Log:Merc for Money 1: A Matter of Honorifics

Merc for Money 1: A Matter of Honorifics

Location: Nar Shaddaa, Ko Hentota
Participants: Shadra Nim, Frexl, Non-Union SCABS

Rather than the cleansing, restorative drizzle that scrapes away effluvial grime, the inclement weather only serves to release a fetid aroma. The stench is pervasive and serves to limn the piles of garbage and decaying organic matter in a ghostly aura of neons and artificial light. Mercifully, it is dark out and difficult to see. At least until the greenish-yellow streak of lightning illuminates the world and burns a specter of the Moon in to the observer's retina.

Within the housing complex, things are not much better. Trash is piled up, rain worms its way through any orifice of the building that is unprotected, and life skitters about without fear of being snared by traps or other chemical forms of control.

This is where Shadra waits. Seeking a cheap hireling for a dirty job, she reached out to the Guild as most do. She lingers in the hallway, hooded to protect herself from the weather more than to obfuscate her person. Leaning against the wall her attention is to the ceiling. The water pooling there suggests the infrastructure is unpleasantly close to calling it quits. Drawing in a deep breath, she immediately regrets trying to brace herself by filling her lungs. The coughing fit doubles her over requiring that she supports herself with her hands on the apex of her knees. Quickly enough it passes. She spits phlegm on to the ground. The grime greedily devours the offering in to its landscape.

"Stupid uniform... no Dug sizes... BAH! Shoulda just quit on the spot... lousy so and so's..."

It might not be their most distinctive feature, but Dugs tend to move quietly, what with all the barefootedness and the extreme lack of bulk. It would probably do the Apprentice Mercenary known as Frexl a great deal of good to simply walk as nature intended, and occasionally have the element of surprise.

But unfortunately, his complaining tends to announce his presence far before he ever gets close to his intended targets. And that is certainly the case today.

"Crummy poncho... stupid moisture... gonna quit early. That'll show 'em."

There's a sound of banging, as an Apprentice Mercenary collides with an overflowing garbage receptacle, and miraculously manages not to tip it over. He does not miraculously manage not to bang his head on it though, and a stream of oaths pour out of him more filthy than the housing complex he's been sent to mysteriously 'service.'

It's only then that he notices that there is a mysterious hooded woman, coughing up her lungs nearby.

"AAH! CRONE!"

"Ahem! I mean uh... hey there... mysterious old woman. I don't got no handouts for ya. No spice. No blue sand. Just a workin' man, here to do some work. So... scram!"

"You know... back to the shadows, or whatever."

With Frexl about as subtle as a Wampa in a glassware shop, Shadra would have to be truly bereft of sense to not spy the trundling Dug from halfway across your average star port. Rising back to her full height, she wipes her mouth off on the back of her sleeve before squinting in study at the bedraggled blue sentient.

"Crone?" Shadra's usually dulcet tones are tinged with the acid of malevolence. Whether it is entirely for the man's comment or commentary on the weather is left to the imagination. Slipping a hand in to her pocket, she produces a portable holoprojector. With a push of a surface button the device comes to life. The projection is Frexl if the Dug had spent a great deal of credits on holo manipulation or makeup a decade ago. The woman's eyes flit from the projection to the Dug in the flesh repeatedly before sighing.

"For the sake of brevity, I will pretend I did not hear your comment," Shadra drawls. "It seems that the Guild does not believe in due-diligence when it comes to their less... costly operatives. When was this picture taken?"

Quickly realzing his mistake, Frexl locks it up and stands at something roughly approximating the position of attention. Adjusted drastically for the weird way that Dugs stand, obviously.

Peering into the holoprojector, the Dug seems to not quite recognize the image either. Rubbing the weird flesh moustache with his equally weird handfoot, he clearly thinks that he looks contemplative, but mostly just looks befuddled. Like a nerf herder having a hyperdrive explained to him.

"That there... why... obviously that's a picture of me. They must a took it after I was born sometime. You know how things are here on the Smuggler's Moon. Everybody's so obsessed with appearances. Takin' pictures, wearin' fancy robes... uh... no offense. But me, I'm a man of ACTION!"

He pushes his poncho open in the middle, revealing his ill-fitting uniform, which he seems to be wearing upside-down, with a hole cut in the trouser section and the traditional neck hole bungeed together with some sort of stretchy cord.

What he was APPARENTLY trying to show off, however, was the bandolier he's wearing, weighed down with cartridge casings. No obvious blasters though, just... some casings.

