Log:Resistance: Dashara's Choice
So the Kath Hounds have followed the scent home. To a home. An apartment? A sex shack? In truth, there's no telling what's behind door number one in full detail, only that the mercenary Dashara Rand - former officer of First Order Intelligence Bureau - Interrogator - is there. She is not alone, as the eyes lurking on the street have observed, but she is on the Order's shit list, disowned and 'wanted' in less than welcoming terms.
In Resistance terms, this makes her ripe for the picking. Here and now. The General's orders echo hauntingly, annoyingly, in LC Greystorm's addled brain as she materializes from shadow on the structure's second level catwalk. We want her alive, Ambrosia. Alive, Ambrosia. Alive.
Such a buzzkill.
"Ready to breach, on my mark," the aging rebel growls into her comm, one hand already securing the lock-f*king device on the door. "Y'all in position to catch runners?"
Standing on the other side of the door from Greystorm, Hazar Jast draws his pistol from his hip and holds it up by his chest with the barrel pointed towards the floor. The young man licks his lips and takes a deep breath before he nods to his commander, "On your mark, ma'am." There's a look of nervous excitement on his face as he makes sure his feet are shoulder width apart and his body weight is slightly forward, ready to press out his pistol and assume a firing stance as soon as the door opens.
Rato Darsi is a portable computer with horns, hanging back with the backup and cleanup team. She's got an ear-piece that works more like an awkward headset with those montrals; she's got wires dangling around her like some weird insect and her datapad is flashing a continuous stream of illegible information. "Is right door." She grunts through the comms as the strike team stalks through the catwalk. She's armored and a pistol hangs at her belt as she ducks around a corner, always out of sight.
Inside the room Dashara Rand or DX1066 as she used to be referred to is straddling the hips of her bedmate for the night. She is buck naked as is the other woman a blue Twi'lek dancer known as Jayla - popular amongst the menfolk frequenting her establishment on Nar Shaddaa. Usually Dashara and Jayla prefered men. But a mixture of alcohol and curiosity sees them in this particular situation. Dashara was never in the martial end of the First Order despite being fit enough and strong enough as well as a decent shot. In other words she is not likely to be prepared for the raid. Her blaster is somewhere on a chair nowhere near her bed. Jayla reaches up to fondle Dash's chest further distracting her.
"Copy," grunts the shadow-plated Colonel, then she takes a step back from the door and motions for her rookie to do the same.
As far as detonation devices go, it's a whisper but not silent by any means. Far as Ambro's concerned, it doesn't need to be. "ASSES DOWN!!" Booms a hoarse and angry voice to whomever is on the receiving end inside as the door submits to the tech and snaps open. Broad strides carry her inward with pistol in her own hand, half shielded head swiveling this way and that to mark any movement, aka targets. What she /sees/ inside the small apartment isn't so much shocking as it is unexpected, of course. This wouldn't be the first time she'd interrupted a little coital bliss with lethal force, but this /is/ the first time she a) isn't paid to kill and b) all involved parties within are female.
"Well..." the salty soldier muses aloud. "I'll be damned. S'a fine party you throw, DX1066."
Turning into the room the young Resistance fighter lifts his weapon aim points it at the occupants, yelling out very loudly: "GET DOWN!" Of course, the people in the room are already getting down and Hazar Jast's eyes grow wide in shock. His pistol stays trained on the two women, but he stops making noise. Hell, his commander is good at this stuff somehow, so the young man does his damnedest to maintain his professionalism. Even if his cheeks begin to turn pink.
Data, data, data, data, some images - hello now. "Is not on my list." Rato balks through the comms, blinking as she gets a few grainy flashes. Switching off the radio, she turns to the Res oeprative sharing in her cover "Is party they did not invite Rato in, is sad, no?" She grunts at the operative beside her. "Should have given you these data nasties and gone with the blazing balsters, yah?" Her compatriot isn't amused and the Togruta rolls her yellow eyes, pouting. She wanted to shoot at the naked people.
Jayla is frightened and hides under the sheets where Dashara is merely momentarily startled. She has a degree of grace under fire standing up next to the bed buck naked and evidently unashamed of it. An adroit observer might conclude based on a view of her 'assets' that she has no cause to be ashamed. She takes a swig from a nearby hip flask. Dash had turned to deathsticks and alcohol as well as meaningless trysts like her present one to drown out the unwelcome pangs of conscience that she seemed to be suffering from lately. Looking the interlopers over, "Hmm - Resistance right? And here I was thinking my illicit association with the Galactic League of Good Conversationalists had caught up with me." She takes another swig. "Well what do you want?" Jayla does her best ghost impersonation hiding beneath the sheets even as Dash stands out completely naked in the open.
