But Not To Help

[Kuzo]

Aleen​

Site A-13​

Galactic Alliance SIS Black Site​

Continued from Splinters​

[media]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z-dw3HFhva8[/media]​

"When the Fox hears the Rabbit scream, he comes running..... but not to help."​

​

​

Time. There was so little of it left, and yet Irajah Ven had nothing but time- to sit, to think.

To remember.

Her life had shrunk to the contents of these two rooms and a set series of predictable moments that broke the silence only just enough to grasp onto. Guard checks. Repeated recitation of details she had given a dozen times already- to check for lies, omissions, inconsistencies. And of course, new questions, polite, always polite, but always met with the same, stony silence. She ate little, refused further study of the strange bruising that baffled their medics. She slept, if poorly. They agreed to her sole request- paper and charcoal (a pencil, after all, could be a weapon in the wrong hands). She let her hands and sketches follow the path of her thoughts. Places she remembered from her home, but as it became clear just how hazy those memories had become, she shifted.

The smiling face of a young boy, eyes wary around the edges, but the upturned tilt of his head hopeful.

A young man, thoughtful and focused on long fingers splayed over the keys of a piano. Hair covered his face but for the barest suggestion of a profile, pensive and lost in the moment, whatever that moment was.

A dark haired, smoking woman, lines and impressions only that would make recognizing her impossible. Her face turned away, the barest hint of a smirk in the tightness of the line of graceful neck and the curve of her cheek. Smoke coiling, almost as if it would rise off the page.

Two men at a small kitchen table, leaning away from it but toward each other. Both giving the same, suspicious look to the glittering eyed amphistaff curled comfortably in the middle.

A girl, head down as she sat at the edge of a hospital bed, hair obscuring her face. Bare feet swinging just above the floor. Waiting. Waiting.

A sharp jawed face turned away. The curve of a familiar shoulder, strong and well formed, the barest hint of tattoos that bled off the edge of the paper.

A cup of tea settled in a woman's lap, her hands in obviously animated explanation of something above it, but frozen and captured in that moment, as if at the blink of an eye they would start teaching once again.

Silhouetted against a window, a large man's brows furrowed in concentration as he studied something that clearly perplexed him. In the shadows cast by light streaming in, the impression of stark, angular scars on the side of his head and down his neck.

The crouching hulk of a herglic, incongruous with huge hands gently scooping up a damaged mouse droid, both strength and compassion drawn clean in every line.

Leaning over a microscope, a teenage girl- tongue stuck out at the corner of her mouth in concentration, free hand tapping observation notes into the pad beside her on the counter.

She marked her days, drawing by drawing, sketch by sketch. Each day a new memory committed to paper. Because she had to do something. Something to ease the waiting. To fill the time. She knew that, eventually, they would let her go. But the promise of 'freedom' did nothing to make the waiting easier. If anything it added a trudging march to the passage of time. She had no desire to stay here. But as soon as that door opened and they let her go, then the race would begin. To get to safety, before the First Order found her. She had no reason to believe the man had been bluffing when he had made his threat. The simple assumption that there was no safety for her, not any longer on Dosuun had settled like a heavy cloak. While she held no loyalty to Panatha and those she had sold out without regret, the Order itself would see that action in a very different light.

The day she sketched the view of Blackwater Reach from the edge of the lake, just the roof of the manor visible from that vantage, was the day she gave it up.

| [member="Jorg"] | [member="Deacon"] | [member="Samka Derith"] | [member="Ghorua the Shark"] |​

 

[Subject 37]

[member="Irajah Ven"] | [member="Deacon"] | [member="Samka Derith"] | [member="Ghorua the Shark"]

Jorg stepped off of the small shuttle within the hangar bay, decked out in his usual armor and carrying a Vanir Technologies Needle Disruptor. At his side was another 5th Legionnaire, and to their flank was two more similarly armored soldiers.

Between the four men stood a stout looking Duros gentlemen, his hand in force cuffs, his expression sour.

Prison Guards slowly approached the four soldiers and their prisoner as they stepped off of the Shuttle. There was a slight smile on one of their faces, though whether the expression came form something funny that he'd just heard or the situation itself was impossible to tell. Jorg and his fellow Legionnaire's had their own expressions hidden behind opaque visors of course, but for once the soldier was in a decent mood at the very least. "This is Senator Virlith."

He told the guard.

"We sent word ahead." The Guard in front of him nodded.

Senator Virlith had once been a powerful figure inside of the Galactic Republic. He had held influence across several systems and had represented his homeworld in the old Galactic Senate. Since then however he had fallen far and fast, becoming little less than a power broker for several crime syndicates all across the galaxy. The 5th Legion had recently been sent to crack open the small fortress he had stashed himself away in.

"Watch him." He told the guard as he stepped to the side. "He bites."

Jorg wasn't joking.

