The Outlander Club

He smiled in a lopsided fashion, running a hand through his hair nonchalantly, "Me too." As the breeze caused by the fast traveling air-bus cut past them as it braked to let people on and off, Nik and Terra got on board. He felt the tinge of uncertainty she was feeling, but it didn't bother him. He secured a firm grip on a handhold and kept his other arm around Terra. She didn't seem to mind, and ending the evening by tripping onto the floor of a public transit vehicle was not ideal at all. So, since it was in his power to keep that from happening, he did so.

The live band had changed everything tonight, thought Odi as entered the club. The ball cap atop his head was slightly pulled down, covering just the top half of his face. It gave him a casual look of concealment as well as letting him secretly scan the room. The hidden microphone in his ear buzzed as incoming communication traffic sprung to life.

::Renegade 6... this is 6Romeo. Radio Check, over::

Casually moving his hand to the cuff of his leather jacket over his hooded tunic, he touched a small sensor and the communicator that had been inserted into his vocal cords many years ago, activated.

"6Romero, this is 6, read you Lima Charlie. Just stepped in, PID not established. Break.... Starting sweep. Have the team on standby when this kicks off. 6 out"

::Roger that 6, Renegade Element is in position. We didn't anticipate the attendance for this band. Guidance from Higher is to minimize Civilian casualties. Target is in the vicinity. Retina scanners confirmed he is there. Engage with extreme caution. Target is extremely hostile. Good luck 6::

The transmission ended and Odi moved deeper into the club, his eyes slowly looking around the area, taking in his surroundings and looking for the face he had studied in preparation for this mission.

He was within a few feet of the table when his target picked his head up. For the briefest of moments they locked eyes. Adrenaline started pumping through his body as Odi stared the man down.


"Fatif Erink... I've been looking for you."


Fatif Erink was a leader of a faction called "The Sons of the Talon." They were a virtually small but vicious group of radicals that operated in small units and used guerilla tactics and quick skirmishes to hassle the government and local populace. It was like anywhere else, local militia groups like the Sons were a nuisance if not checked quickly. The government had no idea how the Sons had been able to keep up as the police and military forces continuously battled them for months.


The Sons of the Talon's true secret was who they were funded by. Generous benefactors, that just so happened to be apart of a Weapons Manufacturing Company that supplied the military and police, provided weapons and money to the Sons to fund their fight. This single company was able to capitalize on both fronts without either side knowing who really was supplying who.


After endless fighting and small time war, the Government had decided that outside help was needed. Through various connections and paperwork, they found a small unit with expertise in high value target extermination. The mission seemed like every other one. Odi and his team were to insert into the city and move through the "Underground" to various hotspot locations where the leader Fatif Erink had visited. The nightclub had been the last of the stops for the evening, and dumb luck always favored Odi and his crew.


Fatif Erink's eyes darted quickly to the sides, no doubt looking for a clear escape through the club. Odi noticed the twitch in his fingers and the change of position in his feet. Fight or Flight. He encountered it far to often, and knew this guy was going to be just like the rest.


"Looking for me? Seems as if you found me. Might I ask what do you plan to do now?" Asked Erink.


He licked his lips quickly, a nervous habit no doubt, as he looked again towards the exits. Fatif's eyes narrowed and Odi noticed his jaw tense. Looked like he wants this the hard way.

The crowd had barely noticed the quick clash between the two men. Fighting must be common in these parts, Odi thought. He looked down and surveyed the unconscious man. Still alive, but his breathing was labored. A few cracked ribs, broken nose, and possible fractured jaw bone, Odi thought. That was the price he asked for and he was served it quick and clean. Now the only important thing was to extract the target quickly. There was an air of uneasiness and something screamed in the back of the mercenary's mind to hurry.

:: Six Romeo, this is Six. Package secured. Minimal damage but he's a Cat 2. Definitely not walking out of here on his own. Roll out QRF, I need extraction. I've got a bad feeling.::

Odi's quick transmission to his communcation's Sergeant was standard protocol. No doubt he would need the help of his Quick Reaction Forces, which was made up of his two weapon's sergeants, two engineer sergeants, and the medical sergeant. His communication guys were overwatch with the other medic.

The plan was simple. One man, Odi, would infil the nightclub, take the target then request QRF to provide safe cover and extract. Too many times had they had the same mission type, and something always happened which left QRF behind the loop. Better to have them move in now, then move in when all hell broke loose.

