A Lesson in Trust

[Jeryd Redsun]

After a couple of months under the frosty tutelage of Knight Jibral, Jeryd was used to being on the receiving end of his sharp observations and cutting remarks. Even to the point where he believed he was developing a callous to them. Then, there were times when Lúka said something that opened him up like a laser scalpel, allowing everything to spill out. It was downright unnerving. This time, Jeryd had been foolish enough to both let his guard down and allow his mind to wander, no doubt in flight of the prospect of being huddled over a computer terminal for hours on end. Later, perhaps he'd wonder if Lúka had deliberately chosen that moment to wrench him out of his reverie, or if it had all been a happy coincidence. And later, of course, he'd recall the fact that, when it came to Lúka Jibral, there were no happy coincidences.

At the mention of Baastian Cain, his gaze snapped back to where it ought to be, on his all-too-knowing mentor. The light of surprise was snuffed out too late to go unnoticed, and an unflattering hint of pink bled into his face while he was forced to consider the implications buried beneath those words. Perhaps it was just an innocent throw-away remark. Of course, it wasn't. If Lúka was aware of how he felt about the Face of the Imperial Knights, did he also know about his proclivity for all things Baastian Cain? Had he seen the posters? Did he know about the smashball cards? Or even his holonet browsing history? He was peering into an abyss of uncertainty, teetering on the edge of suspicion, and he had to pull himself back. His shoulders sank with resignation. If there was any consolation to be found, it was that at least he was beginning to understand that the secret to working with Lúka Jibral was that there were no secrets, except his own.

"So, what do we know about the ship, so far?"

There was nothing subtle or unexpected about his sudden desire to remain on task - no matter how cerebral and actionless that task may be - anything was preferable to exploring his relationship with Baastian Cain. It was... complicated. He shuffled along the bed, its tired old springs creaking and groaning every inch of the way. And, armed with the knowledge that they were about to have sliced access to starport security and top-secret surveillance drones, he had no need to pretend to be interested. He leaned forward, and while Lúka worked the terminal, he found himself wondering about the next step of their mission:

"And, when we do find this ship, how do we proceed?"

[Lúka Jibral]

A soft chuckle escaped as Jeryd unleashed his questions, setting them off like countermeasures against the threat of more missiles of personal information being fired his way. Many Imperials in his situation, even among the Knights, might have refused to answer: seeking to discourage this kind of curiosity, to encourage the Cadet to know his place or stay within the parameters of his mission role. Even where this not an unorthodox situation though, Lúka would still have welcomed the inquiries. Curiosity, thoughtfulness, and insight were all traits that he sought to encourage in his students. He wished them to think critically and analytically about the world around them, and that which could not be gleaned through observation and analysis was often best learned through direct questions. Perhaps not the most subtle of options, but the fact that Jeryd was even prepared to speak up and ask was enough of a transition from his earliest encounters with the Cadet that Lúka was willing to consider it a total victory.

"Technically it's ships rather than ship we're looking for, a lead vessel and an assortment of hyperspace escorts. The fighters were pretty dime a dozen, so we aren't likely to to get any duracrete leads on this front, but the lead ship was a little more unique."

Lúka delved into his pocket, pulling out a palm-sized holoprojector and triggering it, placing it on the bed so he could begin typing the appropriate parameters into the search fields. The image displayed was grainy and blurred, but amid the streaks of fast-moving ships, an odd shaped craft moved, all slopes and angles and flat surfaces, and yet somehow strangely sleek at the same time.

"I'm no expert -"

That was a lie.

"- but this looks to me like an H-6 Bomber. The design is Nubian, older than I am, and they only ever got around to making a handful. It's not the kind of design that just anyone would recognise, so odds are it's registered under a false class and designation, but it gives us a scale and some basic specifications to search for, and that's better than nothing."

Lúka paused for a moment as he entered the last of the data, triggering the terminal's search through the starport database, filtering by approximate size, estimated crew and cargo capacity, and a plausible arrival window based on the travel time from the raiding point to Ubrikkia. Scrubbing through camera footage would be a slightly more manual task, but that could wait a moment or two.

"As for what we do when we find them?"

The Knight shrugged.

"That's why I brought a tactical droid and my most promising Cadet with me. Whatever we find, and whatever or wherever it leads to, I'm sure we'll figure something out."

[Jeryd Redsun]

"Hells, yes, we will." Jeryd gave Lúka a nod of approval, and resisted the urge to wink, or to offer a high-five. That kind of talk brought out the wegman in him, which made it difficult to remember he was still in the presence of his superior officer, regardless of name. It was a natural response, and yet, it was also a calculated response.

As much as he wanted to be Lúka's most promising cadet, and as much as he wanted to believe that Lúka believed that he was his most promising cadet, Jeryd knew a well-placed compliment when he heard one. You didn't become the most popular guy at school and the academy without knowing how to work people, you didn't captain a wegsphere team if you didn't know how to inspire your teammates, and what was the point of training to become an officer if you didn't, at least, know what it took to motivate your men? It was a rare moment of the veil being pulled back to reveal the machinations at work behind his words. There was no malice in his design - this, Jeryd knew from experience - and, yet, he found him motivated by it, nonetheless. If it was important for him to believe he was Lúka's most promising cadet, then he wanted to earn it.

So he played his part, of the confident wegman-turned-protégé: it was a believable in-character response that slotted neatly into his mentor's plans.

And Lúka had plans. Even if he didn't want to share them. We'll figure something out? Not a chance. If Lúka Jibral lacked contingencies for any eventuality on this mission, then Jeryd Redsun was in fact a lapdancing Gamorrean. He wanted to consider why the details were being kept from him: was it a test of trust? Did Lúka want to see how he reacted in the moment? An evaluation of his own tactical analysis, perhaps? Or, maybe, there were yet more secrets to discover? But he couldn't dwell on those things; time was limited, and there was work to be done. He palmed the holoprojector for a closer look, and, as he attempted to make the leap from one durni hole into another, he was beginning to realise how mentally exhausting it was just trying to keep up.

"I've never seen a ship like this before. At least it won't be difficult to spot."

