Cleaner One: Saga of a Reluctant Agent

[Striges]

Thank you! I try to update at least weekly if not more often. I'm very glad to hear you like it.

[Striges]

Detour

 

(Notice: a bit risqué in parts)

 

 

Cleaner pulled off his shirt, wincing as the fabric brushed the raw new skin still regenerating over his cut. Spray-on Kolto Kwik-Knit worked fast but it wasn't instantaneous. He tossed his ruined clothes in the incinerator. Kaliyo monopolized the 'fresher since their return; random snatches of a popular savage-beat combo tune drifted down the apartment hallway. He thought about joining her. Unfortunately, his carbonite order wasn’t here yet and no way was he leaving his prize unattended. Not when he went through so much trouble to get him.

 

Shirtless, he headed for the kitchenette. He deserved a celebratory tumbler of ouzo while waiting his turn in the 'fresher. Never thought he'd be this glad to leave Nar Shaddaa. He has just started pouring the liquor over ice when his communicator chimed. Keeper's alert. The tone he programmed and locked so Cleaner couldn't change it.

 

He considered not answering. Probably relaying Admiral Ange's displeasure at trading his operative for Yanol. Screw him. Cleaner put the bottle down and drained his drink in one gulp. The holo chimed again. He rubbed a grimy thumb on the condensation on the outside of the tumbler. Set the chunky glass on the littered counter. Not fair.

 

He pulled the communicator out and stared at it, willing it to shut up. Keeper’s distinctive chime played discordant against Kaliyo’s muffled singing. He placed it amid the take-away boxes and punched the receive button.

 

“Tell Ange to kiss my *ss. Better yet, let me tell him,” Cleaner began before Keeper could start his reprimand.

 

“Be quiet. That is unimportant now, Cleaner,” a fifteen-centimeter Keeper interrupted.

 

Cleaner blinked, “What?” he asked.

 

“I said, your current mission is on hold for the moment,” Keeper folded his arms behind him, “a situation has arisen and I need you in action immediately.”

 

“I--what?” Something superseded a Darth’s orders? “I can’t, Keeper. I’ve got a guy unconscious in the bedroom. He won’t stay that way for much longer.”

 

“Your personal life is not my concern.”

 

Shen stared at Keeper’s shimmering blue image, “Was that a joke? Did you actually make a joke?”

 

“Shut up and do your damn job,” Keeper snapped, “It’s Watcher X.”

 

Cleaner’s head cleared as though a sharp wind blew out all the cobwebs and the ouzo in his stomach turned to acid, “I thought you had him killed a long time ago. Thought the science bureau dissected his brain to figure out what they did wrong.” Maybe he heard wrong. Maybe they only wanted to and never got the chance.

 

Keeper glared daggers through the holo, “Irrelevant. Watcher X was being held in Shadow Town and a cipher operative on Nar Shaddaa required his expertise. Monitors showed a power surge in that area.”

 

The acid burned through his stomach lining and headed south. “He’d run. You know he’d run. Probably planned it.”

 

“Agreed,” Keeper said, recovering his composure, “The cipher assures us he did not. I want you to verify her report.”

 

Along with the acid slow burn, a cold knife slid into his spine. “Whose operative?” Cleaner asked. Kaliyo’s scraps of melody still floated down the hallway along with the constant hum of the vibe-shower.

 

“Watcher Two’s,” Keeper answered.

 

“She should have known better. She of all people should have known better, Keeper,” Cleaner said.

 

Keeper slashed one hand in dismissal, “Also irrelevant. You will go to Shadow Town and make certain Watcher X is still incarcerated there.”

 

“No,” Cleaner objected. Shadow Town was worse than death. Oubliette in the old Alderaanian dialect their nobles affected. No way Keeper was tricking him back into prison, especially not there. “You are not getting me in there, and I don’t care what excuse you use.”

 

“Damn it, Shen,” Keeper swore, “This is not a request! Key--”

 

“All right!” Cleaner acquiesced, bitterness in his voice. “Let me do it my way?” If Keeper really wanted Watcher X, he’d listen.

 

“What do you have in mind? Time is of the essence,” Keeper said.

 

“Not if Watcher X is still locked up, it isn’t,” Cleaner said, mind racing, “If not, he went for the spaceport. He’s smart enough to dodge cameras and I can’t cover every docking pad in the port. Watcher 2’s cipher is still alive, right?”

 

“Presumably. Her mission was complete. She was as of our last communication, which voice analysis confirms was a live, valid conversation,” Keeper informed him.

 

“So she’s headed for the port too. What ship is she on? I can verify her report and be in a better position to intercept Watcher X if she’s covering for him,” Cleaner said.

 

Keeper said nothing for a moment. Cleaner could almost see the gears turning as he weighed Cleaner’s proposal and gamed through the implications. “Approved.” Keeper said, “Her ship is a small private yacht, currently registered as Shimmering Path of Ghosts. Packet incoming.”

 

No sooner had Keeper’s hands disappeared from view in the transmission than Cleaner’s datapad chirruped, indicating file received. Cleaner glanced that direction. He took a deep breath. Keeper was deadly serious but he wasn’t going to like his next request. “I may need to persuade her a bit. Gonna be hard with your conditions,” he said.

 

More gears. Keeper knew it was true. Knew it was necessary. And he didn’t like it at all. “Cipher Nine is no longer a valued Intelligence asset. Behavior restrictions regarding Cipher Nine and only this Cipher Nine as detailed in the file are lifted.” Keeper said.

 

Cleaner tipped his head, “What I needed. Thanks.”

 

“Do not kill her, Cleaner. Or cause her permanent injury,” Keeper ordered, “I could reinforce that command but I won’t. Do not make me regret my decision. Or you will.”

 

Thinly veiled threat. No matter, he had enough leeway already. “What about Watcher X? Assuming he’s not still lying around watching daytime game shows.”

 

“If you encounter Watcher X outside of Shadow Town, eliminate him. I don’t need to warn you about being cautious,” Keeper said, “Whatever he tells you is false, designed to manipulate. Much the same warning I’d give an asset assigned to you.”

 

Cleaner scratched his cheek, “I think I’ll take that as a compliment, seeing as I’m still walking around.”

 

“Take it how you like, Cleaner, but Watcher X cannot be allowed to leave Shadow Town. That is also an order,” Keeper said.

 

“Fair enough,” Cleaner said. He wasn’t looking forward to butting heads with Watcher X. “Anything else?”

 

“That is all.”

 

“Well, with luck I’ll be reporting in soon,” Cleaner said, “End transmission.” He deactivated the communicator. Timing couldn’t be worse. He wished Watcher X made his break about a day sooner. Would have saved him a lot of trouble. A lot of trouble on a lot of counts.

 

Cleaner looked in on Yanol, sleeping it off in the now-spare bedroom. Checked his vitals. Normal for a heavily-sedated Human. By the chrono he ought to be out for another hour or so. Cleaner hit him with another load of nyex, extending Yanol’s nap by several more hours. One down, one to go.

