Anathema (Mara)

[Gamov]

Capture a single droid. Easy enough. Actionable intelligence had led them to an abandoned industrial park on the north east side of Oridin. It was a decrepit place, run down and dominated by the rusted faces of old buildings that the city authority had yet to see fit to demolish. In the mean time, it seemed some of the world's more destitute citizens were more than comfortable using them as homes. Staring absently out the window of the speeder at the passing skyline below them, Haran's thoughts were in the past. The decaying edifices around him reminded him of Jigunna all over again. Come to think of it, the trip had felt the same then as it did now. Silent tension filled the cramped speeder and no man in the group seemed too eager to talk or share their feelings. Good. Haran liked it that way, the quieter the better in his mind.

The speeder banked sharply around a building, causing everyone inside to sway in rhythm with the pitch of the vehicle before leveling out again. “You think FSA got an ear on this thing too?”

Haran recognized the voice, but didn't bother to shift his attention in response. Knife, for all that his name supposedly said about him, was a dull character lacking even the most basic reasoning skills it seemed. Haran didn't care for him, but then again, he didn't hate him either. He was one of those classic mob thugs, big and tough, intimidating to look at; but that was all he had going for him. If it weren't for his distinction as the only Noghri of the group, he would more than likely blend into the background of any situation and escape notice. Why Vance insisted on keeping such thick headed individuals around, Haran hadn't the slightest. The Hydra Syndicate was vast, much bigger than anything he had encountered thus far. The need for intelligent lackey's seemed to be a foregone conclusion.

Haran shrugged at Knife's question, “hard to say.”

“I don't think so. Vance is good at keeping away from cops.” The Noghri said in response, the same laconic tone penetrating his voice.

Haran nodded. It was so much nicer when no one was talking. Why did they always have to talk? It was irritating. Everyone had something to say, and nothing intelligent ever seemed to come of it.

“How come you don't talk much? That's weird....”

Haran turned his head to face Knife. Words would be futile in attempting to explain why he didn't like talking to people. Perhaps he could educate him on what it was like to be a ten year old boy without parents who was abused by a sadistic Twi'lek smuggler with a mean streak as wide as the Corellian Run was long. And if not that, maybe he could tell him about the xenophobic Republic Sergeant that he served under for three years. Perhaps he could even tell him about the Republic Admiral who was willing to sacrifice hundreds of soldiers just so he wouldn't be caught holding hands with the Hutts. But no, Knife wouldn't understand any of that. He barely understood how to lace up his own boots. Explaining complex matters such as emotion to him would be like banging your head against a duracrete wall. Except banging your head against the wall would actually accomplish something and might feel better by comparison.

“Easy big guy, don't want to upset him.”

Haran's attention slowly trailed over to Argyle in the seat opposite of Knife. Of any other individual in this speeder or in the entire syndicate, he was the one man he loathed the most. Argyle was sly, crafty and creative. He would just as soon shoot you as he would look at you. He looked at Haran the way a firaxan shark would look at a fish. His career was prey for him, and he was intent on devouring it. But if he ever got that far, Haran would make sure Argyle regretted every second of it.

“We're here.” The voice of the driver interrupted the brief conversation as the speeder came to a gentle stop outside a warehouse.

Allowing Argyle and Knife to exit the vehicle first, Haran kept his attention on the Devaronian before he got out of the speeder himself, his trust rifle well in hand. Taking stock of their surroundings, Haran found it odd that a droid would chose such a derelict area of the city to call home. Most droids that don't want to be found end up assuming the role of another droid all together or vanishing off into the farthest reaches of space. Seldom did they travel this close to the core to visit populated areas.

“Alright, you're outback, make sure it doesn't escape that way. Knife, you're with me.”

Haran didn't even spare a glance for Argyle. He had his orders, such that they were, and quickly set off from their landing zone. Tracing a path through the back alleys and garbage littered streets of the warehouse district, Haran couldn't help but notice that something felt wrong about the whole set up. Three men sent to capture one droid that was supposedly a highly lethal bounty hunter? Either the stories about said droid were largely fabricated, or Vance wanted them dead. Haran considered the latter was the case. Especially considering he had placed Argyle in over all command of the mission. If ever there was an opportunity for Argyle to attempt to play his hand, this would be it.