He was stating the obvious. Annoyed with himself, Jeryd replaced the projector back on the bed, and sought out a way to make himself useful. There was a datapad nearby, behind Lúka. He could use it to access the terminals security feeds and start searching for any sign of the bomber. A thought occurred to him, just as he was about to retrieve it, and instead of standing and walking, he reached out, first, with his hand, and then, the Force. It was there. Everywhere. Being around Lúka made it easier to recall the time when he first tapped into his own potential; the feelings, the focus, the memories all came flooding back. He took strength from it, and applied that strength to that one object across the room. Slowly, his mind wrapped around it like a hand, and lifted. To his delight, he saw it float and spring tentatively on the air, as if dangling from a flimsy piece of string.

The strain of concentration was taking its toll, however, drawing battle lines on his face, and painting it with a fresh shimmer of sweat. He was pulling, or at least, he thought he was. Yet, the datapad simply bobbed lazily in the air. Lúka was lost in study, the glow from the terminal made his eyes look like ice. With the lapse in concentration, the datapad wavered dangerously close to the table, and Jeryd had to redouble his efforts just to keep it aloft. He was getting angry, mainly at himself, but also at the inanimate object that was besting him. Fear and anger, he repeated to himself. The fear of failure kept him focused, clinging tight to the datapad across the room. But, the anger? For that, he had to dig deep. He had so little to be angry about, lately. Life was good. He was finally able to be himself - all of himself - around people just like him. And, better still, in embracing who he was, the Empire had provided him a wealth of opportunity beyond his wildest dreams. He was on a covert mission sanctioned by the Minister of the Interior, for star's sake, doing vital work for the Empire, protecting its secrets. The Empire's secrets...

Suddenly, the datapad launched itself across the room as if it had been fired from a canon. Jeryd dived backwards, and with the unerring skill of the wegman, he snatched it out of the air before it smashed itself against the wall. Unfortunately, in his landing, he was not quite as graceful. There was a loud thud, as he rolled backwards off the edge of the bed and hit the floor. He rose, a second later, albeit a little sheepish, but holding the datapad aloft in victory.

"It's okay. I caught it."

[Quan Marivva]

####

The colour had drained from Quan Marivva's face. Darkness pinched at the corners of his eyes, a spider web of blood vessels beginning to peek into view at the periphery of his features, shadowed patches deepening his eye sockets and the gaunt of his face. Tendrils twitched and quivered with every movement, every thought, a permanent frown tugging down on the fleshy folds above his eyes that approximated humanoid brows. In a word, he seemed trouble; in another, sick. Hacking splutters punctuated wheezing breaths; concerned - or perhaps merely opportunistic - underlings had offered concern, and assistance. They had been met with scowls, growls, and other sorts of threat. They would stay away if they knew what was good for them.

The door to Marivva's chamber - not quarters, but rather the hammocked nest within his assembled horde in which Marivva chose to live - was sealed and locked, circuits removed from the panel beside the door to further discourage anyone's entry. It would have been welded closed, if that would not also have prevented Marivva's entry, separating him from his Treasure. Soon though, perhaps. He had felt it's light stare into him, and at the corners of his mind he had heard whispers, promises of power and enlightenment. Perhaps soon he wouldn't need such a thing as doors; or at the very least, perhaps soon he would not need his pestering associates. Two. The Treasure had whispered that notion. Only two. Always two. Marivva, and his Treasure.

The aquatic stalked and stumbled forth from the bowels of his hideout, clammy webbed fingers brushing against the duracrete walls as he staggered past. The corridors were quiet, most of his crew ushered forth to enjoy the spoils of piracy in the city beyond, each with varying degrees of eagerness and reluctance. A few stood sentry, avoiding their Captain as best they could. The Treasure whispered to him about their locations, their conduct, their thoughts and dispositions. Some were concerned. Some were scared. Some mistook Marivva's awakened mind for a weakness that they could exploit. Quan marked their names, and counted off a slugthrower round in the chamber of his concealed revolver for each of them.

A thought stabbed into the aquatic's mind, equal parts agonising and euphoric. It tugged at him like a cabled harpoon through his forehead, pulling his attention in a direction, off to the distance. He hacked out another growl as his pace quickened, two rights and a left, and several ignored doorways bringing him to the groaning tower of communications equipment that had been haphazardly piled into this particular nook of his storehouse den. One of the few remaining pirates was thrown effortlessly aside, clearing the controls for Marivva's attention. A few strokes and commands pulled up the security footage from the starport, cameras cycling from the docking bay that berthed his ship outwards, Marivva's icy blue eyes scanning across the faces and figures in the crowd. A twist of the knife in his mind settled his vision on one in particular: a human man, moving along the concourse inconspicuously enough, if a little too ordinary. But there was no mistaking it. The Treasure's whispers grew louder, almost seeming afraid.

Marivva let it blossom into anger. "Ssomeone iss coming for the shhip," he hissed, grabbing the discarded pirate by the scruff of his clothing, and jabbing a finger that left a slimy smear behind over the human face on the monitor. "Find him."

The whispers in his mind grew insistant. Marivva's voice came in unison with him. "Kill him, and anyone with him."

[Lúka Jibral]

####

Lúka's confidence had dwindled, ever so slightly, the faintest hint of reservation creeping in as he considered his choice of associate. It was not the result of any misconduct or failing on Redsun's part; but part of him wondered if he might have been better served on this operation with a little more ethnic variety at his disposal. Despite his best efforts, the simple fact was that he and Cadet Redsun had a certain look about them: a certain physique, a certain stature, and most importantly a certain humanity that was somewhat rare on a world such as this. There was only so much that clothing and body language could do to disguise that fact, and only so much notice that could be avoided.

The best solution had been to split up: to approach the docking bay that held the pirate craft they'd identified from different directions, intending to come upon their quarry before they had the opportunity to react or flee. With luck, they would manage to reduce the pirates' options for escape down to one, the ship itself, and Lúka was confident in Ivy's ability to navigate the starport's security systems and make that as difficult for them as possible.

On the subject of Ivy, Lúka felt a faint pulse of vibration from the device strapped to his wrist. A quick glance down at the otherwise unassuming chronometer ovvered a fleeting display of Aurebesh characters: a warning from their cybotic guardian angel. Ivy had detected another presence actively within the system, accessing many of the same subroutines and surveillance feeds that Ivy was. Someone else was watching, and they were watching the same thing. It could have been nothing, but the Force whispered otherwise.

