Log:Do as She Says, Not as She Does

Do as She Says, Not as She Does

OOC Date: May 24, 2016
Location: Conference Room, D'Qar
Participants: Rake, Kasia Ciph, Gren Delede, Sar Yavok, Tess Ul'Datha, Ambrosia Greystorm

Major Greystorm presents a challenge for Intel to tackle, her first step into 'action' since the dead woman's shell was granted a reboot. So when her already short temper short-circuits, things get a little bumpy.

The conference room is filled with an oddly serene ambiance this evening. The typically harsh lights have been dimmed to draw attention to the revolving image projected from the podium. It's a face. A man's face, soft-featured. Pale skinned, noble nose, gray-blue eyes, and fiery red hair stare coldly forward in the form of a holographic, artistic rendering.

Ambrosia Greystorm and her chair are parked next to the podium. Waiting.

Rake makes his way in, quietly, only to plant his furry ass in a seat in the back of the room. After the storm earlier, he'd cleaned the mud out of his fur and stood under a dryer for the past three hours so he wouldn't have that wet dog smell anymore, though his fur was definitely a good bit more poofy than normal.

Kasia arrives shortly after Rake, heading to somewhere near the front of the room before she slides into a seat. Her gaze goes to the revolving face that's projected, studying it intently for several moments before she looks to the woman parked beside the podium.

Tess woke up at some point, we can all assume since she's not laying face down in a puddle out in the middle of the street, and made her way to the barracks to get cleaned up. The orderlies barely even cared that she left so they struck an agreement, she'll return for tests, they let her get out of the medbay before she shoots someone in their droid face...

It was amiable.

Now that she's clean, with shoes on because she found a horrible surprise upon waking, Tess makes her way into the conference room still pulling her hair back into a ponytail. Eyeballing for whatever crap shoot alternative has replaced coffee in this god forsaken galaxy.

Sar Yavok had arrived in the conference room earlier and has found himself posted up near the front of the seating area. Very much likes Rake, he's taken some time to clean himself up, eschewing his normal get-up for a pair of synth-leather trousers and a loosely-worn tunic worn half-fastened. His jacket is resting in a seat nearby. He offers a stony look to Tess for a few moments, but his attention soon returns to the hologram that's serving as the primary focal point of the room.

For those looking for refreshment, this conference room offers nothing but disappointment. Now, anyway. Weary bums may find comfort in a chair at table or in one of the benches. Tired feet are invited to rest awhile, while their body's eyes and ears pay heed to those in charge. But thirsty tongues? They are doomed to remain parched. Veins, decaffeinated.

It's no surprise that the Major has a reputation for cruelty...but this level? Yowza.

"Let's begin," The hoverchair gets quiet suddenly, deactivated and 'parked' by a switch of her thumb. Greystorm Sr's face is...sullen. A bit off. Something else lurking there behind the coldness as she gestures to the image without giving it eye contact. "This is it." She leans forward and grips the arms of the chair with a firm squeeze before pushing herself up...up...and to her feet. It's not the straightest stance, but she's upright. "This a part of Master Sgt DeLong's report that interests me the most. This man. The one he identified with as a chief captor of sorts. Someone with /some/ authority...how much, he can't say. No rank. No name." Inhaling deeply through her nostrils, then hissing thinly through teeth, she takes a sidestep to lean an elbow on the podium and stares at it. Long and hard. "Just a face. And I want to know to whom it belongs. We ID him...we come closer to killing him."

Kasia sits up a little bit straighter as she sees Ambrosia stand, a flicker of concern causing her brows to furrow, but soon they relax, and she settles back to listen. The attention is brought to the picture of the man, and her gaze goes there again, studying the face.

The look in Amber's eyes, Tess thinks she knows what it is, it's the backfiring of this no caffeine torture. She takes no small amount of pleasure from realizing that, while she may not get no coffee, neither does anyone else... so they'll all suffer with each other. Saying curt things instead of being productive and balancing precariously at the point of flipping tables and going full on Extreme Rules up in this bitch.

That, if this whole chasing down ghosts or staring at creepy holographic faces, or... wait did she say kill someone? Well, you've Tess' attention. She turns a chair around backwards and sits with her arms across the back. If they asked nicely, she might would kill his family too... ya know, just to be sure.

