Cleaner One: Saga of a Reluctant Agent

[Magdalane]

Absolutely no accidental clicks!! I LOVE this story! Read or re-read portions every day! Please, don't stop writing this

[Striges]

I intend to! It has taken over my brain.

 

Thanks so much for the support. It makes me very happy to hear that people (beyond obligatory family members) enjoy my writing.

[Striges]

The Second Most Dangerous Game

 

Darth Zhorrid sat in her late father’s chair behind her late father’s desk in her late father’s chambers in the Sith sanctum. The rooms were the same, the painting behind her was new. Angular and stylized, it depicted hideous contorted humans and animals crying in pain and terror. The only color a splash of red wounds. How inspiring. Opera played in the background, low and hard to hear. He couldn’t quite place it. The needles her earlier appearance sunk into his spine vibrated in sympathetic resonance. The only sympathy he was likely to get.

 

Zhorrid declined to stand as the door slid closed behind him. Mistake. The steely grey furniture she inherited with the rooms made her look small. She smiled her harlequin’s smile at him. She had to be about the same age now as Jadus was way back when. “Welcome,” she said, finally rising. Shorter than he expected. He knew Jadus was bad news from the moment he saw him. Without knowing he was Sith. Hell, without knowing his name or anything about him. Zhorrid, though, Zhorrid was reading her script and dancing her choreographed dance.

 

Figure out her script, figure out her.

 

“Why do you think you are here, Cleaner?” Darth Zhorrid asked.

 

Was it some sort of family tradition, starting conversations with that phrase? The first line to her play? A dozen other glib answers crossed his mind, but he ignored them all. He kept one thing in the forefront of his mind: fear. Let her see that. It’s what she expects, what she wants, easy enough to give it to her. He just had to navigate her crazy long enough to make it out of here with his brain still functioning. "You summoned me, my lord," Cleaner said. Safe, basic answer. Worked with Jadus.

 

Her dark eyebrows drew together, "I know I summoned you Cleaner," she said, her voice quiet yet anything but soft, "do you think I forgot?"

 

Not so safe. Cleaner let his nerves show, let her see the shiver, "No, my lord," he replied.

 

The permanent smile on her face grinned at him, the rest of her did not. “So why,” she reiterated, “do you think you are here, Cleaner?” She began moving around the side of Jadus’ out-of-scale desk. Her dark robes slithered on the smooth floor.

 

Cleaner stayed still. A Kaas labyrinth rat hypnotized by the unblinking stare of a venomous hooded sleen. She knew the answer; he didn’t expect to guess it without getting hurt. Perhaps the response that never satisfied Jadus would work with her. “I don’t know, my lord,” he said, and waited for the lightning.

 

“You don’t know,” she repeated. She rounded the edge of the desk, taller than he by virtue of the dais she stood on. “No guess? No attempt to please me? You give up so easily?”

 

She hadn’t smoked him yet. “My lord, I’m sure you have a purpose in mind. I’m also sure I don’t know what it is.” Gamble, gamble. He decided to take a risk, “I don’t see any advantage in wasting your time with pointless speculation.”

 

She stopped, “Perhaps pointless speculation is what I want.”

 

Still. He stayed very still. Broadcast fear like it was a holonet show. “I think that’s the one thing you don’t want.”

 

The smile reached her lips, “Really.”

 

Cards locked, all in. “Hands don’t understand the mind’s purpose, they just do what they’re told,” he said. He forced bitterness down behind a mask of fear.

 

She settled, pleased. "Yes! Yes exactly," she said. "I knew you would understand. I knew it. Hands don't understand. Hands don't have to understand. They just need to do as they're told." Her head cocked to one side and she regarded him from a new angle. "You're afraid of me. I can taste it."

 

Abso-f*cking-lutely. "Yes," Cleaner agreed. The opera played in the background. He almost knew which one it was.

 

"I can taste it. Different from the others. " she twittered. Zhorrid edged toward him, "Pure. Primal. Instinctive fear." She faced him now, close, knife range if he were so foolish, and he remained still. Played the hypnotized labyrinth rat in the sleen's stare. "I've read your file. I don't suppose many things frighten a man like you."

 

Man. She called him a man. Not alien. Not Twi'lek. Not Cleaner or agent or slave. Man. And this despite having read his file, most of which was unverifiable and fabricated anyway. Keeper kept him nice and anonymous in a documented world. "No," he agreed, putting a tremor in his voice, "not many."

 

"I read your Intelligence file," she repeated, "and my father's chronicle. He gave you to Intelligence, then he left you alone. Planted. As a seed. Dormant. Quiescent. Waiting for the right conditions.” Her expensive robes flowed with every shift of her weight.

 

The music swelled in opera’s main theme and he recognized it. The Lord of Lies. The hero, a nobody marooned and left for dead, swears vengeance against those who abandoned him. He discovers a hidden starship and escapes. Back in society, he reinvents himself as a wealthy and powerful mogul. With the aid of a cadre of skilled allies he pursues and destroys those who wronged him one by one. Shen liked it more than most of the others in the doc’s collection, even if obsessive revenge was a waste of time and credits.

 

So, if she took the title role, which part was his? Which one of the hero’s entourage was he supposed to be?

 

And what could he do with it?

 

Zhorrid tipped her head the other way. “You see it. See the truth in it. I can tell.”

 

Damn, she caught the edge of his real thoughts. Felt his flash of excitement at a challenge. He grabbed at a memory. One with powerful emotions she’d like, but not all the ones he really felt. Jenks. His new owner, Jenks. Shen griped about something; Jenks’ response was more violent than he expected. He remembered shock, remembered terror, remembered pain. Remembered relief. That Jenks didn’t violate him beyond cuts and bruises. That time.

 

She closed her eyes and inhaled slowly, as though savoring a fine perfume. “Yes, you see it now. You are right to fear me, but you also acknowledge the truth,” she said, opening her eyes, “The Force guides all things. All that has happened to this point. My father found you, prepared you. It is no accident that Keeper called you to Hutta. That he called you back to Dromund Kaas. The Force brought you to me at this critical time. The seed sprouts, the bud breaks, and now you shall fulfill your purpose. Your destiny.”

 

He wished Zhorrid would cut the flowery language and get to the point. He concentrated on projecting remembered shock, remembered terror, remembered pain. The Lord of Lies’ first recruit was a cybernetic gambler imprisoned for fraud. How did her line go? Oh yeah, “I don’t see how I can help you,” Cleaner recited.

 

Zhorrid smiled sweetly, "The Force brought you to me,” she reiterated, “I call you by your real name, Shen, call you to my service. All your life you've longed for something bigger. Something greater than yourself. Embrace your destiny, Shen." Darth Zhorrid extended her arms to him, as though obeying stage directions, "you are my chosen."

 

The only thing bigger than himself he’d ever really wanted was a ship. Or a tricked out, ultrafast speeder. Cleaner kept on broadcasting fear and hoped it blocked his innate poodoo detector, currently pegged on max. He took her hands in his and closed the gap. The gambler fell for the Lord in the opera, but it was a little too early for that angle. If he were insane enough to try. He dropped to one knee instead. Sith liked that. "I am honored, my Lord," his real thoughts running a bit more profane.

 

She released him, "Rise, my Hand, your first task awaits.”

 

Cleaner did as she ordered. Like he had a choice. Like he ever had a choice. “I am yours to command,” he said, borrowing another line from The Lord of Lies. What the hell. If her task didn't kill him she sure would.

 

Zhorrid giggled, “Of course you are, Hand. You have been from the first. Now,” she began. She fluttered, settling, silken robes coming to rest, “My father had many associates. Many clever associates. They were his confidants. They knew his secrets. Unfortunately,” her face fell, “they perished with him when the terrorists destroyed the Dominator. All of them.”

 

Cleaner was not thrilled with this turn of conversation. He bit back a quick sarcastic response in favor of a more dramatic one, “Then they are beyond my skill.”

 

She waved one hand, “No. All but one. One survived. Hid. Hid from my father and now he hides from me.” Her hand became a fist, “You will find him for me. You will bring him to me.”

 

“Of course, my lord,” poor bastard. “Who is it?”

 

Darth Zhorrid’s lunatic smile grew wider, “So eager to please. I know you will serve me well,” she reached out as though to touch him but drew back, thinking better of it. “Vyord Yanol. Vyord Yanol hid here on Dromund Kaas. Vyord Yanol fled to Nar Shaddaa. He hoped to escape his fate. He will not.”

 

“I...” Nar Shaddaa? “...see,” that complicated things. Keeper was going to be pissed.

 

“You will bring him to me here, Hand,” Zhorrid went on, “and I will pluck his secrets from his mind like dainty sweets.” She mimed eating some minute morsel.

 

Cleaner let her see his shudder. Shock. Terror. Pain. “You,” Cleaner cleared his throat, “you have a datacard with some pictures? Or, ah, any information, really.”

 

Zhorrid tittered, “Yes,” she said, fluttering back to the outsized throne in a swirl of silk. Lacquered nails retrieved a blood-red datacard from a multicolored selection. She proffered it to him, “All you will need to know, Hand.” With trepidation he mounted the dais to take the card. “Do not tell Keeper,” she said as his fingers closed on it, “let it be our secret,” she said with a wink.

 

For once, Cleaner kept his shiver from showing. Wrong time, wrong time. “The Intelligence database could help--”

 

“Do not tell Keeper, Hand!” Zhorrid shrilled. Cleaner winced at her sudden increase in volume. As well as the rage flowing off her as though she shook it out of her robes. “You are my chosen. The Force will guide you.”

 

He covered his flash of irritation with a low bow. The Force gave beings databases and computers so they could look things up themselves. “I will trust in your judgement, my lord.”

 

“Yes, you will, Hand,” she said, "you are dismissed." Zhorrid sank into her inherited seat.

 

He straightened. Better nip the name issue in the bud. He didn't need her calling him Shen with Kaliyo in the the same quadrant, and this Hand business was ridiculous. "If I may, my lord," he began.

 

She shifted, "You ask a favor already? Bold, my Hand, bold. Perhaps you should prove yourself to me before drawing on my generosity."

 

He would, if he had better options. "My lord, since you wish to conceal our relationship," he paused, waiting for her reaction. Nothing. Interesting. He continued, "I suggest you use my designation."

 

One eyebrow raised, "You'd prefer Cleaner? A household drudge to a noble office serving your lord?"

 

Beat the hell out of eel in Twi'leki. "You should give Keeper no clues, my lord."

 

Zhorrid steepled her fingers, "I see," she said, unconvinced.

 

She felt slighted. Cleaner didn't need Force-sensitivity to know that. Best try an appeal to ego and self-preservation. "Someone as powerful as you must have enemies. Rivals. Keeping our connection from them gives you an advantage.” And he wouldn’t have a huge target painted on his back saying Zhorrid’s Lackey.

 

Zhorrid glowered, “They should know I have followers of my own. Powerful attendants to a powerful lord. My rivals should fear your appearance as my Hand.”

 

Cleaner stymied yet another inappropriate response, “My lord, your enemies would take the opportunity to amputate your Hand. It’s too early. Imagine how much more fear you would inspire when you reveal how extensive your network is and who is in it after they’ve been dealing with your agents, unknowing, for ages.”

 

Her glower receded like the tide. Slow and grudging. “I suppose I can see the benefit in waiting.”

 

He decided to push just a little bit more, “Secrets, once revealed, have little value. But kept, they’re priceless.” Paraphrased from a different opera.

 

Zhorrid settled back into her chair, “I will accept your council. For now,” she said.

