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Post by Deleted on May 9, 2014 10:43:54 GMT -8
Part One: Recruitment
The mission before Eralam was not an easy one. The lost Rakatan could be leading him into a trap, and even if she wasn't, there was the distinct possibility that this prison or whatever had been designed to prevent such a rescue. Seemed logical. So with that in mind, he called upon three individuals to help him out.
The first was an expert on Lehon, having fought there in the chaos days and helped liberate it from a cruel despot. He was a Shard, and while he wasn't exactly pleasantly disposed towards Eralam, he would know better than to refuse.
The second was an archaeologist with a penchant for surviving hostile ruins. Not many people remembered dealing with him, but his name came up in numerous reports over the last six or seven years as a go to guy for this sort of thing. Not only was he an archaeologist, he was also a Jedi, which no doubt aided his survivability.
The third was a heavy weapons expert on loan from Sin. By all accounts, he was a brute of a man, both in size and temperament, but he had a reputation for thoroughness and was remarkably adept at making life hell for anyone he was paid to fight against.
These three, plus Eralam, would form the Rakatan Liberation Front. It was a silly name, but it fit.
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Post by Deleted on May 9, 2014 12:18:47 GMT -8
The knock on the door came at an ungodly hour. No sane person would have dared knock on this particular door without cause at this hour, but then again, no sane person would refuse to follow an order relayed from this particular source. The young Specialist on CQ that evening decided that knocking was the lesser of the two evils.
"Urgent message for Mr. Foyle!"
The Mr. Foyle in question was currently dozing lightly, his arms wrapped around a lieutenant colonel at least ten years his senior. She was as grizzled as any of her male contemporaries, but she and the mercenary had hit it off in spectacular fashion. He untangled himself and paused only long enough to put on some pants and grab a gun before answering the door.
"What message?"
The Specialist knew better than to comment on the mass of scratches and bite marks that crisscrossed the merc's massively muscled chest, some of them bleeding freely, some of them several days old. Combined with a plethora of scars obviously earned on the battlefield, it was a gruesome sight, but something about the murderous gleam in the big merc's eyes said it was best left unremarked.
"Orders, sir. You are to report to the hangar within the hour for a mission."
The specialist handed over the paper, obviously afraid for his life. Gulliver clamped a hand on his shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting manner.
"Cheer up, kid, you did good. I ain't gonna hurt ya. Now do us both a favor and get back to your desk before she wakes up."
He didn't need to be told twice. The Specialist practically ran down the corridor. So far, the rumors of LTC Corsus and Foyle shacking up had been just that: rumors. Having it all but confirmed would ordinarily be the gossip coup of the month, but that would have to wait until morning. For now, getting away alive was the most important part.
Gulliver closed the door and turned on the light. It only took him a few minutes to inspect the gear and make sure everything was in order.
Maria was awake by now, stretched out languidly under the covers.
"Deployment orders?"
"Something like that," Gulliver growled. It wasn't that he was in a bad mood, per se. He just didn't like being woken up in the middle of the night, especially if he didn't get much sleep. "I've got to be in the hangar in 45 minutes."
"Well," she said, throwing the blankets off and grabbing her lover by the waistband, "That gives us a half hour to say goodbye. Now get your ass over here and show me a good time, because I'll be goddamned if you leave and get killed without screaming my name one last time."
Gulliver smiled, then picked her up and pinned her against the wall.
"Aye aye, ma'am."
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Post by Deleted on May 9, 2014 12:30:29 GMT -8
"Dude, you are one ugly sonuvabitch."
It was only mid afternoon in this part of Toydaria, but the little astromech had already managed to piss off the three biggest, ugliest, and most violent spacers in the cantina. The sight of an astromech wielding a beskad had given them pause, but not so much that they were willing to forgive the tin can. Not only had it made one of them spill his drink in surprise when it spoke Basic, it had proceeded to roundly abuse them verbally when they demanded an apology. What their mothers may or may not had done with Gamorreans and Wookiees notwithstanding, it was not the place of a lowly droid to comment on.
