Log:The "Whore Data" Redemption
The "Whore Data" Redemption
OOC Date: December 4, 2017
Location: Hound Base
Participants: Ambrosia Greystorm, Rato Darsi, The Resistance
Somewhere in the maze of the Gearhead District, sits an abandoned factory - one of many.
This is an expansive facility that once manufactured platform droids that were used to lift capital ships between production levels inside of Capital Ship production facilities during the Galactic Civil War. After the Battle of Endor the factory was shut down and has lied vacant and abandoned ever since.
A few patrols of hovering Blaster Bots can be seen flying about with torchlights, shining them around the dark corners of the abandoned facility shooting at anything that moves, be it granite rats or intruders.
The facility is ten stories high and is loaded with giant old machines, robotic arms that could lift houses, and old rusted out construction droids... its dark, its gloomy, its spooky and its not the kind of place you want to be for long.
She was told not to come back but, as it is, common decency, adherence to authority, and sanity have never come easily to Rato Darsi, and the one-armed Togruta is resolutely standing her ground at the mouth of a tunnel she once held access to. "Give time!" She has repeatedly hissed into the dark, totally covert building, waving cheerily with her remaining hand into what she /knows/ is a camera. She looks like crap and, should the Resistance have left any sort of eyes on their former opreative, it would be known that she simply /vanished/ shortly after aiding in the discovering a new species. As one does. Casual.
The stump of her left arm is hidden beneath the folds of her brightly colored poncho, and she remains hunched behind a pile of stoney rubble, just in case her old 'friends' prove less gracious hosts than she's been banking on. "Have words for smelly Greystorm!" Language barrier? Let's say yeah. "No follow, no tail - just horns." Holy shit was that a joke? "Is joke." She informs the darkness.
"There's a chance we won't intercept - schedules change, craft have technical issues, navcomps get a bug up their ass - but that's why we've got two strike teams readied to stalk two of their alleged routes and pounce if the transport pops up on radar." LC Greystorm gestures vaguely at the starmap in front of the half bored looking faces watching her through the green haze. "If one manages to intercept, the others will jump to rende--"
- KRAAAANK* *KRAAAAANK* *KRAAAAANK*
The klaxons most definitely deafen whatever syllables spill out of her mouth next as she casts a supremely annoyed look to the ceiling. "Guns'll take care o--" and then her personal comm is pinging on hip and an announcement requesting her immediate presence in the security hub blares overhead with almost as much gusto as the klaxons. "Kriff," the aging soldier sighs and casts a defeated look to her toes before holding up a hand with a point of warning "Nobody'd better leave this bloody room till you hear from me," and marches out.
Perhaps Ambrosia hopes that the defensive fire turrets will grow impatient and simply let loose, if she takes too long getting up there. Perhaps she's just feeling the ravages of time more than usual today. She takes awhile to assemble her self, gear, and make it to loom over one of the officers glaring at the vid feed. There's a flailing arm and tips of montrals peeping out. Is joke, all right. "Doshing idiot," the LC concludes intelligently as all eyes are upon her, then lifts a hand. "Hold your fire..." and her grumbling mutters follow her on out the door and into the lift up, up, up, up to the tune of dismal creaks of questionable maglev.
So maybe her methods need some work. Rato Darsi remains crouched behind the rubble, even as she feels the shifts, the rumbles, the labored approach of her inevitable lecture (or execution tbh). One hand is raised in surrender as that lift groans its way upward, and the gaunt Togruta carefully and slowly peeks over the top of her stony (and useless) cover. "Am... Sorry." She announces as she feels, more than she hears, its ascent slow - and, really, this b never apologizes, we're already off to a fresh start. "Did not have other way to make talk." At least no one is smelly and purple anymore, right? We can all just laugh about it now, right?
...Right?
Right. Greystorm is not smelly and purple (unless you wanna mention the stale caf breath). She is, however, suited up for a fight and has the rifle raised at the ready when the door slides open and allows one booted foot to plant firmly onto death tunnel ground. Then the other boot. Once she's advanced a few slow strides from the hatch, the lift descends back into blackness, leaving her there. "You got a brain between those horns, Darsi, or just nerve?" Is joke??? She doesn't sound like she's laughing. She sounds pissed. "You look like shit. Stand up," the rifle jerks sideways, indicating she shed what remains of her cover.
With a sigh, the Togruta stands, still with an arm and a half raised. "Is brain /and/ nerves. You know this, yes?" There is a frown. "Have information and - " well, we'll get to that. Careful, stalking strides pull her away from her little rock heap and out into full view. "I make right." She manages to huff out, gaze flicking anxiously around the surveillance she can't see... And then, for the first time (for Ambrosia, at least), she drops the bullshit. "Look, Greystorm. I am aware of the risk I pull in coming here and if you wish to save yourself the inconvenience of my company, you are more than welcome to shoot me in the head. Be careful to aim for my forehead and not the montrals, though. I have learned that 'head' can be decieving." A pause. "And please do not have my body sent back to Shili, it is not wanted there. Just bury me in the park. Otherwise, I've got some information for you as well as a request I don't presume you will be fond of."
If there's one thing that former 'Ice Queen Aderanne' can appreciate (and there probably is) it's a straight shooter. No bull. No flattery. No wasting of time begging for life. The rifle whines with hungry anticipation as the fingers flexing 'round the trigger mull it over. "Information," Ambrosia decides and relaxes her grip a smidge. Even lifts her head a little from the sight to peer at Rato woman-to-woman rather than woman-scope-woman. "Then we'll see about your request."