 

Score one for flowery language. Cleaner didn't relax, not exactly. He wasn’t out yet. “Thank you, my lord. With your permission?” He turned slightly toward the door.

 

“One more thing, before you go,” Zhorrid said, her fingers still steepled.

 

“Yes, my lord?” he replied.

 

“In the course of your activities, should you find any of those responsible for my father’s death, you will kill them. All of them. And bring me their heads. Is that perfectly clear, Cleaner? All of them. Not a few, not most, but all.”

 

Zhorrid’s crystal blue eyes bored into him. The needles struck up their vibration again as the opera moved into the final act. “Of course, my lord,” Cleaner said. He didn’t need to add a tremor to his voice, or dredge up unpleasant memories to screen his thoughts. They were one and the same.

 

 

She let him leave. He fiddled with the wine red datacard. She let him leave. She let him keep his mind. She gave him a mission. The real question was, who played who?

Edited May 24, 2013 by Striges

[Striges]

The Next Mission

 

 

Cleaner signaled for the citadel’s droid taxi. "Hey!" Kaliyo called down the corridor after him. He held the small speeder and turned back, waiting. "Thanks for ditching me,” she said when she caught up, “I spent ages in a little room with that watcher prig. Where the hell did you go?"

 

They climbed into the taxi. “Kaas City spaceport,” he ordered.

 

“Yes, sir,” the droid replied.

 

At least some things in this city had to defer to him. “Lucky you. I’d love to spend some time alone with Watcher Two.” The speeder’s repulsorlifts engaged.

 

“Yeah, well I imagine she might be some fun if she unclenched a bit.”

 

“Depends on your point of view,” Cleaner said. Dromund Kaas’ everpresent rain smacked the windscreen with a sound like rapid blaster fire on a shield. Kaliyo frumped in the seat beside him, “You’re awfully pissed for a standard debrief. Did the room have just one light and a drain in the floor?”

 

“That’s not even a little funny, Cleaner,” Kaliyo said, “She stalled me in there and I want to know why.”

 

He yawned, "Had a private meeting with a Darth from the Dark Council. Ran long."

 

"Ha. Ha," she droned, "if you're going to lie about it, at least pick something believable."

 

Cleaner grinned at her. The best thing about being a habitual liar was that he could tell the absolute truth and she'd never believe him. One of Sal’s Old Man’s cautionary stories ended like that. He learned a lot from the Old Man. "Then I sat down with the Emperor for a half dozen shipbreakers."

 

“Guzzling shipbreakers I’d believe," Kaliyo said.

 

"He's been on a bender for the past decade. Why do you think he never makes any public appearances?" Cleaner asked.

 

“Are agents allowed blasphemy, Cleaner?” Kaliyo mocked.

 

Cleaner waved her off, “I’ll arrest myself later.”

 

"You're such an *ss," Kaliyo complained, “if you don’t want to tell me, fine.” She turned to the window, frowning at the wet landscape streaking by, “I thought we had something.”

 

Cleaner reached forward and stroked one the tattoos on her temple. One of several narrow triangles. Jealousy? Or just more head games? Either way, his best option was soothing her. “Hey, she didn’t actually rough you up, did she?”

 

“You’re not really concerned,” she said without looking away from the rain-streaked transparasteel.

 

He was concerned. A pissed off Kaliyo would literally stab him in the back or worse, bail. Bah. The things he had to do for this job. He traced a long black triangle beside the first, “Don’t get like that, mesh'la-mesh'la. My clearance is higher, that’s all.”

 

She spun back, “Nerfsh*t. You’re holding out on me,” she stabbed him in the chest with one finger, “We both busted that cell. I knew everything you did. Now you either let me in or I walk.”

 

Balls. “You think Keeper trusts me? Either of us? The way he does real Imperials?” he asked, enveloping her hand in his, “Standard. Operational. Procedure. Or Same Old Poodoo if you like that better,” he said. “They split us up last time, remember? They’re checking our stories. Making sure everything everything I told them matches your version.”

 

“Right.” Kaliyo said, snaking her hand out of his grasp.

 

He grabbed it back, “Yeah. Classic. Come on, don’t be stupid. You going to tell me Nem’ro never checked you against Toth’lazhen or Javis? You’re talking about Keeper. Fa’athra is gullible in comparison.”

 

“He trusts you fine, Cleaner,” Kaliyo groused.

 

Shen snickered. Chortled. A full-bodied laugh bubbled up from inside, bursting forth in a deep bass guffaw. If only she knew. He let go her hand and leaned back on the taxi’s cheap upholstery, wiping tears from his eyes. If only she knew. “Oh, he trusts me all right,” he said at last, regaining control, “trusts me to rack up a body count, whatever the mission brief says. You want to know what you missed? I got chewed out for killing Rogers and her trained rancor. And for not bringing in the rest of the cell alive.”

 

“I don’t buy it,” she said, “If that’s what he wanted, why’d he send you in the first place?”

 

Serious all of a sudden, “That wasn’t an op, Kaliyo, that was a colossal screwup. He had no one in the cell and no way to trace them. If we got anything, we succeeded. If they flushed us out an airlock before breaking atmo, he didn’t lose anything he couldn’t afford to.” Not quite true. It was a calculated risk. He was in place, available, and accustomed to taking over a situation with minimal prep.

 

He could see the wheels turning in her head. Weighing what he said with what she knew. With what she suspected. “Come on, mesh'la-mesh'la. Remember how we met? That’s what I do. I’m the Cleaner. You’re not going to run out on me just because Watcher Two spent an extra hour expounding on her superiority.”

 

“Maybe I will,” Kaliyo said. Her voice had that flat, dangerous tone, but her body language said otherwise. She wanted convincing. Coaxing. Seduction.

 

His hand drifted from the dark tattoo on her temple to the curves of her ear, “No you won’t. You haven’t had this much fun in ages. And you don’t have to worry about getting busted.” Her expression didn’t change. Cleaner leaned in to the ear he was caressing, “she’s not superior,” he whispered.

 

Kaliyo giggled. Bingo. “You didn’t sleep with her,” she said.

 

“And you know this how?” he whispered, still in her ear. Let her have the opening. Let her win.

 

She turned to him. Knew she had him. “She doesn’t sleep with alien scum.”

 

He sat back, a hand on his heart, “Oh, oh, wounded,” he said over her laughter. “Perhaps I won’t tell you where we’re going.”

 

“Why bother. You never take me anywhere fun,” she complained. The venom in her voice was gone.

 

“Dyre Station was fun,” he countered.

 

“Imperial transports are never fun,” she said.

 

“Then you’ll be glad to hear we’re on civilian transport this time,” Cleaner said.

 

“Civilian?” Kaliyo repeated.

 

“Civilian,” Cleaner replied, “still human-owned.”

 

“But civilian. That’s an improvement,” Kaliyo said. Then she frowned, “It’s an ore ship or something, isn’t it?”

 

“Nope. Passenger transport. Full of happy, inoffensive, boring Imperial folk on their way to Nar Shaddaa for holiday,” he said.

 

“Nar Shaddaa?” she asked.

 

“...Of course, they’re picking up a load of slaves for the return trip...” Cleaner continued.

 

“You’re screwing with me. We’re not going to Nar Shaddaa,” Kaliyo said.

 

“Later and yes we are,” he finished.

 

The taxi slowed to a stop, “Kaas Spaceport, sir.”

 

Cleaner hopped out and Kaliyo followed him into the port. “No wonder you’re in a hurry to leave,” she said, “What blew up on Nar Shaddaa?”

 

“Nothing yet,” Cleaner said. He checked the arrivals and departures and headed down the east concourse.

 

“You got leave?”

 

“Ha. I wish.”

 

“So what’s up?” she asked again.

 

Cleaner moved her along to the boarding hangar, “What’s up is we get a civilian transport to Nar Shaddaa. You know what that means?”

 

“What does that mean?”

 

“It means,” he patted one pocket, “I can smoke on the trip and restock when we get there.”

 

She shoved him into one of the spaceport's holographic trees. He stumbled through it. The emitters squalled and interference distorted the projected image. The tree fluttered and flashed in its component colors before settling back to normal. Two uniformed customs officials shot a look in their direction but continued on. Kaliyo grinned at him, hands on her hips.

 

“You’re a pain in the *ss,” he said from the opposite side of the flickering tree.

 

“You don’t want me any other way,” she replied.

 

He kept that blank, bare smile. Don’t push your luck.

[kabeone]

I finally caught up. Your Zhorrid is spot on creepy. I try to avoid analyzing her too closely when I play because she's just over the top spooky. Your Kaliyo is also deliciously terrible and that "toy" shop on the Imperial ship made me choke on my drink.

 

I keep wondering with all of the slippery agents and contractors and Sith. Who is really playing whom? Can't wait to find out! Love it.

[Striges]

Civilian Transport

 

 

Cleaner lit a new cigarette from the stub of the old one. He dropped the butt in the recycler and took a deep drag on the fresh one. Kaliyo leaned against the upper bunk, “Keeper book the room?”

 

Cleaner exhaled blue smoke, “One of the fixers.”

 

“He sure fixed this,” she complained. She waved a hand through the cloud, “How come you still do spice?”

 

He hunched on the lower bunk, “Because I really can quit whenever I want to and I have the income to support whatever bad habits I care to indulge. You, for example,” Cleaner said, looking up with a wink.

 

“Nice,” Kaliyo said, “Hope the food’s better than the accommodations.”

 

Cleaner shrugged, “Civilian transports are a bit of a grab bag. Sith slum on official transports. Their galleys put out decent stuff for the sake of self-preservation.” He consulted a schedule on their passage record, “Supposed to be an off-hours mess aft on B deck. Could be anything from made to order stuff to a roomful of vending machines.”

 

Kaliyo levered off the bunk, “I’ll take my chances. You in?”

 

Cleaner lay back on the bunk, “Na. I’m wiped. Think I’ll finish this and turn in. Bring me something, yeah?”

 

“Do I look like room service?” she countered.

 

He reached for her and stroked her thigh, “What service, specifically?”

 

“Jerk,” she said but didn’t move away, “I’ll think about it. If I see something you like.” Kaliyo flashed a mischievous grin and Cleaner knew he was in for the most repulsive ration bar she could find. She disappeared out the cabin door.

 

He listened as her step receded in the hallway. When it was quiet he retrieved one of the button cam monitors from their meager luggage. Opening the door, he flipped it up and the magnetized base fastened itself to the upper frame. He slipped back into the room and sat back down on the lower bunk. Activating his datapad, the button cam showed him a panoramic view of the empty hallway. He set alerts for motion and Kaliyo’s face-recognition, then put the feed in a porthole at the bottom of the screen.

 

He fished a pair of datacards out of his pocket. One was the blood red card from Zhorrid. He still hadn’t looked at it. Hadn’t reviewed the information on the dead guy. Vyord Yanol wasn’t dead, not yet, but Cleaner had no doubt he’d wish for it soon enough. Wasn’t quite sure why it bothered him this time. Wasn’t even quite sure if it did bother him.

 

He inserted the generic grey standard-Imperial-issue one instead. Keeper’s reward for not getting himself killed with Zhorrid. One might think that survival was reward enough, but Shen wasn’t about to say no if Keeper wanted to soothe a guilty conscience. He knew it wouldn’t have anything on Yanol. Not yet. He didn’t tell Keeper about Yanol. Zhorrid said not to. On the other hand, Zhorrid hadn’t said anything about not searching for certain names on Keeper’s office terminal while certain interested parties were looking over his shoulder. After all, he did have to convince Keeper to lift his Nar Shaddaa travel restriction.