"Looks like your standard, cookie-cutter Imp officer. Probably even has an overbearing Coruscanti accent. But there's likely a dozen more who look just like him. Haircut, bad attitude, and all," Sar says, leaning back in his chair a little bit and crossing his legs at the knee. His arms cross over his chest and his brows furrow a bit as he continues to regard the dumb General Dumbdumb.

"No doubt," Ambrosia grunts. "But DeLong worked a long while with our artist to paint this pretty picture and I trust his memory. You don't forget a pore on the face of your tormentor. You keep it fresh on your mind...until you meet again." She's looking pointedly at the face in question now. He's younger than she - no doubt. Smooth skin, faintest traces of fine lines around the eyes and across his brow - military career will do that to you early enough. Why is it then, this face - this 'cookie cutter' - feels so familiar? It's in the eyes...or in the mouth? Can't say.

That's what worries her.

"There's a heavy chance he, whoever he is, came from an Imperial family. A chip off the old block. Hacking into old databases and running a comparison may - or may not - come up with suitable matches. Security vids in known First Order-patrolled areas, propoganda-ridden holonets...anywhere. Banking terminals. Anything. Odds are not in our favor, but it's worth some sleepless nights hunting."

Speaking of chip's off the old block, the Conference's room door slides open, and Gren Delede slips in, followed by a beat-up looking R2 unit. The man is dressed in, fittingly enough, an ancient battered Tie Flightsuit. He does his best not to interrupt, choosing to stand near the door, and cross his arms. Pursed lips, and squinted eyes are put on, an attempt to appear thoughtful.

"He's got to be somewhere, on something," Kasia agrees with Ambrosia, but she crinkles her nose slightly at the thought of their odds. "I'll do what I can, see if I can't dig up something that leads to identifying this guy, whoever he is. I have a few contacts I can start with and work my way from there," but she doesn't sound entirely certain that it'll turn up anything.

Tess stares up at the face with her chin resting on her forearms, "I don't know what I'd do, but..." She waves a hand, "You point me at his home world and I break people’s hands until they give me a name..." She's never going to be intelligence... or intelligent. The two are not mutually exclusive.

"That or we could catch our own little bucket head and ask him a few questions," Sar remarks, proving that he has good ideas sometimes. "I'm sure we could probably get a wealth of information out of a Stormtrooper, provided they don't have explosives hidden in the base of their skulls." A very real threat. As Gren enters the room, Sar offers his old running buddy a nod.

The hint of a smirk breaks Ambrosia's stony regard of the hologram. "We could....yes." She watches the newest entry from the corner of her vision while shuffling in a half circle to relocate to the podium's rear and the display's controls. "While our intelligence agents work from home, maybe some of our boys and girls go round up some rats? I suppose we could accommodate a few comfortably...make'em feel right at home."

"I'll offer the use of Phoenix's brig, if need be. Rather than dragging captives back here...and risking unwelcome exposure." Gren Delede offers from his place in the rear of the room. He returned Sar's nod, of course. And eyes the other occupants in the room. "Not that I expect escape is likely..." A pause, and the man's clipped Coruscanti accent betrays a bit of skepticism..."Nor would I get my hopes up that an Stormtrooper will divulge much useful information. But, one can never know until one tries."

"Whatever gets us the name," Kasia remarks as she slants a look in Gren's direction, then back to Ambrosia. "Might be worthwhile to take him up on it, to avoid them gleaning anything from this location," she remarks, but moves on rather than linger on that point. "Do we have any other information beyond this picture, and the fact that he's got some authority?"

"God I hope you're not being literal... I have so much aggression pent up, I would absolutely adore smashing a stormtroopers metacarpals with a jeweling hammer..." Tess says with a little frown, fidgeting a bit. "I hope they don't, not at first anyways. I mean, you hit someone in the median nerve enough times with a cross stitching needle and they'll tell you their mom was really a gungan." Which is the problem with torture, as a general rule, "But I'm more than willing to try until we run out of stormtroopers."

Seriously, Tess' are so useless in these situations.

