Pesktda

He had to admit, he was more than a little disappointed it wasn't one of the toughs who he knew were tailing them. He'd have had zero compunction about making one of them eat their own teeth, or at the very least give a good accounting of himself before succumbing to their punches and kicks. It was what he had been expecting. Mel, on the other hand... it meant that they knew he was aware of the tail, and it meant that they had a fair understanding that he wouldn't try anything with Mel, or hurt her.

Smart.

Only if you're expecting someone to follow you into a dingy alleyway. He pushed off the wall and walked toward her. I wanted a fight. Wasn't supposed to be you.

He walked past her and into the street, walking back in the direction of the safe house -- a good hours' walk from Pesktda Port.

...unless you feel like fighting. He glanced over his shoulder, saw her face, and the smirk dropped. I guess not. Turning his attention back to the walk he spoke to her half under his breath, though he walked ahead. Who else would be listening? Not many around this neighborhood at this time of day.

Any word from the Boss-lady about transport or funds? Time to get off this rock. Aren't you tired of being pushed around?

His answer didn't come immediately. His mouth worked under his beard, as if there were many things he might've said, and didn't. In the end, he stopped mid-stride and turned to face her. There was a careful, practiced calm to his motions as he stepped closer to her. Raised his hands, eyes locked on hers, a fierce look of determination and -- was it sadness? Hope? -- behind his eyes. His fingers nearly touched the redness and swelling on her face, her burst lip, but didn't. Settled on her glasses, and after a moments' hesitation to ensure she wasn't going to lash out or recoil, his eyes never leaving the lenses of her dark shades, he drew them down, off her face. He looked over her features, her bruising, the swelling around her eye. When he finally spoke, the words might have sounded stern, if it weren't for the hurt in them. He spoke carefully, seemed to genuinely want her to understand, to know, to believe him.

Freedom is he loses the words for a moment, or chooses to replace a train of thought with another it's no illusion. And you he places the glasses gently in her hands ...don't belong to anyone. 

He turns and continues on, toward the safe house. In his mind, a scene plays over and over. Sinistra on bended knee, an epaulette dangling, ripped away, and a shoulder seam on an otherwise clean uniform torn. Blood runs in a small rivulet from the corner of her mouth. A hand raises a battered DL-22 to her temple. 

Over, and over. 

Fel had entered after Melia, and his hackles raised as soon as he saw the man seated, waiting for them. A quick glance at Mel told him this was the one who had beaten her. The words he had spoken to her, not a dozen city blocks back, still echoed in his ears. Did he truly believe what he had said? Rarely had the spacer been confronted with a reason to back up his ideology so soon after making it plain. Come to think of it, he wasn't particularly prone to speaking his mind aloud. hmph.

If he stood by, his words would be so much hot air to Melia, and he had meant it. Every word of it. Besides, he'd been looking for a fight not fifteen minutes ago.

Yeah. He stepped forward, coming to within a yard of the spook. A good reason why I shouldn't punch your teeth down your throat.

He stood, ready. He really hoped the goon would provide a good reason. Because if he didn't, well... Sinistra wouldn't mind if her soldiers, or her pawns got a few bruises...

There might've been one name Necktie could've uttered that would have stopped Galdaart in his intent. 

That one wasn't it. 

"Liya. Let's start there. Ms. Tervho isn't the only one here to make sure you toe--"

Fel hit the man as hard as he had ever hit another being, and was rewarded with a sickening crunch, though in the split second following the attack, the Outlander couldn't be certain if it had been Necktie's orbital bone, or something inside his own hand, or both. Fireblast, the pain was instantaneous, and went off like a gunshot. Stepping back, and attempting to shake the pain out of the offending appendage, he groaned quietly with the pain, and looked down at Necktie, now on the floor, looking dazed. 

The boss-lady was very specific about how I could die, and how I could ensure the deaths of my former crew. I bungle a job she assigns. I attempt to contact my people. I force one of my handlers to kill me. I tip off the opposition. Nowhere did she say anything about me laying a beating on one of her dumb-ass goons. I suppose it's open to interpretation. But I can't imagine she'd send a Star Destroyer out after my people just for making you a little less pretty. You're not worth it. 

To punctuate this statement, the pilot sends a boot into Necktie's solar plexus, before palming the cred-sticks in his non-wounded hand and slipping them into a pocket, and taking a single step back from the prone form, slowly rising from the floor.

I'm going to do your boss' job. And the next one. And the one after that. Till it's over. Until that time, I'm going to look out for my crew, like I always do. pointing at Mel And she is my crew. So, if either myself, or Ms. Tervho see you within a mile of the landing pad tomorrow, I'm going to fill you full of turbo-laser-sized holes. And I won't lose a seconds' sleep over it. 

Necktie had righted himself, and now faced Fel and Melia. 

Now, you can retaliate, beat the ever-living snot out of me if you like, but then you'll have to explain to Lord Sinistra why her operatives weren't able to intercept their first target on schedule. And I think she'd be pretty upset about that. So why don't you piss off, instead?

As Necktie closed the door, Fel moved to a nearby window and peered thru the curtain to watch him go, his back to Mel as he inhaled a deep breath. Grabbing hold of the fourth and fifth fingers on his right hand, he pulled them sharply and put them back into a position that more closely resembled 'normal,' exhaling as he did so, stars momentarily dancing in front of his eyes. The spacer watched as Necktie moved off along the laneway behind the row-house and was gone. Once the agent was out of sight, the Spacer leaned against the window-frame and exhaled a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. 