 

[Samka Derith]

It had been little more than a week and a half since Irajah Ven had vanished in the middle of a battle apparently just one of several civilians and soldiers who vanish in the chaos of warfare. Typically, this would be of low concern. The Galactic Alliance, for their many transgressions, did not target civilians deliberately. The majority of those unaccounted for would turn up sooner or later. But something was different in this scenario. Information was passed from a third party to the First Order telling of Irajah's location at an unregistered prison on the planet Aleen. The First Order Security Bureau had refocused its resources to uncover and infiltrate the prison system. Even among their spies and sources within Alliance space, the prison was a mystery. It was no conventional facility. A connection was deduced between the prison and their opposites among the Galactic Alliance, the Strategic Intelligence Service. Agents moved fast to abduct a low level supply runner, a simple man bringing foodstuffs, and delivered him to the Knights of Ren where his mind was swiftly shattered and rebuilt as a puppet. The next day he acted as bait for more of his collages. More abductions. More broken minds. More puppets. Through them, a crate would be delivered. The contents were a seemingly innocent resupply of soaps however mixed in were tiny, spider-like infiltrator droids in an undetectable sleep-mode. At night dozens of them would emerge, skulking camouflaged in the shadows. They would take discrete, low energy scans of the facility, laying out plans of the prison between them and slowly hack into a few of the lesser protected networks, all to set the stage for the jail break which was to come. The swiftness and efficiency of the operation in the face a complete unknown was a testament to the power and ability of the FOSB. Yet even the detainment of a decorated baroness like Irajah Ven wouldn't have ordinarily promoted such a response. The true reason for this large scale endeavour?

Samka Derith felt personally slighted.

Irajah had become something of a personal project for the young Ren. It was because of her that the Doctor was on Cloud City when the Alliance arrived. She'd warned the woman to stay close and yet Irajah had run off alone. This was the folly of disobedience, a base where lessons could be taught to Irajah in the future. The lesson to obey her superiors. Her stubbornness would likely have given her an advantage in questioning but it was the reason she was detained by their foe in the first place. It was something Samka would have stamp out shortly, for the woman's own good. There was no doubt in the Ren's mind that responsibility for this rested squarely on the Doctor's own shoulders. Yet to have someone taken under her personal care snatched by the enemy right under her nose? On her homeworld no less? It was a dishonour that would not stand. A stain on her record inflicted so soon after her promotion to the highest rank of the Order of Ren. She would take the lead in this operation and retrieve what belonged to her. Irajah Ven belonged to her.

So there she stood, the picture of a frightened girl, handcuffed in the uniform of a prisoner. The dye in her hair was washed out so her natural chestnut hair rested on her shoulder. The corruption of the Dark Side was repressed, eyes an innocent hazel, skin pale yet not unnaturally so. A touch of make up added a few more minor details. A scar here, a spot there, enough that she didn't quite look herself. Hidden away on her person was a Force Dispenser making it seem as though she was as disconnected from the Force as the average citizen. Who was she? Likely the daughter of someone important yet not important herself. There to be questioned and tucked away but never considered a threat. She shuffled her way through prisoner processing, apparently too afraid to speak or make eye contact with any of the guards. Samka was just waiting on the signal...

[member="Irajah Ven"] | [member="Ghorua the Shark"] | [member="Jorg"] | [member="Deacon"]​

 

[Zark San Tekka]

[member="Irajah Ven"] | [member="Jorg"] | [member="Samka Derith"] | [member="Ghorua the Shark"]

Personal Cabin, Shadow-class Transport Fool's Mate
Hyperspace, Final Approach to Aleen
Mid Rim

Despite the constant protests of his still recuperating body, Agent Deacon of the Strategic Intelligence Service was coming up on forty eight hours without sleep. His cognitive implants helped with that a little bit, simulating REM patterns that left him in an artificial state bordering on meditative. It was not long yet since the joint SIS Space Ops mission aboard the FIS Kuragin during the Galactic Alliance's assault on Anoat and its surrounding systems, where the intelligence officer had suffered several serious injuries after been thrashed about by a series of self-inflicted explosions set off by the First Order in an attempt to scuttle the structure in stages, and not only that but he had been shot as his fireteam of Alliance commandos had struggled finally to escape the dying station.

Proving the ancient adage that no good deed went unpunished, Damian had only surrendered to the bliss of the bacta treatments for the minimum amount of time necessary for a full natural recovery. And so he had found himself on limited duties when he had been drawn into what was quickly turning into as much of a political fiasco as an intelligence concern, and all centered around one woman by every account of middling strategic concern at best. True, there were discrepancies to be found in this Doctor Irajah Ven, mysteries waiting to be untangled that called out to the puzzle enthusiast in the Hapan as he lay propped up on the cabin's small cot, poring over the datapad which contained her SIS dossier. An allegedly Coruscanti trained physician who had apparently never set foot on Galactic City duracrete by all official accounts, and a meteoric star among the aloof First Order aristocracy despite a relatively mundane profession by comparison to some of her peers.

Either she was an exceptional political operative, possessed a powerful patron, or there was more to the Baroness Ven than met the eye. Any scenario, in Deacon's mind, meant she was dangerous.