Sar Yavok looks over to Tess for another handful of moments before he looks back to Ambrosia, "Do we have any intel on any communications outposts set up out there. I know that the one on Felucia turned into a fluke, but catching a small group off-guard is gonna be our best shot at actually managing to snag one. We may have the Phoenix now, but we still can't go toe-to-toe with that Star Destroyer of theirs." A thumb is jerked at Gren, "Especially not with him at the stick."

"Not a lot," Greystorm nods to Kasia while flipping Mr. Delede...a thumbs-up. Then a point to Tess and a 'tsk' finger wag. Denied. "You're young, you still have a soul. Leave the damnation to those of us without a f*cking hope. Like DeLong." It's probably the best gift she could ever offer the man, after all, in exchange for his sacrifice of his tongue.

With a last look to the face, Amber kills the feed and opens her palm for the little datacard to eject into. "Any intel gleaned thus far - transmission intercepts, mostly - has been spotty. Lucky. Mostly caught while flying around in the right place at the right time. But we can pick back through the reports...maybe find a decent target. If we're lucky, we snatch a young one in the mix. The greener they are, the quicker they are to piss themselves. Might not have all the connections of an old boot, but if this guy /does/ have considerable rank, maybe they'll recognize his face. Good to know who it is you take orders from, afterall."

Tess doesn't even look dejected... she looks confused. Then she looks at Kasia and mouths, 'I have a soul?' With real, genuine, concern. The same way a kid might feel gross about having poop on their shoe.

"They've been awfully busy out there. Surely there's a supply depot, or listening post out there that we can hit. Unlikely to be staffed by their sharpest tacks....valuable enough that leveling it will be an overall win, even if capturing and prodding doesn't pay off." Gren interjects, thinking outloud. Most of the time that he's speaking, he's giving Sar the finger, mind you. He smiles at Kasia, when she looks back at him. Long time no see, on that one. Ambrosia's thumbs-up receives a nod. His hands are too busy showing Yavok what he thinks of him.

Kasia smiles back at Gren, but then her attention is drawn away, glances at Tess. Her lips pressing to try and restrain a smile, though she doesn't quite manage it as she nods to the confused soldier. "Alright. Well I will try and work with whatever it is we've got and see if I can get anything remotely helpful." She exhales a quiet laugh through her nose. "Maybe we'll actually get lucky."

Sar Yavok offers a nod to Ambrosia and moves to stand, reaching over to grab his jacket and slide into it. "No doubt about him carryin' some weight." He tugs the canvas coat tighter around himself, straightening the banded collar. He moves nearer the center of the room, closing a bit of the distance between himself and Amber. A gesture to the hologram and the Lieutenant Colonel remarks, "Seen some faces like that in my time. On both sides. You don't get that kinda steel without seeing a few things. Age behind them eyes, I mean." He knows that all of the old-timers in the room recognize the look on the holographic man's face. It's likely the same look they see in the mirror every morning. He shoots Gren a grin (lol) and rests his hands on his hips.

Someone slap her out of her stupor. Tess glances up suddenly and frowns at the red headed image hovering all holographic and large in the center of the table. This is why there should have been coffee.

Thankfully she hasn't offered anything useful to this conversation, so her input likely goes unmissed.

It very well may be the same look Ambrosia sees in the mirror...or has seen without, but before her all the same. Something in her subconscious is nagging, and it's stretching her nerves. "Put that away, before I break it off," Ambrosia finally addresses the lurking Gren in the form of a sudden snap. "What you boys do on your free time is at your leisure, but not on my clock." The stern-faced woman's phrasing may be a little off, some words fumbled and spoken in place incorrectly of the ones actually envisioned in her brain, but so slips speech when you're battling lost (or as she'd call it, 'rerouted') brain function.

Pausing, she continues to stare at Delede. Vacantly. Did she lose her place? Get lost in thought? Suffer a sudden stroke? A blink returns an intelligent sheen to her eyes and she glances aside at no one in particular. "Name that bastard," her voice changes. The typical, casual drawl to slur her words (maybe assisted by 'medicine') is gone and in its place is a well-enunciated, articulate, daresay feminine speak. The voice of entitled elite...or one who's simply spent too much time emulating them, surviving in their midst. "Bring us some pawns to expedite the matter, if necessary."