 

He padded back toward the ‘fresher, bare feet silent on the carpet. The warm fragrance of Kaliyo's preferred soap filled the air. She had moved on to a very adult parody of what used to be a family-friendly show tune. Cleaner walked in on the chorus of The Aurebesh of Sex. “Hey," he called from the doorway.

 

She leaned out from behind the strategically frosted, otherwise clear polysilicate screen separating the vibe-shower from the rest of the 'fresher. "Took you long enough," she said, emerging from the stall. She crossed to him, her pale skin shiny with scented ultrasonic surfactant. Dragged slippery fingers down his lekku, "I was getting lonely." She kissed him, exploring with her tongue. Blended her perfume smell with the musky smell of his skin. He wrapped one arm around her and returned it, breathing deep. He liked her scent. Deep and smoky with traces of leather. Real leather, not the textured flexiplast leatheris stuff. Oh so very tempting. But Keeper was adamant. Besides, while he might imagine Keeper couldn’t make him, he knew it was a lie. He could. And would.

 

He broke off with an effort, “Gotta go out for a bit,” he said hoarsely.

 

Kaliyo pouted, “You have to?” she asked, leaving scented trails on his chest, “I’ve had a day filled with most of my favorite things. I want to celebrate.”

 

“Something came up,” he murmured.

 

“That’s the point,” she taunted, wrapping slippery arms around his shoulders.

 

He set her back firm on the ‘fresher floor, “I really can’t,” he said, “Zhorrid’s screaming for an update and the carbonite’s not here yet. I have to go punch the concierge and make other arrangements.”

 

“I could punch the concierge for you,” she said.

 

He gave her a peck on the nose, “I need you to keep Yanol company until we freeze him.”

 

“Sounds boring,” Kaliyo grumped.

 

“Boring now, fun...” he nuzzled her ear. His hand drifted below her shoulder. Caressed. Pinched. She squeaked. “...later.”

 

“I’ll hold you to that, Cleaner,” Kaliyo muttered, with a final pinch of her own.

 

“Mmm. Wait up for me, yeah?” he said, “Just. Like. This,” he said, stroking a different tattoo with each word. He stepped away and snatched a towel. Rubbed the lovely scent from his skin. Hissed as the towel scratched his arm.

 

Kaliyo leaned against the ‘fresher wall, “What if the the carbonite delivery man shows?”

 

Cleaner replaced the towel, “Let him in. I’d rather shift Yanol as luggage than buy a third ticket.”

 

“Your guy,” Kaliyo said, traipsing back to the vibe-shower, “your call.” The sonic vibrato changed to massage mode.

 

Cleaner returned to their room to change. If he could at all arrange it, he was taking this missed opportunity out of someone’s hide.

[frauzet]

*humming*

she cried- "more, more, more"

*humming*

 

Added a new word to my English vocabulary today - risqué.

Might be worth remembering.

[Striges]

A Trip Down Memory Lane

 

 

Cleaner hated leaving Yanol with Kaliyo. Although in the universe of bad ideas, it was less bad than bringing her along and leaving Yanol unattended. He did not want her in tow when he visited Cipher Nine. Absolutely not around for head games with Watcher X. Either could dump too much information about him. Watcher X would just for the hell of it.

 

Besides, Kaliyo, Watcher X, and himself sharing the same space was a critical mass of liars. Nar Shaddaa wouldn’t survive.

 

He debarked the tram in the port district. Cleaner elbowed his way to a public terminal and checked the listings. There she was. Level seven, space jenth-seventeen. Shimmering Path of Ghosts. Wondered what that was supposed to mean. Keeper’s information only detailed Cipher Nine’s current mission. It wasn’t her complete file. He was about to burn the trace and log out but he hesitated.

 

He was alone. For the first time in more than a year. No chaperones, no entourage, no companions, pleasant or otherwise. Surrounded by beings of every kind, and not a one of them knew who or what he was. Or cared. Unobserved.

 

Shen pulled up the tourist page. Searched restaurants. It was still here. Looked the same, only a little worse for wear and age. Menu unchanged, not that he ever looked at the menu. He clicked on the canned ad.

 

The picture began moving, camera making its way to the main door. An old-fashioned chime sounded when it slid open with the proximity sensor. Inside looked the same as always if a little brighter colored. Fixed booths lined the windowed front of the diner, a long counter with stools took up the other side. Busy but not packed. A grab-bag of beings enjoying basic, simple fare filled the seats. Behind the counter, a chubby cerulean Twi’lek manned the crowded flat top grill. He bound his spotted lekku together behind his back to keep them out of danger. Bubbly music played to the random percussion of silverware and plates and cooking.

 

An older Human female emerged into the foreground. She still had the ghost of a good figure, her creamsicle hair done up in a gravity-defying style years too young for her. When she smiled at the camera it didn't matter. “Welcome to Sal’s. I’m not Sal, but you’ll get good food here anyway.” Even Lindy was still there. Given her speech, Sal must be gone now too. The ad ended in favor of directions to the diner. Port ads were short and to the point.

 

Didn’t dare go. Not with Watcher X running around somewhere. Not with Kaliyo on-planet. Not ever, really. Couldn’t afford any connections with his old life, especially the only bright spot in it. No reason to go anyway. Shouldn’t even have looked. He kept what he needed from Shen. Little Shen was gone. Good riddance.

 

Cleaner scrubbed at one eye and brought up ads for six other restaurants then three hotels before burning the search trace and logging off the terminal. Just in case. Back to business. Quit wasting time.

 

 

@ Frauzet:

I'm trying! Glad you're enjoying the story. And expanding vocabulary (try working that into casual conversation! )

 

[Syart]

I'm still hugely enjoying this, thank you.

 

With your permission, please may I plagiarise a bit of your Dr Lokin & Keeper for my own Lokin biography? Their activities really fit remarkably well

[frauzet]

lol

 

 

The real problem would be having a casual conversation AFTER using it

 

Bet it would lead to some instant guild invites ingame...

 

 

I am really worried for Cipher Nine. Someone should warn her!

[Striges]

I'm still hugely enjoying this, thank you.

 

With your permission, please may I plagiarise a bit of your Dr Lokin & Keeper for my own Lokin biography? Their activities really fit remarkably well

 

I don’t mind. I’d appreciate a cross-link where applicable or appropriate.

 

Thanks everyone! I’m glad you’re enjoying it.

[Striges]

Pay the Piper

 

Trigger warning for violence.

 

 

Cipher Nine entered the hangar housing her sleek silver ship. Shimmering Path of Ghosts. All smooth lines and flowing curves, polished to a high, atmosphere-slipping shine. It wasn’t carved from the ice of Csilla but it might as well be. A beautiful marriage of form and function. Home.