Lúka's hand tapped one of the controls on the wrist chrono, triggering the two-piece concealed comlink tucked into his ear and collar. "Ivy thinks we've been made," Lúka stated calmly and quietly, too soft for anyone around him to hear, relying on the technology to convert the vibrations of his throat into audible words once they reached Jeryd. "Odds are the cautious approach is about to go out the window."

He let his body shift just enough to renew his conscious awareness of the various weapons secreted about his person, mentally preparing himself to reach for whichever one the situation demanded first.

"Stay fast, stay low, and stay alive. And Jeryd?"

There was the faintest flutter of hesitance, Lúka almost choosing a more formal address, and continuing to deliberate the choice even after the words were spoken.

"The only reason anyone out here will give a damn what you are is so they know how wary of you to be. Don't hold back. Make me proud."

[Jeryd Redsun]

Against the cacophony of the crowd, of burbling droids, clattering tools, and hissing hydraulics, Lúka's voice came with all the invasive intimacy of a lover's whisper. Jeryd gave a sharp glance to the side, half-expecting to find his superior officer leaning in close, to pour more secrets into his ear. The secrets came, of course, but Jeryd righted himself in their wake. Such a rookie mistake, he chided himself, silently, with the slightest shake of the head. Already his gaze was sweeping the docking bay, for any sign of suspicious activity. He gave his chrono a tap.

"Understood," he muttered, "Good hunting."

It was a phrase he'd heard before in the holos; words bandied about the academy to avoid damning one's comrades with feeble motherly words like "good luck," or "take care of yourself out there, sweetheart." Besides, it sounded pretty badass. In his brevity, he limited the chances of being spotted talking to himself in public, and he also reduced the risk of exposing his own anxiety to Lúka. Things had taken a sudden turn for the worse, and it looked like he was going to be making use of his blaster much sooner than he'd anticipated. He took a measured breath, and resumed his journey along the concourse.

Above, slate grey clouds towered like mountains, ready to burst. Jeryd would welcome the rain, perhaps it would wash away the sour stench of fumes from neighbouring factories, or provide some reprieve from the trapped afternoon heat. Little that it matter, he supposed, as he made another pass by the now-familiar H-6 Bomber: the small cluster of surly types that had once surrounded it were gone, and, on the floor, their freshly-abandoned tools. Damn it. Now they could be anywhere.

Wheeling around, Jeryd swept his gaze left and right for any would-be threats, but instead of finding any blaster-toting pirates, he found his attention drawn to a family. A family of Rodians, he assumed, since they all looked like Cadet Thida. It was unclear which of the adults were the mother and father, respectively, but the children had to be a boys: scrambling over their deposited luggage, firing toy blasters at each other, each shot accompanied by an inventive boom, or whizz, or screech. Another minute or so, and there would be nothing pretend about the blaster shots they hear.

"Hey, you can't stay here," he heard himself say, in an undertone, as he closed the distance between them, "There is... important maintenance work about to take place, here. And gas. Lots of dangerous poisonous gas."

The Rodian looked at him with those large vacant eyes and started babbling something in Rodish, or whatever the hell their language was called. They didn't move an inch. Jeryd pointed to the exit, and repeated his message, hoping to convey the urgency of the situation with wide telling eyes. But no, it appeared the subtleties of body language were wasted on them - they looked like simple folk, from the way they dressed, and carried themselves. Time for something they would understand, then. From his concealed holster, Jeryd slid out his SE-14r, and said, "Get out."

The Rodian gave a wild piercing shriek, and staggered backwards. The other quickly swept up the children in his arms, and together, they ran, leaving their belongings behind. Before the stunned silence could truly take root, a voice rang out from behind:

"Over there!" Jeryd turned in time to see a gnarled looking creature raise a blaster in his direction, "Blast 'im!"

The hanger bay blossomed with bursts of red and flashes of white, as the first volley of shots was unleashed, exploding in showers of sparks all around. Jeryd, having wasted no time in beating a hasty retreat, dived behind a large cargo crate, and pressed his back to it. His next message to Lúka was decidely less badass than the first:

"Definitely made! Definitely made!"

[Lúka Jibral]

Lúka didn't need the clarification from Jeryd: the echoes of blaster fire thumping their way through the utility corridor he'd ducked into was notification enough.

It didn't change anything though; or rather, couldn't be allowed to. Whatever urgency Jeryd's words managed to convey or instil in him couldn't be indulged, couldn't be allowed to provoke him into a rush or a run. He moved swiftly, but with precision rather than panic. His eyes drank in the details as he approached the service ladder, calculating the interval between each rung - narrower than you'd expect in the Core; a concession to species of shorter stature like Ugnaughts and Utai, no doubt - the for the briefest flicker of a moment before ascending two at a time. Each ascended stride was rhythmic and instinctive, his mind exploiting the precious few seconds to consider options and eventualities.

He halted at the top of the ladder, a hand held aloft, resting flat against the durasteel of the access hatch above him. He reached out with the Force: not the wide net he would usually cast, but something more confined and focused, his senses dancing across the starport rooftop in search of the forms and disruptions of figures in wait. He felt them, two in all, one sixty degrees or so around the docking bay's circumference; the other a handful of meters counter. He glanced at the access hatch, took note of the hinges; a plan took only a moment to form, and Knight Jibral sprang into action an instant later.

Two more rungs were climbed in a surge of motion, feet and knees pressing against the outer edges of the ladder to brace himself and liberate his hands. One gripped the access hatch like a shield, angling it up as a crude momentary barrier against the thug he knew was behind him. The sound travelled the short distance almost immediately, the thug responding as expected with a staccato flurry of blaster shots that peppered the access hatch, vibrations trembling through the metal and shuddering into Lúka's arm and shoulder. He ignored it, exploiting the thin sliver of time that the speed of sound and speed of reaction granted him to snap off a trio of precise, lethal shots towards the henchman opposite. He staggered and crumpled backwards, stumbling into a satisfying fall over the edge of the rooftop, but Lúka didn't have to relish it. The Force gathered beneath him like the rumbling imminent pressure of a geyser, and with a loud clunk of access hatch against rooftop he surged upwards and forwards in an impossible leap. The arc was low by necessity, ending in a diving tumble that brought Lúka over his right shoulder and off to the side, buying him enough rotation to bring his blaster to bear on the second assailant. Whether it was surprise, or luck, or some passive intervention by the Force that Lúka didn't have time to contemplate, the thug's next volley went wide, piercing the air where Lúka should have been but inexplicably wasn't. Lúka didn't waist the opportunity: a double tap of blaster fire lanced out from his EC-17, converting the Nikto's throat into a charred crater of cauterised flesh.

