Cleaner One: Saga of a Reluctant Agent

[Striges]

Thank you!

 

There are definite plans for Zhorrid's hand. And more innuendo. I'm glad you're enjoying the story.

[Striges]

Wrinkles

 

 

Content warning for gore.

 

 

 

The arrogance was back in her voice. She advanced on Cleaner, saber to the side, her left hand half-clawed as though holding something.

 

"Behind!" Kaliyo exclaimed. She pivoted, drew, and fired all in one smooth motion. Cleaner barely saw the object before she shot it down. His blaster was in his hand before he knew he'd drawn. He pointed it at the Sith out of instinct more than thought. Her grin grew wider. Daring him to fire.

 

Her claw threw something else. A fragment of long lost Taris machinery ripped from the ground. He shot this one a fraction before Kaliyo did. Genuine Tarisian dirt pelted him. Some part of his brain calculated how many credits worth of relics he just destroyed.

 

The Sith uprooted more and tossed them at Kaliyo. She changed her bolt pattern to wide. A shapeless mound turned to slag. Another rained down as droplets of molten glass. They hissed and bubbled where they spattered on her fibroplast armor. The odor caught in his nose.

 

The Sith's attacks came faster. He hit a tangle of wires and polysilicate and it shattered. Rusty shrapnel and translucent shards filled the air. He shielded his eyes with an arm and hissed as the sharper pieces stabbed through his duramesh. More slashed his exposed lekku. Ripped hot-edged wounds. Blood welled, dripped.

 

The Sith cackled with delight. She gestured with both arms now, her saber a foreman's pointer. A hunk of metal that might have once been part of a load lifter struck Kaliyo's back. She stumbled with a grunt. Cleaner caught her elbow before she went down. "Is she special to you?" the Sith taunted, "How touching. I'll make certain you see her suffer before I kill her."

 

"Spulta!" Kaliyo cursed, "try it!" She abandoned defensive fire in favor of a full-on assault on the Sith. Kaliyo shot once, twice. The Sith's saber cut across. Blocked. Deflected. The first bolt fried grass and fused soil. The second flew back at Kaliyo. A blast of superheated plasma on wide choke wrapped around her knee. The armor plates melted and ran. Kaliyo shrieked. The gas dissipated and the molten fibroplast solidified, locking her leg in position. "Spulta," she hissed again through clenched teeth, followed by a string of Rodese invective raw enough Cleaner left it off the language recording.

 

A pleased smile crossed the Sith's lips and she stalked forward. Cleaner picked off another inbound hunk of garbage. Purple and yellow afterimages filled his vision. Kaliyo shifted her grip on her blaster. Her breath came quick and shallow. He could leave her. Leave her and run.

 

Pointless. Not even a distraction. The Sith wanted him.

 

The Sith paused for a bare fraction of a second. Spun left. Deflected a narrow green bolt with her humming blade. It hit the ground at Cleaner's feet.

 

Sniper.

 

Experience so ingrained it operated as instinct took over. He sidestepped out of his previous position and sent two blue bolts up after the green one. Didn't aim, didn't care, just hoped to spoil the sniper's sight. Dove for cover behind more scrap. Shot twice more toward the sniper's hide. Kaliyo just toppled over on her awkward leg and rolled out of the way. Dragged herself behind one of the speeders and hoped for the best.

 

The Sith screamed in fury. Her face glowed red in the light from her saber.

 

A rakghoul leaped out of the shadows and onto her shoulders. Its weight and momentum bore her to the ground and it snapped her neck with its thick hands. Sharp claws tore out the big vein for good measure. Punched like old-fashioned daggers through armor, between ribs, into lungs, kidneys. The corpse twitched then lay still. Blood flooded the ground, black in the starlight.

 

It did not feed.

 

Its eyeless face looked up from its kill. Looked at Cleaner. At Kaliyo. He became keenly aware of his bloody wounds. The smell of Kaliyo's scorched skin and melted armor. Her breathing, growing shallow and irregular. He didn't have a clear shot through the junk. Moving out of cover exposed him to both the rakghoul and the sniper. If he ran it would chase. Rakghouls ran fast.

 

It turned back to Cleaner. Stood upright. Glanced up in the direction the mysterious green bolt came from. Then spoke. "I daresay it's just as well I cut my experiment short, Cleaner," it said.

 

Despite the weird throaty distortion, Cleaner knew the voice, "Doc?" he asked. He peeked through a gap in the garbage. Couldn't be. Could it?

 

The rakghoul straightened further. Its bloody arms held away from its body. It arched its back. Claws retracted, lightened, became nails. Fingernails. Thick bunching muscles withered beneath fading, sagging skin. Teeth became blunt before lips covered them. Greying hair replaced the spines on its head. No. Not its. His. Most definitely his. Familiar brown eyes appeared last, worming their way out of the flesh beneath his growing eyebrows, which had not been there moments before. In the rakghoul's place stood an elderly male human, naked as the day he was born, gore up to his elbows and dripping from his fingers.

 

"Lokin?" Cleaner asked. Dumb question. Couldn't shoot him. Had to take his finger off the trigger as soon as he recognized who it was. No doubt why Lokin made sure to address him. Bastard. “What the everloving f*ck, Doc?"

 

Lokin approached Cleaner’s position, "A successful test," he said.

 

"Pwusko ittu stay right there," Cleaner demanded, "Rakghoul transformation is one-way.”

 

Lokin sighed as though dealing with a particularly dim helper, "We can discuss my condition later. Rest assured that it is not contagious. Now, your paramour is going into shock-"

 

''Kark you, Doc," Cleaner objected. Sounded dirty, somehow, coming from him.

 

Lokin flicked his right hand in irritation, sending a spray of blood pattering to the ground, "Even if I didn't know you well, rakghouls possess an exquisite sense of smell. Another reason to move quickly, if the nearby Republic forces and the mystery rifleman weren't enough."

 

He was right. Cleaner hated it when Lokin was right. He scowled at the doctor. For once, words failed him. "Put on some pants or something," he snarled, rocking to his feet, the best he could come up with.

 

Lokin chuckled low in his throat, ''Well, I'd say that if this is indicative of how you plan to kill Darth Jadus, you need all the help you can get," he said, nonplussed at his nudity.

 

Cleaner knelt at Kaliyo's side. Her breathing was shallow and ragged. The triage alert on her armor strobed yellow. He couldn’t see what happened to her underneath the fused armor, but it wasn’t good. "He's a piece of work," she gasped, "Tell me we dozed off in the armory afterwards and this is a bad dream."

 

He pulled out a combat medpak, exposed the injector tips, and pressed them into the medi-port inside her elbow joint. Big load of kolto, analgesic to take the edge off, and a 6-hour stim on the back end. Wouldn’t do much for a yellow triage beyond help her not care for a while. She groaned when he pulled her to her feet, "We're still in the armory," he said. "you're having a bad dream."

 

"Liar," she gasped.

 

 

_______________________________________

 

 

damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn damn

 

Hunter leaned against the crumbling wall, his blaster rifle at his side. The smell of charred vegetation and scorched metal filled his observation station. Cleaner's blasts were nowhere near accurate enough to hit him. Or close enough--most blasters lost cohesion past fifty meters. At this range the bolt was far too diffuse. He might get singed but not much more.

 

Hunter turned his eyes to the ragged gap he shot through. A fresh blaster burn decorated the edge four meters up. Another one darkened the elderly ceiling. Lichen frizzled by Cleaner's blue plasma drifted and swayed in the air. Close enough. Too close, if he were honest.

 

With adrenaline keeping his heart in high gear, honesty felt best for a change. He should have stuck to the brief. The brief said avoid contact. The brief said this Cleaner was violent. The brief made the old 'shoot first and ask questions later' joke about his methods. Except it wasn't a joke. Even Kothe warned him off.

 

Now he probably blew any future contact attempt. And he had to report it to the Cabal. They'll love that. What was he supposed to do, let the Sith kill him? They’d say yes. Weaken the Empire's position without showing the Cabal’s hand. Picture perfect.

 

Was he thinking of the Cabal, or his career?

 

Maybe he could spin it into a positive. Hunter picked up the electro binoculars and dared a look at the scene.

 

The Sith lay face down on the ground in a lagoon of blood. Cleaner stood astride an idling speeder well away from the corpse. An old man in a medic's jacket zipped off on another speeder before he focused on it and Cleaner followed. He tried tracking the leader but it vanished into the night. It might have been carrying two. Kaliyo took a bad hit and she wasn't with Cleaner. Hunter scanned the area. No Kaliyo.

 

He focused again on the Sith. One of the smaller rakghouls approached and pulled at her boot. It barely dislodged it before more converged on the body, no doubt attracted by the commotion and the smell of fresh blood. He put the binoculars away. Any information he might learn from examining the corpse would be gone before he got there.

 

Hunter leaned back against the crumbling wall again. Who the hell was the third? Where had he come from? What did he miss? He took cover for no more than a minute or two, surely.

 

What was going on?

 

Working for the Cabal was like playing pazaak with a marked deck. He knew everyone's hand before they did. With all the information at his fingertips, he took it for granted. Being in the dark was an unfamiliar feeling.

 

Maybe he'd look up Chance after all. Cleaner was out of reach for the moment. As was the Cabal.

 

He smiled without realizing it. For the moment.

[Striges]

Taris Wrapup

 

The infirmary door hissed shut behind Doctor Lokin, "Your lovely friend is recovering well," he said, ''Her leg suffered no permanent damage. Though knowing you you're less interested in her legs than what's between them."

 

"Kark you, Doc, " Cleaner retaliated.

 

"And she shares your exquisite command of language," he continued.

 

Great. The last thing he needed was Lokin needling him about his habits. "She awake?" Cleaner asked.

 

"Awake, yes. Lucid? Not very," Lokin said. "I gave her general rather than local anesthetics so she's more than a bit groggy. I think she's rather pleased with the situation. In the interim I expect you have some questions. Shall we?" he asked, indicating the cramped office.

 

Cleaner's credentials kicked the base doctor out, as well as all the mobile cases. The remainder either burbled in their Kolto tanks or slept even deeper with additional sedatives. Green and white kolto bandages marked Cleaner's own injuries. He looked like he was either growing mold or oxidising. Always a popular fashion statement. He followed Lokin into the room and dropped a radio bomb anyway, followed by a white noise generator. The door closed with a soft click. "I'm rethinking our agreement. What the absolute kark did I just see?"

 

Doctor Lokin took a deep breath, "Precisely what you believe you saw. I find the rakghoul virus fascinating. A disease that rewrites an organism's genetic code to the point where it is a new species entirely? That can reproduce both through the original vector conversion method and sexually with its own kind? Furthermore, each host retains their individuality. The only other similar examples either create a group-mind consciousness or a puppet under control of a dominant intelligence-"

 

"Sure, great. Rakghouls are your favorite monster," Cleaner interrupted. He leaned against a data station, "Why the hell would you want to be one?"

 

Loken chuckled, "I don't want to be a rakghoul, not in the way you imply. Not a permanent transformation. My goal was to perfect a customized strain of the rakghoul virus. Keyed to my own genetic structure, it currently allows allows free reversion between human and rakghoul forms while retaining my own intellect and motivations. There are advantages. Consider how effective a squad of special ops soldiers would become. Imagine an unarmed operative who could enter an enemy facility...and grow teeth."

 

Cleaner suppressed a shudder in all but the tips of his lekku, "You weren't meeting another operative. Cipher Nine didn't have any research for you. I bet there's no Jedi, either. This whole play was to test your ‘get out of jail free’ card, wasn't it? Kark all, doc, why don't you just hide a shiv up your @ss or swallow a dataspike like normal people?"