Bending down, and grabbing the unconscious man's arm, Odi secured his body weight and lifted the man to his feet. Despite the blood slowly dripping from his face, he would appear as another drunk who had too much. Moving quickly to the far wall along the back of the nightclub, Odi found the rear exit.

Intelligence provided a complete layout to the team, which gave a picture of every access and exit point.

In a galaxy rife with the titanic forces of change, the events around the Outlander Club had shifted little since he had last paid a visit. Alpharius couldn’t find any fault with such a mindset however, for even though plagued by the sensation of stagnation, having some stability in this tide of torment was always welcome. When the shuttlebus had descended into the very core of Coruscant’s underworld, the assassin watched the all too familiar world passed him by. Cargo trains and other transports rose and fell in a synchronized dance that lacked any grace and tact of a flesh bound performer. While beautiful to behold if he were a newborn- unaccustomed to the marvels of technology- this flight of hovering vessels was nothing more than a disinteresting and tedious display of human imagination. Silently suffering through the disinteresting play acting out before his very eyes, the assassin withdrew in upon himself; living in his own flesh as if he were an observer, letting the whole galaxy bear witness to his newly acquired personality. Thankful that the ride was over almost as soon as it had begun, the metal clad man roused himself from the crash couch and exited the craft. His trip through the underworld had been as uneventful as the last time he had been here, yet the assassin was able to move without fear of confinement or scrutiny; for he fit in with the crowd almost perfectly. He was just another lost soul living beneath the notice of the Republic and the Jedi thereafter, forced to live every moment of his useless life in the service of greater men who lacked morality. It was a bleak picture that had been woven upon this world, but there was little to do in order to change it. Coruscant would always be a world with two faces; one that she would show the galaxy and the other that she hides from all but herself. The assassin let a shrouded smile curl upon his lips as he noted the similarities the planet and he shared, but swiftly resumed his serious demeanor as he rounded the corner – diverging from the prescribed tidal mass of walking life.

Down this seemingly forgotten alleyway, the assassin had passed by several outlets – peddlers seeking to sell their wares to any that passed. Ignoring them with subtle shakes of his armoured hand, Alpharius moved towards a nearby safe house, near to the very same one that had been used previously for his mission preparation. Taking the keycard from one of the owner’s employees, the assassin entered the small compartment with nothing more than a passing glance from one of the sympathetic staff. Once within the bounds of this safe house, the assassin began peeling the armour plates from his suit; letting their crude image gracelessly clatter to the floor, the assassin’s muscular form was revealed. The fabric of the suit had clung tightly to Alpharius’ form, essentially becoming a second skin to him. However there were some days he wasn’t so sure that it was a second skin, which taking this suit off would be akin to flensing his own flesh from his bones. The syndicate had warned him of the prolonged use of the suit and the blurred lines it would entail, yet he disregarded their caution in favour of the solace it had brought. Never before in his damaged life had he felt so alive, for without the suit there would be nothing left of the man within. It was a focal point in which the man bound by satin could formulate an identity of his own, rebuilding what the cruel galaxy had torn asunder. Retracting the mouthpiece of his mask and pulling the goggles from his crown, the human features of the assassin became apparent. The face he now wore was forgotten by all, including time itself, and such a fact was benevolence in death that he was ill rewarded with in life. Alpharius had taken heart in the face of such controversy, because even without the comfortable embrace of his second skin, he would be able to walk unseen amidst a crowded backdrop. It was because of the benefits in faking his own death and donning the dominant personality of an ancient myth that almost everything played out in his favour time and time again. No one would see the truth of who the man beneath the textured exterior was, and by that fact alone the assassin had become the most dangerous man in the known universe.

