Tango In The Night

[Ben]

Spoiler: 244Core

Shit hole was an understatement. This planet was the galaxies piss-pot.

244Core was an odd planet to say the least; out in the Unknown Regions, beyond the Widek Bypass, and smack bang in the middle of who knows where. Not the kind of place you visited without a reason, but Orlaan had reason enough to be here.

Just shy of a week ago, Orlaan had received a very unexpected ping from a communication system he hadn't used in quite a while; one of his little guardian pendants that he gave out to a select few. The transponder code showed this ping as coming from Rorik; an old pal who seemed to have preempted the events on Endor. The Order had fallen out of favour with him after Anoth, and he'd left to parts unknown.

It was strange that Ghess was getting this message now, as -- despite their friendship and camaraderie -- Orlaan had not spoken to him prior to leaving, and the lack of contact thereafter kind of gave him the feeling the former Knight lumped Ghess in with the rest of the Order. That didn't matter right now; Rorik wouldn't have pinged if it wasn't something important or life threatening. Unfortunately, Orlaan had no idea what it could be, since he'd had the beacons designed to emit short bursts of a strong signal, not enough data to transmit a message.

244Core had been a industrial and commercial hub during the time of the Old Republic. The planet had been owned by private corporations that had wanted to steer clear of the eye of the Senate. Everything had happened here; strip mining, trading of everything from contraband to stock, financing, arms dealing, and legitimate business. There were a number of settlements larger that the one Orlaan had no found himself trotting through. Now the planet belonged to criminal organisations, pirates, and anyone even remotely shady.

This was The Dump, an affectionately named slum that had been a junkyard before this and a retired strip mine before that. Now, it was one of the most depraved and haphazard living spaces Orlaan had ever seen. It didn't even have the vibrancy a lot of squalors did, everyone just seemed... beat down. The eyes of a hundred different species didn't meet his own once, but they didn't have to look at him to recognise that familiar look. Slaves.

The pieces clicked together, and Orlaan understood why he had been called here. Rorik was back up to his old tricks; they'd done this before. Fighting slavery was one of his few duties as a Jedi that didn't grate on the younger man's conscious, it made a fair bit of sense that this was what Rorik had chosen to spend his time doing after he went dark post-Anoth.

Ghess looked about for someone to question, a stall owner, a hustler, a call-girl; but like he'd established, there was no life here beyond the tight confines of slavery. It seemed Orlaan wouldn't have to look for long, however.

A hand reached out in the night.

 

[Apocrypha]

"Iz prosmol dessteroi?"

The lanky alien released Orlaan's shoulder, cocking a head to the side. "Basic, then?" he said, heavily accented. His attire was a cut above the slaves' grey, tattered shifts - somewhere between poverty and affluent - and he had has hands clasped behind his back, unguarded in a show of peace. "They have your friend," he explained slowly, motioning for the gargantuan Jedi to follow him as he strolled through the ghetto. "They say you are men of peace, though I suspect you might harm me to recover the man that you have lost... that said, I must warn you that I am only an intermediary. I receive orders and I carry them out and I make a little more than nothing - you understand? I have no information to extract other than what I was told:

"Powerful people have seized your friend. He is, how do you say... a hero, yes? To these," he gestured, indicating the various slaves milling about, broken and disorganized. "He and his accomplices, they have given many of these people freedom. An interesting gift, but fleeting: once my employers feared an uprising, they struck - they killed many of the rebels, but take your friend alive because he is the face of their cause, with his glowing sword and his heroic antics. So you understand, to martyr him only strengthens his position, even in death. You cannot see the spark here, in The Dump, but in other places, some far from here, some not - those with nothing to lose consider risking everything, mm?"

He shrugged, stopping in the middle of a town square of sorts. "It is better for everyone if you pay ransom and take your friend away from here, where he cannot save these people. Better for them, even. This war between property and its owners... I do not wish to see. Very bloody. Twenty thousand credits, they want. A pittance, compared to what your friend has cost them, but they are willing to lose money to retain control." The man shook his head, frowning: "You need not give me an answer; there is a disused spaceport in Relaali, you will take the money there within twenty-four hours if you agree to their terms." He offered Orlaan a datapad.

* * *​

Grunts and yelps of pain filled the dull, metallic halls as two bulky men took turns pounding Rorik's flesh into mulch. He never begged and he never cried, but he could not help but scream as they pummeled him. Soon enough, however, the abuse came to an end - but his captors smirked. "What?" he grunted. "What is it?"

Then they brought her in. Short and petite but passionate and driven, with shockingly red hair and a body covered in tattoos; now she was still and limp as they cast her onto the floor, and Rorik saw that they had bled her dry - for the sheer fun of it; she had nothing to offer them. No information, no secret plans, no high technology. She resisted their irons and so they cut her throat. He raged, dust and debris raining from the ceiling as he thrashed his arms to and fro, crying out in fury. He had loved her, and they had killed her. "I'll kill you," he shrieked his promise. "I'll kill you!"

