentine city bowels of Faldos.

A whiff of Avalonian cologne greeted her before Captain Brintt did. Rumored to be a former Imperial, Garnik’s spies could find no direct evidence of it, however it did not make her any less suspicious. Her eyes and ears on the ground were nowhere near as precise as the First Order in any case.

“You’re looking well, Captain,” she remarked, though inside she ruminated that he lacked a bit of that Imperial refinement so prevalent in this region, his aura pointing more to Rimkin roots.

A serious glint in his slate-blue eyes forgave his lack of manners at the moment. The nervous drum of his fingers upon his knee pardoned the forthcoming absence of formality.

“We have a problem, Garnik.”

[member="Tez Bola"] | [member="Sieger Ren"] | [member="The Major"] | [member="Ilya Cardonne"] | [member="Dresden Verbrennung"]​

 

[Progflaw99]

It was grisly. A momentary flashback to the moment she lost her hand caused her to lose focus, the memory of bloodied flesh and bone exposed to the light sending a shiver down her spine, a tumult in the pit of her stomach - and then it was over. Grinding her teeth silently in the dim light, she highlighted the edges of upturned flesh, dried blood clotting - no, cauterized around the edges of the cut. The agent nodded in quiet agreement, rapidly unclicking the small penlight and returning it to her pocket.

"You have an eye, Director."​

​

With practiced ease Valerie reached back again, this time producing a pair of thin pair of surgical gloves. Looking distastefully at the pair she returned one, placing the other on her hand before delicately shifting her weight as she crouched next to the victim. The Major had been correct with her assumption - the evidence was hard to refute, though the SSA had trouble determining motive from such a cursory examination. Gently Val reached out, grasping the woman's narrow wrist as she examined the woman's fingernails. *Nothing fancy, no blood - no evidence of defensive wounds. All seems to point to imprisonment, and execution. Though why would they kill her?*

Motive was the tricky part, even with a scene such as this it was hard to tell what was clue and what was not. The broken restraints yet shackled to the woman's arms, the dark marks beneath suggesting she'd tried to break free or been forcibly moved, but to kill her? Surely the woman's size, even halved, wasn't much of a threat to even the most inept of criminals, this felt more like a message. Premeditated certainly, but something just didn't add up. Replacing the woman's arm beside the body Val reached this time towards the victim's scalp. Brushing aside a wet lock of hair Val narrowed her eyes as she searched for a hint of anything. *Bruising, consistent with a power trip, no doubt at some point her captor had choked her - no stringent marks though, so not with a rope or device.* As the Major's voice suggested a culprit, the corners of Val's lips twitched and an eyebrow rose.

"Even the Silver Order wouldn't be this brazen - too far from the comfort of the core among other things."​

​

*Was that suggestion made in jest? Surely the Director doesn't believe all the propaganda surrounding the Silver Jedi Order - while some might be true, even the FOSB Operatives know that the First Order churns out just as much propaganda as the Jedi.* A confused expression settled in on the SSA's features, the protective glove snapping off her hand as she pulled it from her fingers and tossed it into a nearby container.

"This has a much more renegade feel to it, if I may be so bold. Sloppy. Have we been able to locate her data cache?"​

​

It was standard procedure when working an op, establishing a backup cache of data. Some embedded the data beneath their flesh in small data 'Pills', others stashed the data somewhere near their place of residence or in their possessions. Questions raced through the agent's mind. Most agents didn't report the location of their data cache - at least not intentionally, but there were ways to find out. Assuming the capsule hadn't been evaporated by the blade used to murder the victim, or stolen by her assailant, it would be easy to tell if the victim was one of the former or the latter.

"Get me a scanner." Val said to no one in particular. After a moment with no response, she said it again, more forcefully. "Detective, I said, get me a scanner. Now."​

​

A short bustle and an almost embarrassed nod later, a nearby detective hustled to retrieve the handheld device. With the device in hand, Val began her search, beginning with the victim's upper body, carefully viewing the screen on the device. If she had chosen to conceal the data cache beneath her flesh, the scanner would show them where.

[member="The Major"] | [member="Dresden Verbrennung"] | [member="Garnik Verita"] | [member="Natasi Fortan"] | [member="Tez Bola"] | [member="Ilya Cardonne"]​

 

[Dresden Verbrennung]

In the heavens above, a battle raged.