And what looks like a baton.

"See? Don't you worry now, you're gonna get yer credit's worth, and THEN SOME! They don't call Old Frexl the Malastare Mauler fer NOTHIN'!"

Shadra ruminates on what Frexl has revealed to her. The questing of her tongue on her right canine suggests that the Dug is left wanting by her estimation. After several heartbeats she spirits the holoprojector away and tugs back the cowl of her robe. "I agree that you likely do not have any positive honorifics to your name for any of your past deeds," the woman intones. Distracted, the words are not as cutting as intended and instead drift in the din of the storm outside. Her attentions are paid to the ventilation system overhead, the housing units, and the panel exposed to the hallway that they linger on.

"But, perhaps you will have your opportunity to demonstrate that you deserve otherwise," Shadra relents. A furtive glance at her chrono hints that time is more valuable than the Dug's competency. "If you kriff this up, I hope you are armed." She regards the Dug with solicitude and then inclines her head at the grill overhead.

"You are going in there," Shadra explains. "Quietly, you are going to head to the end of the ventilation to the second room. There, you will discharge this." From a side pocket, she produces a small, greenish-tinged cylinder. "The /second/. Understand?"

Grinning broadly, Frexl pulls his shoulders back, and puffs out both his chest and his neck folds. Really makes the neck swell up enticingly.

"Don't worry, Boss. Just like it's an honorific for YOU to have me here, it's an honorific for ME to have this opportunity for... more honorifics. You don't gotta worry about nothin', nothin' at all."

Reaching out to take the small, greenish-tinged cylinder in his weird handfoot, the gray and blue-mottled Dug's inherently sinister expression takes on an air of genuine delight.

"I'll get right in there, go in the second room first, and then discharge this thing second. Do it in my sleep, probably. Not that I would, I take all my contracts real serious."

As he tucks the greenish-tinged cylinder away under his poncho, the Dug makes his way toward the opening of the ventilation system, scrambling up to get inside, with his weird legarms first, which somehow looks even stranger than when he's leading with his weird handfeet.

Shadra allows Frexl to snatch the cylinder away and then reflexively wipes her hand off on her flank. "Right." The intonation of her voice is coupled with a languid nod. The gesture buys her the time to process the nonsense that had been scattered in her direction like the haphazard shots of an E-Web. "Wait, what?" Violently, she shakes her head to throw the cobwebs of confusion aside.

"No, you idiot," Shadra hisses, "you prime the device and then throw it through the vent in to the second room. You do not go in yourself." With an exasperated huff, she bounds up the stairs towards the door to the target unit. "Dyeesh, this karking bucket-head." Curses uttered, she carefully picks her way around the scattered refuse and takes up a position astride the entrance.

"Whoa whoa whoa there! Who's the professional here?"

Frexl's suddenly realized that perhaps this old woman isn't quite as amiable as he'd let himself believe. There's a lesson in there somewhere. For someone else, probably.

"This ain't my first ride on the Mechanical Nerf, if you know what I'm sayin'. I'm a THIRD YEAR Mercenary Apprentice. Not one of those layabouts in the Bounty Hunters Guild. Pfft! Prime the device, oh I'll prime it, alright."

Clambering upward, ever upward, the Dug struggles mightily against the awkward forces of gravity, inertia, and general incompetence. He's an enthusiastic climber though, let it never be said otherwise.

"Just... gotta... HA!"

The building resonates with the sound of a Dug in an upside-down rent a cop uniform clambering through a ventilation shaft, making the impossible affordable, for one very lucky lady with a lung condition.

Pressed against the wall in an effort to melt in to the shadows, Shadra monitors the Dug's assent with no small amount of trepidation. She tracks the alien's entire ascent. Every step seemingly causes her manicured nails to bite a little deeper in to the water damaged walls that separate the housing units from the decrepit hallway until her mark is indelibly part of the architecture.

"Shut your trap, laser-brain!" Shadra seethes as she reaches for her force pike. With a press of a button on the side and a violent flick of the wrist, the graphite stick extends to its full length. "A trained Gizka could do a better job!"

Shadra's gut feelings on things is that this was not going to go off without a hitch. Time will tell.

"Yuck! It's wetter than a Nautolan's nutsack in this... crummy... TUBE!"

Clang! Clang! Bump!

"Smells worse too. Stupid contractor, CHEAPIN' OUT, not givin' me no FLASHLIGHT!"