 

[Ben]

Orlaan snatched the datapad from the odd looking alien's polydactyl grippers and shoved off; the odd character melded back into the crowds. There'd been no lie in his voice or his mind -- which had been weak -- when he said that his knowledge was limited to the words he spoke. The guy probably didn’t work for whoever had Rorik cooped up, and the pad in the Jedi's hand was now Orlaan's only lead on what had quickly become a rescue mission.

Ghess grunted and spat in the retreat of the slimy poodoo, but he couldn't really resent him. Looking at the desperation around him, it'd be hard not to succumb to an offer of a circumstance even slightly better. Orlaan looked down at the datapad and span it in his hands, thumbing the too-small power switch before quickly walking in the direction he had come, back to his touchdown site, the rain had started.

***​

Wiping away the smearing droplets from the display with the corner of his shirt sleeve, Orlaan leaned over the pad. His training had to take precedence over his worry for Rorik now, someone who he'd once called a good friend. The initial message had been read in seconds on his way over here, just a short address line and a few directions and instructions for the deal he'd been given; all with terrible syntax. What Ghess was looking for now was what he wasn't meant to see.

He looked for anything. Any snippet of intel that might give him some sort of insight as to who Rorik's captures were. The details, that was. He wasn't a genius, but a mentally-addled Gungan could make the leap that the masters of the slaves from The Dump had been the perpetrators of Rorik's capture. Whoever they were though, they were better with tech than Orlaan was; which, admittedly, wasn't that good. There was nothing left on the pad that he could find, not even a sign of the input of the message, which was the only thing there.

Looks like surprise attacks were out the window.

Orlaan set the pad down and smashed his fist atop it, throwing the remnants down the garbage chute of his ship's dining area; he couldn't take the risk of being tracked back here. Orlaan rubbed at the stubble on his jaw before sighing and pushing back from the desk. He'd need to go to the meet, that much was certain. He'd be as ready as he could be though. The Jedi wouldn't be likely to find any more intel though; there wasn't a chance in hell he'd find that runabout again, and even if he did, the guy new next to nothing if he knew anything at all. The slaves wouldn't talk, out of fear. He doubted how much they knew too. The grunts of Rorik's captures might squeel, but not without an ugly amount of pressure - if they'd been able to take Rorik alive, then they had to be something tougher than your run of the mill swoop gang.

Dragging his duffel across the table (Orlaan hadn't bothered unpacking, he never stuck with any one junker for too long before it inevitably blew up around him), he cocked his head in appraisal of it's contents. Gear, gear, and more gear. Fighting gear, tactical bits and bobs, utility belts that would make superhero's weep with envy. Orlaan unbuttoned his shirt, and tugged on a all-purpose amour-weave vest on, good for ballistic small arms, minor energy dissipation, and good for stopping a small blade. He pulled out a hold-out blaster, a few thermal charges, some concussions grenades, and of course, his back-up saber for Rorik. He was a walking arsenal.

***​

This sorry dump had once been the biggest spaceport on 244, now it looked like just another back alley on Nar Shadaa. It was a flat blocky structure, similar to a multi-storey speeder-park, laying in the shadow of one of the massive corporate habitation domes. Orlaan worked his way between the maintenance bays, landing pads, food stalls, and even a casino in what he supposed was the main plaza. The fact because the port itself was majorly disused did not mean that it was dead.

Swoop gangs, bums, repurposed stalls -- albeit selling shadier wares -- and a hundred and one other activities bustled around him as he worked his way to the defaced statue of a Hutt in the Northeast corner of the plaza; his contacts apparently didn't value inconspicuity. A heavyset Weequay, A Nohgri, what looked like a guy indo Mando armour, all stood around an Ithorian in finely detailed brown robes.

Orlaan stopped a few meter's short as the Weequay and Nohgri closed ranks in front of him, crossing the broad arms. Usually they probably towered over smaller sentients, intimidating and physically dominating most outside of Wookie's. As it was they stood almost two feet below Orlaan's vantage, and he let them know that, rolling his shoulders and giving a wink. The Ithorian stepped forward, closely trailed by the Mando'ade. He spoke in his native tongue, but Ghess was familiar and waved off the Mando's translations, there were more than one of the Ithorian's kind in the Order.

"I trust out contact told you of the arrangements, yes? This is good, less messy. If you hand over the credits, my associates here will go back and retrieve your friend, agreed?"

Orlaan grinned back at the alien. He had no intention of paying them, not least because he didn't have 20,000 credits. He did have 5,000 though, which he handed in a few chits to the nearest of the alien's. The Ithorian's face soured and he drew back.

"This is not what was agreed upon!"

"Nothing was agreed on. This isn't my first speeder race, chutta. You take the five thousand to your boss now, and I come with you to ensure the safe return of my friend."