Now bereft of the overbearing suit of warplate, the assassin began searching his domain for dead dropped items left behind by the Syndicate. Finding them beneath the oaken wood panelling of the kitchen floor, the assassin removed the oversized duffel bag only to place it in the open space of the Spartan apartment. Unfastening the biometric locked clasps, Alpharius began pouring over the items contained within the duffel bag – deciding upon their purpose and piecing together what his mission may require. From the neatly ordered gear placed upon the floor before him, the assassin knew that the place he would find himself in was unique in its purpose. There was only one like it in the entire Galaxy, a true testament to the arrogance of old idolatry and worship of a barely understood power. Alpharius would infiltrate the Jedi Temple. Encircling him, were the tools and items any member of the Jedi Order required to look the part they seemed to play. The non-descript robe dyed in the dark brown hues of a chestnut were folded up and placed beside his thigh, while the inner tunics and belt were folded up and placed atop the hulking mound of cloth. Beside that mound of thick fabric were the various tools he would require to infiltrate the Temple, including several datachips for slicing operations and stopworms, and harmonic resonators that would ease his passage throughout the ziggurat’s interior. The final pieces of his look were placed opposite of the robe and tunic combination, the chestnut tanned nerfhide boots and the lightsaber he had left aboard his vessel back on Nar Shaddaa. The assassin palmed the weapon with his dominate hand and began testing its weight, making mental notes as to what changes were made in transit. Finding the thumb stud of his sabre, the assassin depressed his thumb upon the activation plate and watched as the sapphire blade snap hissed to life. Alpharius was amazed that the syndicate had been able to repair the damage wrought to the weapons circuitry, as he was unable to do so with any of the parts he had been given to complete the task. Testing the deadly edge’s weight by spinning it in lazy circles, the assassin roused himself from the grated flooring and deactivated the ancient weapon. This was all he could carry within those hallowed halls, as having a sniper rifle the size of a man strapped across the back of a Jedi was simply asking for trouble.

Breathing out a heavy sigh of anticipation, the assassin began donning his newest outfit; silently mentioning that he shed personalities and identities as if they were nothing more than Coruscanti fashion trends. Alpharius had noted several burn marks in the fabric of the tunic, as he began wrapping his textured form in the Jedi garb. Scorch marks from high powered blasters were unevenly spaced throughout the breadth of the cloth, revealing that his newest and previously manufactured identity had belonged to one of the conclaves that were assaulted by the Mandalorian’s during their Second Crusade across the galaxy. Knowing that only one world had been truly devastated in the opening waves of the galactic campaign, the assassin realized that he was donning the masque of a warrior monk whom was listed missing in action beforehand. Should the Jedi deign to check their records for any sign of truth in this nameless Knight’s return, they would find the answers they sought to be authentic and out of date due to the recent re-establishment of connection with the Yavin based datacore. Alpharius silently thanked the Syndicate for the boon they had bequeathed onto him, for sneaking into the temple through conventional means would prove to be more difficult than was required. Thus in making their prized assassin out to be one of the holy order of galactic protectors who has recently returned from the madness of the war, his mission to find whatever lay within the temple’s heart would be considerably easier if they mistook him for one of their number. A fact personified by the man beneath the suit’s hexagonal exterior, due to his former connection and knowledge of the mysterious power mortals’ call the force. A Jedi turned Assassin dancing about the Jedi Temple as a Jedi, how much more contradictory could anyone get? He thought to himself as he clipped his now signature weapon onto the prescribed belt. All the gadgets he would require for this operation were stashed within the various puches upon his belt, taking the form of typical Jedi equipment that would pass under even the most tedious of scrutiny.

Cloaking himself with the warmth of his battle worn chestnut robe, Alpharius began tidying up the safe house – placing his broken down sniper rifle into the duffel bag and sealing it beneath the paneled floor of the kitchen. Bereft of anything that would mark him out as an oddity within the Jedi temple, the assassin left his safe house and palmed the door shut. The biometric lock sealed the door from the outside world and waited with baited breath for the assassin to return. Making the door his newest forlorn lover, Alpharius descended into the streets in his Jedi attire. The very same peddlers that sought to sell him their wares during his entrance to the alleyway shied away from him as he passed, unsure of how to act since they knew that the Warrior Monks of the Temple district had little in the way of money. With his flesh spare face revealed, Alpharius smiled warmly as he passed them by. He had to look the part until he was able to assimilate the data his handler would give him, which meant that he was going to be out of his comfort zone for a lengthy period in time. Considering it a challenging method of practice, the newly christened Jedi knight lifted his hood and shrouded his face from the denizens of the underworld. He had seen the Holovids about the Jedi under the surface of Coruscant, and knew this was how they traversed the paths through the system’s core. Gripping his hands against one another, the monk moved through the foot traffic and found himself before the Outlander Club in record time. Surprised that such a walk had taken less time than he had thought, the assassin took a chance and looked back the way he had come in order to divine the reason why. What he had seen brought a small smirk to his weather worn lips; the people so eager to push and shove his armoured form aside had chosen to flow around him as if he were the bend in the river’s current. It seemed that being a Jedi upon the Republic Capital of Coruscant had its benefits in more places than just the Jedi Temple.