 

The datacard contained two files, a basic personnel brief and an event report.

 

“Lisha Tetch”

 

“Curovao Hospital Bombing”

 

 

@ Kabeone:

Thank you! I dreaded going to see Zhorrid on my agent. She was so unpredictable. I hope I’m staying true to Kaliyo’s character. She’s so manipulative and destructive; I don’t want to make her a cartoon. The “toy” shop. Sith just gotta have fun. “There is only passion” after all.

 

Empire-side takes paranoia and intrigue to a new level. I liked that the Imperial recruitment speech for Makeb acknowledged the constant backstabbing and political games as a weakness.

 

[Striges]

Landing

 

"Wait a minute. How do you get banned from Nar Shaddaa?" Kaliyo asked. She followed Cleaner down the ship's passenger debarking ramp into the waiting arms of Nar Shaddaa's customs droids.

 

"I didn't get banned from Nar Shaddaa," Cleaner countered, "What I said was that I'm on the security alert list." He slung the bag with his belongings over his shoulder.

 

"Yeah. So. How exactly do you get on a watch list on Nar Shaddaa?" Kaliyo asked again, "I thought that was impossible. Unless you skipped planet with a tab to Gorpo or Karagga or something."

 

Cleaner paused, scanning the crowd beyond the gates for Imperial uniforms. "You get an expense allowance yet?" He knew the answer. He took care of Kaliyo's routine expenses. Anything beyond what he chose to cover was her responsibility. She had credits. He didn’t know what Keeper was paying her, but there’s no way she came cheap.

 

"What's that got to do with it?"

 

He thought he caught a glimpse of standard Imperial grey on the crowd. "Let's just say that when you do, don't try to write off a four-day bender," Cleaner said. She’d believe that. "They’ll investigate, ask questions, next thing you know you have a large, armed security detail following you around." Kaliyo laughed, as he knew she would. He lit a last cigarette to the sound. “Puts a damper on things,” he mumbled around it.

 

Kaliyo’s snickers slowed, “You have chaperones?”

 

“I prefer entourage,” Cleaner said, “sounds more classy.” Keeper was smart. He didn’t use the keyword to prevent Shen from going to Nar Shaddaa. He just made sure that Nar Shaddaa’s ingress monitors alerted the local Imperial garrison of his arrival. And replaced the usual ‘do not interfere’ tag attached to his ID with ‘monitor closely and report,’ thus guaranteeing an escort. Said escort sending pretty much everything fun scurrying into the cracks before he got within a kilometer. Like overloading the nanobots, getting rid of a large company wasn’t worth the time or effort. Oh yes, Keeper was very clever. “You think I would miss a chance to stop here when I had to go to Hutta anyway? I haven’t visited in ages.”

 

"Shame. Maybe I'll catch you up. If you ask nicely," Kaliyo said.

 

"I always ask nicely,” he grumbled. Only faces change, everything else stays the same. He scanned the crowd again. There it was. Or more correctly, there he was. Not the usual full-on armed, uniformed escort. Just one. A Chiss by the look of him. Still uniformed. He might blend in with a little work.

 

Kaliyo spotted him at about the same time. "Is that it?" she asked, "just the one? Pretty pathetic entourage,” she said, emphasizing his word. “Maybe you’re not as scary as you think."

 

"I'm on the clock," he replied. That was the deal. More autonomy in exchange for cooperation; his escort serving as a pipeline to Keeper. A thought occurred. Keeper had been vague on what he considered more autonomy, and Cleaner had been just as vague on what he considered cooperation. "Let's ditch him," Cleaner said.

 

Kaliyo sidled up to him with a smile, "Not playing by the rules, huh? You know I can't resist."

 

No, exploiting the rules. Ditch him now when it didn’t matter, he’ll stick like a mynock to a power coupling for the remainder of Cleaner’s stay. Which, unfortunately, was part of the deal. What a pain. “Yeah. Left. Over there. Head through the crew area and the refueling stacks and get in the queue from the Hutta shuttle.” Hutt customs was a skimming operation anyway. Like paying admission to an amusement park. Find a gate, bribe the droid, hit the casinos.

 

“I like the way you think, Cleaner,” Kaliyo said, heading behind fuel pods toward the adjoining pad.

 

Cleaner followed her. He cast a quick look over his shoulder. Their would-be tail saw what they were doing. Good, he was quick. Not quick enough, but quick. The Chiss tried to change pads but spaceport security intercepted him. Firmly. They put a high priority on preventing stowaways, much less on unauthorized entry. Cleaner met the Chiss' eye across the concourse as he struggled with the patrol and gave him a half-assed salute. With the cigarette. That ought to do it.

 

The line awaited, a shuffling crowd of Hutta’s wretched residents. The toughs already bullied their way to the front and nobody with real wealth would be caught dead in a paid-passage public shuttle from Hutta. That left the ones who saved their meager credits for years for a chance at something better. Chumps. He and Kaliyo hustled through the queue, shoving the grimy nerfs aside. One generous contribution to Godoba the Hutt's coffers and they were on Nar Shaddaa's streets.

 

Not a uniformed Chiss in sight.

 

Cleaner wrapped an arm around Kaliyo’s waist and pulled her tight against him. They had a few hours to kill before settling in and letting their tail catch up. “So, show me the sights, yeah?” he asked.

 

She shoved back and they tottered the other way, “Say the magic word,” she demanded.

 

“Kachu,” he answered. Huttese had no word for ‘please.’

 

Kaliyo brayed a laugh, “You are local, aren’t you?” she replied in kind.

 

He joined in her mirth, “You gotta show me who’s running the show around here now. I’m all out of date.”

 

“Hotel first?” she suggested, caressing his lekku.

 

He pulled her tighter, “Plenty of time for that later. Plus I bet our escort already booked one.”

 

“So? It’s probably crap. Full of geezers and killjoys.”

 

“Probably. Easier to annoy than the run-of-the-mill tourist,” Cleaner said. “Plus it goes on their expense, not mine.”

 

“I like the way you think, Cleaner,” Kaliyo said, “Red Light District, then?”

 

“That still the center of sex and spice and all things vice?”

 

“Mmm-hmm,” Kaliyo agreed, “expanded into blood sport a few years back.”

 

“Pass on that,” Cleaner said. Gladiatorial combat was not his thing. “Club Ufora still open?”

 

“Uh, yeah, but you don’t want to go there,” Kaliyo said, “Trust me. You want Bleakwood.”

 

Bleakwood? “That sounds bad,” he said.

 

“Of course it does. Keeps the tourist trash away,” Kaliyo said, “Let’s go.”

 

The pair of them went on, weaving back and forth as they ambled along the concourse. Shen studied the new neon signs and the old taxiways. Welcome back to Nar Shaddaa. A playground if you had the credits, otherwise a sewer. Thank the stars he had credits this time around.

 

 

Notes:

Kachu should translate as ‘now.’ According to Wookiepedia “...(T)he Hutts had no words for the otherwise polite phrases of ‘Please’ and ‘Thank You.’” Though the game doesn’t say one way or the other, I presume Kaliyo is fluent in Huttese.

 

[Striges]

A Stroll Down Memory Lane

 

Shen retrieved the hookah mouthpiece and leaned back in the dim booth. Blue smoke with a hint of rust drifted upward, joining the miasma swirling around the fitful lighting. Roxy’s Den of Storms was exactly like he remembered. Clutching the mouthpiece in his teeth he swirled the red idlewil liquor in his chunky tumbler. Even the glasses were the same.

 

Kaliyo sauntered back, “All right, I bribed the band. Nothing but Memorable Fancy until you say otherwise or someone pays more.” She regained her seat beside him and snuggled in, “I don’t see what you like in that music.”

 

He took a sip of his drink. They didn’t water them down here. At least no more than necessary for flavor. Roxy’s took their intoxicants seriously. “Call it nostalgia,” he said. Kaleidoscopic lyrics half-sung, half spoken over bluesy music punctuated with electronic strings drifted through the Den with the smoke.

 

“Not my thing,” Kaliyo said, “but then I guess you have to be high to get it.” To which Cleaner responded by handing her the hookah mouthpiece and retrieving another from the pipe. She took a puff then tipped her head. "Oh yeah, they sound much better now," she said. She sipped her drink, a tangerine Rodian Hangover.

 

"Funny."

 

"So, hit the body shops next?" Kaliyo suggested, "you could use some replacement parts."

 

"Thought you liked my parts," Cleaner said, softly blowing smoke in her ear. Organ markets made him think of slaves who became more valuable in pieces than whole. Or the destitute who parted themselves out. Wondered offhand how many of Nar Shaddaa's happy tourists knew how dangerous their playground was.

 

"There's always room for improvement," Kaliyo said with a giggle. Her gleeful sound derailed his dark thoughts. Strange free association was all he got from ryll, and even that didn't last long. "I ever tell you about Anspi?" she asked.

 

He wasn't the only one free associating. Kaliyo never mentioned someone named Anspi. Somehow personal histories didn’t come up after Dyre station security broke up their little t*t-for-tat session. If he let on, she’d clam up or demand an exchange. “Tell me again, that’s a great story.” He flagged down a beribboned Twi’lek serving girl and ordered refills. She fluttered off, decoration trailing in the haze.

 

“Ha, yeah it is.” Kaliyo said, draining her drink and slamming the tall glass down with a bang in the puddle of condensation on the table. Water splattered. No one noticed. “Hooked up with her on a tramp freighter my first year out of Rattatak. She’s the one that got me in with the Exchange.”

 

Score. The serving girl returned with their drinks and whisked away the empties. “Yeah, that one. With the Exchange.” Cleaner said.

 

Kaliyo reclined against him and put her boots up on the table, “The Exchange. I was such a mess back then. Didn’t have a clue. Anspi had some gang connections but she was running too,” Kaliyo leaned forward for her fresh drink and sipped it, followed by a drag on the pipe. “We hit this one ship, see, going through the cargo hold, looking for something good to lift. Turns out it’s an Exchange ship. Everything in there is hot and the goons are on their way. We’ve only got this one holdout blaster between us, that’s it. We’re dead, right?”

 

The water in the hookah’s swirled-glass base bubbled as Cleaner inhaled, “If you’re lucky, you’re dead.”

 

Kaliyo giggled again, “Yeah, that’s what we thought too. So we get this great idea. I torch the place while Anspi grabs a dockworker. Exchange goons finally show up, we blame the dockworker and say we caught him. To prove we’re Exchange material. They eat it up. We’re in.”

 

Cleaner laughed with her, “I love that part. Pull one over on the goons.” Clever. Very clever. And risky. He did admire a good con. And a good story.

 

“Yeah,” said Kaliyo, sipping her Rodian Hangover, “Didn’t work out so well for her later but it was great for me. Got me all kinds of connections. Good to have, you know?”

 

“Connections are better than credits,” he signaled for another round. The server, this one in yellow ribbons and nothing else, fluttered off, “Well, for some things, anyway.”

 

“Right,” Kaliyo agreed. She drained her drink and slammed the glass as before. The server brought another round and cleared the empties. A pipe attendant made the rounds, refreshing their chosen spice blend in the hookah bowl. The crystals popped and snapped as they met the heat.

 

“Anspi’shel mean anything?” Kaliyo said abruptly, “Twi’lek name. Figure you’d know.”

 

Must be Anspi’s full name. “Anspi’shel?” Cleaner repeated, giving the ‘s’ the proper sibilance and rolling the ‘l’ the way a Ryloth native would.

 

“Yeah. You say it like she did.”