"No. Simply unacceptable. Not something I could arrange even if I wa-"

Ghess had guessed as much, he'd been counting on it in fact. His change was lightning fast, far more than a few gang members were prepared for. One minute he'd been leaning back with a cocksure smile on his face and his hands on his hips, then next he was moving.

His jaw clattered across the Nohgri's jaw, immediately rendering the alien unconsciousness and sending him careering back into the Ithorian. The Weequay was still in the process of hurrying to react when Orlaan darted for him, disarming his fumbled blaster draw and slamming a knee up into his solar plexus. The bruiser dropped like a sack of so much Hutt excrement, and Ghess was moving again. The blaster of the Mando's was much smoother, quicker, and a bolt was already flying to the spot where Ghess had just been; but he'd already rolled to the right, zigzagging up to the side and coming up inside the Mando's range.

He couldn't employ the same tactics here, but he had to make this seem believable to the Ithorian. Ghess grabbed the blaster, and the hand around it, and squeezed. The man wailed as his bones turned to powder as Orlaan swiped his legs and pushed him backwards onto his ass. He didn't pursue the fleeing Ithorian, or the Mando scurrying after his charge. At least, not in a way that they would notice. He had his way to Rorik.

 

[Apocrypha]

He had been working the bracket on the ceiling for hours, now; flexing here, resting his weight upon the chains there. Slowly, but surely, the steel fixture was loosening - perhaps, through the Force, he could bolster his strength enough to convince it to part ways with the roof. As of this moment, however, a broad-chested Cathar merc brandished a nasty looking blaster at Rorik's center-of-mass, rambling menacingly.

"Soon your bumbling friend pays us, and then we put you both down!"

He snickered, squeezing the blaster enough to make Rorik nervous. The Jedi's eyes flickered to the still corpse on the ground, near enough to his feet, but did not linger. Could not linger. The Cathar split his attention, pawing at the radio on his shoulder. "Yeah?" he squeaked, surprised. "They're what?" the Cathar went on, eyes wide: "Dead? How - ... okay. Okay! I'll see you soon." The merc had turned his back, clearly in shock. At what Rorik spared no thought: now was the time to strike. He summoned his might, his physical prowess, and felt the Force ebb and flow through his body, its strength lending capability to his taut muscles, giving him the power to defy some of the simplest laws of physics.

Rorik wrenched the bracket free; it uncoupled with a loud, squeaky pop, sliding loose of the chain link and clattering to the ground with a loud thunk as the chains looped about Rorik's wrists billowed on the ground. It was a lot of material - almost too much to work with - but he would make do. The Cathar had, by now, wheeled about to face Rorik... but upon seeing the sheer, unbridled rage upon the Jedi's sallow features, years of contempt and fury denied. It had come to a head, and it was unfortunate that this dim-witted thug was to be on the receiving end of his misappropriated anger - alas, the galaxy is an unjust place.

He brought his wrists together and twirled the chain overhead in a graceful arc, one quick rotation to build momentum before he brought the coiled end of the whip down upon the mercenary's face; flesh tore and blood sprayed as Rorik's jailer stumbled, lost his footing on Mia's corpse and landed on his rear. "Wait! No - please! Please!" he pleaded, simultaneously scrambling for the pistol that had been knocked into a corner of the dank cell. Rorik adopted no mercy, bringing the chain down again, now on the back of the Cathar's head; bone cracked, more blood stained the dirty, dusty floor, and the merc went still. The Jedi invested one more blow, making certain that his adversary would not rise again before he collapsed to his knees beside the red-haired body in the center of the room.

"Mia," he moaned, overcome with a tearless grief - he had shed far too many tears in the hours past, and had no more left to spare. Rorik rolled her over, staring into her vacant emerald green eyes, taking in her befreckled face - one that he had loved. Or suspected as much, unfamiliar as he was with the concept. They had spent many nights together, he knew that, and they had dreamed of a free world... one that she would never see. One that Rorik knew now would never come to fruition. Was it better, then, that she had died before realizing that her greatest hope was an impossibility? He couldn't say.

Footsteps. Rushed, panicked, stumbling. Silent as could be, Rorik slid into the shadows of a dark corner, drawing his chains taught, laced over each knuckle.

An Ithorian burst into the room. He recognized the man, at least as one of his captors; behind him a wounded Mandalorian entered, clutching his wrist. Rorik struck as they looked from the dead guard to Mia in confusion, wrapping the chain around the warrior's exposed neck and tugging with all his might. The Mandalorian squealed, wheezing one last breath as his airway was cut off, struggling with his good hand to wedge a finger or two between the chains and his flesh and finding no purchase. Dazed and terrified, the Ithorian turned and watched only in horror as Rorik collapsed onto his back, bringing the struggling mercenary with him, the two flailing in the dust, life slowly ebbing from the Mandalorian's tiring body.

