Pesktda

Indeed I am.

The raspy vocoder voice was calm and patient, but if they could see her eyes, it would have betrayed her growing annoyance for his pushing. He looked gaunt and wobbly. The matter of him getting checked out was not up for negotiation. She moved fast, faster than any normal thug had any business moving. The gun from under her cloak was in her hand and the trigger pulled before anyone could blink an eye. The dart was in Fel's thigh, the tranquilizer taking effect quickly.

Her patience was wearing thin. There was too much at stake for the smuggler to fight back. She was going to have to take a different tact. Mel came easily. Sinistra had thought that perhaps Fel would deal with an element he was used to coming across but it was a wasted effort. The next time he laid eyes upon her, it would be on completely different turf.

She looked up from the crumpled pile of Fel on the floor at Melia, spitting a command at her before she turned for the backdoor.

Ditch the dart, help get him up.

She opened it to let in a couple merc looking thugs. She stepped out into the night.

A short time later...

They had set him on a couch, the IV port in his arm feeding him nutrients and as much lotiramine as they could give him. The doctors had given him a once over, he had soaked in a kolto tub for a couple hours. He had already had plenty of saline, enough to re-hydrate a herd of reeks. His disease was advanced but the drugs would at least mask the symptoms enough for him to function. How short his candle was wasn't her problem as long as he realized the gravity of the situation.

Sinistra sat in a large, black leather chair across from the couch with a table between them, the whole room decorated in red and black, with barely a wall surface not covered in tapestries of strange runic writing. It was her private office in the Sith temple she had built there when she took stewardship of the planet from the Phoenix Imperium. A large desk sat behind her, a sideboard stocked with liquor to her side, ornate rugs on the floors of black stone.

This time, there was no helmet, no enviro-suit and no Mel. Just a petite woman, with dark brown eyes and long brown hair that fell down in curls around her face. She wore a black tunic, black leggings and a wide sash at the waist with a black leather belt over it. Her tall riding boots were glossy black, embossed with the symbol of the Empire. Her Empire. On her hips hung the hilts of her sabers: one silver, one black.

As he came to, she looked at him like a mother would look upon a child that had misbehaved. A delicately arched eyebrow, hands folded in her lap and one leg crossed over her knee. Her voice was dark and rich, deep and edged with a velvet quality that whispered of sensuality and power. The rules were different here.

"Hello again, Mr. Fel. I thought appealing to you as something you could relate to would be helpful, but I underestimated you. I see I'm going to have to do this the hard way. I really hoped I could have offered you money and freedom, but you are very perceptive. Far more so than the assassin."

She reached forward and picked up a glass to take a sip of the dark brown contents. Black Cask whiskey. Her favorite. One sip and she held the glass in her lap, looking at him shrewdly.

"So let's begin again. Greetings, Galdaart Fel. My name is Sinistra. I am Sith Lord and the Emperor of the Galactic Empire. I have a job for you."

The act of pulling out the IV was very telling to her. He didn't want treatment. He had accepted his imminent death. Intriguing. She watched his display in silence, cataloging his behavior, his posturing and his tone. She wanted to know what kind of man he was, and when faced with a known Sith Lord and someone powerful enough to rightfully claim the title Emperor, he was still crowing. Spunk.

"The people I'm used to dealing with are Sith lords, sycophants and minions. When I walk into a room, people bow to me. They plot to seize my power or in the terms of my enemies, they plot war against me. Unless I can strike first. That's where you come in."

She sipped the whiskey again, her head cocked over to the side as she considered him.

"The job is a series of them. How many depends on the success of the ones you complete. If everything goes to plan, then it is just a few. If I need more, then I will outline them. I'll supply you a ship and untraceable funds to grease wheels and incidentals, and you've already met Melia and Demarus. They will assist you where needed. The first part is intercepting a transport ship and stealing a cache of weapons, then delivering them to a destination. Fairly tame. Melia will accompany you on the rendezvous ship and then onto the destination."

She drained the rest of the glass and stood to fetch herself another one.

"Care for a drink?"

"I don't expect you to be an assassin. That's what I have Melia for. But your insistence that men be left alive is a little interesting considering what you were serving time for. I also don't see you mourning the men I had killed to bring you here."

She refilled her glass and paced back over to where the high backed leather chair sat. She looked young, far younger than someone in her position should be. Especially for as long as she had been in the forefront of politics. Her hand rested lightly on the chair as she looked over at one of the hanging tapestries. The runic symbols would be foreign to him, surely. But it spoke to her loudly in crimson and gold. Peace is a lie.