 

Name. Name. Depended a bit on the accent and the suffix-form. Lekku movements too, no way Kaliyo could tell him that part. So, Moon’s-Sorrow. Or Crying Moon. Tears of the Moon, if one were waxing lyrical like Memorable Fancy. Shen felt a pang of jealousy. Someone gave her a lovely name. Unless it was a dancer or an wh*re’s professional name, something an angsty teenager adopted because it sounded tragic. “Nah. Pretty though.”

 

“Good times. We run into her, we’d have some fun.”

 

Round two: Cleaner, one. Kaliyo, zero. Officials to evaluate style points penalty for use of intoxicants.

 

 

Notes:

Again, Kaliyo’s background details come from her companion quests, dialogue rearranged to better suit the conversation. There’s no information on what, if anything, Anspi’shel’s name means, other than Kaliyo’s comment that Twi’leks say it better. According to Wookiepedia “Ann” means “Moon”, also used as a feminine given name. “Shala” is a word and clan name meaning “crying or tearful”.

 

[bright_ephemera]

Draw her out (to get maybe worthless information, but maybe not) and give her nothing in exchange...if it were anyone else I would feel bad, but Kaliyo really deserves someone like Shen.

 

Great atmosphere in the spice den overall.

[Striges]

Thank you!

 

Kaliyo relies on other people being the good guys, or at least being responsible. It is hard to feel bad for her when her current mark is not.

[Striges]

Catching Fish

 

 

The Den of Storms band knew only a dozen or so Memorable Fancy songs. Even Cleaner was tired of them by the time his new friend found the den. The matron intercepted him at the door. Kaliyo perked up as he moved to get a better view. She'd long since moved beyond tipsy to pleasantly stoned. Their conversation had been pretty disjointed for a while. Damn he missed that sometimes.

 

The Chiss, still in uniform, tried to get past Roxy's matron. She wasn't having it. Cleaner couldn't hear them at this distance, but they were both already at the hand-waving stage. Funny. Roxy's people were as open to bribes as anyone. He must have offered less than Cleaner already spent. He watched their conversation for a while then flagged down the server in yellow and sent her to Roxy’s matron with assurances and a handful of credits before the situation escalated to bouncers or worse.

 

She delivered his message and his credits. Cleaner caught the matron’s eye. She glared at him, but sent Mr. Chiss back with an amazonian escort. “He with you?” the amazon asked in Huttese. A Rattataki woman, her tattoos were unlike Kaliyo’s, being more random and cloudlike than sharp and angular. She looked ready to fold the Chiss into convenient letter size and mail him home to Csilla in a freight envelope.

 

“Yeah, no worries,” Cleaner replied in kind, forking over more credits, “no damages, no reports.”

 

The Rattataki snorted and swept the credits off the table, ignoring Kaliyo altogether. “No damages, no reports,” she repeated, turning on her heel and leaving.

 

The Chiss straightened his uniform and retrieved a compact radio bomb. He thumbed the switch, sending static into any nearby monitors. “So, you’re the infamous Cleaner One,” he said. Perfect Dromund Kaas accent.

 

Cleaner sat up. There was hope for this fish after all. “Have a seat, Blue,” he said in Basic.

 

“I’d rather stand, thank you,” the Chiss replied, “knowing the kind of activities beings pursue in establishments such as this one.”

 

Great. Enter the Prude Patrol. “Sit down,” Cleaner growled, “you look and sound like you’re going to arrest me and that’s not the image you want to project here.”

 

"Perhaps it is," the Chiss replied.

 

"Sit the hell down, Blue," Cleaner snarled. In Huttese. Low in volume but high in threat. He leaned forward and picked up the third hose on the hookah, then slid it across toward the open space at the booth. "Blend in or I'll shoot you now and save someone else the trouble." He probably could at that. The Chiss' uniform did not include Intelligence insignia. No restrictions.

 

"We have places to be, Pinky," the Chiss replied, also in Huttese.

 

Pinky? Cleaner laughed. The Chiss wasn’t afraid of him, or he covered it well. Promising. Showed his hand a little early. Cleaner lounged back in the booth and draped an arm around Kaliyo. “Alright, Blue, make you a deal. You stay until we finish drinks and this pipe, then we’ll go with. No fuss, no muss.”

 

Kaliyo shrugged his arm off, “Speak for yourself,” she murmured, then sipped at her Rodian Hangover and giggled.

 

The Chiss considered. Cleaner could almost see him calculating, running odds, doing equations. He had to get this guy in a casino, they’d make a killing. Finally, he slid into the booth opposite Kaliyo. “For now,” he said under his breath.

 

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Cleaner asked, “You got a name?”

 

“Sergeant,” the Chiss replied.

 

“Sergeant what?” Cleaner pressed.

 

“Military Liaison to Intelligence,” he answered, without missing a beat.

 

Bah. Cleaner could find the man’s name through official channels without too much trouble. If he wanted to. “Blue it is then,” Cleaner said.

 

“Sergeant,” he repeated. The Chiss poked at the hookah mouthpiece, “Unless you wish me to continue calling you Pinky.”

 

“Been called worse,” Cleaner said.

 

“Very well, Pinky,” he said, settling in. Or as settled as he was likely to get. “As a word of advice, landing in the same den you haunted on your last visit made you easy to find.”

 

Cleaner wrapped his arm back around Kaliyo, “Yes,” he agreed, exhaling blue smoke through a Cheshire cat smile, “it did.”

[Striges]

Switching Gears

 

"You will follow my directives, Cleaner," Zhorrid screeched. "I expect results!" Her soprano voice rasped at the top of her register. She lost considerable range since her one and only performance.

 

Cleaner’s lekku twitched and he felt the knot at the back of his neck ratchet tighter. He managed a smooth bow, "Of course, Darth Zhorrid," he said. A trickle of sweat ran down between his shoulder blades. "I will find your father's confidant soon."

 

Zhorrid glared at him, a mouthful of sharp nexu teeth behind her wide false smile. She smoothed her robes, "You had better, Cleaner," she said, "if you fail me I will have you flayed alive for my amusement. For the same number of weeks you wasted. End transmission," she concluded, cutting the channel with a slash of her hand.

 

Shen collapsed into the seat in the local Intelligence secure holo room, grateful Zhorrid couldn't read lekku. Reached forward and closed the circuit before slumping back in the rigid chair. He scrubbed his feet on the floor. Wanted to go get something to eat. Something about Zhorrid’s progress reports--and her increasing displeasure--managed to make him hungry. And at the same time sick to his stomach. He’d take Hutts over Sith any day. Hutts might be temperamental, but they were at least a little predictable.

 

He rose and released the door seals. Kaliyo and Blue were waiting. Only Blue stood at his approach, “Well, I see you survived another transmission.”

 

Cleaner stuffed a cigarette between his lips, “Yeah. Darth Zhorrid hasn’t figured out long-distance electrocution yet.”

 

Blue remained standing. Even out of uniform he still screamed military, “I’ve heard some Sith can strangle anyone they see in a holomessage. Distance is no object.”

 

Cleaner lit his cigarette, “Thank you, Sergeant Optimist.” Smoke headed for the ceiling. The staff at the bureau office had long since ceased complaining about it. Or even noticing.

 

“I do try to be of aid,” he said, “and I appreciate you remembering my proper rank this time.”

 

“Don’t mention it,” Cleaner said, tromping out of the bureau to the upper promenade on Nar Shaddaa’s neutral concourse.

 

Kaliyo rose and followed along, “He’s been helpful. Hasn’t he been helpful?” she asked, catching up.

 

This again. Cleaner stopped and turned slowly, menacing the both of them. Kaliyo took up with Blue almost as soon as they landed. As soon as he loosened up a bit, that was. Lasted a couple weeks. Cleaner didn't care who Kaliyo slept with. But, since she wanted him to be jealous, he pretended he was jealous. Kept her from trying something he might actually mind. “Real helpful,” he growled, turning away.

 

“So where to now?” Kaliyo asked, satisfied, “pick one of the low rent districts and shake down a few more bums?”

 

“An industrial sector, perhaps?” Blue suggested, “again?”

 

Hadn’t worked so far. Cleaner got independent confirmation from several sources the elderly Human arrived on Nar Shaddaa. Beyond that, Zhorrid’s information hadn’t proved useful. Neither had Intelligence files. He made the rounds, got in with the various Hutts, got a nose in with the Exchange with Kaliyo’s help, nothing. No hits on Cleaner’s identification and tracking programs scanning security cam feeds. Cams didn’t cover everything, but personal visits to various blind spots turned up bupkis. Whatever hole Yanol dug into, he’d pulled the top in after him.

 

Cleaner marched toward the taxi pad, “I’m done for the day. Going to get something to eat. Something expensive and bad for my health.”

 

“Last meal, Pinky?” the Chiss suggested.

 

The Sergeant used the nickname to needle him. He’d been quite careful use his proper designation whenever it mattered. “Shut the kark up, Blue.” Cleaner returned the favor.

 

 

 

The taste of kolto. The cries of a voice scraped raw. The smell of burned flesh, raw andris spice, and filth. You have failed me, my son.

 

Shen started awake, jerking bolt upright in the hotel bed he shared again with Kaliyo. Still half asleep, he touched his fingers to his cheek where he could still feel the blow. No welt. His throat wasn’t sore beyond speech, the scarred skin on the back of his neck was just that. Scars. Old ones at that. He swung out of the bed and padded out into the hallway between the paired bedrooms, still shaking off the dream’s tendrils.

 

He glanced into Blue’s room out of habit. No door; part of Nar Shaddaa culture was its odd blend of privacy and voyeurism. The sergeant lay as a singular lump in the middle of his bed. If the chaperone had a family or friends he’d rather be with, he never mentioned them. His space was as tidy and sterile and impersonal as the day the group took up residence in the long-stay hotel.

 

Shen continued on into the living room and its connected kitchenette, kicking empty take-away boxes and beverage cups and cannisters out of his way. He had the room on continuous do-not-disturb. He didn’t want to be bothered. And he didn’t want housekeeping in here unobserved. Besides, the clutter irritated Blue.

 

He opened the chiller, its light spilling into the dark room along with the cold air from its interior. Shen shivered as the chill washed over his bare feet and legs. Dropped an ice ball in the bottom of a heavy tumbler and let the chiller door close of its own accord. Gave his eyes a moment to readjust to the gloom. Poured himself a hefty glass of Mirialan Ouzo, something he picked up on a whim and discovered he liked. He crossed to the room’s panoramic window and leaned against one of the supports. He looked through the clear liquor at Nar Shaddaa’s nighttime neon. Watched as the water from the melting ice mixed with the spirit, clouding his view.

 

He swirled the glass and took a sip, the heady fragrance rocketing straight through his sinuses. The alcohol itself resting uneasily in his stomach. He turned his gaze down. Down down, as though he could see past the layers of durasteel and ceramacrete, sewers and structure, all the way down to the scum at the bottom. He remembered long ago looking up, dreaming of the day he’d be above all the steel and structure, where he could see the skies and the neon and the stars. Funny. Now that he was up here he still had the same problems.

 

He drained off half the drink. His nascent buzz faded almost before it began. Couldn’t get high, couldn’t get drunk. Couldn’t escape.

 

Shen refocused on his naked reflection in the blaster resistant polysilicate window. He was a scattergun, not a scalpel. Zhorrid's job wasn't the kind he was good at. Toss a grenade in the pond and scoop up the floaters, sure. Hell, be the grenade and let someone else scoop. Fish up one special fish out of the ocean, not so much. Not with his contacts a decade or more out of date. He knew people but he hadn't been here, and that made all the difference. The faces changed, and he didn't know the newest ones.

