Kaboom.
It had been a long time since Dresden had worn a suit.
For the last six months, he had worn the same increasingly torn and filthy clothes day in and day out, washing them where he could, trying to ignore the smell when he couldn't. The job had paid well, more than most would make in a decade, but he had earned it.
Oh, how he earned it.
Living in foxholes and shattered buildings. Eating barely edible rations not meant for humans, or whatever critters he could trap or catch, or nothing at all. Pissing on himself because to get up to relieve himself might have alerted enemy soldiers and gotten him killed.
Blowing up bridges and supply depots.
Killing high profile targets.
Trying not to die.
For the last six months, Dresden had lived in Hell.
His contract had only specified three months, and by solely as an adviser to the planet's government. The pay was more than he'd normally make in a year, and it should have been an easy gig. Instead, the rebels had overrun the compound he'd been staying on, and he had been forced to go to ground, fighting his way to the planet's capitol, where he could find a ship offworld.
Five thousand miles, three continents, and an inland sea. That alone would have been a formidable trip without the aid of motorized transportation, but the rebel army that occupied most of the route made things even worse. There was no choice but to fight them along the way. Not only were the religious zealots determined to overthrow the planet's secular government (which would have surely killed any hope of getting paid), they were killing anyone who didn't believe as they did. Conversion was allowed, apostasy or nonbelief was not.
Dresden wasn't much of a believer.
There was no chance of rescue or evacuation, as the rebels had managed to completely shut down air traffic over their territory, having captured intact a large fighter base. The planet's government knew he was alive and tried to drop him supplies from orbit whenever possible, but anything more was out of their reach until they managed to break the lines.
And so he fought, cutting a wide swath of destruction through the enemy's heartland. He took every opportunity to chip away at the enemy's ability to fight. He blew up bridges and warehouses. He sabotaged vehicles and ammo dumps and once, memorably, a fusion power plant that supplied energy to the entire region. He placed IEDs along roads and mines in barracks. He burned crops and poisoned wells, condemning the countryside to starvation and himself to Hell.
The enemy came to call him the Devil's Left Hand in their tongue. They were convinced he was an elite agent, maybe even a Jedi. In reality, he was just a desperate man with his back up against the wall and the know how to turn the wall into a pile of rubble. That didn't stop them from sending troops to kill him. They would have succeeded too, many times over, if it weren't for sympathetic locals or sheer dumb luck.
The last fight, the very last push before he was across enemy lines and into friendly territory, nearly killed him. He'd put his last bullet through the eye of a general, and in return, the enemy went after him with everything they could, abandoning their posts in a religious fervor, determined to capture the agent of the Evil One. That opened up a gap in the lines that let the government push through, and Dresden went like hell towards the friendly forces. He nearly made it before a lucky mortar round pelted him with shrapnel, shredding his left leg and kidney, half of his liver, and perforating a lung. He spent weeks in a bacta tank after that, barely clinging to life.
The government, of course, decided to take credit for his actions, saying he was their best agent and hoping like mad that no one noticed he was a foreigner. They paid him a king's ransom for his troubles (far and away above what the contract specified for injury or endangerment), and tried to convince him to stay and be a hero to the people.
Dresden wanted none of that. Well, he wanted the pay, but that hero business was for the birds. He just wanted to get off this miserable rock so he could once again see the face that had kept him going through the cold and the wet and the pain and the fear.
So when he asked for a ship, a commlink, some fresh clothes and maybe a decent suit, they reluctantly complied and sent him on his way, adding in a little bonus to speak in front of a crowd at the spaceport about how he was off to the stars.
And now he stood outside a fancy restaurant, leaning heavily on a cane, waiting for the woman whose memory had kept him going. He had offered to pick her up, but she had insisted they arrive separately for reasons she didn't care to specify. That was okay. He had waited this long. What difference was another few minutes?
He was nervous. Palms sweaty, butterflies fluttering around in his stomach, heart pounding. It was cool out, which was playing havoc with his leg, but that was okay.
He was going to see Dru again.
