Wheels...

[The Major]

Lanteeb
Kilaado Industrial Sector
Some time after the Second Battle of Dagobah
High Noon | Awaiting @Dresden Verbrennung

The Major had run back to the what could be most loosely described as home like a forlorn kitten —returning less to a house and more the only place that made sense in tumultuous era. In reality, the Fallanassi had no permanent residence. No apartment, booming manor or hidden lair. Instead she wandered through her assignments with the freedom and loneliness of a vagrant. Despite her well kept appearance or aristocratic style the good Major traveled the cosmos no different than the shifting winds. Taking whatever was needed at the time, discarding what wasn't, and hiding what could be used later left was a choice means for living a disjointed, chaotic life. It was a mannerism taken after an old mentor, who would have described anything less than a drifter’s life as organic insanity.

By the time anyone within the First Order noticed Sybil acted like something other than human it would be far too late. She reaped the benefits full meanwhile.

Here on this nondescript world, in a mechanically minded city she had tied herself to another person’s concerns and woes: masking her own pains in the continual drum of each and every mission. It served her well, even if she spent most of her time traversing space back and forth between the assignments. Outside the windows of this empty warehouse office the grind of industry marched forth to the imperial drum, spouting massive clouds of dark smog into the clouds as various heavy metals were refined. Haze smothered the horizon in such a manner that one might doubt if it all was little more than grime caking the glass.

It was here that the frankly strange woman had invited what might be described as an old friend, away from the heavy, brow beating political schemes of the more “posh” and influential worlds along the Ison Corridor. Nobody was listening; it was a lonely old factory. That was much of the point.

Sitting one leg crossed over the other in a dusty office chair that squeaked with any movement, the bespectacled wonder of the agency awaited her guest while sipping from a flask filled with a thick, sanguine colored fluid.

 

[Dresden Verbrennung]

There were two types of visits Dresden could expect from his former comrades in the FOSB.

The first was, for lack of a better word, an inspection. Every quarter, agents would come to his home, his distillery, and any known hangouts for what was ostensibly a safety audit. After all, Dresden had been a valuable member of their brotherhood, and ensuring that there were no assassins hiding in the toilet was the least they could do. They inspected every square millimeter of every structure, leaving no stones unturned and no secrets hidden.

All involved knew what these little visits really were. They were shakedowns, nothing more, nothing less. A reminder that, even out here on the other side of the galaxy, the FOSB still takes care of their own. And by "takes care", they more or less meant "makes sure they don't even sniff in the direction of the bad guys and kill them to death if they do."

Dresden tolerated them with good humor. No one really left that world, not for good. At least the FOSB was upfront and honest about the fact that they'd murder the hell out of him if he gave them an excuse. For his part, he tried not to give them an excuse. Mostly, he just made liquor and picked up some spare cash on the side picking up security or consulting gigs.

Mostly.

He wondered what they'd think about his clandestine meeting with their boss.

[member="The Major"] had never struck him as the sentimental type. But then again, she'd never struck him as any type, which he supposed was the point. She was careful, calculating, and completely in control of herself at all times. Or at the very least, that was the illusion she presented. If that was the case, it was a very convincing one, but as she'd hinted, illusions were her stock and trade.

At some point, it didn't matter to anyone else what was real or fake, where the Major was concerned. It was all Ms. S to him.

He didn't know what to expect as he strode up the stairs. The former agent cleared his mind of any preconceived notions he might have held about her purpose for calling him here. There was no point in guessing. Her reasons were her own, and that was all he really needed to know.

Maybe that was why he liked her. Most FOSB types played at being the inscrutable mystery. They liked to put up a front, pretend that they had grand ineffable plans that would propel the First Order to new heights, but when you got right down to it, Dresden never had much of a problem effing them after all. Ms. S was a mystery in a world where so few were, and he admired the hell out of that.

"How's tricks?" he asked as he stepped into the dingy office. In his right hand was a clear crystal bottle, ornately carved and etched with a variety of means to present a tableau of woodlands in the deep summer. It was filled with a dark amber liquid, rich and clear even in the dim light of the factory. There was nothing nefarious about the liquid in the slightest; Dresden simply thought to bring his old (associate? comrade? friend?) a gift. The gift was a tithe of his finest brandy.