 

"Both detectable," Lokin countered.

 

''Yeah I noticed the medscan didn't flag you as infected," Cleaner said, "What's up with that?"

 

"The common strains of the rakghoul virus activate immediately, hence the physical changes seen at the onset of infection," Lokin explained, returning to lecture mode, "but any virus that does not kill its host can go dormant. Hiding, as it were, inside its cells. Indistinguishable from the host DNA without invasive testing. I exploited that property to great effect. Of course, the present Keeper would never agree with my choice of 'personal projects.'"

 

"Or the last one, either," Cleaner complained, "He never would have sent me after you if he knew."

 

Lokin shrugged, "Perhaps ."

 

Cleaner tapped a finger on the data station. Silence stretched out. Cleaner broke it, "I am not playing lab rat for you. Not again."

 

"I didn't ask," Lokin said.

 

"Didn't ask last time," Cleaner said, his voice full of empty menace. Harsh language was about all the safeguards permitted. Doctor Lokin knew it, too.

 

''I am my own best test subject for the time being," Lokin said, "I gain nothing from trying the formula on you or your partner, even if my research had progressed to other species."

 

"I don’t trust you," Cleaner said. there it was. Out in the open.

 

''Nor should you," Lokin agreed, "but consider. I could have let the Sith kill you. I could have shut you down afterward, revealing your programming to your charming companion, but I chose not to. I could have killed her in the field rather than merely sedating her, but I did not. Frankly, Shen, now that you're here, I'm quite curious about this old experiment. I never really lost interest in the interaction of consciousness and chemistry. One might say my current work is part of a lifelong fascination -"

 

"Great, there's a whole industry for that," Cleaner interrupted Lokin's monologue again, "You fit right in."

 

Doctor Lokin smiled, "I do believe I'll take that as a compliment, knowing how familiar you are with the trade. Speaking of which, have you considered who might have been behind the rifle?"

 

That particular question set its hook in his consciousness earlier and kept tugging on it. Problem was, he couldn’t think of anyone who wanted to kill him. Correction: anyone who wanted to kill him who was in a position to actually try. Loads of beings more than happy to see him dead, not many willing to incur the wrath of the Empire to do it. If they even knew who he was. Sith, maybe, but his gut said they'd be in his face, not a kilometer off. "Dunno," he admitted at last, "Can't imagine anyone gunning for me that I don’t know about. None of 'em crazy enough to put out a contract on me or anyone dumb enough to take it."

 

Doctor Lokin's enigmatic smile remained, "Shen, no assassin willing to go after you would take a shot and miss. The bolt was intended for the Sith. Darth Gravus' apprentice, Thana Vesh. At an all-too-convenient moment for you. The better question is: who wants you alive?"

 

"Besides you and the Minister?" he quipped.

 

"Well, that's debatable, but in principle yes," Lokin replied.

 

Lokin had a point. Unfortunately. Any explanation suggested major security leaks or that some unknown party was observing him. Or both. None of which helped his paranoia. Anyone who did want him alive wasn't planning on asking him out for a fun evening, either. "Dunno," he repeated. "Karking short list." He dug out a cigarette but did not light it.

 

"Indeed," Lokin agreed. The air circulation thrummed in the background. "You're wrong on another count as well," he said after a moment.

 

Cleaner fiddled with the cigarette. Stuffed it between his lips. "Enlighten me," he mumbled around it.

 

"I was indeed collaborating with Cipher Nine. She was looking into Doctor Godera's records for something called the Ultrawave Transmitter. Suspicious, yes?" Lokin said.

 

"Like I give a damn," Cleaner said. His thumb rubbed the igniter switch. Wanted very much to light up.

 

"Funny thing. About the Ultrawave Transmitter. You know that Nasan Godera was notorious about hiding secrets in his devices? Encrypted codes, maps to lost projects? Just something I heard," Lokin said.

 

Dammit. Dammit dammit dammit. It was suspicious and he was supposed to report suspicious activity. Which he had to, now that Lokin made a point of drawing it to his attention. It felt far too close to real loyalty than he liked. Even if it wasn't. Cleaner yanked the cigarette out of his mouth, "I hate you, you know that?" he said.

 

"I do," Lokin replied.

 

Cleaner glared at Lokin. Then spun on his heel and stormed out of the office. Be a shame if he had to retire Cipher Nine.

 

Maybe the Minister would let him have her ship.

 

Bah. Not likely.

 

 

 

 

 

Hunter found Chance in the ruins beneath the research hospital. Something mauled him, something else patched him up. Someone, more correctly. He had kolto dressings in places he couldn't reach, not to mention the puddle of blood he left behind the barricade half a floor back. The same someone moved him to this hiding spot and sedated him.

 

Cipher Nine. Aka: Legate. Kothe and his silly sabacc codenames.

 

A blaster bolt took care of him. He let the rakghouls clean up the rest. Kothe didn't need to trust a supposed defector all that much.

 

Hunter warned him the agent was dangerous. Too much for Chance to handle. Cipher Nine would eat him, hadn't he said so?

 

Such a burden being right all the time.

[frauzet]

I already said so on tumblr. I love the interaction between Cleaner and Lokin. Who of them is more cunning?

[Striges]

I already said so on tumblr. I love the interaction between Cleaner and Lokin. Who of them is more cunning?

 

Thank you! You will have to stay tuned to find out

 

A Few Loose Ends

 

 

The Minister's image materialized in Cleaner’s big shipboard holoprojector. The Minister rubbed at one eye before forcing himself to quit. His wayward hand dropped back to his side. He was also out of uniform, something Cleaner hadn't seen in a long time. According to the chrono it was late evening in Kaas City, so maybe he was having dinner or at a show. He had to unplug sometime. Cleaner's calls always came in high-priority, so he had to answer regardless. "You have a report?" the Minister asked.

 

"Yeah. I got Lokin," Cleaner said.

 

"And?"

 

The Minister knew him too well. He wouldn't make contact for something so routine. "Complications." There's an understatement. And nothing he could discuss without more privacy and security. "I gotta hit Zhorrid's files so I'll be on Dromund Kaas in a few days."

 

"I see," the Minister said.

 

Cleaner swallowed once, "I can't give you a time," he said. Because he wasn't on public transport this time. And he had to go to Zhorrid first. No avoiding it. The file search shouldn't take long--he duped her databases months ago--but other... stuff might. Would. No avoiding that, either.

 

"Understood," the Minister said.

 

The Minister was awfully non-committal. Complain, at least, for disrupting his schedule. Maybe it wasn't the Minister at all. It was a projection, or one of those holographic disguises. Cleaner clenched one fist, driving his nails into his palm. The sudden pain derailed his runaway paranoia. He just wasn't used to setting his own appointments. That was all. The Minister probably wanted to get back to whatever it was he was doing. Besides, he called the Minister's private frequency. If it was compromised he might as well jump out the airlock.

 

The thought alone made his stomach churn. His traitor brain wasn't quite sure if he was serious. Damn it. He half wished the Minister would use the keyword and prove his identity beyond a doubt.

 

He squeezed his nails into his palm again. Karking sniper had him jumping at shadows. "Cleaner out," he concluded. The terminal went to static for a moment before the channel closed.

 

"Reporting back to Daddy?" Kaliyo quipped.

 

Cleaner turned. She leaned against a bulkhead aft. A green kolto dressing still swaddled her left leg, "Aren't you supposed to have a repulsor for that if you're walking?" he asked.

 

"Yeah," she said. She limped to the acceleration couch and flopped down on it. "I see why you like your doc. He's not stingy with the meds, is he?''

 

She didn't know the half of it. "No, he's not," Cleaner said.

 

Kaliyo leaned back and relaxed, stretching her arms over the rear of the couch and propping the injured leg up on the weathered dejarik table, "That's the kind of doctor to have."

 

Until he cut her off, that is. Cleaner was about to inform her of that fact when the incoming transmission alert chimed. Sith-coded clearance stamp. Not quite high enough clearance to force the connection; he had to acknowledge it. Maybe someone figured out who ate all the rolls. Cleaner frowned and allowed the message through. He didn't have much choice.

 

The figure of an elderly human male resolved in the display. A scattering of cybernetics marked the right side of his face. In the blue light of the hologram, Cleaner wasn't sure if his skin tone was really that light or if it was an artifact of the medium. The venous tracing was likewise suspect. And both as likely to be real. No wonder so many Sith wore masks. It kept the rabble from guessing who might kill them quicker.

 

"Greetings, Hand of Zhorrid," the Sith said. Cleaner tried not to wince. If Kaliyo forgot the earlier instance she'd remember this one. "I did not have the opportunity to meet you while you were still on Taris. Truly a shame. I am Darth Gravus, head of military operations here."

 

Poodoo. "I was here on Intelligence business, Darth Gravus," Cleaner replied with a slight bow. Definitely needed a Sith scorecard. "I didn't want to trouble you." Making slights look like polite deference were Cleaner's specialty.

 

"Intelligence. Of course. I understand." Darth Gravus said. Meaning he spotted the slight anyway but declined overt action. Bad sign. "Actually, I was curious whether you'd encountered my apprentice, Thana Vesh. No one's seen her since the assault on the Republic forces began five days ago and she’s yet to report in."

 

Cleaner's heart skipped a beat. He knew. He had to know. Hell, this Gravus probably sent her to collect his head. Kark all, he didn't need a scorecard, he needed a 3D interactive holodisplay. So, lie or truth? “Dunno. Got an image?” Cleaner stalled. A small holo of Darth Gravus’ apprentice appeared in the lower part of the main image. Cleaner nodded in recognition, “Rakghouls,” he said, as though that explained everything, “a search team would be lucky to find a belt fastener.” This was technically true.

 

“I see,” Darth Gravus replied, “You chose not to report this?”

 

“Didn’t know who it was at the time,” Cleaner said. Also true. Really wanted a cigarette right now.

 

“Ah. Well, with that resolved I suppose I needn’t trouble you further,” the Sith said, “Darth Gravus out.”

 

His image collapsed and vanished in the holodisplay’s emitters. Cleaner heaved a sigh of relief.

 

Before he could dig out a cigarette Doctor Lokin spoke from behind him, “I expect the issue is not as resolved as you might like,” he said.

 

“Nothing ever is,” Cleaner grumbled.

[Striges]

Tryst, Trust, Consummation

 

Even with editing, I consider this episode NSFW. A more explicit version is available here.

 

 

 

 

Darth Zhorrid herself met him at the landing pad on her estate. A waterproof hooded robe shrouded her figure. Rain sluiced off it in silver rivers. "My Hand," she said, extending her arms. A flash of lightning reflected off her chromed nails.

 

Cleaner knelt and took her hands in his. He spent most of the trip back reviewing Zhorrid's favorite operas, picking the right parts to stitch together for her. Damn rain made this bit uncomfortable. “My Lady,” he said, “I trust you are doing well?” he asked. On the pad, even in the rain, there was an outside chance they might be overheard. So he made no mention of her injuries or their severity. Zhorrid knew what he asked.

 

"Rise," she commanded, tugging lightly but not really helping, "I am well. Very well. Come, we have much to discuss."

 

He rose and followed her into the estate proper. Discuss, nice. Safe euphemisms for potential ears. He knew his part here. He turned this corner with Zhorrid weeks ago; today just sealed the deal. Heavy doors hissed shut behind him with awful finality. Inside, two of Zhorrid's servants appeared. They took Cleaner's soggy jacket and divested Darth Zhorrid of her wrap, whisking both away offstage. They were alone in the grand foyer.