 

He let his focus revert to the view of Nar Shaddaa's glitz. It was more than just missing contacts. Cleaner couldn't figure this Yanol. Couldn’t figure out his plan. Cleaner expected him to hide for a while. Hiding’s what you did while you made a plan, or as a transition to the next part of your plan. He should be well into peeling back the layers of Yanol's protection by now. Instead he had nothing. Not even a trail. He refilled his drink and stared out the window some more. Drained the tumbler while the traffic passed, oblivious.

 

Wondered how long Keeper would let him run if he tried. Wondered if Keeper would help Zhorrid track him down. Wondered how the hell Keeper managed to keep his head attached for so long.

 

Shen sighed and retreated to the kitchenette, left the tumbler by the sink among the half full take-away boxes, and headed back to the bedroom. Might as well wake up Kaliyo, tire out his body and hope his brain would follow suit. Glanced again at Sergeant Lump, out of place in his obsessive neatness. Looked over to his room. Clothes draped on the furniture, open liquor bottles on the nightstands, Kaliyo tangled in the sheets, taking her half out of the middle of the bed as usual.

 

Finally realized what woke him up, what bone his mind was worrying. He came at this problem all wrong. He thought he was looking for someone on the run, someone looking to start a new life, maybe trade information or expertise for credits or protection. But Yvord Yanol didn’t think the way he did. Yanol was brilliant, but he thought like a slave. A slave at heart, living and dying for the whims of others. No thought of outwitting his master. No thought of running until forced to. No expectation of surviving discovery.

 

Yanol might be right about that last one.

 

Cleaner wasn’t looking for a clever operative, Darth Jadus’ genius advisor. He was looking for a frightened little mouse, surrounded by enemies, all alone in a strange place. A very different animal indeed. But a mouse could be found, however deep his hole, even when he pulled the top in after himself.

 

Of course, if he was wrong again, he was toast. Zhorrid wasn't going to give him much more time.

 

Cleaner climbed into bed and dragged the sheets back. Kaliyo grumbled and stirred. He slipped in beside her and caressed her shoulder. Breathed ouzo-scented breath in her ear. "You awake? " he whispered.

 

"No," she murmured. She rolled and kissed him. Sampled the liquor from his lips and mouth. "Naughty. You've been drinking and you didn't bring me any," she complained into the corner of his jaw.

 

He ran his fingers over her pale skin clothed only in tattoos. Traced dark daggers usually hidden from public view. Pulled her close and settled her into matching curves. "I brought you something else,” he purred. Let base animal instinct take over.

 

Enjoy what he had now. While he still had it. Time enough for worry tomorrow.

[Striges]

Pursuit

 

 

The blaster report echoed in the passage. Kaliyo laughed, "I'm ahead now, Cleaner," she said, poking the corpse with her foot.

 

"Not including last trip," Cleaner rebutted. "I'm still ahead by four."

 

"Counter resets when we leave the slum," Kaliyo claimed.

 

"Does not," Cleaner retorted, walking around the body.

 

Blue lagged behind, shaking his head in dismay, “Congratulations, both of you, on valiant competition for the Nar Shaddaa Evocii extermination prize. Honestly, do you have to shoot all of them?”

 

“Yes,” Shen said, continuing forward into the ghetto.

 

"I didn't realize genocide was in your job description," Blue quipped.

 

"No one's going to miss a few Evocii," Kaliyo said.

 

"I sure as hell won’t," Shen agreed.

 

Blue sighed, "The species is in decline anyway. It's not like they need your help. We're not even in the target area yet."

 

"That's the point, Blue," Cleaner said, "My guy's gone to ground. He thinks he's safe, or at least hidden. He won't move unless I make him. Beings move when the bodies start piling up.” Actually, he just hated Evocii, but it sounded better when he gave it a rational spin.

 

The narrow passage opened up into what might be an atrium in the upper levels. Down here it was a garbage-strewn cave. Tarps and trash and pieces of shipping containers divided the space into squalid cubicles, a warren of the destitute. Ragged clothing hung on lines like bedraggled banners crisscrossing the space. Stars knew what these beings washed them in or with. Or why they bothered. There wasn't enough soap in the galaxy to clear the smell of desperation out of these walls.

 

Cleaner chain-lit another cigarette. He almost dropped the old one and ground it out under his heel, then had a better idea. He tossed the smoldering butt behind him and continued walking. He went only a few steps before hearing a scuffle. He spun and fired his blaster at the beggar, missing Blue by centimeters and the urchin by less. Blue cursed, his language complicated and full of vowels. The ragamuffin scurried back into the warren. Shen frowned. Vermin.

 

“Missed,” Kaliyo crowed, “minus five points.”

 

“Since when?” Cleaner asked.

 

“Since you missed,” she said with a grin.

 

Cleaner scanned the alley, "Nerfsh*t. You're making up rules."

 

"So are you."

 

Recovering from his close call, Blue brushed his hands over his non-uniform as though taking inventory of all his parts. "If you're quite finished, maybe we could move on?" he complained.

 

Cleaner watched the ratty tarps swaying with the beggar's passage. They stuck with Huttese for these forays into the slums. Made it less obvious they weren't local. Cleaner wondered what Blue’s epithet was. Chiss native tongue? Sure wasn't any familiar language. He rolled the sound of Blue’s words around in his head. Helped him remember. He would look it up later. Profanity said a lot about a species. Basic was mostly sex and bodily functions; Huttese slime and disease; Rodese managed to hit a lot of categories but stupidity and invoking the wrath of the gods were the main ones.

 

Cleaner checked his mini locator beacon. They were in a no-cam zone but still a couple levels high from where he wanted to be. "Yeah, Blue, we can go. Since you're in such a hurry."

 

Cleaner and company legged it for the cargo lift. No taxis on this level. They quit lot higher up. No one down here could afford the fare and scavengers would strip any vehicle that stood still for more than a minute, occupied or not.

 

Cleaner checked out the lift before stepping on it. Garbage drifts filled the corners. Thieves stole the buttons off the control panel long ago, leaving an iffy manual lever and tufts of severed wiring. Time was when he hopped lifts in worse shape without a second thought. Time was when he was the kid stealing the wiring. Time was when the chance of becoming unrecognizable paste if the lift brakes failed was part of the thrill of yanking the guts out of the controls.

 

Blue hesitated, “Are you sure about this, Pinky?”

 

Cleaner grabbed the lever, “Kark yeah,” he said with more confidence than he felt, “You really want to take the stairs?” He avoided inspecting the big gears in their battered housing at the rear of the lift. Or the adjoining motor. Most especially not the lift track, which probably hadn’t seen lubricant since it was built. Kaliyo took up station in the middle of the lift, avoiding the holes where missing deckplates revealed the lift’s inner workings. What was left of them. Blue grabbed a railing. Shen grinned at Blue, “No safety gate--stripped for metal most likely. Watch your fingers.” He disengaged the brake and shoved the handle forward. The lift’s machinery whined in protest and it shuddered into motion.

 

It ground its way downward. Cleaner kept the speed low. Several midlevels slid by, then the heavy main level truss, followed by more mids. As they neared the level he wanted, Cleaner slowed the lift further. It settled in half a meter above the floor. He declined to push it further and set the brake, “Welcome to Trashtown, Nar Shaddaa,” he said, hopping out.

 

Their path went through a wide corridor. Side passages joined it at regular intervals. The arch at the end glowed brighter than the dingy hall, suggesting it opened on a wider space further ahead. Symbols on the walls, one over the other, read like gangland archaeology. Couple extinct Hutt clans, scratched and faded on the bottom layer. Exchange, Black Sun, and occasional Hutts swapping control, alternately defacing their rival’s symbols and painting over with their own. A few small independent, local gangs whose tags Shen didn’t recognize filling in between. Top layer was a tongue of fire. Must be under local control again right now.

 

Kaliyo jumped down, her hand hovering by her blaster. “Nice. They should give tours,” she said, checking out the graffiti.

 

“Oh yes,” Blue agreed, joining them, “I imagine tourists would love to visit this level.”

 

Shen snorted, “Sure. Call it the Zoo tour. Don’t even charge admission, let the animals take it off the visitors.”

 

“Harsh,” Blue said. Their voices echoed in the empty corridor.

 

“Be more effective than all those charity groups,” Shen said.

 

He drew his blaster and took the lead. This was an industrial area, or had been at one time. The big stuff must have moved out but they left their sessile fixtures. Most of it was built in place and impossible to remove except by cutting torch. Corporations just let it sit down here and depreciate; they used it up and the cost of removal was more than the price of the scrap.

 

Didn’t stop others from using it, though. As they advanced he noticed bright flashes and heard sharp snaps from down the side halls. Someone was doing welding down here. Several someones. A whiff of leaking blaster gas and he froze for a moment. Volatile gas and welding sparks were a very bad combination. But it passed without incident.

 

The light grew larger as they meandered their way down the passageway. No one bothered them. The few beings around scurried back into the shadows at their approach. Cleaner headed resolute for what should be an open area.

 

"Hey," Kaliyo said as they neared the light.

 

Cleaner paused. The familiar shop sounds had gone silent. No high buzz of droid servos, no grunting hydraulics, even the heavy mechanical noises faded into the distance. "Yeah?" he asked. Bad situation. If he had hair on the back of his neck, it would be standing up.

 

Blue, bringing up the rear, answered, "Company."

 

Cleaner turned, just catching the view in the corner of his eye. Blue had drawn his weapon at some point and it was clear why. Massing behind them was a shuffling, unorganized mob. Aliens; he saw no humans in that oblique look. No blasters, but plenty of improvised weapons and more than a few vibroknives. Cleaner flicked the safety on his blaster and heard both Kaliyo and Blue follow suit. Retreat was the better option right now, but the throng blocked the main exit.

 

“Word travels fast,” Blue said.

 

Kaliyo closed up their spacing, “Always does in a place like this.”

 

"I thought you had contacts with the gangs, Pink," Blue said.

 

Cleaner chomped on his cigarette, “Not with these guys. Don’t know their tag.”

 

“They’re herding us,” Kaliyo said, “You do realize that.”

 

“I know it,” he said. Nothing he could do. There was nowhere else to go. Cleaner kept a measured pace, heading for the end of the passage. No running unless he wanted a riot. He dropped the cigarette butt and crushed it. Nice and slow and casual. Probably the local gang leader just wanted to scare them good and extort payment for safe passage. Play things right and he might get a useful contact. On the other hand, play it wrong and they’d end up touring the organ markets anyway. As the daily special.

 

Cleaner fought the urge to stop at the threshold and instead marched right through. As he expected, the space was open, a wide chamber ringed with skeletal machinery mounted in bare durasteel framework. More graffiti decorated every exposed surface. A catalog of shifting territory markers. Rusted hulks lay strewn haphazard about the area, usable parts scavenged sometime in the distant past. An abandoned relic of Nar Shaddaa’s Undercity shipyards. And it was empty.

 

Almost empty. Five aliens lounged atop one of the wrecks. A Twi’lek like himself, a Togruta, couple Duros, and a Rodian. All of them wearing bright red shirts emblazoned with their gang tag, a tongue of flame. Great. Enforcers or lieutenants. Armed.

 

The Togruta straightened, “Don’t like your kind around here, Human,” she barked.

 

What the hell? Cleaner looked around as though confused, “No Humans here,” he said, “Twi’lek. Like your buddy.” Nar Shaddaa Huttese. He sounded more local than she did.

 

The Togruta laughed, “Mercenaries. You take the Empire’s money. You’re nothing but Humans in alien skins.”