In his left hand, a pair of cups, the sort of disposable plastic ones you could find in any convenience store. They were still sealed in their original packaging to ward off some of the filth in this industrial nightmare.

"I...I heard about Emilia. Made this. It's about the only sort of monument I'm good for."

 

[The Major]

Dresden walked in the practiced fashion of a covert agent, slipping across the dirty threshold with the effortless grace that became intrinsic nature to highest quality agents after a successful career of spycraft. And perhaps it was even possible for the ex-agency man to even heft a pistol and try his luck at filling the Deputy Director with cordite or plasma based absolution, until he approached close enough to possibly realize an unpowered holo-pad was propped with a use of an old leather bound book onto the desk directly to the Major’s left. In the low lighting of the room the sleek black screen reflected the space behind the operative, providing a hint that no matter what poise this woman seemed to exude, there was always a measure of paranoia guiding her actions, causing her to watch her back perpetually with each step. It was probably no surprise then a quick eye would confirm that she still had an antique looking LCR handcannon (though this was an exaggeration of a modest, well balance revolver as opposed to the hyperbolic trope of overkill; much like the woman wielding it, the weapon looked more boisterous than it truly was) strapped to her thigh.

She was waiting for a different kind of meeting.

Greeting the Deputy Director in such a way might be enough to gather the auburn haired operative’s ire into a frenzy, or perhaps ill-reputed rumor would specify such to be the case, but the frankness was something that made her crack a smirk, and Mr. V was renowned for being about as nuanced as a bulldozer. Tricks were her specialty, however, and she could cop to the friendly accusation.

She spun her chair with a hair curling squeak before standing to with an air of languidness. With a smile, she quietly gave the survivalist a warm hug before taking a step back towards the desk. Her demeanor quickly split in another direction when she heard that name being spoken: a sudden duck of the eyes, and a quick twitch of the lips that ticked the edges of a frown. Sybil was beyond losing control of her face completely, however. Instead of flooding into a set of depressing memories her mind drifted into a space of strength, remembering another person in this city who offered sage advice regarding that particular issue. It wasn’t the first time the mysterious woman calling herself Tez had to deal with the brain slicing depression of her friend, but she had managed to do so consistently, and eventually Sybil, adaptive wonder, listened. Once might say it was the reason the Fallanassi kept sticking around on this faith-forsaken rock.

“You know in all this time you’re only the second person to actually mention her like she was something to give a damn about. And you’re also the second person to do so working outside of the technical jurisdiction of the First Order. I asked you here for business, but, by Bloody Liza, let’s drink to that.” Her face did a better job of masking the anger creeping up in her voice, and it seemed like poor Mr. V. would be hearing a few things he probably didn’t expect.

 

[Dresden Verbrennung]

On some level, Dresden was fairly sure that Ms S didn't want to kill him. Far easier ways to do that than drag him all the way out here. Beyond that, he purposefully avoided speculation as to her motives.

Normally, he'd have a half dozen contingency plans in place, with another half dozen or so filed away in the back of his mind, just in case. The former mercenary was legendary in some circles for his ability to think through all the most likely outcomes for any given situation and then counter the unfavorable ones with the judicious application of high explosives. That was his thing.

Her thing was to show up where one least expected and do the thing that one expected the least. Though the two had never had cause to square off, Dresden suspected he'd come out the worst in that encounter. [member="The Major"] wasn't invulnerable, but she was very, very good, and he was getting old.

It stood to reason, then, that locking himself into any one pattern, or even a series of patterns where she was concerned, left one open to potentially fatal surprises. Keeping one's mind free of any preconceived notions was a reasonable antidote. The list of ways in which she could surprise him, then, was a short one.

Apparently, she was reading off that list, and realized that a hug was on it.

For the barest fraction of a second, Dresden stiffened at the touch, but quickly relaxed and returned the gesture. A part of him noted that he probably ought to burn that jacket later, just in case she planted something on it, but that was a problem for the future. Here in the present, he decided to treat it as genuine.

Once she let go, Dresden poured a measure of brandy in the cups and passed one to the Major at random, took care to stopper the bottle before anything could get in it, and raised his glass.

"To absent companions."

And with that, he downed his in one swift gulp. That wasn't how this stuff was supposed to be enjoyed, but it was better to end it quickly, lest it be contaminated by the filth that swirled around them.