 

Cleaner's breath caught in his throat. Zhorrid chose an impressive ensemble for the occasion. A gown of lace, its shade shifting between a soft smoke grey and pale blue depending on the angle of the light. The fabric embraced her curves and flared wide at her feet. Opaque patterns in strategic locations covered her most intimate parts, the fine mesh between them near invisible against her porcelain skin. No seams beyond the wide throat barely clinging to her shoulders.

 

She was bare underneath.

 

On Nar Shaddaa similar creations were cheap and tacky, meant for peekaboo titillation. Not here. On Zhorrid it was smoky elegance and sexy as hell. Anticipation fluttered with electric wings. Not his, though, or at least not all his. A rough arousal, like being a kid again, discovering his dick was good for more than pissing through and lekku were more than convenient handles. When all those sensations were new and untried and he wanted to try them all. Pure, primal lust. Zhorrid smoldered with it.

 

Zhorrid never tried manipulating him with the Force before--to his knowledge anyway--but she sure as hell was now. She pushed carnal thoughts at him and drank in his response. Wasn't even trying to hide it. She wanted him to know. Know she aroused him. Know she felt his arousal. Know it excited her in some kind of weird Sith mental foreplay.

 

An answering warmth filled his lower belly. He wasn't going to have trouble performing for her; something that concerned him in the shuttle here. As the thought occurred he felt excitement enter the mix of emotions Zhorrid broadcast.

 

He should say something. "You look lovely, my Lady." If he touched her, would he feel her skin more or the lace? Which would be more silky? Should he touch her without invitation?

 

She made the decision for him, taking a step forward and running her fingers along his forearms. "I had it made for you,'' she said, "do you like it?" Fingertips crept up. Found where his collarbone met his shoulder.

 

He echoed the gesture. Felt unbelievably soft fabric and her skin hot beneath. If the assault left scars the dress hid them. He twisted a lock of her hair in his fingers and wondered how soon before he found out. "It's beautiful,'' he said, "but not so much as you."

 

Zhorrid tittered. Her silver nails ran along the line of his jaw and left tingling electrical traces in their wake, “You flatter me,” she said.

 

Would her lips buzz the same way? Cleaner took a shuddering breath. These were not all his thoughts. He knew what he was here for but this was not how he planned the encounter. Too fast. Too fast by far. He played Sina. Sina to her Graff. He had to let her seduce him. To resist. Let her chase. “Not at all,” he said.

 

In answer, she pressed her lips to his. They did indeed buzz. Her fingers stroked his ear and one lekku, leaving more tingling tracks. Her perfume filled his nose. Glitterstim and night-blooming flowers, velvet curtains in a darkened study, thunder from a distant storm.

 

Real thunder boomed beyond the door and real rain pelted it like blaster fire, breaking the spell. Zhorrid smelled like danger and live wires, her caress a cutting torch. Cleaner disengaged, backed a step. Every instinct screamed run. Almost every instinct. But he wasn’t a kid anymore. He knew better than to get so distracted.

 

Zhorrid pouted, "You're afraid of me," she said.

 

"Yes," he admitted. Abso-f*cking-lutely.

 

"After so long?" she asked.

 

"Yes."

 

Zhorrid closed the gap. Teasing fingers stroked his lekku again. Tickled his chest through his shirt. "Yet you desire me," she said.

 

She radiated heat and sex and stood close enough to him to know the truth even if he denied it. "Yes," he said. Her lips brushed his, pursued even as he tensed. Zhorrid reached up between his lekku to draw sigils on the back of his head. The other arm wrapped around his lower back. She was smoke and embers, the popping of spice crystals in a hookah bowl. The promise of pleasure but at a price. Cleaner shivered in her embrace.

 

Busy hands caressed sensitive skin. "My Hand, my lovely Shen. Of course you fear me. You know me so well. I should not be surprised," she said. She squeezed and stroked the soft flesh of his lekku. "I adore the taste of your fear. But not today. No fear today," she said, "Today I want something else." Her crimson lips sought his, found them, and this time he did not draw back.

 

Her soft body folded against his. He inhaled a breath of sensual perfume and animal desire. The back of his brain screeched at him these were not his thoughts. That he must be cautious. Sith were dangerous. Hard to pay attention while Zhorrid fondled the actual back part of his brain.

 

Their lips parted with a soft wet sound. He wanted more. Was loathe to let her go. She stepped out of his embrace with a giggle. Let his lekku slide through her fingers until they returned, lonely, to his back. "I've been busy while you were away. Let me show you what I've done," Zhorrid said. She spun with a flourish and set off through the cavernous entry hall and led the way through the massive estate.

 

Cleaner followed. Tried very hard to look at something other than her *ss in her filmy dress while she walked. Didn't succeed. A decorative lace triangle accentuated her tailbone and the design framed each lovely cheek. Focus, dammit. With the other brain. This wasn't playtime, it was an op. A job.

 

At last they reached a pair of tall doors. The configuration looked familiar but not the details. Nervousness reared its head. He hadn’t paid nearly enough attention to their path. Familiar as he was with the estate, he wasn’t quite sure which room this was. Zhorrid clapped her hands and the doors opened with a low moan. A pair of her servants scurried out of the way. "I had much time to think during my recovery. You were right. So very right. Everything my father did, he did to humiliate me. Even this room." She spun, arms open wide, and Cleaner realized where they were. The theater room, where once Zhorrid sang for him. As if reading his thoughts, music began in the background. Soft staccato drums introduced an insistent rhythm. Strings entered two measures later, playing a slow, sensual, rocking melody against a backing of languid horns. Zhorrid finished her pirouette, "My father gave me this room so I could never forget the time I wasted learning to sing. I throw that in his face. I will use it instead to memorialize my victories." Her triumphant voice reverberated in the hall.

 

Cleaner evaluated the changes. The sound-masking draperies were gone. Trophies ringed the room in their place. The items once lining the entry now decorated this room. Lord Istret's prized rancor filled the center, its stuffed head brushing the ceiling. A section of Malachor's wall. One of Lord Grathan's cyborgs, a restraining bolt permanently affixed to its cranium and feeding false inputs to its sensors, marched endlessly on a treadmill in a blastproof case. Dim lighting above each display brightened as they approached and faded when they passed by. Their footsteps echoed while a high flute stole the the theme from the strings. The rhythm remained unchanged.

 

“Along with the present trophies, I prepared alcoves for future acquisitions," Zhorrid said, waving an arm at empty niches. Cleaner forced himself to pay attention. Pedestals stood before each one with names already inscribed. No Thana Vesh or Darth Gravus. Yet. “Their emptiness inspires me,” she said.

 

Cleaner committed the names to memory. Have to check against the Dark Council Official Seat Assignments list or probe Zhorrid for information. Probe...his gaze drifted back to the gentle curve of her spine, the swell of her hips, the place where her buttocks met the top of her thighs and the way they jiggled- just a bit- with every step.

 

He wrenched his eyes left, to a trophy from the assault on Darth Hadra's estate. A shrub, this one, ripped from the ground roots and all and entombed in a stasis field. Fat lot of good that did. He and Kaliyo personally evaluated Hadra's extensive p*rn*graphy collection after the op. Cleaner kept a few trophies of his own from that one. Not the best distraction at the moment.

 

His eyes returned to Zhorrid and caught her observing him over her shoulder. She fluttered her eyes and her lips tweaked into an inviting bow. Blew a kiss. He felt it land, not on his mouth or cheek but below the belt. The heated touch of a phantom lover. Cleaner sucked in a breath between clenched teeth. Zhorrid tittered, turned, and went on, her walk more distracting than any cantina dancer. Animal lust rippled in her wake.

 

A deeper horn introduced a new theme, supplanting the first entirely. The drums kept their steady beat.

 

Zhorrid narrated their way through the displays. She paused upon reaching what used to be the stage, "Here, though, is the crowning glory. Or will be, when you bring it to me." Zhorrid danced up the handful of broad steps that replaced the former stage's high edge. The lights came up as she reached the top. Diaphanous lace shimmered and her skin glowed an almost healthy shade beneath it. A half-finished mural rose to the ceiling behind her. It was in the same style as the one in her Sith Sanctum office. All hard edges and sharp corners. A figure on high, likely Zhorrid, called dark bolts of lightning from a jagged sky. The rest was still sketchwork.

 

She pirouetted among the tawny drop cloths mounded at her feet, "Here, overlooking it all, Darth Jadus. I thought perhaps in carbonite but no. Stuffed. Hollowed out. Mounted in his Dark Council robes and mask. Lord of nothing. Empty of all. Can you see it, my love? See it like I do?" She held her arms out to him, an open invitation.

 

Cleaner ascended the stair, took her hands in his, and knelt at her feet. Yuna poy-poy, what a view. "I can see it, my Lady." He could see it, all right. He kept his gaze fixed on her eyes. Safer. Not her navel. Not the delicate lacy detail floating below it, hiding where her legs came together.

 

Zhorrid tipped her head and her grip tightened. Another gust of desire blew through him. The music changed again. Flutes broke back in with the first theme. The horns gave up and joined the percussion section still tapping out their unchanging rhythm. "I know you do. We are so alike, you and I. You know my mind better than I do at times."

 

Cleaner expected her to raise him up, but she didn't. Her fingers walked up his arms while she stepped into his embrace. His hands caressed her hips on their way to the lovely *ss he admired since he arrived. He made himself stroke her skin, not grab great handfuls. Zhorrid had to lead. His role was to follow. He exhaled a breath of hot air across her stomach. A whiff of her perfume blew back at him. Ghostly white night blooming flowers and madness.

 

Zhorrid cooed at him. Explored his lekku from her new vantage. She traced his markings with electric fingertips. "You pledged yourself to me. Do you remember?"

 

Her attention to his lekku was now well past pleasurable and more at frustrating. Pressure built low in his belly, almost irresistible. "I remember, my Lady."

 

"You swore you'd find Darth Jadus for me," she said. She edged forward, hands moving to his shoulders, "and deliver my vengeance."

 

"I remember, my Lady," Cleaner repeated. Emperor's blood, he could kiss that strategically-placed lace if he wanted to. And he did want to. Wanted to do more than just kiss.

 

"You swore it on your heart and soul," Zhorrid said. Her tantalizing fingers found their way to his collar. Teased open the fastener and snuck inside. She tugged until his shirt hung open then turned her attention to his exposed chest. She found the edges of the burn she left on their last encounter and caressed it with the same hand. Electric tingles on his bare skin. Sweet excitement with the spice of remembered pain.

 

The drums and their allies kept up their steady beat while other instruments fought over the melody. Cleaner thought he should know the piece but he couldn’t place it. "I did," he said, low in his throat where the rasp became a growl. He followed her spine with one finger. Time for Sina's lines. "I am yours to command, my Lady. Heart and soul and body. What would you have of me?"

 

She shivered in his grasp. Silver nails tickled the hollow at the base of his throat. Traced his muscles and explored his scars as she melted to the floor before him. His hands followed her curves while she sank. Her lips cruised over his nose and landed on his mouth. Pressed the advantage. Her tongue begged for entry and he let it. Tasted her saliva and the sweet waxiness of her cinnabar lipstick. He probed back, full of a hunger that had nothing to do with food.

 

Zhorrid wrapped her arms around his waist and pulled his shirt free of his trousers, then loosened those as well. Pulled him tight to her. She broke off her greedy kiss with a wet smack, "You know what I would have of you," she exhaled across his cheek.

 

Cleaner growled low in his throat. He held tight to the nape of her neck and sought her ear. Licked the wide flat space inside. Closed teeth on the delicate cartilage rim. Her hair smelled like glitterstim. Unnamed jungle flowers and fermented honey on his tongue.