She clutches the datacard in folded fists while her legs labor /very/ hard to carry her three steps to the hoverchair. Her ass is sinking shakily into it when she whispers "Dismissed."

"Well. Yavok. It's good to know that we're not the only senile ones around these days." Gren observes softly, glancing over at Sar, before biting his tongue, and remaining in place by the door. His arms remain crossed, and he gives his old comrade a look of some seriousness, and eyes the door, and shakes his head, as if suggesting that they stick back, and talk about this. Tess and Kasia are inspected out of the corner of his eyes, curious as to their reaction. Ambrosia just receives a concerned look.

There's a brief few moments where-in Sar considers what Ambrosia's just said to him before he turns a stony gaze towards her. Though his head tilts in consideration as he decides whether he should shoot her with a stun bolt. No, Sar. This isn't Rebel Yell. There are rules. Of a sort.

He'll shoot her later. There's a small, barely noticeable twitch of his left eye, but he clears his throat and raises his eyebrows to Amber. He looks over to Gren and gestures for the newly-christened Naval Captain to make his way down to the center of the room. He moves over to the holoprojector and taps a few commands into it, collapsing the image and having a seat atop it.

Tess pops up off her chair and sighs a little. Her hands smooth back her hair as she turns sharply on her heels and heads for the exit, mumbling something to herself that really sounds a lot like preying that she gets to be there when questions are asked of potentially captured individuals.

Wordless, 'Ice Queen Aderanne' reaches into her vest and digs half a finger into the pill vial hiding there. A tremble of the wrist and her prize goes crunching between teeth. It's bitter, and not just the taste. Sharp, emerald eyes study the Captain in the doorway, follow him in his approach.

The face, housed within the magic of its little card, slips back into her vest alongside her 'chill the frick out' pills. Could be, she forgot to take this morning's dose and this one is long overdue. Could be. Certainly doesn't mean she's eager to swallow it. The grimace reads plain as day. "Senility would be a welcomed change," she mutters softly as the others file out, leaving the old dogs to bark at each other. This one seems to have growled herself out though and simply sags in her chair, staring resentfully at her feet. PT's due in twenty minutes. The goal today is ten steps with proper posture. HER goal is to make the ten steps and have enough left in her to punch Alk in its chrome-plated face. It's a lofty one, but she's confident she can make it.

Gren's not as good at stone faced as Yavok, and it shows as he passes Amber, and relaxes into the seat near Sar. "Thus ends my multi-branch briefing in the Resistance, Sar. And, confidence inspiring, it was not." He's speaking quietly, but he's not exactly whispering. He dips into the front pocket of his flightsuit, and removes a pack of cheap cigarellos. One is removed, and jammed into his mouth, before another is offered to Yavok. "That kind of shit happen often?"

"You alright, Major? I know the answer to that question, but I'd like to hear it out of you," Sar remarks, arms crossing over his chest and tilting his head as he looks her over.

He reaches over and the offered cigarillo. He lights it up and hands the torch off to Delede, saying, "Not particularly." He sniffs and takes a drag from the smoke, looking to Amber, "Major. Care to comment? I understand that he's dressed like an Imperial, but I can assure you that he's on our side."

Back in the old days of the Kinrath Claws? Kinds of shit happened all the time, from Major Aderanne's mouth. She wasn't paid to be nice. She was paid to cut throats and be quiet about it. Or beat the living hell out of someone the Republic couldn't be seen laying a hand on.

These days? It's not supposed to. She's a mother now. Maybe one day a grandmother. Leia would probably not approve. Then again...she did know what she was signing on, when she lured this old rebel out of her civvies and back into uniform.

The graying blonde blinks. Lifts her eyes up and aside to Sar. Answers written in there somewhere, but she opts for a little lie anyway. "I will be." A glance to the cigarello-dealing pilot. "S'why I was so 'friendly' in my greeting. Believe me, you'd have more cause for worry if I smiled."