 

[Ben]

Twenty-seven... twenty-eight... twenty-nine... thirt-

Orlaan dropped down from the right hand side veering palisade at either pillar of the big hydraulic doors. The doors fronted some sort of slap-dash monolith. The spire -- of a sort -- jutted from the top of one of the old corporate habitation domes, and if he didn't know any better, Ghess would have said it was a mishmash of one of the crumbling sky-towers from the city and part of an old carrier. Whatever it was, it wasn't pretty, practical, or particularly encouraging.

Of all the place, this had to be were his tail had led him.

The two guards on the door resumed an idle stance in the frantic passing of the Ithorian and Mandalorian; apparently a bit of a tiff on this planet wasn't news. Shocker. Orlaan landed on one, instantly rendering him hospitalised more than likely, poor bugger, and as his feet found solid purchase, he rocketed off his point of impact and slammed into the guard opposite, who subsequently became sandwiched between a 600 pound man and a solid metal bulkhead of an armoured space craft skeleton. Bye-bye consciousness.

The Jedi whirled and looked about, using his battle-honed instincts and the force to look for any guards. None close enough to count. It felt like this massive structure went largely unused, and that the main cluster of life was at the top of the towering black rift in 244Core's skyscape. Ghess picked out patters, which he guessed were irregular patrols of the lower levels, and of course a few hot-spots were life bustled. Probably security checkpoints at defensible positions or around important areas.

Ghess's probing had been invaluable, but it had cost him precious seconds, and distracted him more than he thought - this whole arrangement was really quite intriguing; something he would have given a leg to investigate back in his days as a Shadow. The price for his distraction made itself apparent though. Fifty meters down, sixth door on the right. Death. Anger. Pain. Familiar pain. Rorik

Ghess closed the space in seconds; huge legs and the Force bringing him to a stop before he'd really started. He clattered into the archway were a door had been left ajar, buckling the steel structure. Not in this room, but in the next, Rorik lay. A dead Mandalorian at his feet, a dead Cathar, a dead woman, and a Ithorian that stank of fear and excrement. Ghess was just as quick closing this distance, and certainly quicker than the tunnel-vision Rorik.

Orlaan grabbed the fancy robes of the Ithorian and rendered him unconscious with a quick chop to the jaw. The alien slouched, and Orlaan took in the scene. Rorik was different.

It wasn't the anger contorting his features. It wasn't the clear signs of physical mistreatment. It wasn't the blood, or the fear, or the pain, or the bodies, or even the slight ageing around his eyes. It was the loss. It was that girl, the one he was crouched over in a animal protective crouch. He hadn't been eyeing up the Ithorian as bate, he'd been saving what was already dead to the galaxy. Poor bastard.

Rorik didn't settle; did he see Orlaan as just another threat?

"Rorik? You in there, pal?"

 

[Apocrypha]

Confusion battled with anguish and loss in his sunken grey eyes, whites stained red with tear-spilling grief, as he took in the statuesque figure before him.

"Orlaan?" he murmured, tentative, almost uncertain; it had been some time since the two Jedi had laid eyes upon each other. Before the attack on Anoth and Rorik's abandoning the Jedi Order, in fact - they were busy men at the time, and had seen each other less and less since the disbanding of the Shadows. Rorik considered Orlaan a dear friend, once, but with his estrangement from the Order he had forsaken anyone that he had fought with, trained with, or grown to care about. For his new life. For this.

"There's nothing left," Rorik breathed hopelessly, turning his gaze upon the red-haired mess of freckles once more, her skin even paler in death, porcelain. "I thought that I could... I wanted to save these people." He shook his head, brushing a tangle of bangs away from Mia's eyes; they stared resolutely beyond Rorik and Orlaan, at some faraway place that no living being could comprehend. "I don't know... I can't remember what I told you about my childhood... before the Jedi. Before I became a Jedi I was a slave. The undercity of Coruscant." The accent was a dead giveaway. "Like these people... and I thought I could help them. I thought I could save them, just like my master did on Coruscant." A fresh wave of agony overtook him as he considered what he had lost in the bombing of the Jedi Temple on Coruscant and its subsequent sacking. It was an older wound, however, and easier to deal with.

"I have nothing, Orlaan. I am no Jedi... I never had a home, truly. Any that I sought was destroyed... Coruscant... Anoth... and now this pit."

Rorik brushed his tear-streaked cheek with the back of his hand, shaking his head. "I am nobody and I have nothing. You'd be doing me a kindness... to..."

He couldn't go on, wracked with sobs.

 

[Ben]

The gravity of Rorik's suffering hit like a hurtling speeder, tearing open little wounds Orlaan had thought long forgotten in his own being. Little holes. Little gaps that pieces of yourself slipped away through and never came back.

His breath came in shorter and shallower increments as he was pulled down with Rorik, his stomach twisted, tore, and dropped out of him, his eyes stung, and his head seemed to spin clean off his shoulders. Such bewildering loss. Such emptiness. He'd felt it before. Drivi, Coruscant, Gracelyn, Ebberla, friends, friends, family, friends. On and on it went.

But there was always Light.

Orlaan wouldn't lie in a recounting. He wouldn't say the light had flooded him and he saved the day.