 

She leaned on him and he yielded, easing back into the fabric nest prepared for them on the former stage. The dropcloths weren’t rough scrap as he thought at first. They settled into decadent golden shimmersilk. She planned the scene. Start to finish. As carefully as he had.

 

Some remnant of intelligence begged to stop. To leave, to go. Go away. Far away.

 

There wasn't away, though, was there? Only here. Only ever here and now.

 

Shen buried himself in the pale woman who inherited him. Who kept him only so long as he pleased her. He knew how to please her. Lust was easy. Lust was easy and base and always in reach. Zhorrid had no better idea what love was than he did.

 

Thunder rumbled in the distance. Drums boomed, asserting their dominance over the other instruments. The recorded concerto reached its dramatic conclusion. After a measure of silence the opening beat began again.

 

The rhythm of their congress echoed in the room's perfect acoustics.

Edited July 21, 2016 by Striges

[Lunafox]

Wow, looks like Shen has his hands full. Seems he enjoys living dangerously lol. I really enjoyed this, wooo! *fans self* I'll be checking out the tumblr version when you have it posted. Awesome stuff!

[MishaCantu]

Whew. Good God y'all. Well this is another one I will have to go back and read from the beginning. I've been trying to catch up on so many of the stories and this is definitely on the list. Will be checking out the Tumblr version also. I have never been a big fan of Twi'leks but I might have to find out what makes this guy tick.

[Striges]

The link in the above post (or what would have been the link, if I could have linked it) is now active. Here it is again if you'd prefer not to scroll.

 

Thanks so much for the comments and interest! Cleaner on Tumblr benefited from editing, especially the earlier bits and most especially the travel to Tatooine. Here is a link to Cleaner One's homepage. Check out the "Chronology" page to read the story in order. I think I'm going to rename that page to "Read The Story In Order" to make it more obvious what it is.

 

Shen definitely likes living dangerously. I was really nervous editing and posting this one so thanks again for the good reception.

[frauzet]

I have never been a big fan of Twi'leks but I might have to find out what makes this guy tick.

 

This sounds familiar. I can only warn you. Cleaner has something addictive. Not sure whether it's him or Striges way with words. Probably both

[Striges]

A Little Spark

 

 

Cleaner squinted out the window of Zhorrid's private transport. Important discovery over the past couple days. Sex provided as good a screen for his thoughts as fear. Maybe better. Zhorrid liked it. A lot. Hell of a lot for now. Had immediate, unconcealable consequences and while that was probably a bad thing long-term in the short term it was a blast and a half.

 

Euphoria the nano colony couldn't shut down. A tempting drug indeed. More mind-blowing than crystals peddled in Nar Shaddaa’s shadiest corners and twice as addictive to boot. Incredible fun. Right up until she killed him. Or worse. With Zhorrid there was a lot of potential worse.

 

Yeah. Definitely a Bad Thing.

 

He leaned back on the transport’s cushioned seat. He ought to check up on Kaliyo and Lokin, but he didn't want to know what either of them were up to. Kaas City wasn't on fire or swarming with rakghouls, not that he saw anyway. Good enough. The diversion at Zhorrid's estate caused no permanent damage. He shifted on the seat with a grimace. Grunted as he rearranged himself. No, no permanent damage. Temporary discomfort was another story.

 

Back to work. Today's priorities:

 

Get his damn graphic of interlocking Sith loyalties, rivalries, and favors-owed.

 

"I declared Kaggath on him, love. Do you know what that means?" Zhorrid played with the end of his left lekku as though it were a hookah pipe.

 

His fingers drew circles her thigh. He knew already, but Kaggath probably had more rules than the ones he read about. He kissed the inside of her knee, "Tell me," he said.

 

Get pro help wading through the new information from Zhorrid's files. He knew who he wanted to tap for the position, the trick was persuading the MInister.

 

Darth Zhorrid glowered, "I've tried. His files are sealed. It's useless."

 

"Let me try," Cleaner said. He didn't dare touch them without permission. Jadus' old alarms went straight to Zhorrid and she was quite protective of her father's secrets. What she hoped were her father's secrets, “I know a few tricks.”

 

A wave of passion rolled off her at his turn of phrase and she dragged a chrome-colored nail down the center of his chest. "You do at that," she purred.

 

Talk to the Minister about other things.

 

Storms brewed in Zhorrid's eyes, "Intelligence is mine. My resource. My power base. I will have them focus on Jadus. Nothing else. That is Kaggath."

 

"Of course, mesh'la-mesh'la," Cleaner replied, "But the Empire has more enemies than just Jadus. Intelligence watches them all. What good is winning the Kaggath if it ruins the Empire?"

 

The storm paused at the point of breaking. "You care little for the Empire, I think," she said.

 

"I'd like their currency to stay good long enough for me to spend it," Cleaner said.

 

Humor defused her temper and the storm blew over, "I did not think of it that way," she said.

 

He brushed a wayward lock of hair from her face, “But more than that. If one or more of the other Councilors take advantage of your focus, defeating Jadus will be for nothing. You know what they say on Nar Shaddaa.”

 

Zhorrid revealed perfect white teeth inside her scarred wide smile, “What do they say on Nar Shaddaa?”

 

“Guard the front door and thieves come in through the window.”

 

“They do not say that on Nar Shaddaa,” she said with a mischievous scrunch of her eyebrows.

 

“They should,” Cleaner replied.

 

 

The transport touched down in front of the Sith Sanctum as usual. Cleaner disembarked and headed for the Intelligence wing. It wasn't raining or windy for a change, which qualified as perfect weather in Kaas City. External Security stopped him when he reached the Operations taxi platform. “ID,” one demanded.

 

Yep, he was definitely back in the heart of the Empire. "Cleaner One," he said fishing the scratched datacard out of a pocket. Fearless Leader’s less-than-fearless backup tightened her grip on her weapon. "Run it. I'll wait." Who the hell did they expect coming from the Sith Sanctum who didn't have de facto clearance at least?

 

“Confirmed. Sorry, sir,” Fearless Leader said.

 

Slight note of resentment in his voice. Cleaner patted for a cigarette in his jacket and was half surprised he still had them. Getting direct transport from the spaceport to a Darth’s residence did have some perks. Not that he could actually light up, of course. He strolled into operations.

 

Except the Minister wasn’t Keeper in Operations anymore. He was the Minister of Intelligence, ensconced in the upper reaches of the Citadel. No one seemed to notice his hesitation as he stuffed his ID in the lift slot for clearance, and the slight surprise that it moved when he selected his destination.

 

A functionary in formal military dress met him when the lift doors chimed open. She had rank pips but no other identification. “You will follow me to the office of The Minister of Intelligence,” she said.

 

“How about you just give me directions,” Cleaner suggested. Didn’t really need an escort. Didn’t really want an escort, either.

 

“You will follow me to the Office of The Minister of Intelligence, Agent Cleaner One, Hand of Zhorrid,” she said.

 

News of his relationship to Zhorrid was spreading. Well, between Zhorrid’s address and the Minister’s elevation it could hardly stay a secret. And we was getting an escort whether he wanted one or not. “After you,” he said, with an exaggerated bow. If he annoyed his guide, she declined to show it.

 

The Minister of Intelligence-former Keeper, former Cipher, former just Agent-sat behind his impressive desk, fingers steepled. "I read your report. What did you want to keep out of official records that you could not address in your last message?" he announced.

 

It was the real Minister after all. A single strand of muscle in the back of Cleaner’s neck, ratcheted tight since leaving Taris orbit, relaxed. “Yeah. I know I’m encrypted but I didn’t want to chance it. Plus Kaliyo.”

 

The minister let out a tiny snort, “Plus Kaliyo.”

 

Cleaner shifted his weight. Big damn room and still no chairs. “Lokin’s on board but I have concerns.”

 

“Lokin understands--”

 

“Lokin turned himself into a rakghoul,” Cleaner said.

 

“Permanently?”

 

“No, not permanently--” Cleaner blinked, “wait a minute, you knew?”

 

The Minister replaced his hands on the desk, “I was aware of the general nature of his research, yes. Not that it had progressed to human trials.”

 

Probably wouldn't have told him if it had. Lovely. “If he’s not lying it’s only the one human,” Cleaner groused.

 

“Then it should not affect his performance in his new assignment,” the Minister said.

 

End of discussion. Moving on. Cleaner shrugged and approached the dais. Damn Sith aesthetics were getting to him. “He thought he was off the record," he pressed.

 

“Doctor Eckard Lokin acted on his own volition. He was not on an official assignment at the time,” the Minister said, “Like yourself, Lokin requires somewhat different handling than most agents.”

 

“Speaking of other agents,” Cleaner began, “he ratted out one of the Ciphers.”

 

The Minister cocked an eyebrow, “You’re telling me this why?”

 

“Because Lokin made a point of saying she was there and that she didn't have sanction either,” Cleaner said, “probably covering his wrinkly @ss. Or deflecting suspicion. Hell, I don't know. I know I don't like it. There’s poodoo going on and I’m not in the loop.”

 

“Which Cipher?”

 

“Nine,” Cleaner replied. The Minister wasn't involved in day-to-day ops anymore. This might be news to him. On the other hand, Cleaner had enough history with Nine--none of it good--the Minister might ignore the entire incident.

 

The Minister glanced at his desk, making a note on an out of sight datapad, “Anything else?”

 

Cleaner scuffed his boots on the polished floor. He did not like introducing Mystery Assassin. “Darth Gravus' apprentice took a shot at me."

 

"I warned you I could no longer protect you from the Sith," the Minister said, "Darth Zhorrid announced herself as your patron. It's her responsibility now."

 

Cleaner went for his cigarettes before he forced the wayward hand back to his side, "Yeah, well, someone took her out. Not Zhorrid, the other one. On Taris. Timing was too damn convenient. I know it wasn't one of Zhorrid's people looking out for me so I wanna know what else is in play. Who else is in play."

 

That got the Minister's attention, "You're certain it wasn't one of Zhorrid's?" he asked.

 

"Positive," Cleaner said, "I verified. Cipher Nine might have, but I figure she'd rather shoot me instead given the opportunity. Same thing with the SIS. Same thing for everyone, dammit. I'm not the cleanup crew anymore. The last thing I need is to drop Zhorrid's project to salvage the op I just karked up. Who the hell else is in play, Minister? I need to know."

 

"How was it done?" the Minister asked, declining Cleaner's question.

 

Technically, Lokin killed Thana Vesh, but that wasn't the point. "Long-range sniper. Green bolt, not much spread," Cleaner closed his eyes, recalling the scene. "Elevation better than forty-five degrees but less than sixty. Came from my left, slightly behind."

 

"What did you find in the hide?" the Minister asked.

 

"I didn't," Cleaner replied, reopening his eyes, "Kaliyo caught reflected plasma and needed a medcenter. I returned fire but I doubt I hit anything. They only shot once so I never saw where it came from. It was too dark and there were too many possibilities. Could have been a kilometer or more away or in the nearest ruin." He shifted his weight. If the Minister reamed him over anything, it would be not investigating when the trail was fresh.

 

But he didn't. The Minister drummed his fingers on the desktop before speaking. "I want a full report on the entire incident. Before you leave planet again. What did you learn during your rather lengthy visit with Darth Zhorrid? I presume she's still pleased with you," he asked.

 

Nice. "She let me in Jadus' files." An eyebrow raise to that. Screw him. "A little anyway. Didn't get much but I was hoping you could give me a watcher." He’d never get one, but if he started at watcher a fixer looked much less ambitious.