 

She brushed blue hair escaping her ponytail out of her eyes as she walked up the gangplank. She still had her official report to complete, but she also had a week or more to do it in depending on the course she set. She needed a break after Nar Shaddaa’s pressure cooker. What other beings saw in this place she’d never understand. Rampant chaos, lawlessness, and immorality. It was everything the Empire stood against.

 

The system accepted her biometric scan and hissed open, locking secure behind her. Her ship's 2V model maintenance droid remained silent for a change at her return. Passing into the common room she wrinkled her nose. Even ship air smelled like Nar Shaddaa. With luck the filters would clear it once she was out of its atmosphere. It would be good to leave this planet behind.

 

The agent jumped and spun, hand on her blaster. It was just 2V. Cipher Nine relaxed. The droid must have followed her in, hoping for orders. But. Something was not right. Training kicked in. Analyze. Correlate. Heavy magnetic couplings depended from the back of 2V’s chassis, as though he’d pulled directly from the charging station, but his charger didn’t attach that way. He held a small device in his hand.

 

Blaster.

 

The agent drew her own blaster. 2V fired.

 

Electricity screamed into Cipher Nine’s brain, disrupting delicate organic circuitry.

 

 

 

 

She came to in the ship’s lounge, seated on the plush upholstered couch. 2V stood across from her, blaster in hand. “Hello, Cipher,” he said, “a bit slow but not bad,” he said.

 

Electrostun. A cheap, disposable gun for slavers and gangsters all over this depraved planet. At least when their victims had value alive. She had no weapons, but she was not otherwise restrained. Whoever was controlling 2V didn’t have time to do more than disarm and move her before the stun wore off. And 2V had the wrong voice. He still had his picture-perfect Dromund Kaas accent, but 2V was never that smug. A living being spoke through him. She half thought she heard Watcher X, but it wasn’t his voice either. It wasn’t anyone’s voice she knew. Who was this really? Part of the terrorist cell? Someone she missed? Was it Watcher X after all? Watcher Two warned her he was dangerous. Cipher Nine realized what she took for power cables were not cables at all but tentacles or some such. And they weren’t attached, they floated in midair like a badly animated graphic. “Who are you?” she demanded.

 

2V slipped one hand into his midsection and fiddled with something. The droid dissolved in a silvery sheen, revealing a ruddy-skinned male Twi’lek in nondescript bargain clothing, utterly forgettable. Except she never forgot. Never forgot anything, a curse as much as a gift. She saw him once. Not met, observed. Intelligence headquarters. Her first day promoted out of the general pool of agents. Cipher Nine’s heart skipped a beat. “Cleaner One,” she whispered.

 

“Yeah,” he said. His hand dropped from a device on his belt, “It was the lekku, wasn’t it?”

 

The agent felt her head creak with a single nod in the affirmative. Her body was on autopilot. He might have asked if she liked the weather.

 

“Figures. Humans. They always design their sh*t so us not-so-near Humans can’t use it. You’d think they were the only species in the galaxy.” He glowered over her and a sneer crossed his cruel lips, “Must be nice to be so similar,” he hissed. “Ah well,” he said, backing off, “Passed cursory examination at least.” Still the clean pronunciation of Dromund Kaas. So out of place coming from that face. So wrong with his diction.

 

Cipher Nine forced herself to rise, “What are you doing here?” she asked. It had to be Watcher X. She underestimated how much Intelligence valued him. She knew Keeper might send his attack dog after her. A calculated risk. Her calculations were off. More correctly, she didn't have all the variables.

 

“Mind if I smoke?” Cleaner One asked, ignoring her question.

 

“Yes,” Cipher Nine said.

 

“Good,” he said, popping the element on a cheap spice e-cigarette, the kind he could activate with one hand. Leaving the other free to keep his blaster focused on her.

 

No time now for regrets. Play her hand as dealt. He was armed, she wasn’t. She remembered his wink. His long-ago, salacious wink. Cipher Nine stood straight and took a step toward him, “I’m not afraid of you.”

 

One non-eyebrow ridge raised as though bemused, “Oh?”

 

Bolder, she closed with him, “I’ve studied your operations. You can’t hurt me.”

 

“I can’t?” He blew narcotic fog at her, “electrostun doesn’t count, hmm?”

 

She reached questing fingers toward him, suppressing a grimace as she touched his shirt. Suppressed a shudder at the thought of touching the skin beneath. “Keeper won’t let you. You hurt beings without a thought. You kill everyone else, but you leave intelligence operatives alone. You can’t harm me,” she concluded.

 

He let her step inside his guard, “I can’t,” he said. Flat statement.

 

“No,” she agreed. Her fingers fiddled with the fastener in the hollow of his throat. A shame the Twi'lek larynx wasn't vulnerable like a Human's.

 

"Really," he said softly. He stroked her hair with his free hand.

 

She could feel the heat radiating from the cigarette’s element along the side of her head. It reeked. He reeked. Nar Shaddaa’s rot as a person. The stink of it all surrounded her. She swallowed her disgust. "Really," she repeated. Leaning in, up, seeking a kiss she didn't want.

 

Cleaner struck her face hard with his other hand, the hand holding the pistol. The blow caught her off guard and sent her spinning. He followed up with a second weighted blow to the same side. Cipher Nine fell sprawling to the deck. Her left eye filled with stars and her left ear with the roar of calving glaciers. Bright red spots pattered on the carpet. The lush chocolate pile drank it eagerly.

 

His booted foot lashed out for her midsection. She curled around it with a grunt, seizing and pulling, throwing him off balance. He didn’t fight the inevitable. Let her pull him down. Falling, but not as she planned. She rolled clear in a practiced hui-dō move, trying to gain distance. Cleaner hit the floor on his side and continued with her imparted motion. He sprang at her from an awkward crouch, ramming a shoulder into her ribs before she could rise. She gasped as his weight slammed into her. No finesse, no art, a crude brawler’s tactic. Cipher Nine retaliated with a sharp quick blow to her best target, the juncture of his neck and shoulder. She felt the muscle beneath his skin spasm. He howled and pulled back, giving her an opening to escape.

 

“2V! Attend!” she cried, trying to crawl away. The droid wasn’t much good at combat but he was better than nothing.

 

A hard hand seized her ankle and yanked her back. She scissored her legs, trying to break Cleaner’s durasteel grip. He slapped the unrestrained foot away and brought one fist down on her back. It hit with a hollow thump and she couldn’t breathe. Her lungs weren’t working.

 

She struggled for air as he scruffed her collar. He rose. Threads popped. It was a fine, Imperial-made watered lashaa silk blouse. Too much to hope the seam would separate and free her. Cleaner dragged her back and tossed her back on the couch like an old duffel. Followed with another hit to her left ear. She had her breath back now but her head rang. She lay where he threw her, coughing. The left side of her face was numb, throbbing with the promise of pain later. She watched him turning, backing, returning to a neutral distance.

 

“I don’t know how these rumors get started,” Cleaner said. Her only answer was a groan. He flicked her blood from his fist. He pulled over a soft upholstered cube and sat on it. Went back and retrieved the electrostun. “Nice try. I have to give you that.”