 

Oh sh*t, another one of those nutjob cults. He heard the shuffling crowd moving up behind him, cutting off their escape, “Got no quarrel with you,” he said. She had good intelligence, though, and that troubled him.

 

She hopped off the hulk and the rest of the pack followed suit, “We don’t want no more Imperials down here. Feel the wrath of the Flame. Get ‘em, boys,” she ordered.

 

Damn.

[Adwynyth]

"That's the point, Blue," Cleaner said, "My guy's gone to ground. He thinks he's safe, or at least hidden. He won't move unless I make him. Beings move when the bodies start piling up.” Actually, he just hated Evocii, but it sounded better when he gave it a rational spin.

 

...

 

Cleaner scanned the alley, "Nerfsh*t. You're making up rules."

 

"So are you."

 

Ahahahahahahahaha! Love it.

Edited June 20, 2013 by Adwynyth

[Striges]

Thanks. I figured Kaliyo would be eager to join in on any game that involved shooting things, and just as quick to make up her own rules.

[Striges]

Pickle

 

Trigger warning for violence and torture

 

Cleaner fired. Blue plasma bolts stabbed at the Togruta. She dodged and his shots pattered on the wreck behind her. Kaliyo and Blue followed suit but everyone was in motion. The enforcers dove for cover. Blue and Cleaner both threw up portable shield generators in that direction and crouched behind them. Kaliyo, convinced of her own immortality, cackled and waded into the fray, her howling blasters on auto. Plasma bolts smacked on shield interfaces. Blaster fire echoed in the vast chamber.

 

Five guns to three. Not terrible odds except for the backup crowd near the exit. Cleaner dared a glance over his shoulder. The herd milled about like the nerfs they were, unwilling to risk stray shots. unwilling to get involved. For now. He turned back to more immediate problems. The Togruta, the Flame's mouthpiece, shouted orders from the safety of her durasteel bunker. He evaluated the structure. Piece of crap. Wouldn’t take much to bring it down. Cut off the head and the rest fall.

 

“Blue!” he shouted over the din.

 

The Chiss fired over his shield, winging one of the Duros, “What?” he complained. Cleaner’s only answer was to place a shot on an ancient seized linkage. Weakened, it bowed with the weight of the jumble above it. Blue hesitated. Cleaner hit another weak spot and the pile shivered and moaned in protest.

 

Cleaner caught a return blast, lower leg, a little too slow getting back behind the shield. He hissed and jammed a combat kolto pak in his arm. He felt the cooling fluid hit his bloodstream, the mild painkiller dulling the clamor from his careless burn. Thanked the stars his favorite doctor remembered to add kolto to the list of permissible chemicals in his system.

 

Blue got the idea. The bulk of their fire hit the debris. A few shots went at a humanoid for confusion's sake, but Kaliyo's mad rampage was distraction enough. She managed to kill the wounded Duros and put a few holes in the Rodian. By the time the Togruta realized what was happening it was too late.

 

She screeched orders and sprinted from cover. Kaliyo's berserker blaster vaporized her left montral. The Togruta staggered. Concentrated fire brought her down. The rest of her lieutenants weren't as quick. They hesitated. Only a moment. Long enough. The pile screamed and slid over in a landslide of rusted durasteel. It buried the second Duros completely and pinned the remaining aliens beneath tons of scrap metal.

 

Cleaner leaped from behind his shield generator. A stray piece of flying shrapnel slashed his arm and clattered, bloody, to the deck. He ignored the wound. It was minor. Potent combination, adrenaline and combat kolto packs. He pointed at Kaliyo, "You and Blue, crowd control, now," he ordered, hooking a thumb over his shoulder, “Get 'em outta here."

 

Kaliyo nodded and ran for the crowd and certain mayhem. Blue retrieved his generator, “And what will you be doing?” he asked.

 

Behind them, Kaliyo fired a couple blasts into the ceiling, “Hey! Show’s over, move it,” she yelled.

 

“Gathering intel,” Cleaner barked, “move your *ss. Help Kaliyo.”

 

Blue set his feet and squared his shoulders, the picture of stubbornness, “I think I would serve better remaining here.”

 

Pity shooting him was off the table. Cleaner crowded Blue instead, getting near nose-to-nose like a drill instructor, “And I think you’d serve better stopping that riot before it gets going. I am not going to explain every damn decision. Follow orders like a good little soldier.”

 

Blue frowned. Cleaner didn’t have to be Sith to feel the man’s burning annoyance at him. But he followed orders and joined Kaliyo. The herd had not yet decided to stampede. Neither had it dispersed.

 

No matter. Cleaner evaluated his choices. One Twi’lek, one Rodian, one Duros. Eentsy-beentsy-mishta-may...he advanced on the Twi’lek. Best choice even without the kiddie randomizer. The man was a member of one of the common, green-toned races. Valuable or vain enough to have tattooed eyebrows and decorative stripes on his lekku. He lay on his side, mostly buried. Only one arm--no blaster, fortunately--and his head were clear. Ancient machinery pinched and pressed the rest.

 

Cleaner squatted down beside him. “Hey,” he said, a casual greeting in Twi’leki.

 

The green Twi’lek squirmed, “F*ck you, Imp,” he snarled.

 

“Whoah, pal, might want to be a bit less hostile to the only guy likely to pull you outta there," Cleaner said. Didn't bother disguising his natural accent. This guy wasn't going to live long enough to tell anyone about it. Besides, he sounded rimward and provincial and very much not Imperial.

 

"I don't want your help," the Twi'lek growled.

 

"Fair enough," Cleaner said, settling in. He leaned on the wreckage with his wounded arm. Blood drooled down and dripped from his elbow.

 

The trapped man groaned as the metal shifted. "The Flame told us who you are," he gasped at last, coughing.

 

Cleaner heard burbbling and popping in the Twi'lek's breath. Bad news. "The Flame isn't here. I am. And I don't care about this Flame or whatever cult or gang he runs," Cleaner said, "I'm looking for the guy who gave him his information."

 

"Go to hell."

 

"Been there, got kicked out for bad behavior," Cleaner said. He pushed on the metal again. The Twi'lek gasped in pain. Cleaner relented, "You'd remember him. Male Human, kinda old. Probably had friends with him."

 

"Humans all look alike to me," he spat.

 

"Had an Imperial accent," Cleaner continued, "I figure you know him, seeing as you prepared such a nice reception for me."

 

"You'll-" the Twi'lek broke into a coughing fit. Blood and spittle sprayed; Cleaner declined to move. “You’ll get nothing from me, Imp stooge."

 

“I got two of your friends as backup, pal,” Cleaner said.

 

“I’d die first. So would they,” he croaked.

 

“Yeah. About that,” Cleaner pulled a mini kolto injector and punched it into the green Twi’lek’s left lekku. He yelped in sudden pain. Kolto injectors didn’t hurt much, though the manufacturers recommended against jamming them in your crotch. Or your lekku. Cleaner administered the minimum dose and withdrew, ejecting the disposable needle and letting it fall. “Dying’s easy. You might want to think about how much longer you want to live for your cause.” He jabbed a fist at the injection site, eliciting another cry. “And what it’s going to feel like.”

 

“Leave him alone, monster!” Female voice from farther out in the pile. Cleaner couldn’t see the speaker, but he knew it was the Rodian. Something about their mouthparts lent any language unique pronunciation.

 

Monster. He liked that. “Skrek ta, spulta,” he cursed at her, “you’re next.” He settled back down beside his captive, “Now, where were we?”

 

Notes:

I apologize for the slow updating, especially with this last episode. I debated how graphic it should be from a number of perspectives. Potential readers, forum guidelines, as well as what’s necessary from a story perspective. And, quite frankly, what I’m comfortable with.

 

Kind of dodged the issue a bit, writing happy(ish) stuff over in the SFC thread. Thanks for sticking with me.

 

[kabeone]

Running rambling commentary ahoy.

 

Love the back and forth between Cleaner and Kaliyo especially the little bit about "Kachu" and Huttese having no pleasantry. The mention of Club Ufora also great as is the integration of one of Kaliyo's many dubious stories.

 

Kaliyo wanting him to be jealous I love all the little bits you add in from the class story and great job at making it hard to find Yanol, no map to highlight the green triangle and a green doorway to show you your instance.

[Adwynyth]

Running rambling commentary ahoy.

Thar she be! *throws harpoon with bag of popcorn attached*

 

Agreed in full. This is pure gold, and Cleaner is a wonderful study in functional dysfunction.

[Striges]

I love all the little bits you add in from the class story and great job at making it hard to find Yanol, no map to highlight the green triangle and a green doorway to show you your instance.

 

When I did that quest, I really expected it to be more complicated than it was. You got no information other than "Find Yanol". So neither did Cleaner.

 

I'm really glad you're all enjoying this story. Thanks so much for the feedback.

[Striges]

Fighting Flames

 

Cleaner tuned out the blaster fire and half-shouted orders from the hallway in favor of the job at hand. Eventually, the noise escalated to heavy stomping. In rhythm. Chanting began, distant at first, growing louder with time.

 

Flame. Flame. Flame. Flame.

 

The pinned Twi'lek heard it. He laughed, a wet choking sound with dark mirth in it, “You are out of time,” he gloated through split lips.

 

“No, you are,” Cleaner said. His point-blank head shot cut short the other Twi'lek's croaking exultation. Cleaner stood and likewise dispatched the Duros, leaving the Rodian spulta for last. She spat at curse at him, but she wasn't as creative as Kelka.

 

He rejoined Kaliyo and Blue, standing their ground against the restless nerfs. “Quite the party you started,” he said over the chanting.

 

“Regular riot,” Kaliyo said, “care to join in the fun?”

 

“Kinda think we’re the entertainment,” Cleaner said.

 

“If you two are quite finished,” Blue took in the mess of fluids on Cleaner’s clothing, "Did you get what you needed?"

 

"Not enough," Cleaner complained, "could have used a bit more time."

 

"Our friends had other ideas. I'm for dropping a bomb on the lot and skipping town. Ser-geant?” she called, stretching Blue’s rank to two sing-song syllables, “can you have the nice warship in orbit frag this location in say, five minutes? Pleeeeeease?” she wheedled.

 

“Sure. I’ll call that in right now. Think you can clear the blast radius in five minutes?” Blue snapped.

 

“We don’t run,” Cleaner said flatly, “We run from a crowd like this and they stampede. Forensics wouldn’t even find our DNA.”

 

Kaliyo cocked her blaster, “So long as Plan Besh is taking as many of them with us as possible, I’m in.”

 

Blue snorted, “I thought Intelligence was subtle. All quiet, behind the scenes stuff. Making people disappear and no one the wiser. Do either of you ever solve problems without explosives?”

 

“Can it,” Cleaner ordered, “You’re not helping.”

 

“Yes, Sir,” Blue barked.

 

Cute. Cleaner declined further commentary; something was moving in the back. The crowd parted like a balding Moff’s hair for their leader. Cleaner could see him even this far away. He towered over the rest. Nonhuman gait. Not a Wookee. Not a Houk. As he drew closer, Cleaner still didn’t recognize his species. Granted, he didn’t know every sentient creature in the galaxy, but it was a rare moment anymore when he encountered a new one.

 

The massive alien emerged from the assembly. Strappy, piecework armor struggled to contain his bulk. He was hairless, with grey lumpy skin and a wide mouth full of sharp teeth. If a Nikto, a Houk, and a leg-hold trap had babies, this is what they would look like. A wave of one paw and the chanting ceased. The alien took in the group in the silence. “I am the Flame. You butchered my people,” he said at last. His voice had a hissing, echoey sibilance.