As it was, he clung on. He took a deep breath, he felt like he'd gone into shock. He couldn't do what he needed to help Rorik now. He knew what he had to say, what he had to do, to help Rorik, or at least try. But he couldn't. Not now. Right now, they just needed to get away from here.

"C'mon buddy. I know. You got me. I know."

Rorik probably didn't hear Ghess. If he did, he was unresponsive.

"I know. You got me. I know."

Orlaan gripped Rorik by the shoulder and steered his shell to the door. The outlet of pain had been replaced by numbness. Not in the sense that you could no longer feel anything. Just the simple fact that the pain had become too much to probably register or express. Orlaan scooped up the girl's tiny frame in one arm and cradled her as gently as he could.

"Come on, Rorik. Let's go."

No response.

Ghess stooped a foot and hooked a shoulder under Rorik's arm, as though he had a limp. Together the pair shuffled out of the room. The weight wasn't a problem. Not in a physical sense. That didn't matter now though; it registered as little to Orlaan as Orlaan likely did to Rorik. Orlaan felt like he wasn't far off a collapse of sorts. It was strange, how strong the empathy had remained between him and Rorik. Under different circumstances, they'd probably be drinking a pint and catching up right now.

Ghess ensured their escape was covered in some expression of automata, and fled with the two empty bodies into the night.

 

[Apocrypha]

The pyre burned bright, flames licking out towards the night sky. Mia's body lay at the center of the inferno, engulfed by fire. It was the least he could do - a proper service was out of the question and pointless nonetheless; she had no friends or family left to speak of. Only Rorik, the Jedi outcast, mourned her death. Her murder.

"Thank you," he said quietly to Orlaan. Knees together, head rested atop, Rorik was hardly the formidable machine of destruction that he had been earlier in the day as he brutally slaughtered two men. Vengeance. One of the greatest enemies of a Jedi, he had once been told - vengeance fueled by anger, by hatred, was a sure stepping stone towards the dark side. He wondered privately whether he had already taken those steps - whether or not he was capable of turning away from his fury and his bitterness. Rorik had possessed little in this world, and without fail it had all been systematically taken from him.

What was he now? A lonely, angry man seated beside a burning corpse, consoled only by a friend he hadn't spoken to in longer than he cared to admit. No legacy. No love. Only ashes.

"The men that I killed," he spoke, raising his voice. "The Mandalorian gun-for-hire and the Cathar thug. They were symptoms of a much larger problem. They aren't the cancer infesting this planet; only the fever running through its veins." Shaking his head, he continued: "You want me to leave 244Core. I don't disagree. Every moment on this garbage heap only hurts me more."

Rising to his feet, he stared at Orlaan for a moment before finishing - "I can't leave without doing something to set things right, Orlaan. Somebody must pay for this crime. Something has to give. I need your help. After we settle the score here, I'm yours. Whatever you need of me."

 

[Ben]

Orlaan regarding Rorik for a moment, his face giving away nothing.

"I don't want you to leave 244Core. We need to fix this."

He rose up and offered a hand to his old pal.

"And you don't owe me anything for it."

Ghess could see the spiralling going on in Rorik's eyes as if his pupils were spinning; he was a lost man, a burning man. Not something Orlaan was unfamiliar with. His whole life had been uprooted and dumped smack bang in the middle of nowhere, nothing mattered. Did he think it was his fault? Was it the same as it had been with Drivi, or just similar?

Orlaan didn't know. Orlaan didn't presume to feel as Rorik had, or start with the ramblings from his experience. Rorik probably didn't want to hear it and they both knew there was one thing they could do to make up in some small way, to gain some small degree of closure:

"But please... don't let this be about revenge. Let it be about what's right. About closure. About -" Orlaan looked at the women's whose name he had still not learnt's pyre, he could put two and two together. "-about finishing what the pair of you started."

These words couldn't wait. Whether Rorik wanted to hear them or not.

"And know that I'm here. Whatever you need."

Orlaan pulled out his datapad, bringing up the details he'd recorded of the slaver's palace.

 

[Apocrypha]

A quiet calm came over Rorik. He stared at the inferno for a moment longer, thumbing the barrel of the Taskmaster revolver in his hands. "Just because it's revenge," he started, taking Orlaan's hand, "doesn't mean it isn't right."

"I'm not sure about this place," Rorik remarked, perched on the second floor of a dilapidated, crumbling home. He perused the perimeter of the palace through Orlaan's binoculars, twisting his lips back and forth in a scowl of uncertainty. "Security's light. Structure doesn't look particularly lavish."

He handed the binoculars back to the gargantuan Jedi, shaking his head. "Something isn't right. I'm the biggest slave trader on a planet whose sole propriety and economic backbone is slavery, I don't live in that rundown dome."

With a shrug, he removed a loose wrap from his shirt pocket, tugging a cigarra out of it and placing it between his lips. He lit the end of the stick, glancing up at Orlaan. "What?" he murmured around the cigarra, the rich aroma of tobacco filling the room. "I've picked up a few things since our old running days, brother. Don't give me the eyes."