"Most of the crew of the ship is not expected to live. They are running an imperial supply route. The weapons are en route from Balmorra to Eriadu. There is someone on the inside on the transport. Melia will zero the targets marked for elimination and you will take the goods. From there you go to Corulag. You will deliver the weapons to a Republic agent."

As for what makes him stay? Well that would be an interesting card to play. She walked back around to the front of the chair and slid down into the cushiony leather embrace.

"As for what keeps you doing this? For starters, there is a reason Melia will be with you. But, I suspect you are asking something else entirely. You want to know what I have on you. I should tell you, it's not really you. It's what I have on them."

She reached forward to pick up a small, black remote. She pointed it at the far wall, the stone splitting to reveal a huge holoprjector. It sprang to life with vivid detail, displaying the dossiers on every member of his crew. She clicked a button and a security feed started to roll, the scene distinctly Smuggler's Run. She froze it as a strange man was brought on board the Red Cred.

"I doubt you recognize this man, but he is a serial killer wanted for a string of grizzly murders across several systems. And he's with your crew. It wouldn't take much for me to connect your crew to these murders. They will be shot on sight on any system in Imperial control and a fair few others where my money talks louder than politicians. They have no harbor, no one to advocate for them. Who is going to stick out a neck for a crew of murderers and thieves? No one."

She set the remote in her lap, leveling him with a hard stare.

"You will not have any contact with them. The first time you deviate from the plans you have been given, I will put out a kill order on the Unfair Advantage. The Imperial fleet will hunt it down on suspicion of known Imperial terrorist ties. The crew will get no trial. The ship will be destroyed without so much as a hail from our side. Do not push my hand."

He seethed at her, and he wore it well. There was death in those sunken eyes, and in the face of it, she grinned and preened like it was the affection of an adoring crowd. In a way, it was. Hatred and love were different sides of a very fine line. Both evocative of passion and all consuming if left unchecked. He hated her, she could feel it in his tightened muscles, in that clenched jaw. The smile on her face was one of supreme satisfaction. She sipped the whiskey, chiding him as she gently rocked her foot.

"So tense. Where is that swagger now, Captain? Where is that spunk you just had, that appreciation for getting you out of prison?"

She let a throaty laugh devolve into chuckles as she shook her head at him. He never really had a chance of avoiding this part, but she did enjoy the exchange. He was feisty. He wanted her dead but she held the leash and all the cards. She reigned in her glee, composing herself as she got back down to business. She wondered how much it bothered him that she was savoring his torment like a finely aged liquor.

"There are a few other points we need to cover first. One. You will continue to take the treatments for your disease. If you think you're going to get out of this by just letting it kill you, you're wrong. If you get sick because you don't want this deal, I kill your crew. Two. If you think that you'll just rebel and force Melia to kill you, you're wrong. If Melia is forced to kill you, then I kill your crew. Three. If you attempt to tip off anyone to what you are doing or jeopardize my ops at all, I kill your crew. Four. If you manage to kill Melia and take control of the ship, I kill your crew. I'll be monitoring your communications. You'll be dealing with embedded agents of mine and I will not tell you who. But the bottom line is this; you do what I say and you might live to see your ship and crew again. If you don't, you'll watch all of them die before you. Personally."

The smile was gone, and her eyes were fixed shrewdly on him. She waited half a moment before she stood from the chair, her diminutive height making her look any thing but threatening.

"It'll take me a few days to get the ship and set everything up. You asked about a weapon. I don't care if you have one, you're traveling with an assassin. It's up to you. Demarus is waiting outside this room to lead you out through the tunnels to a safehouse. Is there any thing else?"

He exhaled between his teeth, a breath that he had apparently been holding for no apparent reason. Turning a chair around backward, he sat and leaned his chest against the chair-back, facing Melia. Ran his hand absently through his messy beard, lost in thought.

Well, We've got our first job. a pause to let that sink in Yeah. First. First of many, from what I gather. You're coming with me, mostly to chill the people she wants dead, but also to make sure I'm behaving, and to kill me at the first sign that I'm not playing the game. You'll also be making sure I take my vitamins, and reporting any rebellious behavior, to the mortal detriment of my crew.