That was probably a metaphor for something, he thought to himself.

"So, what sort of business are we talking? I'm going to go out on a limb and say it's not related to the world of high end distilled spirits."

 

[The Major]

Amidst Toasting with: [member="Dresden Verbrennung"]

Dresden had more or less typified himself as a man lacking frivolities both during his career and especially in his retirement. While it would be remiss of the Major to boldly make such assertions as though the pair of them were comrades for decades, she also couldn’t deny that she hadn’t poured over his details, records, and assessments the very moment she had access to those files. That is to say when she managed to get access -which proceeded her rise to this current duty station. Promotions or trite considerations like actual clearance were more like… details to maneuver around, rather than hard blocks. After all, the Deputy Director was, at her core, a people person. Searching over every bit of information on a entity with manic zeal was something of a passion for the rambunctious Fallanassi. This was especially the case for those involved with Operation Nightfall what felt like eons ago. Naboo, their combined failure, made for an excellent study into an aspect of Hell -regardless of that world’s reputation of paradise. Interestingly enough, these two were the last two operatives alive from that mission.

Thus, when she began speaking, the Major realized she was skirting disaster by trying to hold up Mr. V anymore than she already had by dragging him out to this world -but she was skewed into a sentimental hue, and it wasn’t just the brandy buzzing down her gullet.

“Forgive me for postponing the topic of business just a beat more. You see: everything in the Order is business, and to see another comrade from that time… Well.” Was she choking up on cue like an actor on the stage or legitimately concerned?

“It brings up such a swirl of emotions... “ Her left, bereft of the usual glove, touched the side of her temple while she weighed the best words for the occasion. “And we forget to take a moment to really examine our pasts.” She motioned for another shot of the alcohol.

“It feels like every meeting you and I have ends with me realizing something has to evolve to survive. On Naboo that day, I know for a fact what you set with that explosive, it changed my perceptions of the organization. It wasn’t until some time later from reading some after-action reports that if you hadn’t provided that distraction, none of us would have managed to survive that infernal night.

“You told me something on that trip when the three of us were standing before the shipwreck really started. You said, ‘You ought to know better,’ and I did. Tried to do the right thing by us because I couldn’t stop hearing those stupid, suicidal words. When I was going to cut, run, and leave you all to ensure my escape: I heard them. When our, hm, fearless op. leader got her squad killed by sheer bullheadedness and I thought of peeling off to leave her for the wolves as punishment for her failure, I heard those words. When that walking disaster was bleeding out and I considered giving her the cyanide and climbing out the grounds alone, I heard your words -taunting.” Bloody moral high ground, she thought.

“Carried her all the way back to exfil… Not even sure how I managed to concentrate with all that chaos, but it happened. That night, you changed Emilia. If it weren’t for that, I would have never gotten to know her; never would have bothered. Would have never. . .” The woman shook her head -shaking off a sudden shiver while trailing off.

“Anyway, I should have told this a long time ago: thank you.”

 

[Dresden Verbrennung]

Dresden poured them both another shot, and considered her words.

That night was the reason he retired. He still remembered the screams, still remembered the desperate scramble through the city trying like hell to get them all out of there. At night he saw the faces of the dead, agents and innocent alike. He'd fought a hundred battles on a hundred worlds, but it was that terrible night in Naboo that haunted his dreams.

The former agent trembled slightly, and tossed back the brandy. The warm liquid settled in his stomach, the heat radiating outwards into his chest and bringing a slight flush to his pallid skin. His hands steadied. He took a deep breath in through his nose, and released it from his mouth in a long, steady stream.

"Hell of a time to quit smoking," he muttered, to himself more than anyone.

He fished a stick of peppermint candy, about the size and shape of a cigarette, from a pack in his cargo pockets, and screwed it between his lips.

"I don't know that's something you should be thanking me for," he said. "But, you're welcome. I guess."

The stick of candy stubbornly refused to issue for the stream of smoke he so desperately craved, no matter how many times Dresden went through the motions. He cursed the doctors for telling him for about the millionth time in the last month.

"We've been on borrowed time ever since Theed. A little birdy tells me you've been making the most of it."