Entering the club and removing the hood from atop his crown, the Jedi Alpharius moved towards the designated rendezvous point and had taken his seat. A beautiful waitress with the human genotype of some unknown origin from some backwater planet had come to the table, giving him both a locked dataslate and a tall glass of crimson coloured alcohol. Silently thanking her with a smile and nod, the assassin began playing the waiting game whilst he sipped his drink. The dataslate was usually tagged with a bio-metric lock that could only be opened by the Syndicate handler he was assigned to, so that if the pad had fallen into the wrong hands; any and all data would be erased and the slate itself would utilize several security measures enclosed within to completely destroy the information contained within. It would turn the slate of crystalline material into nothing more than trash unfit for salvage. That was the way they had operated for millennia, always ahead of the technological curve in order to deliver justice effectively and efficiently – without any outsiders tampering in their procedures. When he had the chance to take one of these slates apart, the jumble of wires and circuitry had revealed to him an impressive secret – one that would even halt the access of a sentient being with the power to read the past life span of an object by simply laying their hands upon its surface. Turns out that much the material that had been put into this dataslate’s construction was stripped of any and all connection to the force by the dark magic’s of Sith Alchemy. How he had known that the process was concocted by the servants of the primordial annihilator had been a complete mystery, but that was the only answer that held any weight with what he saw before him. Knowing that the two slates were identical, Alpharius wouldn’t be surprised if the dataslate was the very same one he had taken apart and inspected during his first days in the Syndicate.

Placing the empty glass down upon the enameled table, the assassin noted the sudden arrival of his contact. Keeping his shock contained within the expanse of his conscious thoughts, the assassin greeted the man with a warm and pleasant smile. “Dominick, it’s been too long!” The woman said, revealing to Alpharius the newest name he would don. “Aye, it has been.” He replied, modulating his voice to sound calm and collected – Jedi like for short. Before continuing the conversation with this woman, the assassin politely passed her the dataslate and took the time to memorize her features. Her flesh was textured in various tattoos, either tribal markings from one of the outer colonies or merely this week’s fashion statement for Coruscanti nightlife. Her eyes were soft amber, nothing close to natural; thus making his earlier thought of a slave to fashion the only assumption that mattered. He watched on as she opened the datapad with a subtle kiss, unlocking the data within by her accepted genecode sample. Passing the dataslate back to the assassin, she let her lips curl into a pleasant smile. Taking the proffered slate, Alpharius leaned back into his booth thumbing through the information. His handler had taken the time to activate the privacy filters for the circular seat, drowning the booth in a sudden silence that could not be breached by any conventional methods. “Alpharius, your mission will be to infiltrate the Jedi Temple on the surface of Coruscant. As you have already guessed this mission requires you to fit in with the crowd, the battle worn robes we have provided you will suffice for the operational parameters. Your new identity will be Dominick Tra’lor, the very name that belonged to the Jedi whom wore the robes you wear now. We recovered his body from the Yavin IV massacre after the Mandalorians had attacked the world, and listed him as missing in action. The Jedi will never know what we have done with the body, nor will they ever – as you’re now Dominick. The black haired, blue eyed Knight that managed to fight his way off the forest moon and escape the blockade’s clutches in a vain attempt to warn the Jedi Council.” She paused for a moment as the assassin fingered through the cover story, eager to hear what the man had thought about his new life.