 

"Not quite my department anymore," the Minister said.

 

Cleaner rolled his eyes, "Like your boss never made special requests. Besides, New Keeper hates my guts. She won't give me the time of day, let alone a watcher. Probably thinks I'd eat him."

 

"Is she wrong?" the Minister asked.

 

“How about another fixer, then?” Cleaner said, dodging the question and segueing into his real goal, “Jadus hijacked the science bureau project on the Eradicators. I figure they’re his best chance of getting his position back. Zhorrid agrees,” a shiver at the thought, and the memory of soft hands sliding down his lekku.

 

“Does she, now,” the Minister asked, “you must have been quite persuasive.”

 

It was Cleaner’s turn to grind his teeth, “It's what you wanted. What you asked for,” he grumbled. “He's either making more of them or trying to regain control of the existing ones. I'd guess the latter." He took a breath, "The Eradicators are karking complicated. Lokin can interpret the biological crap in his sleep, but I need a weapons expert too. Someone who understands big emplacements and the like. That’s not me. I’m small-arms. Wetwork. So’s Kaliyo. You know that. Carryable, concealable, maybe some little bombs, nothing like the Eradicators."

 

"You have someone in mind," the Minister said. A statement, not a question.

 

Here goes. "Fixer 43. He's smart, knows his stuff, I worked with him before and I like him." Cleaner made a point of maintaining eye contact, "I hate everyone, so that's a plus. Hell, I even put a nicey-nice thing in his file. He and Lokin will be science buddies. He’ll have a blast."

 

The Minister's fingers pressed harder together. Cleaner half expected to catch fire under his intense laser glare. "What do you really want with him?" the Minister asked.

 

Instant improvement of his ship's decor. More with a little luck. Not anything he'd admit to the Minister if he wanted the assignment approved. He replied, "Someone who knows weapons better than I do. He called me ‘sir’ all the time. Without prompting. Like I'm a real agent." When the Minister declined comment Cleaner continued, "I promise I won't try to kill him."

 

A pause. "I will consider it," the Minister said, "anything else?"

 

"Yeah," Cleaner said. The Minister was going to like this request even less. "Zhorrid needs a minder."

 

"That's your job now," the Minister retorted.

 

"I'm your pet thug moonlighting as her confidant. Her advisor. Not a babysitter," Cleaner said, "Look, she owns Intelligence but she doesn't understand it. She really has no idea how it works or how to use it to her advantage. And doesn't much care. All she wants is to win this Kaggath of hers. You could be a hydrospanner. Or a stylus. And like a ’spanner she's going to break you without guidance. Assign a minder to her to act like a major-domo and she'll be a lot less trouble," Cleaner said.

 

"Darth Zhorrid is amenable to this idea?" the Minister asked.

 

"In concept, yeah," Cleaner said. If she sussed out the real purpose she'd char both of them and solve a lot of problems.

 

"Who do you have in mind for this enviable position?" the Minister asked.

 

Cleaner shrugged again, "Dunno. Someone not stupid. Someone who takes direction well and knows how precarious their situation is. Someone without much ambition. Zhorrid will smell it a mile away.”

 

"I see," the Minister said.

 

"Someone with a little spark, someone can read her. Even her out. Or at least not get killed before I’m done with introductions," Cleaner continued, still not quite answering the Minister's question, "Maybe owes you a favor. I can't puppet her all the time. Fill her house with your people and I won't need to. But the first one's crucial."

 

"Explain."

 

"I vouch for the first one. First one vouches for the rest. " Cleaner said, "Kark it up and you lose it all."

 

 

 

 

"A what?" Zhorrid asked.

 

"Major-domo. Hutts have 'em. Someone to take care of all the boring crap so they can eat and gamble and otherwise amuse themselves," Cleaner said.

 

"You think I can't take care of myself,” she said. Her words came out in a tight monotone.

 

Treading on dangerous ground. He continued anyway, "You have the vision, my Lady. The grand plan. You are the playwright, crafting the roles and the lines. Telling the story," he stroked her neck. Felt her relaxing. "Let a director make sure the actors have their costumes and show up on time. Someone to help make your inspiration become reality." No fear. Not fear right now. He ran his fingers over the edges of her ear, lingering over its delicate convolutions. He liked ears. Ears were sexy.

 

"That's not you?" she asked. She wriggled forward and closed the gap between them. Tickled the the scar on his hip.

 

"Not alone. We'll find others to share your vision. Expand beyond the power you inherited," he said.

 

Distant lightning flashed in the bedroom’s high window behind her, making a blue halo of her hair and riming white on her bare shoulder. His eyes blind in the darkness afterward, he felt the hand at his hip following the curve of his thigh muscle. Her toes caressed his calf and came to rest on his ankle. "So I can plot and plan and fornicate with impunity," Zhorrid purred.

 

No fear. He brushed her lips with his fingers, "Whatever you desire."

 

"Mmm, what I desire," she said. She snapped at his fingertips and caught one. Her lips closed. Drew him in. Tongue and teeth toyed with him. "I will consider it," she mumbled.

 

[Striges]

Reunited

 

 

 

Kaliyo met Cleaner at the entrance, “So, did Zhorrid enjoy the pleasures of her hand?” she quipped.

 

Cleaner rolled his eyes, “Cute,” he said. The alien lodgement smelled vaguely of mildew and ozone. At least this time they were only a floor above ground level. If he went through a window he wouldn’t break anything vital on impact. He pushed past her and headed straight for the crappy kitchenette.

 

“She leave me anything?” Kaliyo asked, letting the door groan shut behind her.

 

Kitchen supplies consisted of booze and empty take-away boxes, which was perfectly fine with him right now, “Ooh, you jealous?” Cleaner needled. He dumped a heavy shot of something dark into a dirty tumbler, trusting the alcohol would kill any residual nasties lurking inside.

 

"No," she said. She leaned her back on the counter beside him, "wondering if I need to change the power cells in my toys."

 

"Kaliyo-" Cleaner knocked back the shot. The back of his throat caught fire and he started coughing, even as the rest of the liquid ate its way toward his stomach or evaporated out his nose. His head filled with the scent of petrified resin. A smoky, salty, mineral taste lingered on his tongue. He heard Kaliyo laughing at him. "Pwusko ittu you drinking gear solvent now?" he swore, once he could breathe again. He rotated the bottle to read the label.

 

Kaliyo snickered, "Guy at the bar called it Tuk’ata Blood. All the rage with young Sithy types."

 

He wiped a tear from one eye. The letters were some kind of Sith script; he recognized a handful of characters even if he couldn't read it. The alcohol buzz already faded, "How'd you get it?" he croaked.

 

"Showing some young Sithy types a good time," she said.

 

Poodoo. “What kind of good time?”

 

"Wouldn't you like to know," she sang.

 

Cleaner blinked a few times. An incense-y fragrance clung to the back of his nasal cavity like an obnoxious guest overstaying his welcome. "I know you wanted different, didn't think you went for toxic."

 

Kaliyo snickered again, "Probably not supposed to drink it straight up."

 

"Probably not," he agreed. He listened to the traffic hissing on wet streets outside the windows for a moment, “Where’s the Doc?” he asked, looking around.

 

Kaliyo yawned, “He said he was under no obligation to stay in the alien ghetto. Plus he made noises about utterly inadequate medical facilities on the ship and that he was going to upgrade them to useable.”

 

Barely two weeks and she had Lokin’s cadence and delivery down. "He on the ship, then?" Cleaner asked.

 

She edged closer, "Yeah. I guess. Didn't ask. Like I want to hang out with Doctor Rakghoul. Gives me the creeps. I almost wish I had to spend a couple hours with My Favorite Watcher. This planet sucks."

 

Cleaner's eyes narrowed and he leaned toward her, "You missed me," he taunted, poking her arm.

 

"Did not," Kaliyo denied. She glared at him out of the corner of her eye but there was no venom in her voice.

 

"Did so," he insisted. He turned toward her, resting an elbow on the counter. He half wanted a plain old nap. After his Zhorrid excursion he really wasn't all that interested more sex.

 

"Did not," Kaliyo repeated. She gave him a visual once-over, her gaze lingering. "Hope the new girl didn't break my favorite toy."

 

"She didn't," he said.

 

"I should check anyway," Kaliyo said. She placed her hands on his hips and she swayed up against him. "Ah ha," she crowed at his wince, "I knew it." Her arms wrapped around the small of his back and she settled in.

 

Heat and warmth and...dammit, a nap would be nice. "Kaliyo, I'm not much in the mood right now," he said. Risky. Kaliyo thwarted would bail after locking the door and torching the furniture while he slept.

 

She flicked the tips of his lekku, "I have flavored kolto lube," she whispered, snuggling up against him.

 

A kolto rubdown would be nice. He preferred Kaliyo snark to Lokin snark under the circumstances. While she might not be any more gentle than the Doc, she beat the hell out of him for bedside manner. When she was happy at least. "Flavored, huh?" he replied, encircling her waist with his arms and lacing his fingers.

 

"Mmm-hmm," she hummed, "Supposed to be riiti melon. Wanna find out?"

 

Stars. The things he did for this job. "I think I could be persuaded," Cleaner said.

 

 

 

 

The Minister reviewed Fixer 43's file. The facts remained the same. With his performance reviews - however positive-he was not a good match for Cleaner. He slumped back in his overtall chair and kneaded his eyebrows. No one was, if he were honest with himself. But Cleaner’s argument was solid. The Eradicators were their best connection to Darth Jadus--former Darth Jadus--and Fixer 43 was perfectly suited to interpret Cleaner's data. Attaching him to Cleaner gave Intelligence a small layer of insulation if Zhorrid self-destructed. None of which changed the fact that Shen no doubt had another reason for wanting Fixer 43 and it likely had nothing to do with his qualifications for the job.

 

The Minister sat forward again. He saw little point in looking for another experienced person just to spite Shen. Such moves usually backfired anyway. 43 would have to deal with it. He made a note to discuss it with his replacement when he confirmed the active Cipher ops later today.

 

Cleaner's other plan also had merit, much as he hated to admit it. Though he thought he could do it one better. Zhorrid needed an apprentice. Someone who could pass for one at any rate. A darth's apprentice could go anywhere, do anything, very few questions asked. They could also intercept communications and make pronouncements on their master's behalf. A perfect position for a mole. There was only one difficulty.

 

An apprentice must be Force-sensitive. All Force-sensitives went to Korriban.

 

Except when they didn’t.

 

The Minister’s hand hovered over the control panel. The move he planned was risky. None of these candidates were strong in the Force. Whether by bribery or luck or daring or a combination thereof, all of them avoided the meat grinder that was the Sith Academy. He planned to drop one into an even more cutthroat environment.

 

He entered his security codes and brought up the file. On it, hundreds of Imperial citizens exhibiting what Cleaner called ‘a little spark’ and not much else. The ones smart enough to know they’d never survive Korriban. Smart enough to understand how precarious their positions were. People with no ambition to climb in Sith circles. Who were no threat to Zhorrid, at least not in ability. One of whom might just make a capable mole. They couldn't very well refuse the proposal.

 

The unknown third party on Taris troubled him more.

[frauzet]

Ohhh, Fixer 43, and a mysterious new character. Wondering whether it it is who I think it is. Looking forward to the next chapter(s)

[Striges]

Entourage

 

 

Cleaner's ship finished its landing cycle. The port's ground crew lumbered into action with all the speed and grace of a Gamorrean ballet troupe. He leaned on the cockpit window while the last of his docking permits and other assorted paperwork trickled in. Sheesh, he'd hate to see these guys work without a bribe.