For most people, the first indication that someone was shooting at them with a Verpine shattergun was their sudden appearance in the afterlife.

The media liked to portray them as silent, invisible killers, but to someone like Dresden, who had worked around them enough to know the difference between a headline and reality, the truth was, they could be quite noisy. A hypersonic pellet punching a hole through the air and any reasonable speed limits made quite the ruckus, but it wasn't anything that could immediately be identified as a gunshot to an untrained ear. More of a hissing crack than anything.

In the hands of a skilled sniper, the target very rarely had the opportunity to get familiar enough with the sound to identify it, except to maybe whatever gods or devils awaited them on the other side. Dresden had heard it many times, and had survived by being one step ahead.

In his considered opinion, the easiest way to trick a sniper if you were a sniper was to make them think a better sniper was nearby. No matter how well you concealed your position, if you could see out, they could see in, so the mercenary rarely bothered with anything fancy like optical cloaks or thermal baffling. He saved that for the decoy position. Sniper A sees target, thinks it too obvious and therefore a decoy, and immediately searches for the telltale signs of a cloak.

Which was why, about fifteen feet away, there was a small cloaking field generator humming happily away as a pellet of superheated metal went screaming through it at an appreciable portion of escape velocity.

Gotcha, Dresden thought to himself.

This sniper was good, alright. They timed their shot so that the pellet passed overhead of the scene on the street with a roll of distant thunder. This high up, its passage would have been quiet anyway, muffled by the rain and the ambient noises of the city as much as distance, but they weren't taking any chances with giving away their position just yet.

It was a good plan. Take out the enemy sniper, leave the principle targets ignorant for continued observation. Only, they got one thing wrong.

Trace.

It was only visible for a fraction of a second, but as the pellet cut through the air and the rain, it left a laser-straight line back to the shooter. Dresden shifted his aim ever so slightly. The shooter was, unsurprisingly, on the building directly across from his. They too had a decoy position set up, but the trace made it obvious where the shot originated from.

Now, this was a gamble. If their decoy position was manned with a skilled shooter, chances were they'd nail him before he could get them. But he had a bead on at least one active shooter, which meant that they were the greater threat. And, if they were thinking the same thing he was, it was only a matter of moments before they shifted their aim as well.

There was no amount of thunder or ambient noise in the world that would muffle the passage of the giant 17mm shell as it plowed its way through the air with speed that would rival the Verpine toy. The OL-2 had a suppressor on it, in this case a massive drum over two feet long with a built in acoustic canceler. Dresden would get maybe three shots out of it before it was useless. It did a good job of quieting the usually deafening report, but it couldn't do anything for the downstream noise.

Dresden's first shot struck home. He knew it struck home because his opposite number was reduced to a spray of blood and viscera, a not uncommon phenomenon where the OL-2 was involved. At a thousand meters, the 17mm shell could go through a Hutt the long way. Its mark on the human body was distinctive, to say the least.

He worked the bolt as quickly as his cold-numbed fingers dared, then drew a bead on the decoy position and fired a second time. The instant he fired, a pellet whizzed past his nose, barely an inch away. The shockwave instinctively made him flinch, although not before the bullet was safely away. It stung his face and made his eyes water, like a slap from a jilted lover.

The cloaking field on the building opposite dissolved into a burst of static, revealing a newly excavated chest cavity, swept clean of the machinery of life.

The mercenary didn't take the time to savor the kill. He had to move. Now.

The OL-2 was far too big to carry with him. He'd come back for it later if he could. If not, the timed micro-thermal detonator would destroy the receiver, and along with it any evidence as to the owner. In the meantime, he hastily low-crawled backwards, never taking his eyes off the opposite rooftop, even as he unslung the ER-1 and cradled it in his arms. Guiding himself by memory, he made it to the service exit, and then darted inside.

Only then did he contact his employer.

"Two hostiles down, building to your three o'clock. My guess is they were there to observe, saw me, and pegged me as a threat. Moving to position Charlie, ETA 3 mikes. You're on your own til then."

[member="The Major"] | [member="Val Kordova"] | [member="Garnik Verita"] | [member="Natasi Fortan"] | [member="Tez Bola"] | [member="Ilya Cardonne"]