 

She coughed and swallowed bloody saliva. The taste of it filled her mouth. She forced herself to a seated position. “What do you want?” she asked again, the words struggling through swollen lips.

 

He rolled his shoulders, wincing, “Reasonable. I like that.” He pulled the cube closer, invading her space. Menacing her. “Let’s be reasonable, yeah? We both know all about hostile persuasion. All the quick-form interrogation techniques. As well as all the methods for resisting said techniques. This could be a very long and painful conversation even if I raided your medbay for chems. Assuming I were inclined to do so. Which I'm not."

 

He rolled his shoulder again. Her one solid hit must hurt. Cold comfort under the circumstances. His incongruous speech pattern unnerved her. It was the nightmare final in resisting questioning all over again.

 

Cipher Nine’s bleary eyes fixated on the still-burning e-cigarette, discarded, forgotten, scorching the carpet. She considered her options. Few. Still, she wasn't willing to accept defeat. She inhaled and opened her mouth to speak when he cut her off.

 

“Your droid’s not coming. If he’s a rental, don’t count on getting your deposit back. I spiked your ship’s computer and the port authority has you on lockdown. You’re not going anywhere. No one’s coming to help you. Don’t try anything stupid.” Cleaner leaned forward toward her, “Now, Cipher, let’s discuss Watcher X.”

[frauzet]

Nasty, really nasty!

 

Although I must admit, that I enjoyed reading 'Twilight', I am more of an 'Ice and Fire'-type of reader.

So I think this is getting better and better.

Still very concerned for Cipher Nine.

 

I hope you don't feel like I am spamming your thread.

 

While reading the last bit of your story, something happend to my orange Gummibärchen. They all seem to have vanished from the bag.

Hmmm.

[Adwynyth]

'Scuse me...I just need to drop this here...

 

SQUEE

[Striges]

@ Frauzet: You’re not spamming the thread. I enjoy commentary.

 

I never read Twilight, preferring my vampires a little more old-school Nosferatu. George R.R. Martin, though, wow. I am honored.

 

@ Aldwynyth: I’m so glad you and my other readers are enjoying the story. Really. I know I keep replying that but I mean it.

Edited July 16, 2013 by Striges

[Syart]

I don’t mind. I’d appreciate a cross-link where applicable or appropriate.

Oh, absolutely yes! Truth is, I was mostly planning to link to various posts in your thread and say "This is what they did then" because it'll save me from having to produce ideas and write them when you've already done such a good job

 

 

... something happend to my orange Gummibärchen. They all seem to have vanished from the bag.

Hmmm.

That wasn't me, I was only eating green ones .... I mean .... popcorn, yes, I was eating popcorn *nods firmly and sidles off with a shifty expression and slightly sticky fingers*

Edited July 16, 2013 by Syart

[Striges]

Fallout

 

 

Keeper's image resolved in the holofield, "I see you're transmitting from Cipher Nine's ship, Cleaner. Report.”

 

Cleaner tweaked the input on his end, reducing the picture resolution, "He's loose."

 

"Cipher Nine's status?"

 

Always so suspicious. "Nothing time and a little kolto won't fix," Cleaner replied. Maybe some therapy.

 

Keeper nodded and folded his arms over his chest, "I see. Internal Affairs will determine the extent of Cipher Nine's involvement. Investigators will arrive soon and take charge of the situation, she is no longer your concern. I want you to intercept Watcher X before he makes it off-planet."

 

"I know my job," Cleaner groused. While he wasn’t looking forward to banter with Watcher X, he definitely wasn’t hanging around for Internal Affairs. "He can't have gone far. I just blew my discretionary budget bribing Mezenti flight control to delay all departures for two hours. Or until someone else pays more. I've got sniffers in the cam feeds and spikes in the boarding terminals--"

 

"And if he chooses a different spaceport?" Keeper pressed.

 

Cleaner ran his shoulder through its range of motion with a wince. His neck wanted to cramp, thanks to Cipher Nine. Felt like a pretty deep bruise in there. Going to be fun explaining to Kaliyo how he got it arranging a carbonite delivery. Meh, distant future at this point. Back to the task at hand, "Then I'm screwed,” he said, pulling out a real cigarette. He only bothered with the electric version for hands-free intimidation factor. By now it had melted itself into the carpet anyway. “The next closest spaceport is a five-hour ride by high speed repulsor train or bounce shuttle. He'd beat me there easy. Don't think he will, though. He won’t want to be trapped in a sealed vehicle for several hours. It could get stopped. Boarded. Hell, blown up or shot down. Nar Shaddaa has the worst traffic safety record in the galaxy. Sh*t craters all the time, even the Republic wouldn’t suspect anything. He wouldn't risk it. He knows his best bet is to get offworld as quick as possible."

 

Keeper’s blue image remained very still. "What did Cipher Nine say?" He asked.

 

"Diddly," Cleaner said, gnawing on his unlit cigarette, "On that front anyway. I don't think she knows. You used him, he used her. Shocking."

 

"He cannot be allowed to leave Nar Shaddaa, Cleaner. That is a direct order," Keeper said, "Recapture is not a priority. Neutralize him by any means necessary."

 

Cleaner chuckled, "I always love your euphemisms, Keeper. Does saying 'neutralize' instead of 'kill' make it easier for you?" He popped the gas cylinder in his blaster, checked the volume and reseated it, "Make you feel cleaner, somehow?"

 

"Your puns do not amuse me," Keeper warned, "I know my cipher is still with you, despite your attempt to hide her in the background. Would you prefer more explicit orders?”

 

Bastard. “No,” Cleaner snapped. Karking son of a b*tch.

 

“You have your mission, then,” Keeper said.

 

“Yeah. I got it. Cleaner out,” he replied, stabbing the channel closed. He turned away from the holoterminal. Cipher Nine sat motionless on the couch, much the worse for wear. “A word of advice. Wait for IA. Don’t try to beat the lockdown and run. You’re in deep enough poodoo as it is. I don’t want to have to track you down again and you sure as hell don’t want me to.” He ambled out of the room toward Shimmering Path of Ghosts’ passenger hatch.

 

 

 

Cipher Nine watched him go. Sat, quiescent, on the couch for a while. Counted her heartbeat by the throbbing of her injuries. Finally, she rose and wobbled to the medbay. Not much point in suffering further now; she had a sneaking suspicion her hell had just started.

 

She slipped her finger into the autodiagnostic loop and started the cycle. Not that she really needed it. She knew it would prescribe kolto, pain relief, and anti inflammatories. The only question was how much pain relief. Damned if Internal Affairs would find her drugged. Even for legitimate purposes.

 

The machine beeped with a laundry list of injuries. Cipher Nine didn't want to know the extent of the damage Cleaner inflicted on her. She skipped ahead to the recommended course of action. Visit a medcenter. No chance. Next option. Kolto, pain relief, and anti inflammatories, as expected. Then visit a medcenter.