Rorik dragged off of the cigarra thoughtfully, eyes roaming the streets outside. "Even if this isn't some sort of trap, you can count on heavy security inside. Are we here to bring the man before some kind of tribunal, or put a bullet in his head?" Eyes, distant pain still obvious, met Orlaan's. "You know which I'd prefer. Snuff him out - or maybe haul him out into the streets, let the slaves decide what to do with him."

 

[Ben]

"That second idea certainly has some merits... but we aren't deciding what we're gonna do with him beyond shutting the bastard down for now."

Orlaan wafted away the cloying smoke and tongued his gums whilst he stared through the binoculars Rorik had handed him back. The guy had a point, but the Jedi had seen far, far weirder hideouts than this shit hole.

"It's a little out of the way, easier to move things in and out, not that anyone cares about official biness' here. But it's big, sorta defensible from the ground attacks they'd face from rival gangs. Maybe they feel safe in there high tower."

Guess half turned to Rorik.

"Let's show them they're wrong."

Orlaan pocketed the binoculars and edged back from the roof, slipping down the access ladder of the one story building and straightening his kit as he landed.

"Besides, that thing is hardly practical, however useful it may be. I am guessing our guy doesn't have a flare for the dramatic."

The pair started to move out, heading on a roundabout route towards the base of the tower.

"Taking out the head of the snake won't be a solution for the issue though, it will just be an act carried out in anger. Besides, those generals you mentioned, and any other ambitious and greedy snake in this organisation will step up to grab that power as soon as an opportunity presents itself."

Orlaan knew that Rorik was aware of all of this, it just helped him to think aloud.

"So we're going to go up there, force our way in, and get the codes out of the Slave master. If we can get the codes, we can deactivate the collars. If we can deactivate the collars, we can set the slaves free; then I have some extra little asset-busting surprises in store to make sure this particular arm of slavery doesn't raise its ugly head again."

Orlaan patted the duffel slung around his torso packed with military grade explosive lent from his Rebel friends.

"That's why we're scaling this mother from the outside, and fighting our way back down, busting shit up as we go. Sound good?"

Orlaan held out Rorik's grapple for him.

 

[Apocrypha]

Eyeing Orlaan with approval, Rorik nodded, spitting his now-a-nub cigarra onto the pavement and taking the grappling hook, clasping his friend's hand in the process. "Sounds like a hell of a plan to me, brother," he replied, taking aim with his launcher. "I won't kill the slaver," he assured his vertically imbued friend. "Doesn't mean I won't hurt 'em."

With that he was away; the hook arced high over the bulbous base of the tower, sinking into a guard rail intended for construction workers many years before. Despite ages of disrepair, the foundation held, and Rorik activated the automated pulley system, a firm grip on the cable as it slowly towed him to the halfway point of the tower.

Once atop the ridge, Rorik fed the hook's cable back into the launcher and glanced up, shaking his head. He had reached the precipece before Orlaan, turning to the man who had just now reached him. "Hope that arm span isn't just for show; we're gonna have to go hand-over-hand the rest of the way. Nothing for the hook to grab hold of."

Without further ado, he wrapped his hand around a ledge jutting out beneath a window; Rorik hauled himself up far enough to peer through the window and ensure that the coast was clear before hefting himself up to the next ledge. This would be hard, steady work - but they were just the bastards to do it.

 

[Ben]

Orlaan wrenched himself onto the ledge just behind Rorik; it was a good job he was so strong. Six-hundred pounds was not a light load, the tow system on the grappling hook had refused to pull him up the first almost-vertical few-hundred meters, so he'd had to put in a lot of very literal leg work.

"Right then, unless you want me to throw you up there, we're gonna have to move quick. I don't enjoy the idea of us being trapped on the side of a building if we're discovered."

Orlaan's limbs were long enough to simply reach from ledge to ledge in the one motion, so he moved out at full pace; almost hand-over-hand like a ladder. He wasn't going to go into the building without Rorik, but the sooner he got up there, the sooner he could scout the place out. It didn't take all that long, given the height of the tower.

As he neared the top of the tower, he came to a huge spike of metal, like a gnarled up main thruster on a star ship. This one had been tampered with though. The walls had been beaten into shape to hollow out a massive alcove like structure on the top of the tower, with a wide flat roof nestled at the centre.

'Rorik. Better plan. Get your ass up here.'

In the alcove lay a massive gun ship.

Should the gun down the tower after they'd scared of the rats infesting it? Should they blow it up to prevent escape? Should they sink it through the roof? Options ran through Ghess' mind at a million miles per hour, but going through the window and into the throne room was no longer anywhere near the top of his list.

 

[Apocrypha]

Orlaan summited the tower first, but Rorik was, surprisingly, not far behind him; life on 244Core had been anything but easy, and if the elder Jedi had suspected Rorik of needing physical tempering, he was sorely mistaken. "No kiddin'," Rorik whistled in appreciation. He scratched his chin, thinking for a moment before turning to Orlaan.