"Excuse me," the bartender said. "Call for Mr. starkiller?"
"Pardon me, gents." Goran rolled over to the bar and plugged into the data port of the proffered commlink. The spacers couldn't hear the conversation, but they kept their peace until it was over.
"Pardon me, gents, but business calls."The Shard popped a hundred credit chip up on the counter from a hidden chamber. "Another time?"
"Sure thing, buddy."
The biggest of the three nodded amiably and pocketed his brass knuckles once more.
"Hit us up next time you're in town if you want another go."
The shard stowed his beskad in its sheath and waved jauntily with his manipulator arm.
"Will do. Take care."
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Post by Deleted on May 9, 2014 14:30:47 GMT -8
The sudden buzz of the door alarm awkoke Mike with a start, and sent the leaning tower of books and datapads he had been working through toppling to the ground. It was only about ten in the morning, but he had been up for nearly a week, locked in his room. The sharps container on his wall was nearly overflowing with used stimpaks, and despite the best efforts of the ventilation system, the acrid stench of sweat and stress and coffee was thick in the air. The waste basket was nearly full, filled to capacity with wrappers from the tasteless, chalky field rations favored by soldiers in environments where stopping to relieve oneself might be fatal.
In short, Mike was a mess, and if the urgent message from the Mid Rim Archaeological Society hadn't come, it wouldn't have been long before healers were forced to intervene. He stumbled over to the door, which whooshed open to admit the first fresh air he had breathed in days. It made him lightheaded and that made him grouchy.
The padawan that had been sent to summon the reclusive knight nearly turned and ran. The young Rodian girl knew better than to believe the stories her parents had told her about ghosts and demons, but the thing that answered the door looked like conclusive proof of both. His eyes were bloodshot so badly that it was almost hard to tell what color they had been originally, and the bags under them were horribly pronounced. His sunken cheeks were hidden under a week's worth of beard growth, matted with sweat and grime. It was painfully obvious that he hasn't had exposure to sunlight or proper nutrition in a while; his paper-white skin was stretched taught across muscle and bone. Fatigue and overexposure to the Force had reduced his body's ability to heal, meaning the track marks from stimpaks, normally gone in seconds, were a bright, livid series of angry red splotches up and down his arms.
"M-m-message for you, Knight Hamish."
The young padawan handed off the sheet of flimsi and bolted. Mike scowled, then read it over. Looked like someone wanted to borrow his expertise for an expidition to Lehon.
"Guess I better get packing."
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Post by Deleted on May 10, 2014 20:42:47 GMT -8
A week later, and here they were in an undisclosed conference room on an undisclosed planet that may or may not have been in the Mid Rim with a name that started with D and ended with ressel.
Two of the occupants Eralam knew only by reputation. The first was a massive mountain of a man, as tall as his human form, but with at least thirty kilos' worth of extra muscle to work with. He also could have passed for Eralam's brother. Sin had loaned him out for this mission, on the grounds that there were few better heavy weapons experts in the galaxy, and exactly none of the others had to be shipped off for a little while before they started challenging Sith Lords to honor duels just to pass the time.
The second was a pasty, harried looking Jedi who smelled of disinfectant and bacta. He had been a mess when he first arrived, nearly at organ failure from stress. The meeting would have taken place the previous day, but Mike Hamish was still in the bacta tank. He had one of the most slippery auras Eralam had ever encountered. It was as if he had to constantly remind himself that the group's archaeologist was in the room with them, and he had the sneaking suspicion that Mike tended to forget about himself at times.
The third individual was an old frenemy, summoned because of his in depth knowledge of Lehon. He had, after all, been involved in the liberation of the place from a particularly petty and vicious tyrant. If anyone could find what they were looking for, it was Goran Starkiller. The Shard had also somehow acquired one of Dressel Intelligence's new R2-FKU platforms. The modified astromech chassis was one of the deadliest covert assets a Shard could ever hope to acquire, and Eralam was not at all pleased that Goran had pulled it off.
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