Objective: Seek and interrogate
Equipment: a small tactical blaster; multi-tool; knives; various wires, diodes, resistors, and other spare parts
Nothing seemed more emblematic of the complexities of choreography than a media production set in a remote space station between multiple entities owned by various different private interests. There was the production crew for the Dance or Die event, of course, but there was also the daily workings of the station crew. This included not only security staff, in charge of keeping the crowds outside of unwanted areas, but of environmental crews, maintenance crews, docking staff, room keepers, and a plethora of other divisions that each had thin lines of communication outside of need-to-know orders to allow them to function in their jobs. It was a such a delicate balance of choreography that a single tip, such as an invasion of a predatory species left staff utterly confused about how to carry on.
Of course, certain divisions had received word before others, such as security staff that sought to lock down the station in a discreet and unpublicized manner. But docking staff had simply been left in the dark. So when a swelling of the panicked and confused public rushed their way into the hangers to get access to their respective shuttles, the control room was sent sprawling about to attempt to bring order into chaos.
In this confusion, a single transport shuttle had overridden quarantine protocols and proceeded into the hanger with little regard to staff and the confused, wealthy nobility that had hurriedly ran away from the shuttles intended landing spot in the middle of the hanger. After settling with a hiss, the shuttle’s hatch opened and revealed its single occupant - a palish woman with freckles and a the worst case of bed-head. She stretched and yawned, rubbing her eyes.
Huddled before Dawn was a mass of surly and confused guests who were shouting over each other and throwing daggered glances in her direction while she simply placed her hands behind her head and swayed into the crowd. With a weary and glossy gaze, Dawn meandered with purpose, sifting and shoving her way through the Never-In-My-Lifers and I-Want-To-Speak-To-The-Managers that littered the hanger floor. A particularly familiar numbness crept along the back of her neck and skull, leaving her feeling somewhat absent minded. But she simply went along for the ride as she instinctively knew the exact direction to head.
At the station entrance tunnel, several armed guards stood, halting a group of wealthy protesters who demanded to know, precisely, the meaning of all of this. The security staff remained stalwart and stone-faced, even as a lavishly dressed and well-painted neimodian woman stood haughtily with puffed cheeks.
“Look at these heels. These were my mother’s heels. Do these heels look like hanger heels to you? I wore these heels for Brad. Do you know what these heels do if I stand in these heels too long? My feet turn into melons. Do you want to explain to my husband why my feet are melons?”
“Ma’m, I’m sorry for th…”
“Sol! Sol! Where’s my husband in this Prison? Sol!”
“I don’t know wh…”
“Don’t tell me what you know and what you don’t know. I know you don’t know anything. I’m looking for my husband. Are you holding him hostage? Is that what this is about? What’d he do?”
“Ma’m I don’t know know your husba…-”
“SOL!” The woman shouted in a gruff voice. “Somebody find my husband before my feet turn into an all-you-can-eat melon buffet for the whole station!”
Unable to tolerate the delay any longer, Dawn pushed past the woman in the fur and bluffed. “Hey! You, with the gun and the datapad! Dawn Moor. CIS. Lookin’ for a guy named Sol. Got a Sol around here?”
The solemn face of the man fell upon Dawn with utter dismay lurking behind stone cold eyes. He slowly shook his head and muttered, “I don’t get paid enough…”
“You’re lookin’ for MY husband, young lady?” The woman stood over Dawn, glaring down at her. “You?! So skinny. What’s my husband doing schmoozing with this floozy?”
“Lady, do you want me to find your husband or not? Because I can just-”
“You said you’re with the CIS?” The security guard asked Dawn.
“Yeah?” She replied, staring down the very tall and portly neimodian.
The guard stepped forward and took Dawn’s arm, “Come on. Everyone, make room. Let her pass!”
The Neimodian woman shouted at Dawn, “If you find my husband, tell him he can eat his shoes for dinner. And have your mother make you a sandwich! Oy, these heels…”
The guard escorted Dawn to the hatch, keying in a code to open it while whispering,“I trust you know what’s out there. Be careful. And please, for all of us....find her husband.”