"Thoughts? I've got a few. We could use it to bust up the tower; we could nuke it, so that the slavers can't make use of it." He grinned, taking another look at the ship. "Or - and this one is my favorite - you funnel the cowards up here, where I'm waiting in their means of egress. They'll be book-ended, and we can do as we please with them."

"If it's all the same to you," he summed, standing upright, "I'd rather not destroy the ship. Mia may be gone -" at this, a bitter pain seeped out of his voice "- but there are more rebels. The people of 244Core are sorely in need of a revolution - and a gunship could make that a much easier proposition. I've met these folks; they weren't all born into slavery domestically. There are plenty of foreigners, probably quite a few that can handle a ship like this."

"In fact," he went on thoughtfully, "I'd wager the nasty bastard that owns this bird has more than one stashed on the planet. If he has a hidden cache of weapons and gunships elsewhere, the rebels could start to wage a real war against their oppressors. That would make me a very happy man, Orlaan."

 

[Ben]

"War shouldn't make you happy..." Orlaan let it hang as Rorik's brow darkened in response, before Ghess went on "but a revolution... now that is something I could get behind. No, we won't nuke the tower, we will put the slavers out of business -- no indiscriminate killing -- and then leave the ship in the hands of the Rebels."

The Jedi moved a little closer and inspected the hatch. A fairly simple locking mechanism, external keypad and a touch fob.

"I imagine we will find the key-fob and the codes inside somewhere, or on someone."

Orlaan looked about, noticing the access hatch under the far wing on the opposite end of the roof. He pulled a blaster and shot out the lock - shock and awe tactics time.

"Plus, I bet once we get in that ship we can access the location of any other assets these scum have on-planet. Maybe even some of their competitors wares."

Ghess stooped under the wing and wrenched open the trap door, twisted, heated metal coming away with a protesting screech as it gave away to the Jedi's monstrous strength. Looking up at Rorik, Orlaan jabbed a finger down the hole with a big grin.

"Ladies first? Don't suppose you've got any concussion grenades or flash bangs? Mine all go boom."

 

[Apocrypha]

Scoffing, Rorik glanced sidelong at Orlaan, his lips pursed.

"War doesn't make me happy, Orlaan," he replied, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, "war is the only thing I've ever known: I was born into it. I've been fighting a war - somebody's war - since the day I was born. Slavers, the Sith, whoever. Don't tell me not to relish in peace through battle when I've been fighting my entire life."

"No," Rorik said, drawing his Taskmaster, "I do not." He lowered himself into the hatch without another word, boots setting down on the tempered durasteel of a spaceworthy vessel; it felt good not to be standing on solid ground, for once. Strange as it was, Rorik had spent a very large portion of his life in space, and it was where he felt most at home.

Rorik slunk through the narrow access corridor, coming up underneath a floor grating situated in the cockpit. The tunnel was, per official purposes, for maintenance crew to perform repairs on the internal components of the ship; typically, it also found use as a smuggler's cache and, for the time being, a stowaway hold. Above his head, in the cockpit, Rorik could see two sentries idly chattering back and forth, barely alert. Who would even try to steal the baron's ship?

Well, Rorik, for one.

The young Jedi placed his palms against the grating, inhaling and exhaling slowly as he felt the Force surge through him. With a yell, he wrenched the grating free, bolts popping across the room as the metal soared into the air. Without hesitation Rorik rose to his feet, halfway out of the vent as he took aim with his revolver; one, two, three, four. Bang, bang, bang, bang.

Slugs embedded themselves in the chests of the two sentries before they could even take hold of their weapons; they died quickly, groaning and bleeding and slumping to the ground. Rorik hauled himself out of the vent, moving towards the controls of the ship and eyeing them for a moment.

"I can fly her," he decided, glancing back at Orlaan as the older Jedi exited the vent.

 

[Ben]

Orlaan quietened down immediately. He probably would have pursued the matter if he didn't understand so well. Ghess and Rorik often seemed at odds, two different to think it, but they were more or less of the same generation of Jedi. For what difference it made, Rorik could have been in Orlaan's shoes, and Orlaan in Rorik's. They'd both been born into war, it was a fact of life for anyone their age. It was simply made harder for them, those who felt obligated to do something about it.

Yes, Ghess understood. There was peace to be found in what you knew.

He just nodded at Rorik - he hadn't been hiding the images and thoughts passing through his mind. Rorik was a perceptive chap, he likely picked some of it up. He'd get why Ghess -- usually a stubborn ass -- let it drop.

The Jedi dropped in behind his lither friend, and immediately felt how cramped it was inside. He couldn't even dream of following when Rorik slithered into an access hatch about as thick as one of Orlaan's quadriceps. The taller Jedi grunted telepathically.

'Rendezvous at the cockpit.