 

Once everything cleared he meandered toward the back. "All right. Layover's one standard day," Cleaner announced, "time enough to grab anything you want that's not on the resupply list. On your own expense record," he said with a pointed look at Lokin, silencing his question.

 

"Aww. I can't do Nar Shaddaa in a day," Kaliyo complained, "That's barely enough time to get wasted."

 

"Speaking of which," Cleaner said, "hit Roxy's for some cigs for me, willya?"

 

"I don't do delivery. Get 'em while we're there," Kaliyo said.

 

"I'm not going," Cleaner said.

 

She kicked her feet off the multi-game table, currently configured for dejarik, and stood, "Not going? To your favorite place on Nar Shaddaa?"

 

Lokin chuckled as he headed back to the medical room. Taking inventory and measuring the remaining space for new equipment, no doubt. Bastard. "Nope," Cleaner said. He rounded the plush acceleration couch on his way to the rear airlock.

 

Kaliyo pursued, "Oh, that's right. Your entourage," she said, making the last word an insult.

 

"Yep," he said. He entered his code and the lock started its cycle.

 

"An entourage of one," she taunted.

 

"Limited time only special offer," Cleaner snorted. The safe-exit light changed to solid green and he punched the door controls. The pressure doors retreated into the hull. A squad or more of uniformed Imperial troops waited for him at the foot of the ramp.

 

Kaliyo whistled, whether in admiration or sympathy he wasn't certain. "That's quite the honor guard," she said.

 

“Yeah.” Cleaner said.

 

“Must have been one hell of a bender,” Kaliyo said.

 

She remembered. She remembered now, at any rate. Cleaner shrugged, “Guess so. Memory’s a bit hazy after the fourth bottle of sinté.” In an hour. With other intoxicants. Truth be told most of that week was a blur.

 

“I imagine it would be,” Kaliyo said.

 

“So,” Cleaner began, “I bring friends, price for everything goes through the roof, assuming I can find someone who’ll sell at all. Plus they’re eavesdropping on comms so ordering in isn’t an option either.”

 

“Sucks to be you,”

 

Thanks for rubbing it in. “So hit Roxy’s for some cigs for me, yeah?”

 

“What’s in it for me?” Kaliyo teased.

 

He held out a credstick, a nice high value one, “My undying gratitude,” he said. Kaliyo’s fingers closed over the stick and he snatched her wrist, tugging her in and wrapping his free arm around her waist. She squeaked and giggled. “For as long as the cigs last, anyway. Keep the rest.” He planted a kiss on her forehead.

 

She twisted out of his grip with a snort, “I will,” she said, grinning and palming the credstick.

 

Lokin clumped down the gangplank past them, oblivious, “I’ll likely have a number of deliveries and installations. Be sure they’re granted permission to board.” He continued on and vanished through the wall of troops without waiting for confirmation.

 

"Nar Shaddaa. All by myself," Kaliyo gloated, ignoring the interruption.

 

"Standard day. Don't be late," Cleaner said.

 

"I won't be," she said. The meatwall allowed her to pass and closed behind her.

 

One stepped forward. The decoration on his uniform proclaimed him a ensign. Ooo, a real officer. Probably on the base commander’s sh*t list. He didn't make any friends with the military detachment stationed here on his last visit. "You are the Intelligence Agent Cleaner One?" the ensign asked.

 

"Who wants to know?" Cleaner replied. They knew damn well who he was. Introductions were a formality.

 

"Ensign Tjen. My orders are to observe your activities and report my observations to my superiors," he replied.

 

He considered going for a stroll through the lower level warrens. Watching his personal army jump at shadows and wonder when he planned on trading them for free passage. He discarded the thought barely formed. Fun, yes, but the last thing he needed was his face closely associated with Imperials. Not on a planet with this many information brokers, and certainly not under present circumstances. "Well, observe from down there."

 

"My orders-" Ensign Tjen began.

 

Cleaner cut him off, "I'm picking up a personnel transfer from the local Intelligence office. Let him through when he gets here."

 

"I received no inst-" he tried again.

 

"You let my guy through unless you want to spend your career overseeing 'fresher maintenance on Kessel instead of this cushy post, got it?"

 

"All transit in and out of this vessel--" the closing airlock door cut off the ensign's tirade. Kark him. Cleaner wandered back to the common room and flopped on the couch. The ship was quiet, save for the low bubble in Lokin's kolto tank and the repetitive grind of a bearing going out somewhere. All alone and he couldn't think of a single thing to do.

 

............................................

 

 

Kaliyo skipped onto the promenade. First up: look for familiar faces on the bounty boards. Always good for a laugh. Then maybe a cruise through the organ markets and the chem drag. Wind down in a cantina--Roxy's was pretty decent for recreational substances, not that she'd ever let Cleaner know--and make it back to the ship just before liftoff. She hoped Cleaner would message her in the last thirty minutes so she could pretend to ignore it. Especially if he reminded her about the cigarettes. Must be nice to drink and smoke as much as he did with no aftereffects..

 

There was also a clandestine holocall to make. Any public terminal. After she broke Cleaner's credstick. There was a certain irony in that, Cleaner paying for her research into his background. But get smaller value 'sticks first in case he embedded a tracker. He was paranoid like that. She knew paranoid. She was clever.

 

Kaliyo perused the boards. Funny. Not many of her old friends were on here anymore. Not even as bounties claimed, expired, or cancelled. She ran around under an Imperial umbrella for so long everyone else was out of circulation. Felt odd. Overdue for a jump but not done with Cleaner yet. She still had unfinished business.

 

She was about to close the terminal when a new bounty popped up. High threat, paid triple for alive, undamaged. Right here on Nar Shaddaa. Kaliyo opened the entry and shut it down just as fast.

 

Her heart raced. She glanced at the reflections on the glass-fronted terminal of passers by behind her. Checked the beings on either side of her out of the corners of her eyes. No one noticed. Not yet.

 

Nonchalant, she stepped away from the terminal and joined a knot of pedestrian tourists. Slipped out of that crowd into another, Frogdog fans complaining about the Rotworms cheating. She broke away when they entered a cantina and picked up a brace of heroically drunken dockworkers. Not a one of them could see straight.

 

Good thing.

 

It was her name on the bounty list. Contract courtesy Yjal.

 

.........................................

 

Fixer 43 hesitated outside the lift to the small private craft bays. Hefted his duffel. He got the transfer notice a week ago. A prescription for digestive acid reducers the next day.

 

He felt a little disappointed that no one bothered to throw him a happy transfer party. Or snacks over lunch. Not even an informal get-together after hours. Nothing. He knew he wasn't the most popular person in the local office but it would be nice to know someone noticed he was leaving.

 

He took a deep breath of Nar Shaddaa's polluted air and called the lift. Well, he did get one sympathy holocard. Unsigned. Probably a joke.

 

The lift door wheezed open. His stomach gurgled displeasure.

 

Maybe not.

[Lunafox]

I loved Kaliyo's reaction to seeing herself on the list. She actually seemed a bit worried there. Great chapter!

[Striges]

Thank you!

 

I figured Kaliyo would feel both excitement at having a major bounty, and annoyed that said bounty will definitely affect her plans for A Fun Time On Nar Shaddaa.

 

Glad you enjoyed the chapter.

[Magdalane]

Oh she will still have a fun time, just hope Shem has some stims available

[MishaCantu]

I am finally all caught up, from the beginning to this last chapter. Goodness, it has been quite a ride. Your writing style is extremely addictive and kept my interest from start to finish.

 

I do love the character of Cleaner, but I don't like him, if that makes sense. I cannot sympathize with him but I do admire and respect his ability to adapt to whatever comes his way and also his cleverness. I suppose that is because he is a realist in the most astute meaning of the word. He knows exactly what the world is, what his life is and he is very good at playing the game because he has nothing else.

 

Kudos on a story well written and worth reading. Eagerly waiting for more.

[Striges]

Oh she will still have a fun time, just hope Shem has some stims available

Always!

 

I do love the character of Cleaner, but I don't like him, if that makes sense.

Complete sense. He lives in my brain, but I wouldn't want to invite him to dinner. If that makes sense.

 

Thanks so much for the praise, everyone. It's great to know others enjoy reading these chapters as much as I like writing them. I hope you like where it goes.

[Striges]

A Helping Hand

 

"Crew bunks are here," Cleaner said, indicating the spartan crew quarters. Crew on an Opulence-class ship were optional; opt in and the factory re-tooled the smaller of the two standard cargo bays. "Doc claimed the one by the door so pick whichever other one you want. You can stow your stuff in the locker below."

 

Fixer 43 trundled along behind, "Thank you, sir," he said, balancing a tumbler of dark liquid in one hand and two datapads in the other. He gave a quick glance to his rear. The droid followed without speaking, his belongings stacked in its arms. "I'm a little concerned, sir. I-I'm not good at field work. It's practically a joke at the branch-"

 

"Don't think of it as a field position," Cleaner countered, "think of yourself as an on-site consultant."

 

"I'm not sure that helps, sir," Fixer 43 said.

 

"How's your drink?" Cleaner asked, turning back to take in the gorgeous view.

 

"It's," 43 stared at the glass in his hand, as though just now realizing it was there, "I haven't actually tried it, sir. It's a bit early for me, to be honest."

 

"It's always time for a good whisky. That's Corellian. You know how hard that is to get in Imperial space?" Cleaner said.

 

"Uhm, hard, I expect," Fixer 43 said, examining the fluid as he might a hazardous bioweapon.

 

It was a shade or two lighter than the younger man's eyes and almost as intoxicating. With the transfer approved, Cleaner had all the time in the world to work on his favorite fixer's inhibitions. "Hard. You like something else? I want to welcome you aboard in style. Have a celebration. I never did get you that drink before. I owe you one."

 

Cleaner's statement broke through 43's confusion, "About that, sir, the contingent in the hangar?"

 

"What about them?" Cleaner asked.

 

"That's not for me, is it?" the Fixer asked.

 

Truth was easy, but oh so useless. "Nah," Cleaner said, "I’m not here under cover, so they’re here to protect Imperial interests. As in the ship. Top of the line Imperial tech in here. The last thing I need is some port rat jacking it.” Fixer 43’s expression changed from concern to abject horror. Poor guy. It was too hard to not mess with him. “Relax. I'm not sending you into the field. I need a guy who knows his weapons backwards and forwards and you were on the top of the list."

 

"Oh," Fixer 43 said, "I'm flattered, sir."

 

Cleaner's personal list, at least. "Don't be so worried. I can requisition anything you want. You and Kaliyo can talk weapons, you can get all scientific with the Doc, it'll be great. Doc's Fixer 15. Still has ties to the Science Bureau."

 

Fixer 43 brightened for the first time since boarding, "Really, sir?"

 

"Yeah." Cleaner said, "I know how much you wanted a transfer there." Fixer 43 wasn't so dense as to miss Cleaner's implication. Favors were owed. "Come on, I'll show you the rest." He fought the desire to hook the Fixer's arm before continuing down the hall. Damn, he was cute. "Galley, don't touch the second chiller. The one labeled ‘Lokin'. That's Doc's stuff. Might bite back."

 

43 snickered, "I had a roommate at University who put ‘biohazard’ tape on all his--oh, you weren't joking." he said at Cleaner's flat expression.

 

"Safer to assume his stuff is toxic," Cleaner said, "trust me. Bottom shelf in the main chiller is yours. Leave stuff anywhere else and it's fair game. Including liquor. If you don't want to share keep it in your locker."

 

Fixer 43 at last found a place to set down his drink, "I never know when you're joking, sir."