"Get gone, girl," Ambrosia shrugs her pistol at the tremoring body under the sheets. "Our business ain't with you." And, in show of good faith, she speaks aside into the comm "Got a blue Lek comin out. Let her go on her way." See? Steely, green eyes settle back on target - another pair of glittering, albeit intoxicated green. "What's in the flask?" She sounds serious, but starts to perform a little sweep of the rest of the space, motioning for Hazar to hold his aim.
As instructed, Hazar keeps his weapon trained on the asset they're here for. He doesn't need to talk at this point, having yelled his bit when he entered the room, so the young human keeps himself quiet and lets Ambrosia do what she needs to do. His attention rests as much on the front sight of his blaster as he can manage, making sure that his aim is steady and his finger is alongside the trigger.
"Copy." Rato grunts, still clutching her datapad instead of her pistol. She trusts her companions to hold their weapons out and be intimidating; the Togruta, instead, sets her terminal aside and tugs her poncho over her head (awkward with only one arm) and is holding it out for the Twi'lek as she scurries from her close encounter. The blue of the garment is going to clash terribly with the poor girl's skin.
Jayla takes the poncho and her own clothing and sundries and scurries off. "Don't think she's going to be looking me up again for a lay soon," Dashara remarks cynically. As for her hip flask, "It's not filled with poison if you are worried - unless you count Corellian Spirits as poison - which technically they are," Dash takes another swig. "Blasters over there by my clothing - I've no other weapons..." She's being cooperative.
"Not worried," Ambrosia grunts, standing on tiptoe to feel out around the top of a window arch. Some plaster crumbles away under her gloved. fingertips. Shitty construction. "Seen your taste in women...figured I'd inquire about another palate." It doesn't take her long to make her rounds and squirrel away the blaster onto her own person, then jam her personal firearm into its holster alongside. Both hands are now free...to pull off her helmet.
The face revealed underneath is one that's been advertised before, on this moon, by enemy and Res-funded ad alike, including footage of her own death. She's a ghost! It's the face of a woman weathered and worn, sunken from her prime of life, but no less striking. The left side of her mouth seems to droop just slightly lower which when coupled with a 'smile' forms one hell of a lopsided smirk. The scars, what few are visible, speak for themselves. This bitch has seen some shit. So she spares the rest of her rehearsed niceties in stock, once the civilian's left the room and left their quarry behind.
"Listen up," reaching down, she finds Rand's pants and wads them into a ball before tossing them to her. "I know the skeletons in your closet and I don't like you. I'm sure as hell not here to take ya up on a round 'two'. But see, sweetheart, the General's of the opinion you're more interesting alive than dead...useful, even. She doesn't always listen to my counsel, so congratulations. You've got a choice to make." Other articles of clothing get tossed next - more falling short than not - which clears room off that chair for her to help herself. You can almost hear those joints creaking as she eases back.
With the boss lady having a conversation and the target getting dressed Hazar Jast relaxes ever so slightly. His weapon is still aimed and he's still looking through the sights, but he's not as on edge as before. His cheeks are still pink, though now that clothes have entered the picture that's likely to stop being the case. His hands loosen on the grip of his weapon for a moment, then tighten up again, making sure they don't get stiff. The young man looks on the scene with an expression of determination.
Rato watches Jayla leave, fingers flying over the screen of her terminal without looking down at it; the Twi'lek is in the system now, whether she likes it or not. "I liked that cover." She grumbles darkly, watching her favorite poncho flounce away before dropping back to a kneel, hunched over her datapad like a creepy data-gollum.
Now alone with the rebels Dashara takes her time getting changed. There is a definite haughtiness to her. "Wow with all this talk of not liking me and being on the side of shooting me you make it sound so appealing..." snaps Dashara. She's a talker. "Will I get an audience with the General? Or is it just you grunts who are going to be slapping me around?" If she recognises Amber she does not show it - or perhaps she'd just been out of the game for so long that her memory of prominent Resistance 'terrorists' had faded. Finally she is dressed. She's tall and cuts a striking figure even in her ratty mercenary getup.