Working his way to the back of the warehouse, Haran was careful to check his corners and scan ahead for any potential ambushes. So far satisfied, Haran made for an abandoned out building that was positioned directly across from the rear of the warehouse. Swiftly crossing the wide road separating the two buildings, Haran set up his position in a small office on the ground floor. Making a makeshift dead rest out of a desk, he remained as far back from the window as he possibly could to allow the shadows to conceal his location. Settling into his seat, he was stuck playing the waiting game again as his eyes pensively studied the back of the warehouse, waiting for any signs of the droid or the other two mercenaries.



Pulling his blaster first, Argyle lashed out, “we're not paying anything for that droid. I don't care who you think you are. Now show us where it is.”

The man gave a sharp snap of his fingers. Instantly, another pair of mercenaries in the same garb came out of a nearby hiding spot carrying the droid between the two of them. As the men tossed the droid on the floor in front of Argyle, an angry sneer came over the Devaronian's features.

“What's this? You expect me to believe this?” He flipped the safety off of his blaster and pulled up a bead on the man's chest, “where's the real droid?”

The man replied with a confident smirk and a mocking chuckle. “There was no droid.... Ever.”

The following instant, Argyle's face twisted into a horrified look. He knew he had been betrayed by Vance, possibly with help from that Kel Dor. The sound of extra blasters charging in the room behind them caught Argyle's attention and as he glanced around him, he could see the true extent of his situation.

Additional soldiers had been spread out through out the warehouse floor, covering almost every conceivable angle from concealed positions, both up high and on the ground level, waiting patiently for the perfect moment to pounce. Eventually, they sprung their surprise attack against the mercenaries, cutting them off and surrounding them within seconds. Yet the most shocking betrayal of all came from Knife, who had joined the other mercenaries in taking aim on Argyle. The Deveroinan could only glare in disbelief at the treachery of his former comrade.

“I was paid very well to make sure you don't make it out of here alive.... Argyle.”

The man drew a blaster and was going to fire, only to be hit in the back with a high energy round from a distant sniper rifle. He slumped to the warehouse floor as the other mercenaries in the room swung around, searching for the source of the shot. Within seconds, another shot put another mercenary down, then a third. Realizing that the fire must be coming from Haran somewhere behind the building, Argyle took the opportunity to take advantage of the confusion and killed Knife with a quick shot to the head before fighting his way back towards the entrance of the warehouse through a hail of red blaster bolts.

---

He sat in silence alone in the room. A pale blue light cast over his face from the computer console in front of him, revealing the aged, sunken features of his face. Bony fingers, adorned with gilded rings and signets brought a death stick to his lips as his attention was fixed on the images streaming in front of him. A thin wisp of smoke escaped through his lips as he exhaled and gently tapped the death stick on the edge of an ornate crystal ashtray while he contemplated the future of his enterprise through the events playing out on the holoscreen in front of him.

Recent openings in his industry had left room to pursue alternative methods of gaining control over his vast criminal empire. This was little more than a calculated risk built around financial frugality. In the long run, it would be far cheaper and easier for him to bribe the local FSA and pocket their agents for his own use than it would be to try and stem the effects of the Republic's vast military and economic wealth with a single droid. That was what owning Senators was for.

“Sir,” a voice spoke out through the dim silence of the room. “They've made contact.”

“So I've noticed.” He said in response, his voice gravelly and tinged with age. Silence resumed its hold over the room as the images on the screen changed once again. New arrivals were quickly heading to the scene, as expected. It was time to entertain his guests. Taking another drag on the death stick, he exhaled the resulting smoke through his nostrils and tapped the ashes away from the glowing tip into the ashtray again, “do it.”

“Yes, sir.”

---

Watching the chaos through the scope of his rifle, Haran timed his every shot like it was his last. Another squeeze of the trigger, a slight recoil buffeted his shoulder and the round sailed through the air to its intended target. As the figure crumpled forward, he swung his attention right to find new quarry. Another deft squeeze of the trigger put another mercenary out of commission. He wasn't firing to save Argyle or Knife, he could care less about them. Instead, Haran knew the psychological impact a sniper could have on soldiers. He had seen it on Jigunna, and he had done it on Coruscant during the raid at 500 Republica. It was a highly effective tactic and firing on them from an undisclosed location would hopefully put fear in their minds and hamper any form of meaningful pursuit.