 

Not an accusation, a statement of fact. Showtime. Cleaner stepped forward, “To be fair, your people started it. I’ve got no quarrel with you. Or them. I’m looking for a guy. Human. Imperial. Came through a few months ago.”

 

"On the contrary. Your people started it. Your Empire,” he insisted.

 

Cleaner fished out a cigarette and lit it, trying to look casual, "Yeah. Imps pay me, big deal. Their credits spend as well as anyone's. You seen my guy or what?"

 

You serve the Sith," the Flame continued, "He,” he said, nodding towards Blue, “he serves under Admiral Jefand Ange. The Admiral who led Imperial forces against my homeworld. Killed or enslaved my people. But for that I might let you pass. All these people come from worlds devastated by the Empire." He gestured toward the milling nerfs, "we have no reason to help you, and every reason to kill you," he said.

 

Cleaner tapped ash to the deckplates. He could feel Blue’s eyes burning holes through the back of his neck. "Look, I get it. The Empire is a poodoo deal if you’re not a human. I get the slave thing. There's, what, maybe six Twi'leks in the galaxy that don't belong to someone," he said, "I don't get why you're protecting an Imperial Human and harassing me.”

 

“You don’t know that,” Blue hissed.

 

“Shut it,” Cleaner growled. He’d stab an elbow in Blue’s gut if he were closer.

 

“And yet you do not share your name,” the Flame said.

 

“Wouldn’t help you,” Cleaner said.

 

“He called you the Cleaner,” the Flame said, “He defied the Sith and said the Sith would follow him. He said the Empire’s spies would follow him. He said our goals were the same.”

 

Bingo. Cleaner took a drag on the cigarette, “And you believed him?”

 

“Cleaner--” Blue hissed again.

 

“Shut. It.” Cleaner said under his breath.

 

“I do not know if I can defeat the Empire. I know only that I must try,” the Flame went on, “and I must accept what help is willing, unlikely as it may seem.”

 

“Yeah, well, he played you, Flame. Played you hard.” Every so often, the truth was useful. Cleaner pulled out a holo and displayed an image of Yanol, “This guy. Yvord Yanol. Defied the Sith? Not likely. Spent the last several decades kissing this guy’s *ss,” he switched the display. Now it showed Darth Jadus, and Cleaner barely kept the shiver out of his hands. “At least until he got blown up in low orbit. I’m sure even down here you caught the news.”

 

For the first time the Flame looked uncertain, “Yes. We heard.”

 

“So. His protector got fried. Lots of people want his head. Where better to hide than behind someone who hates Imperials?” Cleaner said.

 

The Flame said nothing for a moment. Thinking. “I sense truth in your words, and deception also,” he said at last.

 

Cleaner tapped the cigarette again, “He wanted you for a meatshield, Flame. What did he promise in return for your protection?”

 

“Don’t push him, Cleaner,” Blue warned.

 

“Cut the commentary, Blue,” Cleaner said through clenched teeth, his eyes never leaving the Flame’s beady little orbs, “working here.”

 

“It is none of your concern, Cleaner,” the Flame said.

 

Cleaner shrugged, “Makes no difference. Way I see it, this is an internal problem. You already pegged me for an Imp. I know you let Yanol hole up down here somewhere. You show me where, let me take him outta here, no more of your people have to die. Better deal than you’d get from a real Imp.”

 

The Flame considered longer, “If you take him, no more Imperials will come?”

 

“If they’ve got no reason to come, they probably won’t.”

 

“In that case, I refuse,” the Flame said, turning on his heel.

 

Whoah, whoah, what the hell? “He’s your honeypot,” Cleaner said with sudden understanding, “you want them to come.”

 

The Flame paused, “Yes. I do.”

 

Clever, clever, crazy damn strange alien. “How’s that working for you?” Cleaner quipped.

 

The massive, armored head turned and peered over his shoulder, “It is not attracting the attention I anticipated.”

 

“How about a trade?” Cleaner asked.

 

“No!” Blue shouted.

 

“What?” Kaliyo hollered at the same time.

 

Rumblings rippled through the crowd. The Flame turned more fully back to Cleaner, “What do you propose?”

 

“Nothing,” Blue interrupted, “He proposes nothing. This conversation is over.”

 

Kaliyo brought her weapon to bear. No telltale click of safety because it was never on. Ever more direct, Kaliyo. Cleaner didn’t bother with his own blaster, “Knock it the kark off, both of you,” he barked, “Kaliyo, you shoot me and your payday dries up. You know it. Blue, you just shut up,” he said, not bothering to turn his attention away from the Flame. “An Imp for an Imp, that’s my trade, Flame.”

 

Cleaner imagined, rather than observed Kaliyo’s blaster shift from him to Blue. “You can’t do this, Cleaner,” Blue said.

 

Cleaner ignored him, “Blue here for Yanol. Send whatever message you like to your Admiral Ange or whoever. Probably get more traffic than with my little mouse. Fair?”

 

“You bastard!” Blue snarled.

 

“Most likely,” Cleaner acknowledged, “So?” he asked.

 

The Flame folded thick arms over his chest, “Imperial treachery knows no bounds. You would betray one of your own?” he asked.

 

“He’s not my own,” Cleaner said, exhaling smoke, “but yes. In principle.”

 

“You have no principles,” the Flame mocked.

 

“No, I don’t,” Cleaner agreed.

 

The Flame nodded to his red-clothed retainers. They moved forward, blasters ready. “I accept your trade, Imperial,” he said. They surrounded Blue, cutting him off from Kaliyo and Cleaner.

 

Blue rattled off a string of curses in his unfamiliar language, fast enough Cleaner couldn’t parse the vowel-rich string, “...isn’t over, Pinky,” he finished.

 

“On the contrary,” the Flame said, addressing Blue, “it is. Frist, Xinji, this one goes to the core. Vall and Frette, take your cells and escort these two to our guest.”

 

“I will get you for this, Pinky,” Blue threatened as his captors disarmed him and led him away.

 

“You do that,” Cleaner replied.

 

The Flame turned his attention back to Cleaner, “Vall and Frette will show you the way. They will not aid you. But neither will they hinder you. What you do with Yanol is your affair.”

 

“Got it. Pleasure doing business with you, Flame,” Cleaner said.

 

The Flame scowled, “I cannot say the same. Take your prize and leave this place. If you return, I will kill you. Personally.” He turned and the crowd opened for him as though on command. It closed in his wake, an ocean allowing the passing of a leviathan.

 

Eight more red-shirted aliens of various species surrounded them. One gestured toward a side passage with his rifle, an ancient model MK-6. Cleaner headed that direction. Kaliyo moved in closer to Cleaner, “Nice,” she said. The edge of a giggle lightened her voice, “way to get rid of the competition.”

 

“I don’t share,” Cleaner quipped.

 

“Won’t Keeper be pissed?” she asked.

 

“He'll get over it,” Cleaner said.

[Striges]

End of the Road

 

Kaliyo blasted the control panel. "I could have sliced that, you know," Cleaner said, keeping clear of the smoking ruin.

 

"I like blasting 'em," Kaliyo said, "I didn't get a good fight back there."

 

Their escorts stood by, silent and impassive despite the sudden noise. Cleaner dropped the burned-out stub of his cigarette to the deck and heaved the door open. Didn't much matter. Yanol knew they were coming and Kaliyo's destructive tendencies ensured the Flame's lackeys couldn't seal them in. At least not without hauling an industrial welder up here.

 

He and Kaliyo moved into the passage beyond, leaving their guides behind. The door ground shut. Manual control or brute force, didn’t much matter. Not really surprising. Kaliyo crept ahead, her weapons ready, peering into the dingy hallway. “What do you think they’ll do with Blue?” she asked.

 

“Don't know, don’t care,” he replied. Probably send a holo to the Admiral, gloating over Blue’s capture and taunting him to come retrieve his underling. “Why? You miss him already?” Cleaner asked.

 

Kaliyo giggled, “You really hated him, didn’t you?”

 

Cleaner’s lekku twitched in irritation. He didn’t give a damn about Blue until the Flame gave him value. Then he became currency. Basic math. Kaliyo, on the other hand, still thought the galaxy revolved around her. “Hell, Kaliyo, he was my leash and you threw me over for him before we left the cantina. No, he wasn't my favorite person," he said. He'd burst her bubble another day.

 

“Oo, still stinging over that, huh?” Cleaner could almost see her smile even though her back was to him, "Should I be worried?" she asked.

 

"Not since you're back in the right bed, and he won’t be," he said, “can we move on?”

 

He heard a soft, satisfied little laugh. She peered around the next corner, "We got company," Kaliyo stated, all business now.

 

“Cue hired muscle,” Cleaner said, "how many?" he asked.

 

"Five," she said, sneaking another peek, "they’re milling. I don’t think they know we’re here yet.”

 

“Good,” Cleaner said, softening the click as he disengaged the safety on his blaster, “Let’s wake ‘em up.” Kaliyo’s only answer was a scary smile before she rounded the corner with a whoop, guns blazing. Cleaner shook his head. Crazy spulta.

 

She downed one before they even knew what was happening. The rest returned fire. Cleaner tossed down his shield generator and provided cover fire for his maniac partner. When the crossfire ceased and the smoke cleared, only Cleaner and Kaliyo were still standing.

 

Cleaner snatched his generator from the floor and tossed a combat kolto pack to Kaliyo, “Warn me next time, yeah?”

 

She grabbed it out of the air, “Where’s the fun in that?” she asked, slapping the pack on her arm.

 

His re upped his own, banishing the earlier injury’s dull ache for a few more hours. “The fun of living to see another day?”

 

Kaliyo sidled up to him, “You planning on making that day worthwhile?”

 

Cleaner pushed an overheated blaster barrel out of the way, “Get yourself too shot up too much and you’ll never know.”

 

“Mmm, point taken,” Kaliyo admitted, “Keep going?” She peeked around the corner twice before going around.

 

“Yeah. Gonna get worse from here, though,” Cleaner said, blasting a barking communicator, “I don’t think they got off an alarm, but they’re going to know something’s up when these guys don’t answer.” He headed off into Yanol’s decrepit sanctum.

 

They found the next group dug in behind debris. Hastily. Cleaner could see the trails and scrapes where they dragged junk from the corners to block the hallway. He hefted a compact grenade. It would not help them.

 

 

 

 

Kaliyo peeked around the final corner, “Last one. These guys built themselves a proper barricade. Big space beyond, might have been a warehouse or something.”

 

“You see Yanol?” Cleaner asked, taking a quick personal inventory. One flash bang, couple reload gas cylinders, spare blaster, radio bomb. Shield generator, ten percent power remaining. Handful of assorted stims. Kolto pack. Probably going to need that. And Kaliyo, one-woman demolition team.

 

She ducked back, “No, because he’s not a moron.”

 

“Cute.”

 

“Come on. In here he’s like a Hutt. He won’t come out until we’ve peeled back all his security,” Kaliyo began.

 

“--and he has no choice,” Cleaner finished. Kaliyo cocked one eyebrow. “So let’s peel back the last of his security,” he said, hefting his weapon. She grinned and he seized one arm, “Little less crazy, hey? We’re down to one kolto pack.”

 

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” Kaliyo asked.

 

“Doesn’t include patching you up with string because we’re out of everything else,” Cleaner said, releasing her. He pressed the unravelling wound tape back on his arm. Most weapons cauterized their wounds. Shrapnel didn’t. Now the low-level painkiller in the combat pack was wearing off and his injury was making a mess. Another fun day on the job. “Seriously, I don’t want to drag Yanol back by myself.”