Drumming fingers on the chair-back, he is again lost in thought, and though there was a level of contempt in his voice at the nature of her involvement, there was no anger. Fel knew she had no choice, either. Abruptly getting up and shoving the chair out of his way, it could potentially have been misconstrued that Galdaart was walking toward Mel, but he stopped at the stove and dipped a pinky in the sauce.

We've got a few days to cool our heels till our ride gets here... You got pasta to go with this? I'm starving. 

He picked up the cheese grater and ran it roughshod over the block of cheese, quickly making a small mountain of delicious. He didn't care one way or the other whether he had cheese for the meal -- it was a rarity where he came from... but he wanted to hurt something, and grating the cheese felt deeply satisfying.

Suppose that's up to the boss. The merch we're 're-routing' would likely be easier to move with a couple extra hands...

He stopped grating and sighed, working the tension out of his shoulders. Hell. he knew nothing about the cargo. Could have been one super secret item that would fit nicely in the palm of your hand, or it could be three cargo containers full of rifles and hi-ex. He was completely in the dark. Right where she wanted him to be.

I just don't know... anything, really. I know you're coming. Maybe Demarus, maybe not. She wasn't specific about that. Wasn't too specific about the cargo, either. I just know I wouldn't want to be on the boat we're intercepting. Or if I was, I'd want to be writing letters to my loved ones right about now.

He exhaled and leaned against the stove. A lot of emotions played across his features, and he realized that this must have been quite a normal reaction to an audience with Sinistra.

I've pulled a lot of heists, taken a lot of dangerous jobs. But I've rarely entered into a contract knowing I was going to make a lot of people get dead. I always go in with the notion that the poor suckers have a choice. It never has to go that way, unless they make it go that way.

He took a few deep breaths, just allowing the emotion to drain out of him, and looked at her again, this time with fatigue, and something that might have been acceptance (remorse? reproach?) in his eyes.

We've got time to discuss the plan, Mel. Nothing but time, and for the next few days, nothing else to worry about. For tonight, let's put it all away and just talk. I've got nothing to lose, nothing to hide. And I have a feeling you're not supposed to let me out of your sight. So we might as well pass the time.

He tried to think of the last time he had made 'small talk.' It wasn't a regular occurrence aboard the UA. It wasn't that he had few topics he could comfortably talk about, but Galdaart wasn't typically one to wax poetic about the gardens of Naboo. He could talk firearms with her, but that would still be talking 'shop.'

So if you found yourself with 72 hours downtime, and a transport to anywhere, where would you go?

Fel chewed and thought, listening to Mel talk out her frustration. He paused momentarily as he came to the realization that the food tasted bland, flavorless. He could smell the spices and the sweet-hot aroma told him he should be experiencing some heat, but his sense of taste was simply not registering it. Or much of anything. That was new.

He snapped back to the conversation in time for Mel to ask him his preference. He thought for a moment before answering.

Been a lot of places, but never really took 'em in, y'know? Was always more focused on the job. The surroundings were of no real importance. I think if I had the chance, I'd head to the rim, far from anyplace that had delusions of control over folks. Rim's got some real startling beauty, and I think I'd like to look at it with different eyes than I would have in the past. Just take the time to stop and take it all in...

They kept talking into the night, and though Fel's bowl sat mostly untouched, growing cold, the conversation flowed fairly easily. They stayed away from family, religion and work, but an unspoken agreement between them seemed to say that any other topic was fair game. Sometimes it was impossible to avoid a little discomfort as a subject touched a nerve, but when they finally turned in, they had successfully navigated a conversation, almost like regular people.

G'morning.

He stood behind the door to the kitchen, a mostly-empty mug of black caf in his hand. He was dressed in yesterday's garb (the only items of clothing he currently owned) and drained the last of his mug before gesturing with the empty vessel to a pot on the stove.

Caf there. 'fraid it tastes about as good as every pot of caf I ever make. Which is to say, not the best. More like jet fuel.

Looking out the kitchen window, he watched with a detached level of interest as the early-morning jogger carried on past the little house. He returned his gaze to the woman stretching out her calves, shooting her a smirk.

Look, I'm headed out to do a bit of shopping. Figure this town's got to have a slightly less-reputable shop or two, and since we're on the Imperial payroll, I figure I can find myself a pair of pants that fits a little more comfortably, and something I might choose to wear on the op. Boss-lady's supposed to be sending over a cred-disc, but I haven't seen it yet. You go 'head, cool down, have a shower... I don't move as fast as you, I'm sure you'll be able to track me down. wink

He turned, placing his mug on the table, and leisurely made for the front door.