"Lass. It'd take more than a smile to worry me. You aren't the only one that's seen the shit." Gren says with a faint smirk, before lighting his smoke with the offered torch. It's all tucked away nicely into his pocket, and he remains silent, enjoying the filthy habit for a solid thirty seconds. "You want to be a bitch to your 'kids', feel free. But, jumped up Corporal with an ego like a Hutt's ass, or not....Sar's a senior officer, as am I. So, you can stow that shit, so far as I'm concerned." Clipped voice is quiet. Totally not hypocritical of him. Not at all. Really.

Sar Yavok squints a bit at Amber's response and takes another drag of his cigarillo, exhaling the smoke from the side of his mouth. "You can blame it on whatever you want to, but you don't talk to the other brass like that in front of the soldiers. They /live/ and /die/ based on our decisions, and we can't have 'em thinkin' we spend our time bitin' each other's heads off and havin' pissin' contests." A pause as he looks over to Gren, adding, "However true that may be."

"Especially not new additions like Captain Delede and myself. The soldiers trust you. Hell, I'd go so far as to say they love you. But they don't know me or Gren from some back-alley strange. And comments like the ones you made to us today are just the type of thing that'll lead to widespread insubordination, because 'Well, I saw Major Greystorm do it'. Me and Gren are gonna be in the shit just as much as you and the rest of these soldiers, understood?"

"Quite." Ambrosia forces a thin smile and nod to the gentlemen. "The next time Captain Delede wishes to flaunt lewd gestures at Lt Colonel Yavok during a presentation, I'll be sure not to stand in the way of the fun. Or at least do so more discretely." As the smoke begins to waft about and edge nearer, she clears her throat. "Congratulations, Captain, by the way, on your appointment. If that will be all, I'd like to escort my remaining lung to fresher air."

"He started it...." Gren says after a moment of looking a little guilty. Because...yeah. That was perhaps a little out of line. Still, he clears his own throat, offers a really piss-poor whistle, and sighs. His R2 comes trundling over, and makes an electronic bleeping sigh. Its little arm extends holding an silver disk. The Captain leans over to tap the ash off of his cigarello, and nods to her congratulations, insincere as they may be. "I've been out of the service since the brassholes gave me the boot for being unprofessional. There's a re-learning curve, Major. Hopefully we'll see you on the battlefield sooner, rather than later. He goes to stand. Apparently having ended his own part in the conversation.

The eye roll from Sar that follows Amber's retort is nearly audible, but he doesn't offer anything in response, instead just deciding to puff on his cigarillo for a few moments more. "As soon as you're done with your physical therapy today, I'd like you to meet with Private Ul'Datha. There was some sort of mishap earlier today, and I'd like to see it cleared up before we dispatch to Yavin IV for survival training. Report back to me once you're finished. And I know that the road to recovery is hard...but try to relax. If you get back on your feet without maiming someone, I'll buy you some shots." After he's finished, he lets a silence hang in the air for a few moments before he offers, "Dismissed."

"Let's hope," Ambrosia nods to Gren, watching the little droid ferry his ashes. She dips a brow to Sar. "What happened?" As for physical therapy, it seems the Major's made up her mind about how many steps she'll be aiming for. The woman works at standing from her chair again, pulling a breakaway controller from the arm and stowing it in pocket.

"Not entirely sure. Seems like she took a page out of your book and ran away from the Med Lab. Came upon her, Kasia and Hex hanging out in a cave earlier on my way into Bastion," Sar says.

Thing about being rifle blasted through the back is...it sucks. Spinal cord is angry. Lung working overtime is angry. Scalded heart is angry. Every muscle and every nerve that obeys the commands issued from between those few vertebrae is pissed off and protests painfully.

Nevertheless, Ambrosia fights the allure of gravity's pull and stands up straight. Her belly quivers, abs battling to counter the resulting microspasms of her back. "Dammit," she grumbles and shakes her head quietly. "In my defense, I've never checked out early from THIS medbay. She wasn't even a speck of DNA during my peak of doctor-patient disagreements." Course, that's not to say that if she hadn't been restrained here...

"I'll speak with her." And she turns to face the door, a whole aisle length away. Thus begins what will be a very slow march forward. The hoverchair wakes up, rises up, and follows along steadily behind.