 

“Aww, you need me,” Kaliyo teased.

 

“Just go shoot something, will you?”

 

“My pleasure,” Kaliyo said.

 

She socketed a reload cylinder, tightened a strap on her armor, and popped the safety on a grenade. She tossed it around the corner. Cleaner heard the bright clink of metal on metal, followed by a low whump as the charge blew. Then the beautiful chaotic music of Human panic. Kaliyo waded into the fray, blasters on auto.

 

Kaliyo’s second grenade, artfully lobbed over the barricade, forced the mercenaries from cover when it released its choking gas payload. Cleaner had no difficulty picking off the gagging runners. A few stray shots impacted on his wavering shield, but the majority went wide hitting nothing in particular. The recirculators blew the smoke around but did little to dissipate it until the damage was done.

 

Cleaner squatted down beside the last of the hired muscle as he crawled away from the battlefield, “I got one kolto pack. Where’s Yanol?”

 

The young human gasped, “Bunker. Far side.” He pointed one scorched hand toward one corner of the former warehouse. The old foreman’s office, its broken windows reinforced from the inside with scrap metal. The bodyguard rolled back, his hand out now for Cleaner’s kolto pack.

 

Kaliyo shot him. He fell over, dead without a further whimper. “Hope you didn’t need anything more. I want the kolto pack.”

 

Cleaner stood, brushing his hands on his trousers, “I never said I’d give it to him, only that I had one.”

 

Kaliyo shrugged, “Mine now.”

 

Cleaner tossed it to her, “No safety. Don’t get anything shot off you might want to keep. If this guy wasn’t lying, Yanol’s in the office. No idea whether he held back any protection, thank you.”

 

“Oops.”

 

“Oops my *ss,” Cleaner grumbled. He swapped out his own gas cylinders, “All right, Miss Oops, you get the door.”

 

“You got a plan beyond me breaking down the door?” Kaliyo asked, creeping cautiously across the open space.

 

Cleaner checked his shield generator. Nine percent power. Fan-f*cking-tastic. He trailed Kaliyo as she moved forward. “Hope he don’t have snipers on approach, and chuck my one remaining flash bang in after you.”

 

“And you were going to mention this when?” Kaliyo asked, skipping ahead several meters and returning to her crouch.

 

“Soon enough,” Cleaner chuckled.

 

“Nice,” Kaliyo griped.

 

At the door now, no fire from snipers. Kaliyo pulled the blast shield down on her helmet, shot out the controls and kicked the door in with one heavy booted foot. “Hey!” she shouted into the room beyond. Cleaner pitched the grenade in over her head and turned away, eyes closed. The flash lit up his vision even so, giving him a brief glimpse of the veins in his eyelids.

 

“Freeze-freeze-freeze!” Kaliyo yelled, her voice muffled from the blast shield. She leveled her weapon.

 

Cleaner burst in. The flash-bang cannister still smoked on the floor where it fell. The only occupant huddled against a blinking computer terminal on the far wall, hands over his blind eyes. No more goons, no more mercenaries, no more bodyguards. Cleaner dashed forward and scruffed the old Human’s thinning fringe of hair. He pulled the elderly man’s head back so he could see his face, rheumy brown eyes contracted down to pinpr*cks far too late to help. “Vyord Yanol,” he said.

 

“The Cleaner,” he rasped, “you have no idea.”

 

Cleaner hauled him to his feet, “Pretty good idea, actually.”

 

“No,” Yanol objected, unseeing eyes focused on nothing, “no you don’t. Doom is coming, and there is no place to hide.”

 

“This is your guy?” Kaliyo asked.

 

“It’s him. Okay, old man,” Cleaner said, “and people say I hit the spice too hard,” he muttered, “Let’s get moving.”

 

“No, no,” Yanol said, his warding hands clawing at Cleaner’s iron grip, “Intelligence did not send you. Intelligence does not know. Yet you come. Who is it would have my secrets? His secrets?”

 

“Not important,” Cleaner said, “come on.” He tugged on his handful of thinning hair.

 

Yanol slumped in defeat, “I suppose it isn’t. What’s coming cannot be stopped. It is all set in motion with his death.”

 

Dammit. Dammit dammit dammit dammit. He swapped his hold for a more secure if less demeaning one on Yanol’s shoulder. “I’ll bite, old man. What the hell’s coming?” Damn his curiosity. He ought to know better than to ask questions when he didn’t really want to know the answers. Bad things happen. Bad things always happened. He should remember his place.

 

Yanol’s eyes, the black pinpr*ck pupil finally dilating to almost normal, focused on Cleaner’s face, “I worked for Darth Jadus for years. I was part of his inner circle. I knew all his plans. With his death, there are events set in motion that will bring doom to all he ever touched, and his reach is longer than you can imagine, Cleaner. No place is safe.”

 

See, this is why he shouldn’t ask questions. Yet his traitor mouth spoke anyway, “You knew his plans. What’s in motion?”

 

Yanol’s eyes dilated further, black orbs replacing the brown, “Everything. I want no part of it.”

 

Cleaner brought the butt of his blaster down on Yanol’s temple. The old man collapsed, boneless, in Cleaner’s grasp. “Too bad,” he whispered, “we don't get a choice.”

[Striges]

Yanol’s Secret

 

 

Kaliyo pushed her helmet up, “Thought you wanted him alive.”

 

“He’s fine,” Cleaner said, easing him to the floor and verifying his pulse, “just out. Didn’t want to listen to his crazy anymore.” Granted, he could pass Yanol’s ramblings off as a drunk or high, but it was easier to drag him along this way and use the same excuse. He began digging through the injectables.

 

Kaliyo minced past him through the debris on the floor, checking out the terminal, “What do you think he’s got here?”

 

“Monitors, I expect,” Cleaner said without looking up. Stim, stim, stim, nyex painkiller...

 

“I’m gonna blast it,” Kaliyo said, cocking her weapon.

 

“No!” Cleaner said, standing and shoving on her arm before she fired. “Let me check it first at least.”

 

She smirked, “Dibs on blasting it afterwards.”

 

“Fine, fine,” Cleaner said, “Check for more mercenaries,” he said. Kaliyo crossed to the barred windows. Cleaner hit the comatose Yanol with enough nyex to keep him that way for a while then moved toward the terminal. His hand paused above the login for a moment.

 

"Wait a sec,” Kaliyo interjected, “This was easy. You think he's got traps?" she asked, as though reading his thoughts, "Wired it to go in case anyone got this far? He's had plenty of time to settle in."

 

"Maybe," Cleaner said. He had a bad feeling about this terminal. "Problem with traps is getting through them yourself. You'd be amazed how many paranoid guys get nailed by their own systems."

 

“Oh yeah,” Kaliyo snorted, “Knew this guy, carried a portable chemical tester around all the time because he was sure his enemies were trying to poison him. Scanned everything before he ate or drank. Wouldn’t touch a stim or a kolto pack on a bet. Hell, he even scanned his soap for contact poisons.” She peered out of gaps in the metalwork, blaster at the ready.

 

Cleaner inspected the sides and back of the computer for explosives. “Well, come on, don’t leave me hanging. What happened?” Nothing. Could be internal, though, and he’d never know.

 

“Huh? Oh, yeah,” Kaliyo said, distracted, “Started running atmo scrubbers in the shop. Well, some of the fine powders built up on the ion exchange, one little spark--poof." She glanced back over her shoulder for his reaction, "invented the powder frag bomb."

 

"He survived?" Cleaner asked.

 

"Oh yeah," she said, checking the next window, "flash fried his lungs though."

 

Cleaner paused with his hand on the terminal, "Dammit. Thank you, Kaliyo. I wanted to know that," he groused. Lishta Techt spent several years in the Revolutionary Edge Brigade, an nutball-crazy anarchist movement run by a Human male known only as Wheezer. Always wore a breath mask. Intelligence speculated Wheezer got his appellation courtesy a bomb-making accident. Of course the analysts hedged their bets, mentioning caustic gas, long term chemical exposure, or disease. At least Kaliyo picked only one lie at a time.

 

"You're welcome," she sang, “So you going to do anything with that thing or can I blow it?” she asked.

 

Cleaner’s only answer was to wake up the terminal. It came humming to life. And it didn't take his. Cleaner exhaled and delved into the system. Top layer, no passwords. Security monitors, just as he expected. Yanol had cams hidden in the junk in the halls. He kept himself apprised of their progress from the beginning. Some of them showed only static, forgotten and lost casualties of their assault.

 

Second layer now. Encrypted. Kicked him out once, twice. Checked the terminal again. It was an isolate system, no holonet connection. It wasn’t hardwired, but it was also far too large to move without a repulsorlift cargo sled. Back to slicing.

 

“Come on,” Kaliyo complained, “let’s blast it already and go.”

 

“Ittu!” Cleaner swore, pounding a fist on the terminal, “stoopa system. One more shot,” he said. He was determined to break the encryption just to prove he could. Yanol’s karking computer pissed him off.

 

“I’ll give it one more shot,” Kaliyo grumbled.

 

Cleaner stayed focused on the terminal, “You’ll get your shot after I get mine.” He slogged through another set of subroutines, sidestepped a decoy pass-protect, levered open a programmer’s shortcut. “Heii-ah gotcha, hunk of junk,” Cleaner exclaimed. Information began scrolling past on the small holoscreen feed, faster than he could read. Schematics, chemical formulae, copies of research papers, all of it flashing by in a constant stream. Cleaner couldn’t begin to make sense of it. The stream had no commands. No speed control, no back, no pause. He’d triggered a data dump of some kind. “Oh, no, no, no, no, you’re not getting away,” he muttered. But there were no slots for datacards, no plugs for transfer cables, no interface to adjust the feed. He scrambled to control it but the terminal ignored him. All he could do was watch as it disgorged its information and try to commit some to memory. “E-chu-ta!” he swore.

 

“Record it.” Kaliyo said.

 

“Can’t,” Cleaner said without taking his eyes off the stream, “it’s read-only.”

 

The holoscreen went blank. He’d hit another shieldwall or the end of the files. He slammed one fist on the computer, sending pain rocketing up his arm and leaving the computer unscathed. Cleaner leaned on the terminal, eyes closed. He could still see some of the images. Starship blueprints, a big one. Dreadnaught-class. Complement: eight fighters, two shuttles, 2,000 crew, 1,500 passengers, 500 marines. Something about all passenger quarters being prison cells, or all passengers being prisoners. A prison ship maybe. Kept thinking the name attached was the Dominator, but that didn’t make much sense. The only other thing he remembered was repeated references to an Imperial Science Bureau project, and that because he recognized the logo and clearance codes. He remembered the stamp from all Doc’s stuff, even if Doc was smart enough to keep him out of the files. “Special Project 62991A.” He’d have to look it up later.

 

“Can I blast it now, please,” Kaliyo asked.

 

Cleaner glared at the computer. No doubt Yanol had plenty of secrets in that brain of his, but this was the real prize. This was what Zhorrid wanted. Keeper’s techs would have a field day with it. All the late Darth Jadus’ plans in one pretty bundle.

 

“Yeah,” Cleaner said, “scrap it.”

Edited July 8, 2013 by Striges

[bright_ephemera]

Ha, an explanation for why we can only get these few tantalizing fragments out of his computer. And then Brentaal anarchists background!

[Striges]

It drove me crazy that I didn't get a codex entry for that computer, and furthermore that I couldn't keep a record what I found on it. Frustration, meet fic.

[frauzet]

Now I am sitting here wondering if it would have been better had I found this thread later.

No helping it now, waiting for the next part

 

Just wanted to let you know, that I really like it.