“We’re all a bunch of grunts, these days.” Ambrosia sits stiffly there, watching Dashara’s hands closely as she goes through the process of getting decent, save one brief glance spared aside to /her/ grunt whose cheeks are pretty in pink. “Why’d you leave the Order, Rand? Benefits package disagree with you or did you have some moral epiphany?” Then a grumble to someone not in room, via comm. "How's it lookin' out there?"
The young grunt's cheeks slowly return to their normal shade thanks to the lack of nude beings in the room with him. His weapon doesn't waver the whole time, though, nor does his attention seem to. Hazar's determined to not screw up this mission if he can avoid doing so, so he keeps on focusing on Rand, letting the women in the room communicate with one another without any interruption.
The one-armed intelligence operative remains crouched out of sight. Are they clear up there? Rato has those montrals, she's got /great/ 360 radar going - were there anyone sneaking up, she would /know/. "Is clear." The Togruta growls back, not feeling any thrums or vibrations or other ominous creeper-ups. She doesn't notice anything - if someone is sneaking up on them, they're very good at it.
Dashara cants her head and closely examines the ground before slowly answering Amber's question, "I think I wanted the nightmares to stop. Hard booze and other things not commonly available to troopers - at least not Lieutenants - have helped. And I lacked the insight to stay on as a fifth column in the First Order in order that I might give them a more subversive dose of my antipathy. Wanted to hunt down my family as well - my real one. Turns out they were war profiteers who 'donated' me to the Order. When they tried to return me to the Order a nasty shootout ensued. Puts me a paygrade above mere deserter. I think traitor is the word. I would have sought you guys out on my own but I wasn't sure how I would have been greeted - or that our styles would mesh," she takes another swig.
Shiny, shiny, shiny, shi--yessss
Somewhere out there in the dark, down on ground level is a bum so covered in rags it's difficult to discern what race the alien - or human - even is. They pull a triumphant glint of something from a refuse pile with the sort of dumpster-diving gusto that'd make Rato proud, or jealous, and keep trundling along...conspicuously closer to Rato and her tech. Expensive shinies.
Ambrosia listens intently, as much with her eyes as her ears. Er. Cochlear implants. "We're all traitors here, if you read the headlines. The hell other kinda style is there?" She leans a bit to the left then and goes fishing around her right hip. Lo and behold..it's a flask.
Yep. Now his boss is drinking. That's not for Hazar to worry about, he's got one job to do and that's covering the prisoner to make sure that nothing goes sideways. The young soldier keeps at it, weapon trained on the former First Order officer for as long as it takes.
Of course your boss is drinking, Hazar, why aren't you? Rato doesn't put eyes on the scavenger stealing all the good stuff, she's busy eavesdropping and filing everything into the Resistance systems and her own future use - she likes to know things, the smelly rat. "Need leverage, Greystorm?" She hisses through the comms. "Let's just say I've found it hard to shake the past," Dashara says - noting the hip flask in passing. In truth she /has/ found it hard to give up on using the terror tactics that she was taught as a First Order trooper. Shaking her training and conditioning from birth nigh impossible. Or maybe she was just a bad person - a reason for all her self directed hatred and licentiousness.
The flash gets popped open and drawn under nose for a good sniff before it's recapped and slid across the floor to Dashara's feet. "Reckon that year was distilled before you were even born. Was a good year." She'd know, having been married to a very proud Corellian for a quarter century or so. "Or, maybe it's poison. Hard to keep track, these days. But in truth, if my first priority was to kill you here, you'd still be sprawled atop your little friend there," a nod to the bed "cept less animated." Then, into the comm "...sure."
SPACEBUM ATTACK! The vagrant makes a twitchy grab for it. 'It' being anything within reach of his/her lunge'n'snatch attack on whatever goes 'bleepbloop' on the Togruta's person.
Rocking from side to side, Hazar adjusts himself so that he doesn't get overtired or lock up. He's got work to do and he won't let himself get sloppy doing it. His hands loosen and tighten again on his weapon and his arms bend just a touch to keep those elbows from locking.