Shuffling ever forward through the ventilation shaft, Frexl might look like a character in a spy holovid if it weren't for the strained way he makes his way through the shaft, his perpetually open mouth, or his strained breathing.

"Lessee... go to the... first room first... THEN! Prime the device... second and then..."

"Scut! What was the third thing? She only told me two things!" He takes a deep breath in, and calms himself. "It's okay. Happens all the time. A good mercenary knows that the customer is usually wrong, and plans accordingly. I think... this is the way."

The Dug makes his way to the right, until he finally finds a hole in the vent overlooking a room. He turns back over his shoulder and calls back through the ventilation shaft.

"I THINK I FOUND IT!"

Every clatter, clash, and jangle sends Shadra to wincing until she is nearly doubled over, her eyes are clamped shut, and her teeth are set on edge. Fortunately, the black haired woman has the pike to help her pull herself back to her full height. Like an elder struggling to fight against the effects of entropy, she rises. Then there's a noise.

"Oi, what the kriff was that?!" A gruff, Corellian voice returns the Dug's shout with enough trepidation that his voice cracks in to a high pitched shrill about halfway through. "Pac. Pac. PAC! PAAAAAC!"

"What?" Another annoyed voice follows along with a thump.

"Was that a ghost?"

"Ghost?" A third voice joins the fray. "Yo man, I don't want to get ghosted. You hear what Lizzle was saying last week?"

"No."

"No."

"Well, you don't want to!"

The conversation is largely impossible to follow as each of the different voices go rapid fire through the possibilities. Then things get quiet.

"HEY! I PRIMED THE DEVICE! UH... SECOND! HOW MANY SECONDS DOES IT...?"

The Dug's great shouting suddenly ceases, as the greenish-tinged cylinder starts to beep very quickly, one might even say 'furiously.'

"GAACK!" Frexl quickly tries to rid himself of the contraption, tossing it like a spaz. It hits the mouth of the ventilation shaft, bounces back, and collides with Frexl's own forehead. At which point Frexl goes into full on spastic mode, and tears through the hole, leaving his poncho and the greenish-tinged device behind.

He himself collides on the floor with a surprisingly loud 'THUMP!' for such a little guy.

Must be all the extra weight from those cartridge casings.

"OW! SCROTES ABOVE! I LANDED ON MY ORGANS!"

Rather than an explosion, there's a click and a hiss as the pressurized cannister reacts with oxygen from the outside air. Billows of verdantly tinged gas rapidly expand to pack every square centimeter with the noxious chemical until it can go nowhere else: except for the room that gravity had so unceremoniously plunked Frexl in to and back the way he came. Tendrils try to scrabble their way out of the vents. Like snakes they quest forward.

Because the cannister is in the vent rather than in the room proper, it is taking a great deal more time to fill up. Fortunately for those involved, the chemical induces a lack of consciousness rather than anything mortal, but this diluted it's going to take its time to come in to effect. Unfortunately, Frexl is now the subject of the ire of three gangers as he has come crashing down on a stash of half-eaten Huttese takeout and an assortment of spice-based hypos.

"Wait, that's no ghost!" Pac exclaims as he gets a view of Frexl ass over tea kettle. The room may have been serviceable at one point but now humidity has stripped paint and corrosion is apparent on the metal panels about. There are stains all over. Who knows what the source is? A beaten up couch occupies most of the room. Holo projector, a safe, some portable heating units, and a bunch of random personal effects are strewn about. The trio are all kind of similar: slacks, light armor, blaster pistols, the rough and tumble. A Corellian, a Zabrak, and some other near-human somewhere in between.

Scrambling into a mostly-upright position as quick as his gangly limbs will allow, the surprisingly nimble Dug reaches for his gun belt. The one that doesn't have any guns on it. It does, however, have a sheath holstering some sort of flashlight-looking thing, but we already know that Frexl's mercenary company was too cheap to provide him with a flashlight.

"Yeah, that's right. I ain't a ghost. BUT YOU GUYS IS ABOUT TO BE ONES!"

With a quick snap of his wrist, the Dug pulls out a short baton, and the flick makes it... slightly longer. He looks, if nothing else, very ready to observe and report.

A slightly congealed lump of some sort of condiment drips down Frexl's nose and onto his lower lip. In the right light, it might look like some blood, which would be bad ass.

This is not the right light.