Lúka's vision and Force senses swept the rooftop in opposing arcs, confirming that there was nothing else still moving around him. Fortunately these pirates seemed to have invested in manpower rather than droids or automated defenses; perhaps an act of frugality, or perhaps merely an exercise in tradition, though it hardly mattered. One more second passed before Lúka surveyed the scene below, only now allowing - or rather, failing to resist - the encroaching sense of concern over Jeryd's wellbeing. Be it genuine, or merely a byproduct of having to explain Jeryd's fate to the Academy if he did not return, it was present and clawed at Lúka's mind the same way; the relief that came from spotting Jeryd behind dubious cover did little to dislodge it.

"Two targets approaching," he stated into the comms, his words carefully calculated to radiate a sense of calm, "One by the outer wall; one in the shadow of the ship. Whichever one you shoot for, the other tags you as soon as you're exposed."

As he spoke, Lúka slid the scout blaster back into a concealed pocket in his jacket, switching instead to the slugthrower stowed at the small of his back. A flick released the magazine, a quick glance confirming the Dissuader was loaded with the correct blue-flecked ammunition. Loosening his shoulders, he took aim at his chosen target.

"You take the first. I'll take care of the second before he gets the chance to take his shot."

A lingering moment passed, Lúka plagued by the unbidden thought of the kind of assurance his old Jedi master might have offered in a situation such as this. Lúka and Jeryd had no time for such platitudes, however. They were soldiers. Knights. Everything the Jedi strove not to be.

A few shots of opportunity bit into the crate that Jeryd had ducked behind, trying to pressure and rattle him out of cover.

"On your lead, Cadet."

[Jeryd Redsun]

The shots made the metal ring, and tremble against his back. A few errant sparks rained down upon him, as he considered his move. His heart was pounding, but his mind was clear. From the moment he heard that calm familiar voice in his ear, Jeryd was transported back to the citadel, to the safety of the classroom, where everything was under Lúka's control. He took a breath, allowing the tranquility to take root - just as he had in the garden, with Knight Iscandar - and as he breathed out, he rose from his hiding place.

Senses as sharp as a knife's edge, directed his gaze to the point by the outer wall, where he could almost feel his attacker, waiting. And, once he was within sight, every other instinct, carefully crafted over the years spent in military prep school, and the academy, took over. Two shots rang out. The first struck the alien in his shoulder, and the second landed like a punch to the chest. His expression of concentration, frozen on his leathery face, took in the sight of the black smouldering wound, before he crumpled to the floor.

Another shot sounded, loud, but not with the unrestrained thunder of a typical slug-thrower. Jeryd's eyes snapped to the man beside the ship, he was seized up, as if reeling from a kidney shot. Two powerful cracks followed, and another; all the tension in the pirate's muscles came undone, and he flopped to the floor with an unremarkable thud. It was over.

Jeryd looked up, and, sure enough, there was Lúka, watching over him like a guardian angel. He gave him a nod, "Thanks."

To his surprise, he sounded good. There was no tremor in his voice, or breathlessness from the spike of adrenaline that accompanied the firefight. Indeed, his thoughts had already drifted away from the smoking corpse across the room, to the other one, except, in his case, there were no scorch marks, no entry wounds, and not a single drop of blood. He approached the fallen pirate, and tossed Lúka a glance, "Tranqs?"

[Lúka Jibral]

Lúka didn't respond immediately, his senses reaching down into the bay below, focus washing across surfaces and around cover like water across a polished floor. Nothing moved, and nothing lurked, but that didn't ease the prickling sensation at the base of Lúka's neck that urged caution.

Analysis flickered behind the Knight's eyes as he considered the sights and facts that lay before him. The four they'd taken out thus far had been armed, and alerted, but not prepared. These weren't guards in a conventional sense: the discarded tools, and the unfastened fuel line left abandoned half way across the landing floor spoke to that. Pirates and mercenaries such as these relied on intimidation to discourage anyone from messing with their equipment; these had no doubt been the poor souls who'd drawn the short straw and been left with maintenance and cargo duties while the other pirates could enjoy their plundered bounty. That might mean that the rest of the crew would be scattered and distracted, slow to respond and provide reinforcements; but Lúka couldn't rely on such an assumption of course, especially not without having a better understanding of whose pirates these were. Were they cut from standard cloth, or were they organised, militarised, honed into something dangerously effective by a leader or leaders who knew what they were doing?

Using the Force to vault himself into the air, Lúka landed in a controlled crouch beside the unconscious guard, surveying his outfit and any exposed patches of flesh for markings or brands that might speak to a particular gang or syndicate affiliation. Nothing caught his eye, which didn't mean such markings were absent, but it seemed a safe presumption that marks of loyalty would be worn visibly, especially in as criminalised an environment as this.

"More or less," Lúka answered finally, broadening the scope of his visual survey to the ground around the pirate. He found what he was looking for: one of three crumpled projectiles, mostly crumpled and fragmented upon impact with their target. He held the spent round up for Jeryd to see, the nasty looking needle glinting slightly in the muggish Ubrikkian light. It was set down atop the unconscious pirate's chest, and a control was triggered on the side of the corresponding pistol, the magazine sliding out into Lúka's other hand. He passed the ammunition to Jeryd, letting him glimpse the liquid-filled rounds while they were still intact.