Good? No... it's all likely junk from your perspective. But it's my kinda junk. turning to face Mel, once he's fairly certain that Necktie isn't coming back with friends Ship'll be here tomorrow. We should be at the spaceport by 0500. holding up one of the previously-palmed cred-chips I'm going to head back to 'Shelf Life' and pay for my provisions after dark. Make a second stop. If you want to, you can come with me. Should have said that the last time I left the safe house. My fault they came down on you. 'course, if you'd rather get some rest for what's yet to come, I can't say I blame you. 

Fel rubbed his swelling hand, shook it to dull the pain, and then smiled in spite of himself. He really hadn't expected to get away with that, at all. 

You got details of the mission yet? Location? Coordinates? Or are we flying blind? 

"Blind for now, although I'm betting our answers are on the ship in the morning. I'm used to these ops. They handle everything, you just show up and do as you're told... I'll go with you tonight. I could use a drink." 

Fel leaned against the window frame, still half-expecting Necktie to return carrying a Really Big Gun. It didn't seem like that was going to happen, but still he watched. He was reminded of Ryloth, and how he had relaxed his guard for just a moment, and now Dazac and Crux, and more than a handful of civilians lay dead. Because he was looking the other way. It was a long time before he spoke, and when he finally moved away from the window, it was as if the spacer half expected the window-frame to jump off the wall and attack him. He didn't turn away from the portal, he retreated from it. 

She came back from the second floor and found him much as she had left him, standing equidistant from the front door and the window, looking tense as if ready to strike. Her presence, and the bottle cap hitting the bin brought him back to the present, though his fingers were still white-knuckle tight, balled into fists at his sides. Seeing her, the older man smiled through his scraggly beard and loosened up. He shrugged his head toward the door. Let's go. 

The evening air was cool, and the walk did him some good. He was always like this before an op. 'specially an op with real stakes. Jumpy, ill-at-ease, irritable, distracted -- a thousand things going thru his mind. Malora could read it, Jace too. But Mel didn't really know him, and he tried to swallow his uncertainty and be present. 

"Did you mean that? About the crew thing?"

They had walked maybe fifteen minutes, close side-by-side, but not speaking much, when the question came from out of nowhere. For a moment, Galdaart had to think back to recall what she might have meant. But there it was, plain as day. His reply was measured, and he took a few moments before speaking. 

When I was taken on the 'Run, I told myself my days of caring for others, Captaining, were over. It's a hell of a thing to take responsibility for another life. But it seems our employer has given me a new reason to live, at least for awhile. To clear my crew of the wrongful death she holds over their heads... I can't do that alone. pause Th' need for help aboard ship is the worst reason to have a crew. You have to genuinely like the people you're working with, admire them, trust them. Least in my line of work you do. He cast a sideways glance at the young woman I didn't pick you, Mel. You were assigned to me. And I don't typically get along with my minders. It's not who I am. But I like you. Against my own judgement, I trust you, too. So yeah, chuckle if we can get past the whole 'you might kill me under orders' thing... yeah, I meant exactly what I said. 

c'mon... the 'Shelf Life' is right around the corner...

It was a delicate thing they were attempting. Even as they made their way slowly toward the spaceport, the authorities were passing in the other direction, wasting no time in heading for the 'Shelf Life' tavern. Mel looked a little twitchy. Galdaart could just about guess the unspoken questions that played out across Mel's face: how far to the spaceport? How good a description did the witness get? Did Fel's victim have friends on our tail? But mostly: can we get away with this? Mel had no difficulty in leaving the safe-house and its meagre contents behind. Everything she needed would be provided aboard their new ship.

For his part, Fel was doing his best not to bleed on everything / pass out which would make gaining access to the starport just that much harder, was trying to remain calm while driving the repulsor-sled that was (slowly) taking them in the direction of the small Pesktda spaceport, hoping to the Maker that the 'Shelf Life' goons didn't have a tracker on the sled, and simultaneously dredging his memory to try and remember if he had ever flown a VCX-820 before.

He had not.

The cloak they'd traded a stunned, inebriated college student fifty credits for was ill-fitting, but did the job of disguising Fel's injured arm well enough. It didn't hurt that the guards at the Pesktda starport were so engrossed in a holovid they barely paid the pair any notice whatsoever, merely scanned their docking card, and pointed them in the direction of bay twenty-two. Once inside, they were less likely to come under serious scrutiny or attract unwanted attention from the outside world. The Docking pass Sinistra had provided was top-rate, untraceable, and gave their identities as couriers from a mid-rim agency, no doubt another front, but legal on paper. The guards didn't even seem to care. This obviously wasn't Coruscant, or some high-sec Core World. Fel breathed a little easier once they were inside the port facility, even skirting past the local defense force birds. The worst was over. He'd done this dance many times before. Getting off-world was rarely difficult. It was the landing that was usually dicey. Melia still looked grim.

Bay twenty-two was small, a shuttle bay, barely bigger than a fighter port. And with good reason. Damn, the VCX was small. The Dar'Yaim had been small in Fel's estimation of what passed for a 'light freighter,' but this was tiny by comparison. Barely 20 meters long, CEC had obviously bent the rules when designing this 'freighter.' It was positively festooned with weapons, and even from several paces distant, Galdaart could tell there was no cargo capacity to speak of. Great for outgunning some unwitting pirates or outrunning almost anything, but not much for carrying the load. If you stripped 80% of the superstructure away, she actually resembled the Dar'Yaim quite a bit. Centre-line cockpit, small cargo mandibles outboard from the cockpit. However, the rear gunnery position was a departure for a CEC design, and the massive cargo grapplers were more reminiscent of the 1300 series. She sat low, squatting on stubby, strong landing pylons, and looked, even standing still, as if she was ready for a fight.

I hope you are...

...hope you are what? asked Melia, who was detaching all deck leads and fuel lines.

Never mind... he replied, as he ran a hand over her smooth, unmarked surface.