"Ask about Drik." Rato chatters through the comms, pigments shifting as she hunts - sifting, digging, clawing through the past. "And war cri- aiyeeeeee!" The comms will go dead from the Togruta as a grimy hand closes around her headset, she grabs the bum by the arm with her one hand as her teeth dig in to her captured assailant. He scrambles away, frightened and bleeding, as the predatory sentient stalks a crouched gait forward - horns high, bands bold, teeth bared and yellow eyes narrowed and dangerous. HISSSSS AWAY, AWAY! "Ignore that, all is fine, everything fine. Secure."
Dashara sniffs the proffered flask before taking a swig. "Well we have that in common then," whether she means the hip flask or the label 'traitor' or both is not clear. She keeps her eyes on the Rebels and returns the flask. "Not a bad drop - thankyou. What now?"
Greystorm looks distracted for a second, staring /through/ the woman they've got trained under Hazar's blaster rather than at as sounds of chaos fill her ear. But then everything's fine. They're all fine, down there. She won't ask what it was, because it doesn't matter. Rato's given her the all clear, so she proceeds with a refreshing blink and twitch of head. New question. "Some of those nightmares o'yours happen to stem from Drik? Look there's fewer /good/ - like /really/ good - people squarin' off against the First Order than I can count on hands. We all got some proverbial ghost or sixty or more floating around after our subconscious, yeah? What separates you from the other ilk I've put down is the willingness to DO somethin 'bout it and leave all that shit at the door. Or, let it fester into fuel and turn it 'gainst the Order that's hunting you down, probably as we speak. You got a choice here. You agree to spill your guts, figuratively, answers our questions, feed us delectable tidbits about your former bosses and shack up with US...or I do a little literal spilling, right here on this floor. Just a little. Leave enough to giftwrap ya and put a tip into the FO base so they can send a team to pick you up. Ball's in your court. I'm just here to facilitate the next steps."
Uplifting one palm, she gestures to Hazar. "My associate here will even lower his weapon and give you a few secs to think it over. But then we got to /go/."
The noise over the comms has Hazar's eyes go wide with worry, then return to a more normal size after a few seconds. He swallows in his throat as he keeps his weapon on Rand. At Greystorm's signal Hazar Jast lowers his blaster and lets his arms hang at his sides, keeping his attention on Dashara to make sure that she continues to play nice.
"Ech." Rato whines to the other agent behind the wall. "Taste /bad/." She scrubs at her tongue, keeping her datapad balanced on her knees, and picks at her long canines. "Bad, bad, bad." She shudders, mentally berating herself for failing to take any of his shiny stuff. A fly on the wall and a rat in the hallway, Rato drinks in the conversation on the other end.
"Y'know you should just order that boy of yours to pull the trigger - make the galaxy a better place," and there it is - the ever present deathwish driving her reckless conduct. But she concedes, "Alright let’s go then - I'm sure to be a hit at your base with all the troops," making her 'choice' as it were.
"The things in your head make it considerably less valuable with a hole blasted through it," Ambrosia groans her way back into an upright position and reaches over her shoulder to dislodged the heavy blade mounted there. It swings around to her front and is cradled as some would a rifle. "Darsi, this is Pack Leader. Package in tow, call in our ride. It's time to go home," she barks loudly into shoulder, then snugs the helmet back into place. "Jast, lead the way. Party girl, you follow. I don't need to explain what happens if you deviate from our agreed arrangement."
At the order to go ahead and take point the young soldier calmly states, "Roger ma'am." Then he gets moving, heading for the door first to take the lead. He's got the route out memorized and moves efficiently, but not so efficiently as to leave behind the prisoner and his commander.
"Roger, Pack Leader." Rato barks back, hopping to her feet and switching frequencies. "Da'hosa, come in. Is go." The Togruta stalks ahead, datapad tucked away and blaster drawn to keep eyes on the speeder approach ahead of the asset. "Transport here. Is clear."
"Yeah," Dashara says cynically and follows the lead of the Resistance fighters. "This is going to be interesting," she observes. For her part she does not misbehave apart from the odd verbal jibe here and there.
And so on they go, through the bowels of undercity, into a canyon rift, then hop into a different transport from there that eventually slips into a cavity in the canyon wall, coincidentally a few kilometers below the Gearhead District. Once on base, Dshara will be escorted to a holding cell and given some food, drink, and opportunity to nap under guard - probably for her protection. Then will begin the Q&A while she sits, monitored by machines for any shift in her biometric data. A shower at some point will be awarded after a round of brain-picking and reading of house rules. It's a small step toward being initiated into the very organization she once helped to subdue, but a step nevertheless.