 

Cipher Nine sighed. She selected half the analgesic dose the machine recommended. Enough to take the edge off, not so much as to blur her thoughts. She considered not treating her wounds further. Let IA see what Cleaner did. Then she ripped open the sterile kolto package and applied the dressing. What was the point? He had Keeper’s sanction. He was doing his job, same as she was. Or thought she was.

 

Her sin, if she had one, was sympathy. She was convinced Watcher X was what the Empire made him. His promised bargain seemed a good one. She tossed the dressing package in the biohazard incinerator, closing her eyes to the bruised visage reflected in the polished metal above the aperture. She returned to the common room with a cannister of electrolyte solution.

 

Bypassed the common room with a shiver and continued on through to the cockpit. Sat in the captain’s chair. Spun the galaxy map and looked at all the stars. Had Watcher X thought the same thing during Operation: Undertow? Just doing his job?

 

“What every living thing wants, huh? Did your little martyr happen to mention what got him stuck in Shadow Town to begin with, or did he kind of gloss over that part?”

 

He didn’t say. Watcher Two didn’t say either. “That’s hardly important.”

 

“Thought not. Undertow cratered so bad IA is still filling in the hole years later. Six active agents, a dozen fixers, something like twenty minders, and they never figured out how many non-intelligence contacts and sympathizers. The lucky ones died in the initial blast series. The unlucky ones...well, cybernetics are pretty good replacements for most body parts I guess. ‘Course, the other side made out worse. Think they had one hundred percent fatalities. But it ‘calls into question Watcher Five’s ability to direct operations as well as his stability.’ That’s what IA concluded.”

 

Lies. She never heard of this Operation: Undertow. “And you know this how?”

 

“Who do you think got to ‘neutralize’ the assets that fell into Republic hands?”

Edited July 19, 2013 by Striges

[marissalf]

Loving this story! Cleaner makes for a great antihero; his story adds a whole new depth to what we see in the agent storyline. And you write Kaliyo so well. I can picture her saying and doing all these things. It’s so very...her.

 

Do believe I’ll settle in with some of that popcorn...or gummy bears, if that’s what we’re passing around in here

[Striges]

We have popcorn and gummi bears (except the orange ones). No cookies, I'm afraid.

[Lesaberisa]

We have popcorn and gummi bears (except the orange ones). No cookies, I'm afraid.

 

Well there goes any hope for this thread...

[Striges]

Well, we do have biscotti and strong black coffee.

[bright_ephemera]

Well, we do have biscotti and strong black coffee.

 

Oh heck yes. *dips, munches, reads*

[Striges]

Inspiration

 

 

The hatch hissed closed behind him as Cleaner exited Cipher Nine’s ship. He ran his fingertips over her smooth skin as he walked down the gangplank, likely the last time he’d get the chance. Custom job. Based on an X-70B, but tricked out like a sports touring yacht. Last year’s Kuat Togatto model, in fact. All slick lines and stunning curves. Rounded in all the right places, slim where she should be. Probably fast as a whipsnake and twice as deadly. Pure power barely restrained within her perfect skin. Cipher Nine had that refined, slinky, smouldering sort of sexiness he found attractive. Like the best holodrama actresses. But if he had to choose, Cleaner would take her ship over her any day of the week.

 

He glanced over his shoulder for one last, lusting, look at the sleek yacht then cursed as his neck tweaked. Kark it. Should have grabbed some chems from her medbay. Arm ached, starting to itch, neck hurt, all he needed now was a limp and he’d be downright decrepit.

 

He lit his cigarette while his eye followed the line of Shimmering Path of Ghosts' nose, pointing toward the hangar exit. It was dusk outside. The setting sun turned Nar Shaddaa's smog a dirty pink. Nal Hutta hung yellow in the sky above him like an enormous, pus-filled boil. He snorted. Appropriate. Nal Hutta’s filth drained to Nar Shaddaa on the hourly public shuttle. The Smuggler's moon so eclipsed Hutta in terms of both population and wealth it was easy to forget it wasn’t the primary body of the pair.

 

He froze, his gaze fixated on Nal Hutta’s bloated disk. Snapped the electric lighter closed before the cigarette caught. Public shuttle. Watcher X knew Intelligence would be on his trail. Would expect him to run for parts unknown like a bantha with its fur on fire. Knew he was bottlenecked at the spaceport. He wouldn’t hop a long haul freighter. Wouldn’t slice himself a nice passenger ticket somewhere very far from here. He’s take the quickie return trip to Hutta and find better passage at his leisure. In the last place the Empire would look for him. Right under their noses.

 

He whipped out his communicator and punched up the local Intelligence branch, “Get a fixer on the line,” he ordered as soon as the call went through.

 

“And you are?” the operator asked.

 

By the book, Cipher Nine. SOP decreed all hangar monitors and tracking systems in non-Imperial spaceports be disabled on landing. On Nar Shaddaa, no one would notice for weeks. Longer before they repaired it. The standard call-trace was having a hard time locking on to his signal. “Cleaner One. Gimme a fixer!”

 

“Ah, there’s,” the operator stammered, “there’s a crisis right now, Cleaner. I’m sorry. No one’s available.”

 

“I know there’s a karking crisis,” he barked, “I know why you’re all running around like gizkas with their heads bitten off. That’s what I do, you karking sow. Take care of crises. Get me a fixer. Now.” Honestly. They let anyone graduate from the academy these days.

 

“There’s Fixer 43...”

 

Great. “Put. Someone. On. The. Line. Now. Preferably someone with a brain and unlimited requisitions access.”

 

She didn’t bother replying. His communicator clicked with the call suspended tone. In a moment it reconnected and a male voice answered, “This is Fixer 43. Cleaner?”

 

Sh*t. Kid sounded about twelve, straight out of a Dromund Kaas boarding school, “I want the biggest, personnel-scale incendiary bomb you can get me. What grade are Watcher X’s cybernetics?”

 

“I...incendiary?”

 

“Just do it. What the kark grade are Watcher X’s cybernetics? You have his prison records, look it up.”

 

“I don’t know that I can get a,” Cleaner heard the clicking sound of frantic typing in the background, “I don’t understand what incendiaries have to do with--”

 

“You don’t have to understand,” Cleaner snapped, “Get me a bomb and I need to know if his cybernetics are military-grade or not.”

 

“We don’t have--yes. Class five hardened,” Fixer 43 said.

 

“Bring the flamer, a 100-meter radio bomb and two category aurek neutralizer grenades to Mezenti Spaceport shuttle bay A-27 and for love of the Emperor, don’t wear a uniform.” Cleaner ordered.

 

“But--”

 

“Just do it. Get my stuff. Bring it to me. Don’t kark up,” Cleaner said, “you get to be my sidekick today, 43.”

 

“Yes, sir.” 43 didn’t sound all that enthused.