[member="The Major"]

 

[The Major]

One didn't tempt the generous hands of fate, and keeping the -rightfully illusive in his own right- Mr. V on the more emotional side of contemplation for so long surely skirted disaster. It wasn't exactly he was one to go off the wall and start ranting on a violent tirade: he was the kind of agent that had survived too many spats to be so unstable. Still, she did happen to know he drew the line at overworked rancor slime. It didn't matter if it was a subject that opened the gateway to the kind of thing that proved this Fallanassi to be more than just "the Major," but a forsaken human named Sybil. Her thoughts were momentarily skipped in progression when she eyed the fact that Dresden was using a fake cigarette. Now, that was suspicious. Noting it as a question for later, she moved along with the flow.

"When all's rotten, you may as well find something worth smiling over."

One might wonder what kind of bird was in contact with the former spy. How interesting it would be to find that person, and maybe squeeze them a little for being so eager to share. Such was moot, however. Any clandestine organization had its membership form a strange intimacy with the most unexpected of compatriots. The simple truth was that somehow, despite how strange it seemed, is that people made friends. What changed were the reasons why. Sometimes it was credits or an addiction changing hands, other times a bad operation solidified camaraderie -sort of like the two tall freaks in this room, and sometimes it was just sex. Who could say what kind of category this friend of Dresden fell into, but that is what gave the business that unspeakable attraction.

"Ah, you've heard news about me? Well. I couldn't lie and say the Bureau hasn't been... inclined to acquiescence to my kind of thinking. Hopefully, what you've heard isn't too jarring. Still am that Ms. S you were willing to listen to quite some time ago."

[member="Dresden Verbrennung"]

 

[Dresden Verbrennung]

Dresden wasn't completely immune to the concept of fun. Most of what he had heard, he gleaned indirectly, piecing together snippets of conversation from the very thugs who were supposed to make sure he stayed out of that life. It was an amusing game, one that the agents had no idea they were playing.

Unless he missed his mark, the former agent suspected that there would be some very difficult questions asked, the sort where the penalty for the right answer was almost worse than the penalty for the wrong one.

He wouldn't shed any tears. He despised working with amateurs.

"Not at all jarring," he replied. "In fact, I have to say I'm impressed. Fuzzy on the details, but the big picture is one of a job well done. You should be proud of yourself, S. Really."

There was nothing in his tone that suggested anything other than sincerity, and for good reason. Dresden meant every word, even if they were spoken around the rapidly dissolving piece of candy. It vanished with an audible crunch. The taste of blood mingled with peppermint; a shard had pierced his gum, just hard enough to draw a drop or two.

He sighed in annoyance, exhaling hard. It still wasn't smoke, but the cool sweetness of the candy, tinged with the faintest hint of copper and iron, seemed to cut through the industrial miasma for a moment.

"Which brings me to my next question: what's a girl like you doing in a place like this with a guy like me?"

There was a hint of a grin on Dresden's face, the ghost of the roguish smirk that usually accompanied such an inquiry. His tone was light and cheerful, but there was no mistaking the seriousness behind it, not for someone who should know him. Which was, of course, part of the test. He hated to think he was being paranoid, but professional paranoia was the only reason he was alive after all these years. Dresden knew he was treading on thin ice simply by being here. Couldn't hurt to be extra sure that [member="The Major"] was who she looked like.

 

[The Major]

And to the point this conversation was moved, reflections past, pleasantries past -she rather like how she could just get along with this other outsiders not stuck in the depressive games. Because when it came down to Sybil didn’t really care about any of it: not the titles, the money, or the power. These things came and fled. But there was one potential point of vanity within it all: playing with the feelings of those so obsessed with every bit of it. In the First Order this was the rule and rarely the exception: from mad robotic memories of a dead admiral installed in robotic managers of millions to clone daughters running amok -every disease of personality one could imagine, every caricature of the living experience, and in this never-ending migraine of a nightmare the Major looked at these different lives and wondered if this wasn’t some sort of punishment, this knowledge. Not because she was better than any of them; but because she was worse.

“A job offer. Something for you to manage and shake off those cobwebs that keep you nervous. Something to motivate you. Not because you need the money or the danger, but because you’d be good at this. Plus, only the dead stay retired, and people like us aren’t built to retire. Not fully.

“I’ll get to it. Reports which I’m sure you’ve seen is showing a sweeping current of dissent along the outer systems of the empire. The Army is up to its eyes with the borders, and we’ve too many refugees bursting in at the seams. Bless them if they are looking to serve; but command is a little more worried with undermining elements within them.”