Suddenly, the sound of sirens pierced through the air and drew his attention. Haran looked away from his scope. It was a set up, just as he had known it would be. Breaking out of his position, Haran moved away from the office to the back of the building and peered out into the alley separating him from the nearest building. So far there was no movement on the ground level near his location, but the sirens were getting closer. His window of opportunity for making a clean exit was closing fast.

Slinging his rifle over his shoulder, Haran set off into the narrow side streets and alleys. Every now and again, the blare of sirens would come closer, drawing his attention skyward and forcing him to break for more appropriate cover to avoid detection. Knowing he had been set up by Vance, Haran's instincts guided him as far away from the warehouse as possible. And with good timing as an explosion soon rippled through the industrial district. Haran paused in mid stride, spinning sharply on his heel to glance back towards the warehouse where Argyle and Knife had been. A thick cloud of black smoke poured up over the peak of the building, indicating the origin of the blast. Haran's thoughts didn't linger for long though and he was on the move again, weaving his way through cramped side streets while police sirens continued to shriek at him from over head.

Eventually, the din of activity in the industrial district faded out and the sprawling warehouse complexes began to thin as his path began to lead him back towards the major urban center. It would be dangerous to head back into the city this soon. The FSA would be everywhere, not to mention Deveraux's men were probably on the prowl looking for any survivors. Having been on the run for almost ten minutes, Haran decided it was safe enough to take a rest. Removing his rifle from his shoulder, he let out a deep sigh as he finally got a chance to catch his breath. Settling into the boarded up doorway of a nearby apartment building, his eyes turned up to the skies again as he watched diligently for any signs of police activity. Most of the authorities would have descended on the warehouse district by now, but he felt he had put sufficient distance between himself and that scene. He shouldn't have much to worry about for the moment.

Gradually lowering himself to the cold duracrete pavement, a low rumble of thunder echoed down the alley as rain began to pelt the streets. He would wait here for a time, catch his breath and compose himself. Then he would have to find another way off of this planet to places beyond. Once again it seemed that betrayal had followed him, but by now he had become accustomed to it.

[Mara]

(((I’ll put Pak in a spaceport… I think that’s where we had decided they would meet…
Anyway, hope this gives you enough to work with.)))


[…from x]

After his foray a couple weeks earlier to Coruscant, the Balosar freighter pilot-for-hire had made another promise to himself not to stray that far into the Core again, at least for a good while. And while Fondor wasn’t exactly a Core planet, it also wasn’t as near his comfort zone in the Outer Rim as he would have liked. But a pile of credits always made the disappointment of a broken oath easier to take. And though not a poor being, nor one with a heap of expenses, Pak Har’endanno would never turn down an opportunity; it just gave him more income to dispose off in cantinas or effect the occasional repair to his ship. He was rarely picky about which passengers he did or didn’t take, a trait that helped beings forget the bright paint color of his ship in favor of a more pressing matters, matters that had steered them from more traditional transportation.

Plus, Fondor wasn’t entirely an uncomfortable drop-off point for Pak. There had been an extra bonus besides the payment from his clients. He had seen the shipyards as he came in on the planet, and the fighter pilot side of him enjoyed that immensely. Brief memories of his military career had floated over him as he watched the construction with blank fascination. Starfighters zipping around, taking control of pirates, shooting down enemy fighters. Luckily, the spaceport control of the nearest city to his descent had contacted him soon enough, leading his focus elsewhere before the pleasant recalls morphed into his heartbreak, the reason he resigned from that life.

He hadn’t paid attention to the name of the city he had been directed to, only making note of the location and the section and docking bay number he was to set down in. His passengers had only told him to go to Fondor, hadn’t mentioned a specific location, and so he had just entered atmosphere on the near side of the planet, taking a straight line from where he had exited hyperspeed. Pak wasn’t really concerned with details of that nature; he rarely stayed long enough anywhere to really care about which city he was in. As long as he knew where the nearest cantinas were, nothing else mattered until he garnered another client.

His passengers had been an unusual lot, a bit of a ragtag group, if he had any opinion about it. But another advantage of his services was that he didn’t ask questions. Keeping things simple and quiet was just better for both parties. It was only after he had watched through his cockpit viewport as the Ithorian, Bothan, and two Bith left that he had given any thought to what or who they were. They had no obvious weapons but had carried large cases with them. The military side of him had hoped they were just musicians or traveling salesbeings, not mercenaries or bounty hunters. Though his morality and training had shortened his smuggling career, there was no telling what kind of beings he was aiding through his ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy. He had sighed as he powered down the crimson ship; whatever they had been, it was no longer his concern, and he had to put the worry away.