 

 

Notes:

Wookiepedia lists a ton of specific ship names, i.e Millenium Falcon. Most of the generic names, though, the equivalent of our Camry or Accord (or Enzo or Veyron), are nonexistent or pretty dull. I somehow have a hard time imagining a ship aficionado drooling over the newest Corellia StarDrive model XY-9923S/bB44 (with optional sport package!). At least, not with that name. Thus I decided Kuat Drive Yards would follow the pattern of Earthly sports car manufacturers, and name their ships for something fast and/or familiar to their target market: the Togatto Speedway.

 

[bright_ephemera]

Notes:

Wookiepedia lists a ton of specific ship names, i.e Millenium Falcon. Most of the generic names, though, the equivalent of our Camry or Accord (or Enzo or Veyron), are nonexistent or pretty dull. I somehow have a hard time imagining a ship aficionado drooling over the newest Corellia StarDrive model XY-9923S/bB44 (with optional sport package!). At least, not with that name. Thus I decided Kuat Drive Yards would follow the pattern of Earthly sports car manufacturers, and name their ships for something fast and/or familiar to their target market: the Togatto Speedway.

 

Good call. I have a habit of constructing model designations using US DOD standards, in which X-70B is a perfectly valid designation for an experimental vehicle of modified-from-first-design configuration, but...it really lacks a certain poetry, not to mention marketability. Nobody sighed dreamily when the Fury FS-421A s/n 3C33 flew off the lot.

[Syart]

“What every living thing wants, huh? Did your little martyr happen to mention what got him stuck in Shadow Town to begin with, or did he kind of gloss over that part?”

 

He didn’t say. Watcher Two didn’t say either. “That’s hardly important.”

 

“Thought not. Undertow cratered so bad IA is still filling in the hole years later. Six active agents, a dozen fixers, something like twenty minders, and they never figured out how many non-intelligence contacts and sympathizers. The lucky ones died in the initial blast series. The unlucky ones...well, cybernetics are pretty good replacements for most body parts I guess. ‘Course, the other side made out worse. Think they had one hundred percent fatalities. But it ‘calls into question Watcher Five’s ability to direct operations as well as his stability.’ That’s what IA concluded.”

 

Lies. She never heard of this Operation: Undertow. “And you know this how?”

 

“Who do you think got to ‘neutralize’ the assets that fell into Republic hands?”

Ohhh ... you have an explanation for Watcher X *deep respect* I've never been able to figure out any idea of what the disaster might have been.

[Striges]

Fixer 43

 

 

Cleaner lounged on one of the concourse benches trying to look casual. Some sadistic planner designed Nar Shaddaa public furniture for maximum discomfort. Presumably, it encouraged vagrants to move on. Didn't really work; beings slept on them anyway until security forced them out.

 

Cleaner fidgeted on the hard plastiform seat. His cigarette smoldered, clamped unheeded in his jaws. Went through the mini-menu of the holodisgiuse’s stored images. He had a scan of himself, and Kaliyo. Managed to get one of Blue. Cipher Nine’s droid. Keeper downloaded the ones from the terrorist cell, but they were still in memory. Cycled back to himself and Kaliyo. Messed around with the image-alteration options. Fought the urge to check his chrono. Again. Where the hell was 43?

 

Across the cavernous space the lift chime pinged. The doors slid open, revealing a Human male wearing a basic businessman’s suit and dragging a hefty repulsor equipped suitcase. He scanned the lobby and headed for Cleaner, weaving his way through the knots of waiting passengers, drawing not a few looks.

 

Cleaner stood. The burnt-out butt fell to the floor. This gorgeous young man was a fixer? Late twenties somewhere, smooth dark hair, smoky skin, made that cheesy suit look as though it was cut to order and hundreds of times more expensive. Or at least made you ignore the fact it was a five credit clearance job in favor of imagining what was underneath it. Granted, Cleaner didn't find Alderaanian features nearly as attractive as he used to, but even so. Complete and utter waste as a fixer. Where had the branch been hiding him?

 

43 hauled his burden up to Cleaner, “Sir?”

 

Cleaner shook himself, “43?”

 

“Yes, sir. I brought what you asked for--”

 

Free of the tinny communicator speaker, 43’s voice regained its lower registers. No longer prepubescent. Like velvet. Cleaner preferred females, but...wow. Most of his male companions hadn’t been nearly so lovely, “Nice touch, the suitcase.” he said.

 

“Ah, yes, you see, I wasn’t able to get--”

 

Cleaner reached for 43’s coat collar, “A bit over the top but at least you’re not wearing a uniform,” he said, yanking off the credit tag, still dangling where he’d forgotten to remove it after purchase, “you don’t own anything else?” Soft skin. Hair to match. Wonder what Kaliyo would think if he brought back a new friend? Wondered if Kaliyo would share.

 

43 brushed his free hand over his collar, “Well, yes, sir, I do,” he stammered, “just not to hand at the moment. You were quite insistent--”

 

“It’s fine. Nice and cheap. Matches the rabble, even if it’s new. Like to see you in something else, though,” he added with a wink.

 

“Ah, yes, sir,” 43 stammered.

 

“And knock of the ‘sir’ stuff,” Cleaner said. “No one with your accent would call a Twi’lek sir.”

 

“Of course, sir,” 43 apologized.

 

Cleaner stared at the young man. He didn’t even hear it. Hardcore military man. ‘Sir’ was verbal punctuation to him. “Still, you could have tucked everything into the pockets. Hand ‘em over.” He reached toward 43. Half hoped for another touch despite the distraction.

 

43 flinched, “Ah, see, there’s a bit of a difficulty there,” he began.

 

“What?” Cleaner asked.

 

“I can’t actually give them to you, sir,” 43 said, tugging on his sleeve, “They’re on loan from the local bureau and you have to sign responsibility.”

 

Karking paperwork. “Lemme have the pad,” he held out a hand for it. Main office could pay for any material he destroyed. As usual.

 

43 handed over the device with the authorization printbox displayed, “Also, while I did try to get all the things you requested--” the velvet voice said.

 

“What?” Cleaner repeated with a note of warning, thumbing the pad without reading it.

 

43 fidgeted and pulled the suitcase closer, “I’m sorry, sir. The radio b--”

 

Cleaner pressed a finger to 43’s lips, “Hush. Ears,” he said, his other finger circling, drawing the fixer’s attention to the cams in all the corners.

 

43’s eyes went wide, “Oh. Oh, of course, sir. I understand,” his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, “But you see, the radio...thing and the other, ah, the other thing that, ah, that you asked for two of? Those were no trouble at all.”

 

Cleaner kept his finger on 43’s lips. Even though he didn't need to. He parsed 43’s statement, “I need all of it, 43. Two out of three isn’t enough.”

 

43 gulped. He took Cleaner’s hand and removed it, “I know, sir, but the fact is we haven’t stocked incendiary devices since the arms depot raid and subsequent explosion during the Edulphe Ptah riots six years ago. Huge fire, had relocate the entire branch. Simply not allowed, sir, I’m sorry.”