Alpharius placed the dataslate down and stared directly into the eyes of his handler. “I escaped the Mandalorian Blockade in my StealthX, but barely made it out of the sector with my life. Jumping to hyperspace was an ill-advised ordeal due to the fact my pursuers would have followed my Ion trail to the nearest stable Nav point. I had to lose them before making my way back to Coruscant, however in the evasive attempt to fool their sensors my starfighter was knocked off course by an errant asteroid that kick started my hyperdrive.” The assassin paused for a moment as he made an attempt to recall the details of this ordeal from recent memory, an outwardly described act that seemed to be nothing more than a sudden surge of shame flowing through his frame. “It threw me into hyperspace before my Navcomputer could plot a destination, leaving me high and dry in the darkness of the void until a crew of Smugglers thought to salvage my wrecked fighter. They pulled me aboard and kicked me off at Nar Shaddaa where I managed to scrabble together enough credits to buy myself a ticket home.” The handler nodded as the assassin relayed the cover story, marking out the moment of shame she had implied in her writing. Alpharius was a sublime actor, she had thought to herself as the nameless handler leaned back into the couch and watched the assassin don his newest personality like a glove. “I’m impressed, Alpha. So long as the backstory is set for you, any character is yours to command. If they don’t take you for a survivor of Yavin IV, then I’d be extremely disappointed.” She nodded her head in the direction of the dataslate, “That slate has all the background information you need should more depth be required to sell your Jedi status. We’ve already taken care of the paperwork regarding the identification data in the database on both Yavin and Coruscant. Untraceable of course, we’re not petulant children besmirched by hubris. Your face has been grafted over that of Dominick’s and the man who shares your face has been exchanged with the real Dominick’s. So when you’re ready, I’ll let you know what it is the Syndicate wants.”

Placing the crystalline slab upon the table and sliding it across to the woman opposite, the Jedi Knight nodded. He had nothing to worry about, other than keeping up the act and hoping that no one from his past would be currently stationed within the Jedi Temple. Though it had been a lengthy period of time since his previous incarnation had stepped foot within those hallowed walls, the chance anyone who recognized his aged face would be minimal - for he doubted anyone there would be able recollect his features from ten years past and match them to the ordeals he had endured over that very same decade. At the sign of his approval, Alpharius’ handler leaned forward and whispered in conspiratorial tones. “The Syndicate has recently learned of the existence of yet another sword of Ajunta Pall, though a fake seeded with the very aura of the darkside to confuse those unwilling to look for the truth, it was marked with ancient Sith runes detailing a vault or prison of some kind. It was a place that Ajunta himself had found when he had taken command of the Sith species after his exile from the Jedi. We have a strong feeling that whatever this map may lead us to has something contained within that the Celestials and the Rakatan’s did not want the galaxy at large to know about. As the caretakers, we must ensure that this blade is recovered and subsequently destroyed thereafter. Now, the blade’s runes were reported to be a dialect older to the Sith species than the runes we currently know about – so deciphering the details of the cartographer will be an ongoing process that will take a considerable amount of time.” Alpharius listened to the handler’s speech, hearing the interwoven urgency of time being of the essence unspoken with every sentence. Before she could continue, the assassin lifted a hand to halt her train of thought. “Your concern is noted, but unnecessary. This is not my first rodeo with the monastic orders of the Jedi, so your cover won’t be blown because I’ve looked at your moulded features. I’ll be in and out of the Temple before the month ends, with the identity of Dominick intact by the conclusion.” The assassin paused for a moment to chew upon the tip of his thumb before continuing. “I need you to stay at the safe house for the time being. I trust you with the safe keeping of my rifle, fail me and you won’t be reporting back to our bosses with your pretty face intact.”

With the shocked expression painting her face, Alpharius disengaged the privacy field and exited the Outlander club. He had said his piece thus needed to clear his mind in preparation for the greatest performance undertaken by any force-sensitive assassin in the history of the universe. The Jedi Temple would soon become his play ground, and the false sword of Ajunta Pall would become his newest victim…

Will walks heavy-footed, leading with his heels slamming on the ground. Left. Then right. Then left again. Like a cowboy finding his balance in the saloon. Will's piercing blue eyes squint down to the four Mandalorians. Not to seem intimidating, but to try and focus on the matching patches the four operatives were wearing. He makes it to their booth after what felt like an eternity to Will; only a handful of moments for the rest of the Outlander Club.

"Would you like to join us for a drink?" One of them asks; Will was unclear as to which one. Their lips all seemed to move at the same time. As a matter of fact, all of their faces seemed to move wavily in front of him; his eyes focus again. The Mon Cala waitress comes back with the drinks, and Will intercepts one of the the drinks before it makes it to the intended customer. "Don't mind if I do." Will kicks it back and wipes his mouth. He quickly grabs a second off the table and downs that one as well. Coughs a moment, probably the wrong tube.

His eyes dance around the men around the table, his arms dancing around each other trying to find the most comfortable way to cross into each other.

"Gentlemen, you will have to make your way out of the club. We are closing." The arms cross, the eyes harden. The pancho is forced tighter around his body, a close observer will notice cylindrical items about both his hips. . .