"Technically it's a presynaptic neurotoxin - acts as a paralytic and a sedative. The tip of the slug is ablative, designed to shatter on impact without damaging the target; that releases the spring mechanism and jams the needle through most kinds of fabric and meshweave. Not quite as efficient as a stun blast, but it's a lot harder to resist or absorb. These, on the other hand -"

Lúka reached into his jacket, the calmness of his motions disguising the slight pang of urgency that now guided them. A different clip laden with red-marked rounds was pulled free, and slid into the KD-30 with a satisfying click. A tug of the pistol's moving parts later, and Lúka's arm aimed casually to the side, his gaze following a moment later, training on the hatch at the top of the Havoc's boarding ramp a second or so before it slid open and the pirate behind charged forth. Two shots spat forth from the slugthrower, catching the pirate center mass. The slugs tore through the fabric of his shirt and shattered against his skin, their violently acidic contents rupturing across and into flesh, seeping through bone and into the bloodstream. It took less than a single eye-blink before the caustic substance reached his heart, sending the pirate collapsing into a writhing gasping heap on the floor that swiftly fell silent.

"These aren't quite so benign."

[Jeryd Redsun]

When Lúka suddenly took aim, Jeryd ceased to study the unconventional tranq round, and watched, with equal parts shock and awe, as the new pirate threat was nullified without fuss. His tumble down the ramp was punctuated with the sort of agonised sounds that made Jeryd wince to hear. Fuss, it seemed, was relative. A moment longer, Jeryd watched the curls of smoke climb from the now-still body, before he allowed his gaze to creep sideways.

"I have the strangest boner, right now."

[Lúka Jibral]

It wasn't enough to catch Lúka off guard, but it certainly wasn't the kind of response the Knight would have expected. That the Cadet felt comfortable making such a comment to a superior brought with it layers of potential analysis; but it went beyond Lúka's sense of Jeryd's predictable behaviours. Growing up in the Jedi Temple was a complex experience, that sheltered young men from certain things. Contrary to popular belief, that kind of development wasn't completely stunted - even Jedi endured puberty after all - but students at the Temple were taught to control rather than indulge. Lúka hadn't experienced any truly sexual or romantic experiences until after the fall of the Order, and even then they had been limited, often a component of a mission as much as anything else.

Before Lúka had been a Knight however, he had been an Agent, and he had long since learned how to work around any gaps or shortcomings in his upbringing and history.

"Not much of a bulge, Cadet," he countered with an air of disinterest, casually tucking his slugthrower back into his belt. "I wouldn't go drawing attention to it if I were you."

He let the statement hang in the air, mind already moving on to the next stage of the operation. Reinforcements were no doubt on the way, and there was no telling how much time the duo had before thry were under fire again. They had succeeded in subduing a captive - a potential source of information who could expose the location of whatever safehouse or headquarters these pirates had - but it would take time to interrogate, and that was an unknown variable. Moving their captive meanwhile came with its own problems though, especially with the crowded state of the starport. Lúka's contingency had been to evade, and then tail the pirates back to their hideout, but if the ringleader had any sort of intelligence experience - a definite possibility, especially in the wake of the galaxy's Treaty-driven paradigm shift - these pirates might be more skilled at evasion and counter espionage than the average. There was the ship as well, though of course time remained a factor on that front as well.

Decision made, Lúka reached back into his jacket, retrieving the blaster he'd earlier stowed.

"Grab the prisoner, and move him onto the ship," he instructed, already advancing slowly up the ramp, blaster in hand. "Find a chair, and tie him to it."

[Jeryd Redsun]

When aspersions were cast upon the quality of his bulge, Jeryd's mouth fell open, partly, out of shock, but mostly, to defend his honour. Then he thought twice about it, and grinned despite himself. Such a deadpan riposte was typical of Lúka, but even he had not expected that. The conundrum he now faced was three-fold: did he explain to Lúka that it was just a figure of speech, or does he respectfully terminate the inappropriate bants with a superior officer, and allow him to go on thinking he is some kind of pervert who goes full mast for violence, and, in the process, and yet, somehow, worse still, leave him with the impression that he is, in some way, anatomically... shortcoming? The residual horror left him stunned, and the moment passed: he was now Knight Jibral's strange sexual deviant little protégé.

Lúka spoke, again, and they were back on task. Glad to have something else to think about, Jeryd approached the lifeless pirate, and crouched; there was a lingering stench of tobacco on his clothes, and it smelled like he hadn't washed in a week. Before he committed to the lift, fully, Jeryd hesitated, and spared a glance at the corpse across from him. His corpse.

"What about... that?"

[Lúka Jibral]

It only now occurred to Lúka to wonder if this was the first time Jeryd had been responsible for a kill. For Lúka it had become a natural extension of his function for the Empire. He killed when it was required, and always comfortable in the knowledge that their deaths were in the best interests of the Empire and his mission. It helped that he his first exposure to violence had come against the Separatist Droid Army, and his first taste of inflicting death had been against the clones sent to hunt him during the Jedi Purge. Perhaps he should have felt some change when clone pursuers had been replaced with, well, what even was the term for someone who was a genetic original, rather than a clone? Regardless, Lúka had killed plenty in his time on the run, both from a distance and close enough to see the light fade from their eyes, and feel the Force grow quiet in their corpses, and he could not recall feeling anything explicit: no remorse, no satisfaction, nor anything between. It felt practical, rational, ot the detachment of a sociopath, he was confident of that; merely a sense of peace that he had acted as was necessary.

Jeryd on the other hand? He wondered what thoughts might begin to sink in over time, and what comfort - or at the very least, what justification - he might provide to assuage them and keep the Cadet functioning effectively. They were pirates, that helped. Not humans either. Aliens who broke the law, and opposed the needs of the Empire: enough of an initial lever to try and dislodge any guilt that might try to take hold. That could wait, however: Jeryd's mindset, for now at least, seemed practical and focused.

"We leave them," was Lúka's simple reply. It was blunt, no time wasted on sugarcoating the harsh reality. There were several ways he could explain why - that's what local law enforcement is for was the most glib response - but Lúka followed Jeryd's lead, focusing on that same practicality. "The pirates know we're here, so there's nothing to be gained by wasting precious time trying to hide the bodies; and if local law enforcement shows up before we're done here, a few scattered corpses will make them wary enough to not storm in and complicate matters. Either someone will come along to deal with them after we're gone, or the local vermin will take care of it in due time. Either way, they stopped being our problem as soon as they dropped."

[Jeryd Redsun]

"Understood."