 

"I'm not joking," Cleaner said, "Nutri-packs, other non-perishables, snacks, more liquor. You want something, requisition it." He made a mental note to restock on decent nutri-packs. Outside the Empire he had a variety to choose from. Being a ubiquitous species had its perks now and again. He wondered how much one of those autochef droids ran. Or if he could load the programming into Cleaner Two. He spotted the droid hovering behind Fixer 43, having received no orders. Maybe not. "Fresher's down the hall. First come first serve. C2 cleared a cubby in there for you."

 

"Oh, um, thank you, sir," Fixer 43 replied, still juggling his datapads.

 

Cleaner led the way to the ship's common room, the one with the questionable carpet and out-of-date acceleration couch, "Won't liftoff for another ten hours so you've time to pick up anything you forgot."

 

"I might just actually-" Fixer 43 began when Cleaner's comm beeped.

 

"Sec," Cleaner said. It wasn't the Minister's high priority alert, but Kaliyo's. Her image resolved, grainy with interference. "What?" he asked.

 

"Hey, if you want your cigs you're gonna have to come get 'em. Also bring me a couple gas cylinders," she said.

 

The tip of one lekku curled. "You got a chit. You can't find a blaster service on Nar Shaddaa?" he said. In the back of his mind he knew why she needed a recharge.

 

The high whine of blaster fire came through in the background. "Not in this block," she answered.

 

As expected. "Are you shooting someone?" Cleaner asked. Rhetorical question under the circumstances.

 

"No."

 

"Several someones?"

 

"Maybe."

 

Cleaner rolled his eyes, grateful the holo was too small to transmit the gesture. "You realize I'll be bringing friends," he said.

 

"Yeah. Kinda the point," Kaliyo replied. She raised her blaster and the flash from the bolt blinded the communicator for a moment. Cleaner squinted against the blue glare. "You got the coordinates off the com-trace. Don't waste time." Kaliyo said. She cut the connection and her holo collapsed.

 

Cleaner clicked the unit off and shoved it back in his pocket, "Duty calls," he said.

 

Fixer 43 clutched his datapads to his chest, "Sir, I had to turn in my weapon at the local office because it was registered to the branch and I couldn't take it with me after the transfer-"

 

"You walked around Nar Shaddaa without a blaster?" Cleaner interrupted 43's word waterfall. The Fixer nodded, mute. "You're braver than I am," Cleaner said, lekku twisting in amusement. He pushed past his new recruit and the silent droid and headed toward the weapons locker.

 

Fixer 43 jogged behind him, "What I'm trying to say, sir, is that I am currently without a service blaster-"

 

"Don't sweat it," Cleaner said. He had no intention of taking Captain Clueless into any situation that might mess up his pretty face. He let the printlock on the armored cabinet scan his biometrics. It completed with a polite chime and unlocked, revealing an array of blasters ranging from compact holdouts to heavy rifles not quite heavy enough to be autocannons. Cleaner tugged open the drawer labeled “Kaliyo” and dug around for a cylinder or two that weren’t depleted, frowned, and grabbed a fresh pair from the general supply instead. "Why don't you stay here and get settled in while it's nice and quiet? Check out what’s on hand. If you don't like any of the spares let me know what kind you want." He retrieved his personal pistol and a micro-needler holdout, just in case.

 

“I, erm,” Fixer 43’s voice came from behind, “I'll do that. Thank you, sir,” he said.

 

Cleaner stuffed the cylinders in his pocket and headed back toward the galley. The pistol went in his standard holster; the holdout disappeared up his sleeve. Glancing in, he noticed the Fixer's drink abandoned on the counter. No sense letting good whisky go to waste. He downed it in one gulp. Sucked air in through his teeth. Good stuff, Corellian whisky. He almost collided with 43 on his way out. "We’re on Nar Shaddaa. I can get anything," Cleaner reiterated. The Fixer nodded mutely. Cleaner walked to the to the rear airlock, Fixer in tow.

 

Being planetside, the hatch opened immediately then hissed closed on Fixer 43. Cleaner clumped down the ramp. Ensign Tjen and his fun brigade lay in wait for him just outside the safety perimeter. He pounced as soon as Cleaner crossed the scuffed paint, "Agent Cleaner, you've taken on your personnel transfer. My orders state-"

 

Cleaner headed for the turbolift without slowing, "Gotta run an errand," he said.

 

"Rico, stay here with Aurek Platoon and continue observation. Besh, you're with me," Ensign Tjen nodded at the squad to the left and they fell into step behind him. He jogged to catch up, "I will not let you out of my sight, Cleaner. My orders are explicit on that point," he said, "I am to monitor and report on your activities for the duration of your stay."

 

Cleaner verified the coordinates from Kaliyo's trace. Organ market. This ought to be fun. "Knock yourself out," he said, punching the button to summon the turbolift.

 

"I've kept track of the deliveries," Ensign Tjen went on, "All of them. Registered the business of origin as well."

 

The lift door ground open and a scent like droid light lubricant and leaky fuel cells wafted out. Cleaner's boot slipped on the grating. Gingerly, he made for the lift controls. His entourage followed. The heavy gunner went down on the treacherous floor with a curse. There was one laugh. Ensign Tjen silenced the offending humorist with a glare. Cleaner selected the level and shoved the handle over to full. The landing pad disappeared behind greasy service doors and the lift began its descent. Ensign Tjen made a note of the selected level and the time on his datapad.

 

Cleaner leaned on the lever. Dumb fish. "Bukee, I don't know what they told you when they gave you this assignment. That it was a test of your leadership ability or that it would look good on your service record or it was a sensitive duty or what." Tjen's deepening scowl suggested at least one of those reasons hit close to home. Cleaner went on, "But they lied."

 

Ensign Tjen puffed up with importance, "I have also been briefed on you, personally, Agent, so as to better-"

 

Sure. No ensign had clearance enough to get much more than his designation. "It's a sh*t detail and you know it," Cleaner turned to him. Kid had green eyes. Cleaner figured brown, to match his nose. "Compiling a list of my groceries and the p*rn holos I order? That's promotion material," he said. A few of Tjen's support troops shifted their weight, one of them the gunner with the bruised pride. None of them wanted to stare down the Twi'lek Agent with the bad reputation. Cleaner chuckled and followed the level counter as they descended. "Someone hates you, mi bukee. Hoping to get rid of you, permanently with any luck. So before you make more notes to file with your seventeen-page report on my liquor preferences, you might want to think about who that is and what you're going to do about it."

 

Silence. Trash fluttered on the floor grate, unable to muster enough energy to become airborne. The lift shuddered its way down into the bowels of Nar Shaddaa, its gears grinding. With any luck Ensign Tight@ss would be watching his own when they caught up with Kaliyo.

[frauzet]

I have one very important question: Who named the droid? (My guess is Kaliyo.)

 

I like the facets of Cleaner shown in this part. He does care about others for various reasons, even if those are apparently motivated by selfishness.

[Magdalane]

Cleaner's fascination with 43 has always intrigued me, so I'm looking forward to more of their interactions. I'm guessing Kaliyo is finding new friends, what with her picture posted so prominently. Great update

[Striges]

I have one very important question: Who named the droid? (My guess is Kaliyo.)

You would be correct.

To be more correct, for some reason I thought the Imperial ship droid was C2, and I knew Kaliyo wouldn't miss a chance to call it "Cleaner 2." I realized later that technically C2 is the Republic droid, but by that time I liked the idea too much to change it. There must be millions of C2 units running around the galaxy; it's Cleaner's luck to get one of them.

 

Cleaner's fascination with 43 has always intrigued me, so I'm looking forward to more of their interactions.

Well, mostly he thinks 43 is hot, but also 43 isn't dismissive of him the way most Imperials are. He's a big goofy (incredibly attractive) puppy. It's an odd dynamic, where Cleaner always has ulterior motives for everything he does, and so does nearly everyone around him, but 43 appears to have none at all. That by itself fascinates Cleaner.

 

You'll have to wait for next week to meet Kaliyo's new friends.

[MishaCantu]

The fact that Cleaner is omnisexual is another facet that makes him interesting but growing up a slave likely stripped him of any predilections early on. He is the consummate survivor after all. It will be interesting to see how it all plays out with 43.

 

Also waiting to see what Kaliyo has gotten herself involved in. Oh, also wondering what poor sod will be sent into the lions den as Zhorrid's "major-domo", that should be fun.

 

Thanks for the entertainment.

[Striges]

Becoming a Hutt Enforcer

 

Cleaner and his uniformed entourage turned the corner on another empty passage. As he expected, all the shops were shuttered tight. The only beings left on the streets were those too high or broken to care about Authority With Weapons in the neighborhood. The tang of antiseptic replaced the background notes of fuel and engine grease in the lift. Kolto filled in for the rest.

 

Cleaner checked the coordinates. Couple more blocks. If Kaliyo was still shooting things he ought to hear it soon. He elbowed Tight@ss Tjen, "So who's the second-biggest player here?" he asked.

 

"The-what?" Ensign Tjen asked, tearing his eyes away from a body sculpture palace.

 

"The second-biggest player," Cleaner enunciated. Fish had been distractible since the lift, probably hoping he wasn't about to be fragged. Cleaner's motivational speech might have worked too well. Or backfired. "What about Nem’ro? He active here at all? Organ markets weren't his thing."

 

Tjen's expression stiffened into its customary better-than-you glare, "I don't follow alien politics," he grumped.

 

"Shame, that," Cleaner said.

 

"Gorpo's big in surgicals," a mousy little enlisted marine volunteered. Stars, she was tiny. Her uniform still had creases but no stripes. So new she squeaked.

 

Cleaner pounced on the information, "Gorpo's die-hard independant, though," he said, "Anyone second or third string who likes Imperials?"

 

"Fa’zeeth," the mouse answered, "Why?"

 

Cleaner checked his gas load out of habit more than necessity, "Because the number two guy won't be unhappy with us if we shoot the place up in his name. Makes him look strong. Like a player. Number one, on the other hand, might feel the need to confront the interloper.” Instead of, say, focusing on putting number two back in his place and neither one of them looking too hard at what really went down. “This Fa’zeeth related to Fa’athra?"

 

"No, just sounds the same," Mouse volunteered. Her Basic wasn’t standard Imperial, either. Not local. She definitely blew in from the rim somewhere.

 

“Good,” Cleaner said. He reholstered his weapon, “Any of you speak Huttese?" A few nods, Mouse and Mobile Turret among them. Tight@ss not. “How do you get stationed on Nar Shaddaa and not pick up the local lingua? Must be hell trying to find a public ‘fresher,” he muttered, “All right. Ignore everything I say, and shoot what I tell you but not until I tell you, got it?”

 

“This is not an operation, Agent,” Tightass said.

 

"You follow me around and it is," Cleaner said.

 

"My unit is here only to observe and report," Ensign Tjen objected, "You can't give them orders."

 

"If you're not going to play along you can observe and report from here," Cleaner said, "or I'll shoot you for interfering with Intelligence." He could at that. Not a one of these fish had Intelligence insignia. Minister would be pissed at him, though.

 

Tjen ground his teeth. Cleaner saw his jaw muscles bunching. "This is not an Intelligence Operation," he managed at last.

 

Cleaner rolled his eyes, "Pwuska ittu, unclench a bit, will you, bukee?" he said. Hoped Kaliyo had his cigs, he was going to need one to unwind after this nerf-herding episode, "what's going to look better in your file, taking initiative and assisting an Intelligence agent or following orders to the letter?"

 

Tjen's beady green eyes narrowed, "You can't shoot me," he dared.

