Mercenaries. Such scum were in his way at best, in the way of his blaster at worst, but maybe it was the other way around? They were loud, they were quiet, they weren’t much different to bounty hunters or assassins depending on the occasion. This mission, however, was a bit different.
It catered to professionals. To those who didn’t just have a blaster and were looking for a quick plug in the noggin in order to get a quicker credit. It took skill and experience to kill their given target. One merc sure as shit knew the difference between talent and ruffian when it came to his status within a mercenary outfit.
Chumps. Blarf spat, might have barfed were it not for his need to keep his lunch in his stomach. His favorite beans were a hard to come by commodity in this city, save bean paste, or refried twice and thrice, so he thanked his mistress for it.
Look at you punks. He stood with his arms crossed, in a nondescript district, and at an entrance. Garbed in his armor, electrohammer on back, blaster carbine with it, pistol on hip, and never mind his virboknife; it was least expected before it soars forth and someone dies.
“Devaronian.” Cue the Gamorrean’s spit. “Those horns don’t make you born for war. You with a PMC?”
The Dev shrugged like he had just been asked if blue was green.
“Right. Head on in. But it’s less credits to independents. ‘Specially if you’re dead.”
Next came a Trandoshan.
“Another freelancer?”
Trando hissed with an expressive ‘yes’.
“Fair enough. But it’s gonna be rough. Head on in.” Dipshit.
Then came a Human with better armor and with two others.
“It’s about time they sent me someone who looks like they can actually fight. A small team is waiting to infiltrate the hideout, but we need to draw fire so they can move in.”
“And that’s where we come in?”
“Exactly. You’re on the distraction team. Head straight over the bridge and keep the target busy so the infiltration team can sneak in behind.”
“Sounds like a suicide mission to me,” the Human’s companion prompted.
“Pretty much,” the Gamorrean agreed. “But you look like you can handle it.” And, if you can’t, it’s dogmeat and bloody titties, buddy.
“What can you tell me about the target?” The commander of this little love triangle asked the Gamorrean as if selecting words from a dialogue wheel.
“He’s a deadly sniper who has been annihilating you freelancers like popping popcorn. Known as Seraph. Hates crime, especially if it’s organized, from the illicit distribution of weapons to slaves to spice.”
“Is his presence restricted to Gravenell City?”
“His. Hers. What the kriff does it matter? I'm not an architect and you're not a tourist.” But I bet you’ll be rancor meat in a moment.
“And you? What mercenary company do you work for?”
“I serve Perla the Hutt,” Blarf answered. “Now shut the fuck up and form up.”
“You’re a Gamorrean,” the Human idiot stated the obvious. “So how do you know Basic?”
“Uhhh…” Suddenly Blarf lost his voice. “Oink?”
It catered to professionals. To those who didn’t just have a blaster and were looking for a quick plug in the noggin in order to get a quicker credit. It took skill and experience to kill their given target. One merc sure as shit knew the difference between talent and ruffian when it came to his status within a mercenary outfit.
Chumps. Blarf spat, might have barfed were it not for his need to keep his lunch in his stomach. His favorite beans were a hard to come by commodity in this city, save bean paste, or refried twice and thrice, so he thanked his mistress for it.
Look at you punks. He stood with his arms crossed, in a nondescript district, and at an entrance. Garbed in his armor, electrohammer on back, blaster carbine with it, pistol on hip, and never mind his virboknife; it was least expected before it soars forth and someone dies.
“Devaronian.” Cue the Gamorrean’s spit. “Those horns don’t make you born for war. You with a PMC?”
The Dev shrugged like he had just been asked if blue was green.
“Right. Head on in. But it’s less credits to independents. ‘Specially if you’re dead.”
Next came a Trandoshan.
“Another freelancer?”
Trando hissed with an expressive ‘yes’.
“Fair enough. But it’s gonna be rough. Head on in.” Dipshit.
Then came a Human with better armor and with two others.
“It’s about time they sent me someone who looks like they can actually fight. A small team is waiting to infiltrate the hideout, but we need to draw fire so they can move in.”
“And that’s where we come in?”
“Exactly. You’re on the distraction team. Head straight over the bridge and keep the target busy so the infiltration team can sneak in behind.”
“Sounds like a suicide mission to me,” the Human’s companion prompted.
“Pretty much,” the Gamorrean agreed. “But you look like you can handle it.” And, if you can’t, it’s dogmeat and bloody titties, buddy.
“What can you tell me about the target?” The commander of this little love triangle asked the Gamorrean as if selecting words from a dialogue wheel.
“He’s a deadly sniper who has been annihilating you freelancers like popping popcorn. Known as Seraph. Hates crime, especially if it’s organized, from the illicit distribution of weapons to slaves to spice.”
“Is his presence restricted to Gravenell City?”
“His. Hers. What the kriff does it matter? I'm not an architect and you're not a tourist.” But I bet you’ll be rancor meat in a moment.
“And you? What mercenary company do you work for?”
“I serve Perla the Hutt,” Blarf answered. “Now shut the fuck up and form up.”
“You’re a Gamorrean,” the Human idiot stated the obvious. “So how do you know Basic?”
“Uhhh…” Suddenly Blarf lost his voice. “Oink?”