Jeryd gave a nod, acknowledging, not only Lúka's words, but the meaning behind them. A more sentimental man might have called it callous, and, in the eyes of a religious man, it was perhaps disrespectful, but, for a soldier, there was no greater authority than the Empress, and no greater purpose than to serve her Empire. If that meant leaving the corpse of an enemy to rot, then so be it. Sentiment or faith were of no concern to Jeryd, and, it seemed, his superior understood that, making clear the tactical logic behind abandoning the body, rather than hiding it. The way it came to him, as instinctual as muscle memory, laid bare, before the observant eye, just how much experience Lúka Jibral had had with this sort of thing.

One last glance to the dead Weequay. He found himself wondering if that coarse face had fallen slack, or if he still had that same look of concentration he was wearing when he died; the memory was vivid, and encroached on Jeryd's thoughts, even as he hoisted the pirate onto his shoulder. Up close, the smell was repugnant, like unwashed toilets and blue milk turned sour. With haste, he ascended the boarding ramp, and ducked as he stepped inside the unusually slim ship, careful not to inflict any further damage to their captive.

On his way to the cockpit, he stopped in a narrow room, lined with seats for passengers. It was rudimentary, but sufficient. The pirate was deposited onto a chair, without ceremony, and the straps from neighbouring seats were used to lash his wrists to the armrests. With a third strap, cut loose with one swipe of a concealed vibroblade, his ankles were tied together. That should do it. Jeryd considered him for a moment, then, called in the direction of the cockpit.

"Need any help in there?"

[Lúka Jibral]

The cockpit was empty. Lúka had known that before entering, but it was always a satisfying relief to have his Force senses confirmed by his others. Though some Knights, Inquisitors, and Jedi liked to believe otherwise, the Force was not infallible, and such extrasensory perceptions were not flawless - a lesson that many Jedi had learned during the Clone Wars, when in their overconfidence in their abilities they momentarily forgot that the units of the Separatist Droid Army did not register as lifeforms when sensed through the Force. Lúka had quickly learned to avoid that mistake, relying on his other senses and the technology at his disposal to overcome such flaws; but not every Jedi had been so vigilant. Yet another important lesson to try and convey to his students, Lúka supposed.

After a momentary sweep of his surroundings, Lúka ammended his assessment. The cockpit was clear of any hostiles, yes, but it was far from empty. Scattered tools and fragments of circuitry littered several surfaces, though whether it was the midsts of a repair or an upgrade, Lúka wasn't quite sure. The smell eminating from a crumpled metallic container of now lukewarm food suggested that whatever the task, it had required a great deal of concentration, and had been enough of a priority to distract the mechanic from his meal for a reasonable amount of time. The repairs presented a mystery, one that could either be solved by examining the dismantled circuits in an attempt to understand what process had been undertaken, or perhaps by an examination of the last pirate to leave the ship - whom Lúka presumed was the mechanic - to find any missing components or instructions; but that mystery was not the priority. Instead, Lúka turned his attention to the navigation controls, scanning through the ship's flight plans and hyperspace records, comparing them to the memorised details of the raid against the Archives transports. He found the confirmation he was searching for; but as he feared, the ship's records of transit through the Ubrikkian atmosphere led only to his same starport. Whatever the pirates had done with their stolen contraband, it had been transported from here to an alternate location, rather than being ferried there by the ship itself. That had been expected, of course; anything beyond that was a long shot.

As Jeryd spoke, Lúka looked up from the console, but hesitated before answering. In terms of their primary objective - to retrieve the stolen shipment - there was little more of value that the cockpit could yield. Perhaps there were comms logs that could be downloaded, transmissions that could be triangulated or transcripts that could be scoured for a possible location; but the quickest avenue to the information they sought was through interrogation. That was a task Lúka was inclined to take point on; but then, Lúka was inclined to do everything himself, a habit born from a largely solitary approach to similar missions on behalf of the Inquisitors and the Archives. The Imperial Knights represented a deviation from that prior norm however, and though far from official, bringing Jeryd here had been a deliberate choice to take advantage of the resources and assistance the Knights could provide. True, Lúka could have had Jeryd take over in the cockpit, delegating a lesser task to his student; but why? Why bring Jeryd at all, if the same functionality could be employed by having Ivy here rather than back on the shuttle.

"I've got things covered up here," Lúka replied, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a small, self-contained injector unit. He tossed it out into the corridor behind him, but snared it mid air with the Force before it could strike either the ground or Jeryd, holding it afloat a little below eye level. "You've done Advanced Interrogation with Lady Vissica, right? One dose of stim should start to negate the toxin. Get him conscious, and get me a location on their storehouse."

[Jeryd Redsun]

The injector unit was plucked out of the air. He studied it for all of a heartbeat, before giving a nod. Anything longer was hesitation, and, though Lúka was not around to see it, Jeryd was unwilling to humour it within himself. Hesitation was not the quality of good soldier, let alone an Imperial Knight. A moment was taken to consider his approach; Lady Vissica was not only a ruthless instructor, but a thorough one, too. His identity was a mystery - he wore no uniform, no Imperial insignia, and the weapons could quite easily be Black Market - he could use that to his advantage. Their mission was also a covert one, and it would not do to unveil the Empress's influence in the presence of a common pirate. Almost nothing was known of his prisoner - that, too, could be turned in his favour. And, beyond a trifling piece of information, the pirate was of no value to him whatsoever. That was where his power lay.

He took a long steady breath, then pressed the unit against the pirate's neck. There was a faint hiss, and a moment later, his prisoner stirred. Jeryd watched the weight lift from his heavy eyes, and as soon as he had his attention, he spoke.

"My employer takes a grim view of those who steal from him."

"I... I am no thiefff."

The alien rasped. Jeryd had never seen his kind before: a noseless reptillian sort, with thick tendrils where there ought to be hair, and skin mottled greyish green, like paint-soiled water. Though his facial expressions were difficult to read, there was no mistaking the focus, when it returned to his gaze.

"No," said Jeryd, with a casual lift of his eyebrows, "You're much more than that, aren't you? You are a pirate, wanted in no fewer than 3 systems for theft and multiple counts of murder."

His accusation was met with a throaty chatter, which he took to be the alien approximation of a snort.

"Has the Empire become so bored, in its peace, that it has taken to the bothering offf common fffolk? I know what you are, Imperial."