 

"Can't I?" Cleaner glared at him. Waited for the twitch, the tell, the moment when Tight@ss Tjen’s brain decided to go for his weapon but before his body actually did. In a flash, Cleaner’s holdout dropped into his hand even as he raised his arm to aim. The snub barrel ended barely past Cleaner’s fingers, lined up with the ensign’s nose. Tjen’s hadn't made it out of his holster. “Do not mess with Intelligence, son,” Cleaner said, “If you can’t follow directions I’ll drop you down the nearest waste chute along with any witnesses who annoy me. No one will say boo. Now, you gonna play along or does one of your squad get a field promotion?"

 

Tjen eased his weapon back into its holster and moved his hand away. Slowly. His eyes flicked between Cleaner and the barrel of the little holdout, "This incident will go in my report," he said.

 

"You do that. Tattoo it on your @ss for all I care," Cleaner said, "Are we clear?"

 

The green eyes focused on the business end of Cleaner's blaster. At this range even a miss would cost Tjen an ear and half his hair. Tjen blinked, "Clear," he said.

 

"Good," Cleaner said. The little blaster disappeared back into his sleeve. "Play nice and we might stop for drinks on the way back."

 

"I don't take bribes, Agent," Tjen said.

 

"Not a bribe," Cleaner said, "If I gotta get out anyway I might as well hit someplace fun. Let's go."

 

His hunch was right. Within a block even the wasted dregs were gone from the streets and the sound of blaster fire echoed off the storefronts. Cleaner paused behind a bend where he could see a distorted reflection of the street beyond in a tattooist’s demo window. Kaliyo favored a hideous yellow-green bolt and he saw what looked like hers farther down. He and his entourage came up behind whoever was shooting at her. Lucky, since approaching Kaliyo from behind under the circumstances was a good way to get shot.

 

Speaking of which. Cleaner took out his comm and buzzed her, "Found your friends," he said.

 

Her image was grainy and full of static, "You waiting for an invite?" she asked.

 

"You know me. I'd rather crash," he said, "just don't shoot me."

 

"You're no fun.''

 

"Fun later," he said. Explanations, too, if he got her hammered enough.

 

"Ooo. Promise?" The grainy image struck a coquettish pose.

 

"You still got that kolto lube, yeah?" he asked, "I want a piece of the @ss I'm saving."

 

"Come get it," she said. The link cut.

 

Mouse tittered then went silent as though ashamed at her outburst. Cleaner held the conversation in Huttese so she was one of the few in the crowd who understood it. " All right," he began, Basic for the Imperials, "Remember instructions. Don't shoot till I say so, after that shoot anyone you want. Do NOT shoot the nice Rattataki lady in the holo or I will be very unhappy." Mouse blushed. A couple others coughed. Let 'em laugh. He continued, "Her blaster bolts are snot-green and she should be behind cover at the far end of the alley," and if she were smart she'd stay there until he mopped up the mess, "Anyone else is fair game. Collateral damage is encouraged, pursuit is not. They wanna run let 'em go," Nods from his appropriated squad. "All right. Fan out across the street. You, Mobile Turret," he pointed at the soldier with the autocannon, the one who slipped in the lift, "you're with me in the middle."

 

"Engagement protocol states-" Tight@ss started.

 

Cleaner adjusted his beam choke, "I want the big guy by me for intimidation value. Questions?"

 

Tight@ss declined to press the point. He hung back behind Cleaner as the squad moved out of cover, spreading out across the width of the street. Anywhere but Nar Shaddaa and they'd be cutting off escape routes; here they just forced their foes to run deeper into the warrens. Cleaner saw three different bolt colors and four likely involved sources. One might be a team. None of Kaliyo's; the crossfire had her pinned pretty well and they were in the who-runs-out-of-gas-first stage. He also saw how she'd gotten herself trapped. A hefty metal construction fence blocked the far end of the alley. Beyond was a void. A building either going up or coming down, hard to know which. Part of Nar Shaddaa's endless resurfacing. The way was clear last time, leading up to one of the less seedy red light districts, or down to a technically illegal gladiatorial arena.

 

Cleaner activated a personal shield-no sense taking chances-and fired his blaster into the overhead infrastructure, "Hey! You on Fa'zeeth turf! You bad for business!" he yelled in street-level Huttese, followed by another blast at the ceiling.

 

The multiway firefight ground to a halt in half a dozen shots. After a pause, someone called out, "Got a contract. Mind your own business."

 

Contract? Bounty contract? Interesting. Pretty much left intimidation since, legally, they were covered. Unless they shot first. "Am minding business. Fa'zeeth's business. No contract to shoot up street. Bad for business. Imps unhappy. Fa'zeeth says go."

 

"Fa'zeeth can keep his chubby tail to himself!"

 

"Kark the Imps. This is Nar Shaddaa."

 

One from the left, the other right, neither of them the initial speaker. "Pick your targets, don't shoot till I do," he muttered in Basic to Mobile Turret, who acknowledged with a curt nod. Cleaner took another step forward, "You move off or I make you," he warned. He heard the autocannon's safety click off. The sound echoed off the buildings, reinforced as the rest of the squad followed suit. Nice timing, Mobile Turret.

 

The alley was silent save for the buzz of holosigns and grumpy air purifiers. An eye appeared in the back of the tattoo window and vanished just as quickly. One of the soldiers shifted her grip on her weapon. Metal and plastiform parts rattled.

 

After an eternity the first voice spoke again, "I'm registering a complaint with the Brokerage," It said, stepping from cover. Easily as massive as Mobile Turret and armored head to toe, Cleaner had no clue what species it was beyond humanoid. It made a show of holstering its weapon, proving it had no intention of shooting, "Also with the Kajidics, the Mandalorians, and the Imperial Consulate. You've no right to interfere with my hunt," it said.

 

"Four of you," Cleaner said. "Where the rest?"

 

Half the squad trained their weapons on the only obvious target as it advanced on their position. No one fired, a testament to their training. "I can't speak for them," It said, "Only myself." It closed with the Imperials, wide hands well away from its guns.

 

Its voice modulated through a vocabulator to a lower register, but regardless of gender Cleaner had to admit it had balls. It marched straight up to him and Mobile Turret. It waited, helmet angled just slightly downward, the darkened eyeslit meeting Cleaner's eye. Daring him to shoot.

 

He could. But he didn't need to. "Make your complaints. Off Fa'zeeth's turf." To the Imperials he spoke in Basic, "Let him through," he ordered.

 

Mobile Turret Two headed for a break in the line before the troopers shifted aim. Cleaner didn't bother watching its progress, same as the hunter wouldn't check for tails or a cowardly shot. The Minister called the dynamic ‘honor among thieves’, but only because he didn't understand it. Prey checked. Predators didn't.

 

Three remaining. "Your big friend gone," Cleaner announced. He let the statement hang. Still might get a firefight out of the idiot contingent.

 

But he didn't. A pair of humans leaned out from a side passage, like enough at this distance to be twins, "We have this," one announced.

 

"Not today," Cleaner said.

 

Talky Twin glared at him, "I'll remember you, Twi'lek," he said.

 

"You do that," Cleaner replied.

 

Talky Twin tilted the business end of his rifle toward the ceiling. He and his duplicate disappeared into the maze, not daring a further confrontation.

 

That left only one, on the right. Cleaner took another step forward and Mobile Turret followed, autocannon at ready. For an Imperial soldier, he knew the Hired Muscle script by heart. "All alone now," Cleaner said to the still-hidden shooter, "No friends. Be smart like them."

 

An explosion of truly creative cursing erupted from the voice's hiding spot, followed by the speaker, a diminutive Cathar in mismatched and hand-me-down armor. "Just like that. Drop my biggest payday ever on your say so. Well I say screw that." He leveled his weapon at Cleaner.

 

Every safety in Cleaner's entourage clicked off. Tight@ss jumped; Cleaner saw the twitch in his peripheral vision. A distant warble from the Cathar underlined the tension. Trigger-happy had a rangefinder alert installed in his chest piece. Right now it warned him of six different rifles virtually guaranteed to hit. Not including the non-scoped blasters whose aim might be less perfect but no less lethal. Cleaner's own blaster stayed at his side. His shield was good enough to absorb a shot from Trigger Happy's wide-bore disruptor, assuming it hit at this distance. Right now the squad was his weapon.

 

Like Tjen not thirty minutes earlier, Trigger Happy blinked first. "You win this round, Twi'lek," he said with a sound part snort, part growl, "Tell Fa'zeeth he's made an enemy. He won't always have Imps around to protect him. And neither will you."

 

"Clear out," Cleaner ordered, indifferent to the threat.

 

The Cathar smiled, not at all reassuring or friendly with his feline teeth, "Sure. Sure, I'm going. For now." As had the twins, he hefted the disruptor into a neutral position, muzzle pointed at the ceiling and sauntered toward the Imperial line. He brushed past Cleaner, his pauldron crumpling the fabric of Cleaner's right sleeve. Not a slam, which required an answer, but a more subtle threat. Cleaner angled his blaster so the barrel clacked against Trigger Happy's armored thigh as he passed. A subtle response. And the Minister said he wasn't subtle. Cleaner got the message.

 

Trigger Happy continued on, tossing out a vague, "Watch your back," over his shoulder before getting out of earshot.

 

Cleaner declined further comment, listening to the footsteps recede into the distance. He didn't know what joint the Cathar had been in, but he'd been locked up somewhere. He only saw that kind of dominance game among other cons. Slaves played it a little differently. Might bear looking in to, if only to satisfy his curiosity. And in case Trigger Happy became a problem. Mobile Turret Two seemed more inclined to move through official channels while the Twins were likely to drop the issue altogether despite their comment.

 

The threat neutralized, Kaliyo popped out of hiding not thirty meters from Trigger Happy's last position, "Aww. If you kept him talking a couple more minutes I'd have taken him out."

 

"Relax," Cleaner told the squad. Most had aim on Kaliyo and the remainder looked like they wanted to, but weren't ready to piss off the Intelligence Agent. "Thought you were low on gas," Cleaner said, returning to Huttese.

 

"Not that low," she said. She vaulted over a pile of long-dead speeder debris--or possibly the wreckage of a public comm terminal, it was a little hard to tell--and came right up to Cleaner. Held out a hand for the reload, as though she asked for takeaway, not a rescue. Of course technically, she hadn't asked for a rescue.

 

Cleaner handed them over, "Quite a party you were having," he said.

 

Kaliyo took the loads and swapped one into her primary weapon, "Wasn't it? Shame you didn't join in."

 

"Not for lack of trying," he answered.

 

She stepped in closer, "You could have tried harder."

 

"The point wasn't starting a firefight," Cleaner said. The scent of burnt plasma and overheated blaster barrels clung to her like a violent perfume. Half wished he had opened up, at least on the Twins and Trigger Happy. "The point was saving your @ss. Speaking of," he stepped in closer and ran one hand down her back to caress the roundness below, "They didn't shoot it off, did they?" he mumbled in her ear.

 

Kaliyo snickered and let him, "Nope."

 

His caress became a grip, "I think I should take you someplace to get drunk and then check."

 

She poked his chest, "Ship."

 

"We'll end there," Cleaner said, pulling her tight against her, "I promised the squad l'd show 'em a good time."

 

Kaliyo pushed him away, "Ship."

 

"C'mon, you dragged me out here," Cleaner wheedled, "If I gotta walk around Nar Shaddaa with half the Imperial Army I at least want to hit a bar or three. I bet you didn't grab my cigs yet."

 

"Ship now," Kaliyo emphasized.

 

Kark all he had at least five hours to kill. Just because she had her fun already didn't mean he was done, "Give me one good reason why."

 

"Yjal."