"OUR TAKEOUT!" Chanzuc bellows in lamentation for the loss of his Gnarl T'sows gizka nuggets. Clearly the gastronomically inclined of the trio based on his substantial belly-related girth, he is the first to move to draw a blaster pistol. "Do you have any idea how expensive it is to get that delivered? Nobody comes out here for less than a ten credit tip!" All three scramble to their feet. Chanzuc is closest having been minding the table of vittles. Beimmir is farther back near the holoprojector setup. Pac is somewhere in between having been investigating the source of the obnoxious shouting from the vents. All three pull their pistols.

The gas continues to fill the chamber.

Shadra has opted to stay outside with her ear pressed up against the door. Gaze distant, she scowls at nothing in particular as she monitors Frexl's progress. A glance is paid to the vent that the alien had climbed in to several minutes earlier but she dismisses whatever risk it may present. Opening the door, of course, would prevent the gas from doing its job.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever man, let's wrap this up, yes? Mercin' ain't my only job, ya know, I also turn the tables at this club near the spaceport."

Looking down at the chronometer on the leg that looks most like an arm, Frexl frowns reflexively. Looks like he might be really pushing it on time.

"I'm gonna give youze to the count of five, and then youze are gonna surrender, and then I'm gonna get an honorific from an old lady. But YOU'LL get an honorific too, 'cause you'll be able to say that it was FREXL, THE MALASTARE MAULER what took you down hard. And made it look... so, so easy."

"Look man, I was just hungry and came over 'cuz my buds here were offering food," Chanzuc raises his hands defensively and works his way back towards the door. "Besides, I don't deal with no weird four-armed spider dogs."

"Chanz, stop being a jittery ewok and get back here!" Beimmir barks. Clearly, out of the trio, the man's the brains and brawn of the operation if his giant meat hand engulfing the blaster pistol is any indication. Pac does not seem particularly interested in throwing in his two cents.

"Sorry guys, I'm out!" Chanzuc slams the door lock and the portal opens with a hiss of hydraulics and the faint grinding of motivators that could use a good oiling. He trundles out with all haste not even bothering to notice the Shadra lurking just next to the frame of the door.

"Why do you always invite that Hutt Slime?" Beimmir interrogates Pac.

"My mum always gets angry when I don't take him out to do things, you know?" Pac offers with a nonchalant shrug.

"Bah, Bith spit. Let's just get to shootin'."

So the pair do. Plasma rains down in bursts from the cheap, black market blaster pistols.

"GAAACK!"

Going instantly into Reactive Spastic Mode, Frexl tries to protect his face while also doing an extremely awkward dance away from the blaster bolts.

No wait, it's NOT an extremely awkward dance, it's... actually kind of graceful, in a weird spidery way. Apparently what the Dug Mercenary lacks in everything else, he makes up for in ability to dodge stuff. Who'd have thunk?

Practically pirouetting away from the blaster fire, and toward the closest of the thugs, Frexl slams the Stun Baton headfirst right into Pac Thurrall's face. Not only does it take a few teeth, but the shock baton lights his head up like it was hit with Emperor Palpatine's bug zapper.

And it hurts, too. Judging by his reaction, anyway.

With the door open the gas is rendered useless. It spills out on to the floor like the smoke machines at a rave involving death sticks and entirely too much Juma juice. It also affords Shadra an opportunity to view the Dug through a different lens as she chooses to lean up against the inset of the door and observe the battle rather than assist. Gripping the force pike, she watches intently. Through this crucible of plasma, ruined takeout, and piss-stained furniture Frexl may redeem himself in her eyes.

Pac's brain is scrambled through a combination of percussive therapy and electroshock leaving the man's eyes crossed and smoke coming out of his ears. Gravity has its way and he stumbles back half a step before tripping over his own rubbery legs. Thunk! His head goes partially through the plaster and he's out.

Beimmir grits his teeth and growls as he steps back for a tactical retreat towards the door. His pistol remains level with the horizon line as he does his best to follow the Dug's spastic movement. Unfortunately, Beimmir was never much for the arts and has limited practice interpreting the whimsy of Frexl's random flailing.

Lit up with his very own toxic smoke machine, and wailing on some low-rent thugs, Frexl might actually look kind of cool if he wasn't covered in condiments and wearing his jumpsuit upside down.

As it stands, it just looks like somebody's mangy pet is chasing some fat guy around a dirty apartment.

"BOSS! They's shootin' at me! I better be gettin' TIME AND A HALF!"