Now, it was Jeryd's turn to snort:

"Because I sound like I'm placing an order of afternoon tea?" He took a seat opposite the pirate, and conceded his point with a shrug, "It is rather useful, getting around the Core Worlds, with an accent like this. I suppose it adds to my charm."

His mouth straightened into a brief and perfunctory smile.

"But, you? You are a pirate. You are a thief, and a wanted murderer across 3 different systems. That's quite a résumé."

"That is not me." The pirate sounded annoyed, and twitched with impatience against his bindings, "I hafe nefer killed a man befffore. I don't know these people. We hafen't efen leffft the system, yet."

So, he was a newbie. Good.

For appearance's sake, Jeryd considered his prisoner with unguarded suspicion, frowned, and shook his head.

"Do you think my employer gives a shit where you've been? All that he cares about is what you have taken from him. Something small, lightweight, easily concealed? You acquired it within the past 7 days."

"I do not know what you are talking about!" the pirate snapped, fighting his restraints, "I don't hafe-"

"No, you don't." Jeryd stood, closing the distance between them in an instant, "But I expect you know someone who does. One of your new buddies, right? Tell me, do you think they will care that you died protecting their secrets? Will they shed a tear? Hold a memorial service, perhaps? I thought not."

He crouched, lowering himself to the alien's eye level. His tone softened.

"This item is of significant value to my employer. I do not need a name. Just a place. If you co-operate, there is no need for you to come to harm. You can start again. And, I assure you, there will be nothing to fear from your old pirate buddies once our business is done. So tell me where the storehouse is."

After three seconds of silence, he took action. The strike was sudden and fast, with enough power to split the alien's lip, and put a quiver in his silly chin tentacles. It was time to put aside the niceties and make his prisoner aware, in no uncertain terms, that the threat was very real. He rose, ignoring the sting in his hand. When he spoke again, he drew on his earliest conversations with Lúka, and replaced the softness in his voice with ice.

"Did you think I was good cop? You're off the beaten path, my friend, and make no mistake, the longer you delay, the worst it will be for you. Now, tell me what you know."

"I don't know anything! I-"

"The storehouse. Where is it?"

The alien's eyes were wide, and his mouth hung open with all the banal vacancy of a dead fish. There was a flash of silver, as Jeryd unsheathed his vibroblade, it turned gracefully in his fingers and was buried to the hilt in the pirate's hand. His cry was muffled beneath a large heavy hand. Hot ragged breaths dampened Jeryd's palm, as his prisoner writhed beneath him. Though his heart was pounding, he discovered that, in the strange violent intimacy of the moment, his head was quite clear. He pressed himself close, to swim in that dreadful stench of body odour, and forced serrated words through his teeth into the alien's ear.

"Your friends cannot touch you, here. But I can. Are you ready to die for this?"

He lingered for one agonising moment longer, before he yielded his grip, relinquishing the pressure on both the blade, and the pirate's mouth. To afford him some small sense of reprieve, he returned to the seat opposite, and allowed himself to relax while his prisoner whimpered and hissed.

"You still have everything to gain: your freedom, your life. I have no interest in causing you anymore pain. But, if I do not find the next words to leave your mouth to be useful to me, I am going to start removing pieces of you. So, tell me what I want to know, and I'll be on my way."

A moment later, Jeryd stepped into the cockpit, and sheathed his clean vibroblade.

"The storehouse is on the edge of town. Cresh District, where 83 and 109 meet. Look for a green sign, written in Huttese."

[Lúka Jibral]

# # # #

Cresh District. The corner of 83rd and 109th. Lúka peered at the vidscreen in his hands, watching the results of the perimeter sweep being fed back to him from the compact and discrete survey droid that currently shuffled along the alleyway that ran down one length of the building. In fact, there were several survey droids, each one a conversion from generic and unassuming droids of different types and configuration. A messenger droid had bobbed past, scanning one arc of the perimeter. A nanny droid with sensor equipment loaded into a stroller had passed by on the main streets. Lúka's current view was provided by a gonk droid, a slowly shuffling power unit that's lethargic pace allowed for a more intensive deep scan of the storehouse structure. The video feed swayed slightly as one of the guards in the alley hurled a mostly empty beer bottle at it, urging the droid to shuffle along faster.

Lúka tucked the device back into his pocket, and turned his attention to the A-Two Ninety-Five that leaned against the heating duct he was concealed behind. The A295 was a solid rifle, manufactured by the Empire's chief arms supplier, BlasTech, but for some reason, the weapon had never been adopted for Imperial use, instead more commonly seen in the hands of rebels and dissidents. It was a subtle detail, but one of many that Lúka paid attention to. In the wake of the treaty, the illusion that they were Alliance operatives a few lightyears past the border was a believable lie, and less worthy of note than a pair of Imperials a dozen sectors out of their way.

His attention moved past the rifle to his partner, his protégé, the Cadet he had co-opted for this mission. He was a problematic variable, an aspect of the mission that Lúka could not entirely predict and rely upon. He knew the Cadet's scores. He had trained Jeryd Redsun himself. He had seen him in action and under pressure here on Ubrikkia. But each new challenge was a new strain, a new pressure, a new weighty vehicle travelling over an untested bridge. The human mind was a strange thing: at times it could take escalation in stride, rising to each new challenge; at others, one strain too many could simply cause it to snap. It was too late now. This was the backup he had chosen, and no reinforcements were coming. All that remained now was trust.

"On my signal," Lúka said slowly, and quietly, reiterating the plan once more as a reassurance and reinforcement, well aware that Jeryd had already committed every facet to memory. "You are going to emerge from cover, and make a break for that warehouse. You will have two rooftops to cover, and you will be exposed: but that will draw the sentries on the roof out of cover, and that's where this comes in."

A hand reassuringly patted the sniper rifle cradled in the crook of Lúka's arm.

"I will take out the sentries before they get a shot off at you, but in the unlikely event that you don't, that shield generator on your belt will stop anything short of a heavy repeater for more than long enough to get you inside. Your entry point is on the top storey, third window from the left. Shoot the glass before you jump, set off the stun grenade as soon as you land, and keep your eyes shut tight when you do, else you'll be of no use to me. As soon as the sentries are dealt with I will be right behind you: all I need from you is thirty seconds, and then I will be at your side."

Lúka drew in a breath, and collected his emotions, a wave of confidence and reassurance flowing out of him as he exhaled.