* * * * *


A couple of hours later, Pak was still with the red arrowhead-shaped freighter named the Crimson Requiem as it rested in its docking bay. Before heading out to discover what this particular spaceport had to offer in terms of nearby drinking establishments, he had reluctantly decided to get his ship refueled. In a populated planet such as Fondor, he could be expecting possible new charges sooner rather than later, and he would prefer to not be stuck with his tanks half empty.

Not wanting to let his baby out of his eyesight while the shipyard workers were completing their work, he had hung around the bay, inspecting the outside of his ship. No dings and the paint seemed to be in good order as well. So Pak headed back to the side of his ship and sat on the bottom of the entrance ramp to wait for the Ugnaughts to finish. He reached for the bottle of ale he had secured in his blaster holster instead of the more obvious weapon and took a satisfying drag. Just because he wasn’t in a cantina didn’t mean he had to stay sober.

[Gamov]

(OOC: Sorry its been so long. I've no excuse really outside of having almost entirely lost an interest in SW. However, I won't leave your character hung up - like I already have. I'll finish this up and Pak can get on with his life.)

BIC:

Oridin seemed strangely quiet given the commotion in the warehouse district. It had been hours since Haran had deemed it safe enough to return to the city limits. Up until now, dark alleys, abandoned housing units and dank basements had been his temporary hide outs as he worked to avoid the authorities and Vance's hitmen. He hadn't exactly seen any signs of Vance's goons on the streets, but Haran wagered that when things appeared the most normal, that's when the most "unusual" things tend to happen.

The howl of sirens had since left the skies and patrol speeders no longer hounded him from overhead. At least he had lost one of his problems for the time being. And so long as he didn't draw any undue attention to himself, it would stay that way.

Working his way back into the city limits of Oridin, Haran was forced to push his way through beggars and shop owners who were all crowding the streets looking to take something from the next poor unsuspecting sod. Generally, harsh glares and a few choice words kept the city's vagrants at bay as Haran forced his way through the crowds towards the city spaceports.

Following the lines of traffic streaming through the sky, Haran kept his heading generally easterly as he worked his way out of the city's more populated commercial district towards the trading posts and commerce buildings at the spaceports. At least there he wouldn't be heckled by street urchins and he might even be able to find a willing pilot to take him off Fondor. It would come at a price, of course, Haran knew how things worked in the galaxy.... but he could be a "persuasive" negotiator if the situation called for it.

Nearing the end of the commercial districts, the crowds began to thin out, giving Haran some much appreciated room. He hated the crush of civilization at times, too busy and full of opportunity for something to go wrong. The spaceports were nearly in sight now, he could see the first of the numerous customs stations when a little voice spoke up behind him, the tone almost shrill - like nails on a chalkboard to him. Maybe if he ignored it, it would go away.

"Hey, mister!.... Mister!"

Haran picked up his pace slightly, taking much longer strides as he tried to outrun the annoying voice at his back. But it persisted, like an annoying gnat that kept hovering just out of his periphery.

"Mister!"

The voice was keeping up with him, driving Haran forward until he could no longer take the incessant nagging of the little voice. Speaking sternly, he kept his focus locked forward and grumbled in response. "Go away."

"Come on, mister, just buy one thing. One thing, then I promise I'll leave you alone."

Haran ignored the voice as best he could, "I said no. Go away." He pushed passed some people talking in the middle of the street, his aggravation apparent as the civilians gave him a sneering glance before continuing their conversation.

"Just one thing." The voice persisted.

Haran had put up with enough of the shrill little voice heckling him through the streets and spun on his heel, expecting to come face to face with an adult. "I said....!" But when he turned to see only the road behind him, his attention shifted down as the annoying little voice spoke up at him again.

"I've got good stuff. See!" The little Twi'lek girl held out some crude jewelry in her outstretched palms, the fake glass beads meant to be passed off as precious gems were doing little to fool the Kel Dor.

Haran's stern expression softened slightly at seeing the little girl, "go home." He said, waving his hand down the road behind her before he turned and started on his way again.

"Its not that expensive! Just a credit or two." The little girl said, hovering around as she slipped in front of him and blocked his path. Haran side stepped her and kept going. He had neither the time nor the patience to deal with her.