Once again gracefully avoiding certain death, the Dug somersaults across the room to juuuust within striking distance of the larger, and let's face it, more attractive of the thugs. A nice whack across the noggin should have put him out cold, by Frexl's reckoning, but not only did it not do that, but it DID put Frexl dangerously close to a guy who is still up and holding a blaster!

Beimmir takes the hit like a champion who is used to taking hits to the face. Aside from crimson fluid beginning to leak from his nose, he seems to no worse for wear from the agile Frexl's blows. Staggering backward with each successive wailing he makes it to the door.

Shadra is having none of that and shoves the man back in to the room to be subject to more of the Dug's furious flailing. She just rolls her eyes at the Dug's declaration. Perhaps she was hoping that the stocky man would end her contract prematurely.

Beimmir, caught off guard, stumbles in to the back of the couch. Wheezing with the effort and pivoting on the ball of his foot, he turns to continue shooting at anything he can see. "What is this Hutt-licking gravel maggot?! STAY STILL!" Growing ever more frantic more plasma bolts are haphazardly peppered about.

Alright, Shadra Nim with the assist! It gives Frexl the opportunity, no, the HONORIFIC, to paste him right in the face with a stun baton one more time.

"Hutt-lickin'? HOWZABOUT YOU LICK THIS!"

Too late, the guy's already on the floor, he'll never hear the closest thing to a clever retort that Frexl has ever come up with. At least in Basic, anyway.

For a moment, he stands there over his fallen prey, chest heaving, lungs filling with Gnarl T'sows sauce fumes, and... also the toxic fumes from that one cannister that he pretty much failed to deliver properly.

He failed to deliver the cannister, but it looks like he delivered the message.

"Youze guys should join the Galatic Mercenary Workers', if you wanna learn to fight good like me. And also, we got the good dental care, which youze are gonna... aw... man... they's both asleep."

He digs around in one of his pockets, and pulls out what looks like a leaflet. Dropping the leaflet on the unconscious Beimmir Drandrerr, he turns and heads toward the door, catching proper sight of the Boss for the first time in a while.

"Just 'cause they's mooks don't mean they gotta keep workin' RAT, am I right?"

Shadra merely scoffs and rolls her eyes. "You were clearly dropped on your head one too many times when you were a diglet or whatever your species called their children." Shink! The graphite force pike shrinks to its smallest possible size with a grating whine from each metal segment. The woman lashes it back to her hips and stalks inside. Taking care to avoid the unconscious gangbangers and all the assorted refuse, she carefully picks her way across to the other side of the room.

"But, you mostly earned your credits," Shadra concedes as she drops to her haunches in front of the safe. "Huh," the woman tilts her head quizzically to the left. "Unexpected. Was this open when you fell through the vent?" She glances back to eye Frexl.

Turning around, the Dug watches the woman cross the room, his baton still at the ready in case of unexpected malarkey. He's the one who's supposed to be the professional, after all. You get paid less when the client dies. Much less.

His bloodshot orange eyes squint as he leans his neck forward to get a better look. The better look leaves him unimpressed.

"What? That crummy box? It's probably what they kept all their farts in, from the smella this place. 'Sall yours, Boss."

Shadra nods, accepting Frexl's crude perspective on reality as it is delivered. Turning back, the small safe is cradled in her palms as she rises. The durasteel safe is fairly heavy but the woman is hardly so delicate as to be unable to heft a dozen kilos with both hands. Sure enough, it remains empty. She turns it once last time to be absolutely sure. Drawing in an audible breath, she sighs.

"You've earned your credits. I'll inform the Guild that they are to be released from escrow," Shadra utters her verdict. "Get out of here and put your uniform on properly next time." She waves the Dug away as she pivots on the ball of her foot and bridges the distance between herself and the thug named Beimmir.

Remaining standing, Shadra straddles the unconscious man and peers in to the empty safe one last time. She peers at its lack of contents for entirely too long before shutting the box and listening to its digital lock slip in to place. After another moment's consideration the safe is lifted over her head.

Shadra snarls as she brings the safe down hard on the unconscious man's face. She wails over, and over, and over again until his skull resembles something similar to the Gnarl T'sows gizka dinner the trio had ordered.

By the time the Guild takes their cut, union fees are considered, a cut is taken for a lack of seniority, apprenticeship fees, uniform, dry-cleaning, and the flashlight provision, Frexl is left with a handful of credits.