He turned and half-walked-half-cralwed his way to the docking bay and the landing-gear lock in manual override. He'd at least be of some use before he left this ship. Orlaan was a moment too late, and not sure if he was entirely justified, to stop Rorik from putting burning holes through the guards chests. He felt their lives slip away and let out a sigh.

'Is none-lethal really out of the question? Let the slaves have their justice.

He left it at that and carried on shimmying his way down the corridor until he reached a bulkhead clearly not meant for passenger usage. This was a maintenance hatch designed for tech crew and authorised personnel only. Then the craft had a military origin, to keep the lower ranks out of restricted areas? Perhaps. Ghess studied the complex looking security panel in the dim light - it required a key card, an access code, or a pretty talented splicer. Or...

He balled his hand into a fist and slammed it into the access panel with the force of a pneumatic driver. He smashed through the fairly insubstantial metal plating and yanked out the contraptions innards. Don't ever call him indelicate. With a faint whirring he heard the power to the servos of clamping the door in place fail, and it was an easy matter to get a grip on the grooved patter around the bottom of the bulkhead and wrench it back up into its housing. Of course, to reveal a group of stunned guards on the other side. It was a miraculously well protected store room a grounded ship - must have been something on here of value.

Ghess dove into action a full half second before red fire laced the space he had been a moment before; his saber sprang to life in his off hand, and he made short work of sending the blaster bolts into the walls and floor around him. With his main hand free, and his knee's... elbow's... head, he made short work of the crew, rendering them all in a state of prolonged nap time. He clicked the comm on his waste once, a signal to Rorik.

'Any good with computers, I think you should come take a look at this.'

Orlaan was staring down the nose of what seemed to be a large, rather substantial looking database. Perhaps a manifesto of all the gangs operations? This could be the gold mine Rorik was after.

 

[Apocrypha]

"I can manage," he replied, examining the box.

"You're not very technologically inclined, are you?" he asked, glancing pointedly at Orlaan. "This isn't even encoded. Our slave driver was fairly certain that nobody else would have access to his rig; it's a list of every major hub of slavery and general crime that his outfit controls on 244Core... plus a few extras off-world." A tight grin overtook Rorik for a moment before he settled back into a determined scowl.

"You'll love this," Rorik went on as he thumbed through data archives. "They've got every gunship on the planet slaved to a dozen chips - about ten per ship, a hundred and twenty altogether - and those chips are in the possession of the ringleader." Shaking his head, Rorik stepped away from the computer and crossed his arms. "This is one of the most poorly run outfits I've ever laid eyes on - and trust me, that's saying something. Some of the gangs in the undercity of Coruscant were frighteningly disorganized. These guys, though... if they weren't on 244Core they'd have been muscled out by a smarter bunch inside of a week."

"I'm curious about where these ships even came from - but that's something we can worry about later. Just one more name to add to my list. For now, why don't we find the boss and show him what for, hm?"

 

[Ben]

"Pah, you're telling me. You should hear about some of the stories I have from my Shadow days - I had to tackle some of the most cutting-edge Hutt Lord's in the crime game with the computer knowledge of a mildly apt toddler. You would have enjoyed watching that, I think."

Orlaan smirked across at Rorik, slamming one meaty fist into the open palm of his other hand.

"I always preferred my personal hard-reset switches."

He took a moment to chew over Rorik's analysis of the systems and resources of the shoddy gang - he may not have been much for computers, but he made a fine detective. Evidenced by his CV of busted crooks. Orlaan shared his hunch with their two-man ad hoc think tank.

"Seems like we're missing a piece of the puzzle here. Do you think a benefactor could be around, keeping these guys a float for some reason or another? I am all for smashing this Hutt-breath's face in, but I'd rather not stumble my ass into an unforeseen hiccup"

 

[Rorik Grey]

"My guess as well," he remarked, shrugging his shoulders. "Could be anybody, though. Hutt crime lord, shady business mogul, mercenary syndicate - I wouldn't even rule out the empire having a hand in this. A lot of folks benefit from a ring of slave traders destabilizing a region. Even more benefit from the cheap labor that slaves provide." He knew that all too well.

"Regardless, who provided these thugs with their cred and hardware isn't a question we can answer standing around. I've a plan: we need to pick up our good friend, the de facto leader of this organization, and my guess is that he's somewhere in this tower." Crossing his arms, Rorik nodded towards the cockpit. "Here's what I'm thinking. Between the two of us, I reckon I'm the better pilot - no offense, that tends to be the case with most of the people I know. You sneak inside through the side door by the landing pad, locate our friend and let me know what kind of defenses he's set up. Once you're ready to strike, I'll fire up the ship, swing around and provide support with the main cannons. Once the room is secure, you grab our quarry before reinforcements show up, I'll get you both onto the ship, and we make tracks."

"Once we've got him on board, we can figure out what our next step is. I've still got a contact or two in the resistance that I can ferret out, hook them up with these ships and let them take the fight to the slavers on the rest of the planet."