"Are you ready for this, Jeryd?"

[Jeryd Redsun]

"I'm ready."

In Lúka's presence, under his cool instruction, Jeryd felt the last fragments of doubt solidify, bolstering his answer like durasteel bars. It was a familiar feeling, assuming a certainty that was not entirely his own in the face of the unknown: Lúka Jibral had been pushing him outside of his comfort zone for some time now, and today was no different. Beneath the calm collected exterior, his heart was racing, and the adrenaline was starting to make him feel heavy from inaction. His muscles were ready to explode. Mimicking his mentor, he took a long slow breath, and visualised the challenge ahead.

On the signal, he saw himself take off at speed, pounding the ground with his heavy boots, and enjoying the sudden release of tension in his arms and legs as they worked in powerful unison to propel him towards danger. The first of the sentries appeared, and collapsed before the stock of his rifle could meet his shoulder; the second took aim, but the scope shattered against his eye, and he toppled backwards, through a halo of pink mist. Jeryd could see himself approaching the edge of the first roof, and the wind, that once whipped against his skin, now passed through him. He leapt, making a mockery of the expanse. And when he landed, shots rang out, kicking up geysers of gravel on either side. His military training kicked in, then. As he rolled into cover, he saw a streak of light from Lúka's direction, and from behind, there came the telltale clatter of a fallen body. That was his cue to move.

They were close now. So close he could see the whites of their eyes as they raised their weapons to shoot him down. His legs fired like pistons, his chest heaved like a furnace - he was a machine. When one of the sentries dared to block his way, he was transported, in the way one who blocks the path of an armoured hovertrain was transported, clear of rooftop, into the chasm below. Again, Jeryd took flight to the neighbouring roof. He couldn't recall at what point he'd stopped thinking of making his advance and actually made it, but the effect was all the same. It was as if he was seeing through someone else's eyes, trapped inside of someone else's body. Instinct had taken over.

The shots were getting closer now. And when a glancing shot triggered the shield generator, a perfect sphere of blue energy rippled all around him. Despite Lúka's assurances, Jeryd had no interest in putting the generator to the test - one close call was enough. More shots rang out behind him. He dared not look back. Ahead, the warehouse loomed. And opposite, the third floor, and the third window from the left, just as he'd been told. Surfacing from that numbing heady buzz of adrenaline, he heard the thunder of blood in his ears once more. It was time.

From the holster to his right came the blaster, and from his belt clip on the left, came the grenade. He'd had time to think about it, he wouldn't slow down. If he missed the jump, he'd fall, but if he was going to go, he was going at full speed. He was in the air again, and the frame of the window gaped as he soared towards it, pistol in hand. He fired. The blaster barked, tense against his fingers, and ripped the glass to pieces just as he ploughed through. He tumbled, and rolled, with a crunch of glass and the clang of metal underfoot. In the corner of his eye, he glimpsed movement, shapes dispersing as one. His left hand was already empty. He closed his eyes.

From the warehouse there came a loud bang, a bright flash, and then, a chorus of blaster fire.

[Lúka Jibral]

As Jeryd made his final jump, Lúka rose from cover, advancing in his wake. An access hatch hinged open on the building between them; the blaster shot caught the arriving pirate in the throat, the hatch slamming closed against his head as he clattered back inside. Quick and precise, with calm rather than hurry, the rifle was slung across his shoulders, adjusted slightly until it hung comfortably. Lúka's pace quickened over the space of a few strides, a jog more than a run as he reached the edge of the building and let the Force launch him to the next, landing in a momentarily stationary crouch.

The advance continued, a small thermal charge plucked from his belt and attached via magnetics to the hatch. Three more strides and it activated, a blistering momentary burst of heat liquidizing the hatch into a makeshift weld that would hold things closed for now. A lightsaber would have been more elegant, for that and for all of this; but they attracted attention, and that was far from what they wanted. Just some gang-on-gang violence in downtown Ubrikkia, that's all this was. Nothing to see here.

Lúka's pace grew quicker as he drew closer to the edge of the final rooftop, evolving into a leap that sent him diving through the already broken window, and into a three-point landing, a cushion of the Force slowing his descent at the last moment to absorb the worst of the impact. The instant his boots and fingers felt floor, a pistol was whipped out from within his jacket, barrel sweeping from exit to exit, clearing the room. Unconscious forms slumped across the various surfaces, immediate threats neutralised; but sounds had already begun to stir in the rest of the building. There was time, before whatever forces the pirates had sent to the starport had the opportunity to be warned and turn back, but such time was fleeting. They needed to act fast.

"Clear," Lúka announced, voice crisp and clear, modulated to fill the room but not spill too far beyond it. "You good, Cadet?"

[Jeryd Redsun]

"I'm good."

Jeryd answered. He was facing away from Lúka, eyes keen, tracking from corner to corner of the room. The sound of his voice filled the space, bold, clear, and unbroken. Another deep breath. He gave an almost imperceptible nod. He was good. He was confident. He was calm.

In his mind's eye, he recalled the scene: dazed and panicked, fumbling their weapons, the pirates fired in futility across the room. Dodging their attacks was child's play. He strafed, picking his shots as the windows shattered and the walls cracked behind him. One by one, they fell. Each shot was unerring, punching smoking holes in torsos and heads. By the time they regained their senses, three of their comrades had fallen. When they took aim, Jeryd dropped from one gangway onto another, breaking a fourth enemy under his boot. A shot hit the metal railing, it sung in protest, spitting sparks where he had once been. They moved so slowly, labouring, it seemed, under the weight of some unfathomable burden. Jeryd killed his fifth with a shot to the temple; he hadn't even seen it coming.

That was when Lúka arrived, and, in the time it had taken for him to secure his first kill, his superior officer had dispatched of the rest without so much as taking a single step. Jeryd didn't want to smile - it was cocky and unprofessional - but he couldn't help it. Perhaps later, in some quiet moment of introspection, he'd wrestle with the guilt of killing strangers in cold blood. But that was later. In the now, he was a finely-tuned instrument of the Empire's will, a harmony of peerless training and unfaltering belief. The Force had indeed made him strong, and his journey had only just begun.

With a glance at Lúka, he corrected his assessment with a thankful nod, "We're good."