[member="Dru"]
For the last six months, he had worn the same increasingly torn and filthy clothes day in and day out, washing them where he could, trying to ignore the smell when he couldn't. The job had paid well, more than most would make in a decade, but he had earned it.
Oh, how he earned it.
Living in foxholes and shattered buildings. Eating barely edible rations not meant for humans, or whatever critters he could trap or catch, or nothing at all. Pissing on himself because to get up to relieve himself might have alerted enemy soldiers and gotten him killed.
Blowing up bridges and supply depots.
Killing high profile targets.
Trying not to die.
For the last six months, Dresden had lived in Hell.
His contract had only specified three months, and by solely as an adviser to the planet's government. The pay was more than he'd normally make in a year, and it should have been an easy gig. Instead, the rebels had overrun the compound he'd been staying on, and he had been forced to go to ground, fighting his way to the planet's capitol, where he could find a ship offworld.
Five thousand miles, three continents, and an inland sea. That alone would have been a formidable trip without the aid of motorized transportation, but the rebel army that occupied most of the route made things even worse. There was no choice but to fight them along the way. Not only were the religious zealots determined to overthrow the planet's secular government (which would have surely killed any hope of getting paid), they were killing anyone who didn't believe as they did. Conversion was allowed, apostasy or nonbelief was not.
Dresden wasn't much of a believer.
There was no chance of rescue or evacuation, as the rebels had managed to completely shut down air traffic over their territory, having captured intact a large fighter base. The planet's government knew he was alive and tried to drop him supplies from orbit whenever possible, but anything more was out of their reach until they managed to break the lines.
And so he fought, cutting a wide swath of destruction through the enemy's heartland. He took every opportunity to chip away at the enemy's ability to fight. He blew up bridges and warehouses. He sabotaged vehicles and ammo dumps and once, memorably, a fusion power plant that supplied energy to the entire region. He placed IEDs along roads and mines in barracks. He burned crops and poisoned wells, condemning the countryside to starvation and himself to Hell.
The enemy came to call him the Devil's Left Hand in their tongue. They were convinced he was an elite agent, maybe even a Jedi. In reality, he was just a desperate man with his back up against the wall and the know how to turn the wall into a pile of rubble. That didn't stop them from sending troops to kill him. They would have succeeded too, many times over, if it weren't for sympathetic locals or sheer dumb luck.
The last fight, the very last push before he was across enemy lines and into friendly territory, nearly killed him. He'd put his last bullet through the eye of a general, and in return, the enemy went after him with everything they could, abandoning their posts in a religious fervor, determined to capture the agent of the Evil One. That opened up a gap in the lines that let the government push through, and Dresden went like hell towards the friendly forces. He nearly made it before a lucky mortar round pelted him with shrapnel, shredding his left leg and kidney, half of his liver, and perforating a lung. He spent weeks in a bacta tank after that, barely clinging to life.
The government, of course, decided to take credit for his actions, saying he was their best agent and hoping like mad that no one noticed he was a foreigner. They paid him a king's ransom for his troubles (far and away above what the contract specified for injury or endangerment), and tried to convince him to stay and be a hero to the people.
Dresden wanted none of that. Well, he wanted the pay, but that hero business was for the birds. He just wanted to get off this miserable rock so he could once again see the face that had kept him going through the cold and the wet and the pain and the fear.
So when he asked for a ship, a commlink, some fresh clothes and maybe a decent suit, they reluctantly complied and sent him on his way, adding in a little bonus to speak in front of a crowd at the spaceport about how he was off to the stars.
And now he stood outside a fancy restaurant, leaning heavily on a cane, waiting for the woman whose memory had kept him going. He had offered to pick her up, but she had insisted they arrive separately for reasons she didn't care to specify. That was okay. He had waited this long. What difference was another few minutes?
He was nervous. Palms sweaty, butterflies fluttering around in his stomach, heart pounding. It was cool out, which was playing havoc with his leg, but that was okay.
He was going to see Dru again.
[member="Dru"]