 

Cleaner’s brow furrowed, “So, what’s in the suitcase?”

 

43 looked optimistic for the first time, “Ah. Yes. I wasn’t able to requisition the um, incendiary units, but I was able to get a heavy assault cannon and three different loadouts for it, sir. Balmorran specialties, these--”

 

Cleaner closed 43’s lips again, “Quietly,” he emphasized. He stepped closer to the fixer, “say that again. Very quietly.”

 

43 nodded. Cleaner let him speak. “A heavy assault cannon and three loadouts, sir,” he whispered. “Balmorran. There’s flechette, flare-signal, and a selection I’m rather proud of, the spall-producing anti-armor shell. The resistance liked that one quite a bit until we took their factory away. Intended against armored emplacements, but it proved quite effective on mobile units, you see. Swoops, speeders, short-range shuttles and the like. Fuel tanks are protected, sir, as you know, but these beauties punch right through the armor and intervening structure. Releases the compressed fuel gas and it expands right into flaming hot shell and vehicle pieces. Brilliant piece of work. Praise the Emperor the range was too short for them to hit the magazines for our big stationary cannon--”

 

“A cannon?” Cleaner asked, incredulous, “you brought me an assault cannon?”

 

43 paused for a moment, “Yes, sir. I did. I could not provide the precise item you requested, sir, so I brought what I thought would serve your needs. Sir.” He set the case down, “I apologise, sir, if it does not meet with your approval.”

 

“Not?” Cleaner said. Probably better for what he had in mind. “It’s perfect. I could kiss, you, 43.”

 

“Please don’t,” 43 blurted, “um, sir.”

 

Cleaner took up the suitcase’s handle, “Oh? I’m a pretty good kisser,” he said, heading for the shuttle terminal.

 

Fixer 43 followed in his wake, “I, I’m sure you are, sir. It’s just that I don’t, I’m not--”

 

“Available?” Cleaner asked.

 

“Well, no, that isn’t what I was--” 43 stammered.

 

“You have a girlfriend.” Cleaner said.

 

“No, sir,” 43 said.

 

“Boyfriend?”

 

“No!” 43 denied.

 

“Want to get a drink later?” Cleaner asked, summoning the lift.

 

“Well, now that you mention it, I suppose I could--” 43 paused, “are you flirting with me, sir?”

 

“Yes I am,” Cleaner replied. The doors opened with a polite chime. He stepped in.

 

43 hesitated, “Sir? I, ah, I...I’m not, that is...” he trailed off again.

 

“Lift’s here. You coming?” This was more fun than berating the local staff.

 

43 jumped on the lift as the doors slid closed, “Yes, sir.” He edged to one corner of the compartment.

 

Cleaner reached up and crushed the cheap spy-eye monitor in the lift then planted himself in the center, rendering futile the fixer’s attempt to distance himself, “They don’t let you out on missions much, do you, 43?” Cleaner asked as the lift began its ascent. He knelt on the floor and retrieved the radio bomb and the pair of neutralizers from the case.

 

“Um, no, not really, sir,” 43 admitted, “I don’t mind. I like the lab. It’s not as well equipped as the Science Bureau, but it’s quiet.”

 

Ah, an opening. Cleaner stood, tucking the devices into his clothes, “Science Bureau? I know people in the Bureau. Weapons research division?”

 

“Why, yes, sir,” 43 said, “how did you know?”

 

Cleaner looked at the young Human’s lovely reflection in the mirrored wall of the lift. He could explain observation. Drawing conclusions from visible traits and habits of speech. How to use those conclusions to set a target at ease and get them to open up. Extract information they weren't even aware they were giving. Leave ‘em feeling all warm and fluffy when you were done.

 

Or he could just do it. Instructing the fish wasn't his job. “It’s a rare agent who understands weapons like that. Substituting an autocannon for incendiaries? Brilliant move.” The levels ticked off on the counter above the door.

 

43 preened, “Why, thank you, sir. I really preferred the Science Bureau, sir,” he coughed, “Oh, ah, not that I don't like Intelligence, sir. It’s just that, well, to be frank, sir, it wasn’t my first choice.”

 

“You don’t choose Intelligence, 43,” Cleaner said, parroting back their famous recruitment slogan, “Intelligence chooses you. They must have seen agent potential in you.”

 

“Oh, I doubt that,” 43 said, embarrassed, “my father is career navy. He wasn't thrilled when I opted for the Science Bureau instead. He has enough pull to get me a more prestigious posting with Intelligence. I suppose I should be grateful, but I really preferred pure research and such to, well, any kind of field work. Um, sir. No offense.”

 

“None taken,” Cleaner replied. He’d have to look up the fixer’s record later. Could be useful. He turned around so he was facing the handsome young man, “Some fixers do research. I could talk to the branch commander for you. If you want.”

 

“Actually, I spend most of my time in the lab anyway, sir,” 43 replied, “but I do miss my colleagues.”

 

Cleaner took one step closer to 43. He didn't seem to notice. Excellent. “Must be lonely. No one to talk to. No one who understands you.”

 

43 brightened, “Exactly,” he said, almost smiling, “They’re not hopeless, by any means. I just have a greater appreciation of the nuances of weapon design. Most of my fellow agents don’t know the difference between a Mag-10 SJX rocket launcher and its Republic counterpart, when it’s completely obvious in the fin design of the loads and the corresponding--”

 

Cleaner took another step closer, “You know, I have a colleague right here on Nar Shaddaa who loves discussing the intricacies of weapons.”

 

“Really?” he asked, “do you think you could arrange it? I’d be grateful for the opportunity, sir.”

 

Stars, this was too easy. No wonder 43 was a fixer and not something else. “I think so,” he purred. The lift chimed as it reached the shuttle departure level, “This is our stop.”

 

43 glanced at the numbers, “So it is, sir.”

 

Cleaner disembarked with the suitcase and fixer in tow. He turned to 43, "You got any creds?" He asked. The fixer dug in a pocket and withdrew a few sticks. Cleaner checked the denominations, "That it?"

 

"Yes, sir. I prefer chits as the amount automatically withdraws from the appropriate account. It makes for much easier expense reporting, sir"

 

Cleaner stared at the miniscule amount. He could send 43 back to the autobank for more, but that would take time. Time he could little afford. "It'll have to do,"he said, shoving the credsticks in his pocket, mingling with his own. He started off down the hallway toward the shuttle hangar.

 

"If you don't mind me saying so, sir," 43 said, trotting behind, "you're not as crude or violent as I was led to believe."

 

"Oh?" Cleaner said without stopping.

 

"The brief we received on your arrival, not to mention subsequent conversation around the bureau, made me quite apprehensive about joining you. Yet thus far you've been rather decent,” Fixer 43 said, “other than that awkward bit. Mistake, I’m sure. I, ah, I won’t mention it.”