She didn’t say the word refugee like it was a dirty word. After all, Sybil was an immigrant herself -this wasn’t a widely known fact. Most about her wasn’t a widely known fact.

“I don’t need to review the recent string of terrorism in the Sith Empire with you. In case things get vile like they are across the galaxy with our friends, we need to be ready. As Director, I want to make a unit made up mostly of outliers and former auxiliary; a mercenary task force paid by job to come down on these problem colonies and Slam insurrection. Wouldn’t ask you to run up and down streets under fire, but these lads would need a leader -an adviser.

“You’re the first and best choice. Thoughts?”

[member="Dresden Verbrennung"]​

 

[Dresden Verbrennung]

Dresden considered that for a moment.

"It's a solid plan," he said after several moments of careful contemplation.

He decided to spare [member="The Major"] his inner thoughts; he'd be extremely disappointed if she made the offer without considering the upsides and downsides of the situation. The words "deniable" and "disposable" came to mind.

"I don't have any objections. You're not wrong, I am kinda bored. I don't much miss the killing and the dying, but I do miss having something to do with my life. That said, I do have a couple of conditions."

He sat down on a drum of something unidentifiable, the label in a language he couldn't read and covered in layers of grease and soot anyway. His pants didn't immediately start smoking, so he figured it was probably safe.

"I'm walking into this with both eyes open, S. I know damn good and well how the First Order works. There's always some pissant bureaucrat looking to make a name for themselves by micromanaging an operation. Not here. My troops, my mission, my method. I'll do what I have to to fix whatever's gone wrong, but I do it my way."

On second thought, his arse was getting uncomfortably warm. He stood quickly, inspected the seat of his pants for damage.

"Huh, must have been my imagination. Anyway, since I know how this game is played, I may as well put this up front: when, not if, someone turns on me because it's convenient, I'm going to bury them. No mercy, no holding back. I'm not going to just kill them, I going to kill their families and turn their pets into hats. We'll let the lawyers work out the details, but you best damn well believe that last part is going in the contract.

"I'm cool with disposable. That's what mercs are for. I'm not cool with being a target for the guys hiring me. If the FO itself tries to stop me, well, I've no illusions about being able to burn it all down, but I'm sure as hell gonna try. Sound good to you?"

 

[The Major]

The Major's head tilted quizzically at Dresden's conditions. There was something of a avian grace to the twist, something oddly reminiscent of an owl espying a curiosity. A few beats past as he rounded out his statements, meaning that whatever response was coming next was considered carefully. This was even more odd, then, when her next response blurted out with a matter of fact air.

"What are you saying? You really think I'd expect someone like you under fire to politely gaze back while you die?" She said in rhetorical tone.

"I'm not setting this up to establish a fall-guy, and if I was I certainly wouldn't pick someone as paranoid as I am. Of course I expect you to bite back when bitten. Especially if the person biting is wearing a navy frock or army tunic. You understand. Trusting anyone in this government would be, at best, an exercise in how much you trust a flock of snakes while blindfolded." The last bit of that statement was a bit of a colloquialism from Almania itself, where such rude spacers often told tales on how the yokels from the Outer Rim world would beat reptiles with sticks.

"But I do trust you to do a job if you decide to take it..."

[member="Dresden Verbrennung"]​

 

[Dresden Verbrennung]

Dresden grinned. It wasn't a pleasant expression.

"I figured as much, just wanted to make sure. Covers your ass as much as mine in the event something goes sideways."

And just like that, the former merc, it seemed, was a current merc once again.

"We can leave the fine details to the lawyers, I'd say. Soon as the funds pop up, I can start standing up a unit. I figure we'll start with a solid core of salty old bastards. They'll make up the backbone of the unit. Depending on how many are looking for work, I should have enough officers and NCOs to stand up somewhere between an overstaffed battalion and a short regiment. I'm not worried about finding new recruits just yet. Make sure the core is solid and the cannon fodder will come. Way the galaxy is these days, you can't throw a rock without hitting some poor bastard desperate enough to get shot at for a decent paycheck. The trick is sorting the chaff from the wheat."

He shrugged.

"It'll take time to get the full thing up and running, but I can have a smaller fighting force ready in a few weeks.

[member="The Major"]