Is there a sigh of relief? Maybe, either way the Togruta slips back toward her savage facade of uneducated drabble. Or is the sophistication the facade? Either way, the Togruta is still standing and not buried in the park. That's a start. "Am not armed." She warns Ambrosia curtly, her one hand dipping toward a pocket while her nub remains raised. "Data." She slowly, slowly plucks a data chit free and holds it up, pinched between her organic and cybernetic fingers. "Names, ranks, habits. First Order baka - I follow, I /know/ they have better intel than just -" she wiggles the chit to indicate it. "-Is where you find them and when - unarmed, unprotected, guaranteed." There is a sly, sickening smirk that slowly spreads there. "No armor, guarantee. Easy hunt, easy catch." She shrugs. "Or kill. Not my care."
"The stars you mean 'guaranteee'?" Ambrosia questions, eyes narrowed. She advances a few more steps, then lifts a hand away from her rifle to snap fingers and indicate she's ready to catch, if Rato will toss. "Unarmed, no armor...you find a way into the FO bath house on this moon, Darsi?"
"Bath house? On /this/ moon, no." That's a worrying answer; the data chit soars gracefully from her mangled, remaining hand to mangled, remaining hand. "First Order is lonely machine, building stolen soldiers from dust and kidnapping. But is still human, and men are stupid. Easy to know." She makes a lewd gesture that, to put it gently, involves moving her hand up and down a few times. "For racists, are quick to chase cheap company, yes? Lekku, fur - I have seen all." Her hands are still raised in a pointless surrender now that she isn't using one ot imitate a handie. "Is sad, most do not even mate - just ask for... Contact. Spoons. Hair stroking - but these names, these on your hand, these /consistent/. I know where go, when, and what freaky touches they give moneys for." She shrugs. "Is... Gross."
- Crackle*fizzle*fizz*
"Lieutenant Colonel?" The crackly voice inquires from Greystorm's com. "Do you copy?"
"Standby," Ambrosia grunts aside with a tip of her head like that somehow gets her mouth closer to the helmet com that, being attached to her head presently, moves as she does. She then turns off the com, leaving the security watchers to rely on their visual feed.
"You telling me you ventured into this death trap to inform me 'bout what slag the bucketheads like to dip their wicks?" The expression deepening those wrinkles on Greystorm's face contorts with a blend of disbelief, annoyance, and....amusement? A low chuckle wells up from the menopausal broad's chest and she drops the rifle to her side, then fingers the caught data chit more tenderly in hand. "Well. Wouldn't be the first time I helped a man die happy." Her sinister smile reveals enough of the untold story to suggest that time's not fuzzed all the juicy details from her memory. But, now that she's the information in hand - her 'mangled' hand - she slips it beneath an inch of collar and casts a swiftly sobering glare back over Rato.
"So now I s'pose I've got to hear what it is you /want/. Could have made those kills yourself, if that was your real goal. Whorehouse security's inherently flawed."
There's a pause as Ambrosia switches her com off before Rato shrugs. "Yah." She doesn't want to know what other men the LC has led to a happy death, but the idea does let a smile flit over the Togruta's features. "Some of these wick dippers, they are not just... Bucketheads. Could be more information, could be no. Are many 'whorehouse' on Nar Shaddaa. Some good, some give sores. Most have vents, poor scaffolds. I know all." Never let it be said that 'Rat' was not well named. "I get information I can." There is another shrug as she finally lowers her arms - the blood rushes back to her fingertips (those that remain) and she winces as it comes to the tricky part.
What does she want? "Redemption." She finally explains. "Is long story, and boring. I go places, cut some things off, cut some things out -" she waves a hand in a worryingly dismissive gesture toward her stomach. "Some... Things make sense now that were not so clear. I want back in Resistance. I get you any information, I go any place, I die if say-so, I wear fancy dress and make politics if say-so. Is my trade for whore data and maybe sores."
Rato's gesture of 'cutting things out', following so closely in the wake of talk of FO-servicing whores, earns the faintest twitch of /something/ in Amber's brow. Concern? Disgust? Acid reflux? She makes an effort to mask it with a little snark. "Get tired of chasing Waldin's tail? Gotta hand it to ya though - academia? Wouldn't have figured. Spicy fly..." Somebody's been reading the news...and reporting back to Amber! She snorts. Greystorm shifts her weight, feet getting restless while she stares contemplatively at the Togruta. "You'd better not have sores..." she grumbles and passes the rifle over her own head to secure on her back. "Because until you've given me cause to lift your probation, Private, you're bunking with me. When you're not with me, you're under supervision of someone else, and they /will/ have permission to shoot you if you should do so much as piss without permission. So keep those fangs to yourself. Yes?"
Did she just grant Rato her request?
"Just so happens I might have a use for you, twenty hours from now. I'd really like your brain and nerves at my disposal on this op, but I've gotta be sure your ass is mine and capable of keeping in line."
Sounds like the flies aren't the only things getting spicy around here. "No teeth." She agrees, listing off the demands with the eager nod of a child who has just been given the 'but you walk it, feed it, make sure it has water' speech. "No teeth, is your ass, no sores, ask to pee." There is a wide, pointy grin followed by a one armed salute. "I am there, just tell me do."
Ambrosia is going to learn the hard way that Rato Darsi is an avid spooner, but shit at pillow talk.
Kort did used to say she was a glutton for punishment...
Ambrosia frowns, seeming more offput than reassured by Rato's eager grin. "Curb your enthusiasm, Darsi. You're under scrutiny." She then takes a few backward steps to the side and motions toward the lift. Worn treads scrape impatiently over gritty, factory floor. "Let's go. Throwing you in the damn sanisteam before you set foot in my briefing room. The hell you been sleeping in? Sewage culverts?"