Clearly the girl must have been dense, or just horribly determined to sell a small pile of worthless jewelry, because she kept pace with Haran and continued to pester him. "Little girl," he said in agitation as he spun to look down at her again, "I do not want to buy anything. What you have is worthless to me, go find your mark somewhere else."

"But no one else will buy anything!" She said almost pathetically, a genuine sense of failure penetrating her words.

"And with good reason. The useless baubles you have there aren't even worth the materials you used to make them." Haran pointed back down the road, "go back to your family. And tell them that before they try to fool another person, they need to start making quality fakes. Not this.... stuff."

As he turned and started walking at a much faster pace towards the spaceport, he could have sworn that he could detect a slight whimper from the girl before she uttered some derogatory remark at him that was well above her age group and vanished back down the street behind him.

With his most immediate annoyance dealt with, Haran let out a brief sigh of relief as he approached a nearby docking bay. The sounds of work being done inside the bay gave him an indication that it might be a way out. Be it a private freighter, public transport, or even a corporate freighter, he didn't care so long as it was operational and the price was right.

Stepping inside the hangar, he could see several Ugnauts working on freighter docked in the center of the bay. Approaching one of the little creatures, he spoke sternly so as to get his point across early and hopefully avoid any misunderstandings.

"Who owns this ship?" The Ugnaut gestured towards the ship's entry ramp and scurried off back to its work. Haran casually walked around to the side of the ship and spotted a Balosar sitting on the edge of the ramp, a bottle of alcohol clutched firmly in hand as he seemed to be waiting for the Ugnauts to finish their work.

"This ship belong to you?" He asked the Balosar, "I'm looking for a pilot."

[Mara]

(((No worries. I’ve got other threads with Pak. And I’ve been a bit slow on my own replies anyway—silly life. Though, I’m sorry to hear about your loss of interest in SW. Maybe it’ll come back. :/ However, I do appreciate you hanging around long enough to finish this thread up. Most members wouldn’t bother. So, thanks.)))


Halfway into his bottle of ale, Pak was beginning to feel a bit better about the delay refueling was causing him. Of course, he would have much preferred the atmosphere of a cantina. The selection of those businesses was a lot more diverse than his own modest stash of alcohol, a stash that was running a bit on the bare side. Besides some ale, he only had a couple bottles of Rylothian rum left, one of his newly discovered favorites. But with the ale running through his body, the annoying chatter of the Ugnaughts was almost soothing background noise. And soon, he’d be able to lock up and get some real drinking done, perhaps get a case or two to bring back with him to the Requiem. All was well, or as well as current circumstances allowed.

He thought about getting up to check with the head Ugnaught to see how much longer it would be but changed his mind. The little creatures would let him know soon enough, once they came running towards him with empty hands wanting their tips for their efforts. Plus, he was just comfortable enough sitting on the ramp, drinking, that he could stand a bit more down time. Though he spent a great deal of his days seated in one way or the other, it was a position he enjoyed. If he was seated, he was awake. If he was awake, he wasn’t sleeping and couldn’t dream. If he couldn’t dream, he was a happier Balosar.

Pak was lifting his ale up to his mouth for another drag when he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. A stranger had come into his docking bay and was questioning one of the Ugnaughts. If he had actually been completely and utterly sober, the Balosar might have worried at the sight of the Kel Dor striding his way. He wouldn’t have had an actual reason to be—even in his brief stint as a smuggler, he couldn’t remember making any enemies so dire that they would hire an assassin. Not to mention, this guy didn’t seem the type, despite his bold entrance. No, Pak would just have been generally paranoid, as sometimes happened to him. Which was one of the many reasons he tried not to let himself stay uninebriated for very long. A slight degree of drunkenness went a long way to letting him deal with the galaxy day by day.

So he wasn’t entirely surprised then when the Kel Dor approached him and asked about his ship. Pak hadn’t actually been expecting the question; he was just too relaxed to care about the unexpected. Before he brought his full attention to the tall being standing before him, he followed through with his previous action and took a long swig from his bottle, savoring it as it went down. It was fairly generic ale, not the good Corellian stuff, and didn’t give him the satisfying burning feeling that most liquors did. But it was better than nothing. After his swallow, he finally swiveled his eyes up and crossed his arms, leaning them on his knees, the bottle dangling from one arm. “Could be. Who’s askin’?”