 

Cleaner grinned broadly. Poor Fixer 43. “Just a misunderstanding,” he said, “Still hope you take me up on that drink later.”

 

“With your colleague?”

 

“Possibly,” Cleaner said. He pulled up, “Things are going to start happening fast. I want you to stay here.”

 

“Sir, I’m required to monitor and observe the usage--”

 

“Negative.” Cleaner did not want Junior Secret Agent around Watcher X. Nor in a position where debris might squash him or he could catch some crossfire. Cipher Nine had no idea how close her analysis of his behavior was to the truth. Not to mention a corpse was no good in bed. He did have some standards. “You can observe from back here. How good are you at slicing?”

 

“It’s not my specialty, sir,” 43 admitted.

 

Ought to keep him busy anyway. “Get into the security system and substitute this image for mine in the feeds,” Cleaner transferred an image he’d altered from the holodisguise belt. It was of himself, rearranging his lekku pattern and replacing his facial features with those of the deceased Mattej from the Tatooine terrorist cell. Non-Twi’leks usually noticed skin color and tattoos when they noticed anything at all. Image-recognition programs fared only a little better. But then. like the holodisguise device itself, they weren’t intended to work for non-Humans. “The radio bomb will take care of everything else.”

 

“Understood, sir,” 43 said.

 

Had to love a military man. They rounded the corner to the bay and the fixer hung back, scrambling on his datapad. The first bottleneck was no more than a hundred meters away, a Nikto ticket issuer and his cronies guarding this entrance to the hangar. There were a number of adjoining landing pads, short hop transports for the most part. A small knot of restless passengers milled together farther inside the gate, waiting their turn to get on the rancid Hutta shuttle. More Nikto henchmen herded them together. Cleaner couldn’t see Watcher X among either group. But then, he wouldn’t. A cloak with a cowl and he’d disappear.

 

He couldn’t see inside the cockpit. The shuttle was facing the wrong way. But if the action on the atmospheric guidance flaps was any indication, the pilot was starting pre-flight. His bribe had run out.

 

Cleaner strode up to the Nikto at the gate. He pressed a handful of credsticks into the guard’s scaly mitt, “Seat open, yeah?” he said in Huttese, pointing at the shuttle.

 

The Nikto glared at the credsticks, “What in bag?” he asked.

 

Cleaner slipped him a pair of higher value sticks, “You don’t need to see inside my bag.”

 

The Nikto grinned, “Don’t need see inside your bag,” he repeated and waved Cleaner through the gate.

 

The credstick mind trick. Worked every time. Cleaner moved on into the hangar. The guards ignored him; he’d bought passage as far as they were concerned. Halfway to the shuttle he set down the case and flicked on the radio bomb in his pocket. Which wasn’t a bomb at all, but an wide-band signal jammer. With the hangar cameras receiving nothing but static, he flipped open the case’s heavy lid. Removed one beautiful assault cannon, still wearing the Balmorran Arms Factory corporate colors. The guards noticed him now, but it was too late. He dropped the armor-piercing shell into the cannon’s eager maw and lined up on the shuttle.

 

“Feel the wrath of the Flame!” he shouted in Huttese, on the off chance anyone was paying attention. Fired. Immediately deployed and ducked behind his personal energy shield.

 

He didn’t see the missile's smoky trail, nor the molten hole it burned in the shuttle’s side. He felt more than heard the whump of the explosion and concussion wave that followed. The low slow burn of fuel detonation as opposed to the sharp, crisp hammerstrike of real explosives. Heard the clatter of shrapnel as it skipped across the ceramacrete hangar deck and bounced off his shield. The tremulous note in his shield generator's emitter as it absorbed impact after impact. It wasn't designed to protect him from this much kinetic energy. Belated, the cries of wounded sentient beings.

 

Cleaner rose and pocketed his generator. The rear of the shuttle peeled open like a ghily fruit, its insides spilling out across the deck. One of the Nikto guards was creeping toward him. Still trying to intercept him. Cleaner shot him. The rest were already down. He marched ahead into the carnage.

 

An alarm klaxon sounded in an adjoining pad. The closest ones were vacant but for ground crews now scrambling for safety. Farther out the blast and alarm went unnoticed. This was Nar Shaddaa. Sh*t blew up all the time.

 

The nerfs waiting for this shuttle lay in a bloody, scrambled heap. Many were too close to the blast to survive. The rest no doubt wished they had been. All but one. A single shape rose from the tangled mass. Cloaked and cowled, as expected, the dark fabric shimmering with embedded metallic threads. Blue hexagons blinked and faded. A personal generator even tighter than Cleaner's. Stressed beyond effectiveness, unlike Cleaner's.

 

Cleaner activated the neutralizer and threw it. It bounced a couple of times then flashed. Brilliant white violet light courscated over the cloaked figure. It raised one arm as though to cover its face. Lightning flickered, faded, died. He rushed forward, blaster drawn.

 

The shadow looked up. Dropped his hood. Revealed a human male. Slim, bald, narrow triangular face, skin pale and blotchy from long confinement and none-too-gentle captors. Shiny imbedded cybernetics blinked in both ears and above one eye. “Hello, Cleaner,” he said.

 

“Hello, X,” Cleaner replied.

 

 

Note:

Belated thank you for cross-linking, Syart.

 

[bright_ephemera]

“It’s perfect. I could kiss, you, 43.”

 

“Please don’t,” 43 blurted, “um, sir.”

 

Cleaner took up the suitcase’s handle, “Oh? I’m a pretty good kisser,” he said, heading for the shuttle terminal.

 

Fixer 43 followed in his wake, “I, I’m sure you are, sir. It’s just that I don’t, I’m not--”

 

“Available?” Cleaner asked.

 

“Well, no, that isn’t what I was--” 43 stammered.

 

“You have a girlfriend.” Cleaner said.

 

“No, sir,” 43 said.

 

“Boyfriend?”

 

“No!” 43 denied.

 

“Want to get a drink later?” Cleaner asked, summoning the lift.

 

“Well, now that you mention it, I suppose I could--” 43 paused, “are you flirting with me, sir?”

 

“Yes I am,” Cleaner replied. The doors opened with a polite chime. He stepped in.

 

43 hesitated, “Sir? I, ah, I...I’m not, that is...” he trailed off again.

 

“Lift’s here. You coming?”

 

No part of this chapter was not fantastic. Action and dialogue alike.

[Striges]

No part of this chapter was not fantastic. Action and dialogue alike.

 

I'm so glad you liked it. I was concerened it would be a bit over the top on both fronts, and Fixer 43 almost lost a battle with the editor. I'm very happy to get your feedback, especailly on that particular dialog sequence.

 

Thank you.

[Syart]

I'm still loving every bit of this Poor 43, I really felt for him but it didn't stop me giggling.

 

And no need to thank me for linking - I should thank you for coming up with great ideas which I can then blatantly steal

Edited July 25, 2013 by Syart