Still, his first challenge had been overcome, even if it had proved to be an unexpected and not so welcome one. When Potteiger had tasked him with finding out more about the truth of her whereabouts, he had assumed that she was a political prisoner, and had contacted his sources at the Galactic Alliance Guard who were as a matter of protocol responsible, along with the Justicars, for most of these matters. His efforts frustrated at every turn, it wasn't until Deacon had picked up on how some contacts were choosing their responses to his inquiries with particular care that it had occurred to him to look inward. He had only been given a name, Irajah Ven, and a profession, medical doctor. Ignorant of her recent status as a member of the First Order's elite ruling class, it had simply not occurred to him that she would be considered a high value enough target to get the SIS involved.

Then again, considering two known and powerful Sith Lords had by all eyewitness accounts just appeared directly outside Sullust Base, bypassing the planetary defenses of one of the most well defended fortress planets in the entire Federation simply to ask politely that she be released, maybe he should have known better.

"Sir?" the call from outside his cabin hatch was accompanied by a polite, rhythmic tapping, "We're nearing the Aleen system. Your personal ident codes will soon become necessary if we are to avoid any...unfortunate misunderstandings."

K5-RS was a refurbished KX-series security droid, and Deacon's co-pilot for this short hop across allied space. They had not been working together long.

"I'll be right out, Kay Five," the Hapan grunted, reaching awkwardly for his walking stick as the sling his left arm rested in restricted his range of motion.

All he knew now for sure was, for all the grief she had caused so far, Irajah Ven had better know the Supreme Leader's favorite holodrama or there would be hell to pay.

 

[Ghorua the Shark]

LOCATION: SITE A-13​

EQUIPMENT: IN BIO​

CURRENT MOOD: WHO KNOWS?​

​

Ghorua didn't have many friends.

Kay, Queen of Commenor, was once a trusted friend and ally, but no more. Darlyn Excron, another old friend, had integrated himself into Kay's regime. Julian Valentine was lost to the Aether, along with so many others misplaced in the galaxy.

[member="Irajah Ven"] was one of the last friendships he had held. But recent events could've broken even that.

They had found themselves on opposite sides of a battle. Ghorua fought for the Alliance, Irajah escaping from the conflict with the First Order. The Shark had never intended for any of what transpired to happen. Ghorua had done his part to take Bespin, to the letter, only to be abandoned at the battlefield with no backup. A duel between old adversaries that left the good doctor defenseless. She had been captured, and it was partially his fault.

Even if there was no hope they could be friends again, he had to make things right.

Ghorua crouched in the hangar bay of Site A-13, looking over the area with the HUD of his armor. The visor tagged the various engineers and workers that hustled about, unaware of the predator scoping them out. At one point, a stray guard glanced disinterestedly in the Shark's direction, and turned his attention to other things. How he remained unseen was the reason he was such a successful bounty hunter: his photoreactive spidersilk elaxtex cloak.

The thick fabric covered the entirety of the Herglic's girth, protecting him from stray eyes and most forms of scanners. It was the reason he was able to stow away on a prison ship to A-13. It was how he had remained undetected for hours, gathering information through a slew of small slicing droids as a small girl went through prisoner processing.

He may have been working with the First Order to rescue Irajah, but he wasn't doing it for them. He was doing it for her.

It felt strange to have [member="Samka Derith"] counting on him. He held her weapon, a single lightsaber, on his bandolier. He could have left with it, sold it on the black market, made a fortune instead of save an official of a faction that hated him.

But both Ghorua and Sam knew that was never an option.

Ghorua summoned a general schematic of the facility, created by the soap droids. He mapped out a course in his head, to the location of Samka's cell, and began to walk softly towards it, gripping the small hilt of the Ren's lightsaber in his hand. Despite the situation, a smile crept up under his shrouded helmet.

Something tells me the Alliance won't hire me again after today.

- [member="Deacon"] - [member="Jorg"] -

 

[Kuzo]

Her usual interview time came and went. Not that Irajah had access to a clock of course, but it was always not long after breakfast, so it was not difficult to notice. She'd found that only happened on days they were transfering other inmates. In or out of the facility, it didn't matter, they tended to have better things to do than bang their head against that particular brick wall again.

It was hard to be not curious of course. The monotony of the days stretching ahead and behind meant that any anomaly was worth taking a minute for. So when she heard the door at the end of the hall open (faint, so faint, through thick durasteel doors), she put down her charcoal and stood up. Moving across the small room, Irajah had to stand on tip toe to peer out the small transparisteel panel in the door. Fingertips curled just over the edge of the pane, and what was visible from the other side was most likely just the top of curly dark hair and a brief flash of hazel eyes.

A Duros plodded down the hallway, clearly grumbling something under his breath that she couldn't make out. Duros never looked particularly cheerful to begin with, but this one looked positively sour. The prison guards she recognized, but the armored figures with them she wouldn't even pretend to scrutinize. She was familiar now with the look of the soldiers of the 5th Legion, thank you very much, and it was a waste of her time to try to peer through those visors.

It was questionable entertainment at best.

But at least it broke the monotony.

​| [member="Jorg"] | [member="Deacon"] | [member="Samka Derith"] | [member="Ghorua the Shark"] |​

 

[Subject 37]

[member="Irajah Ven"] | [member="Deacon"] | [member="Samka Derith"] | [member="Ghorua the Shark"]

Jorg didn't even glance at the good doctor as they passed by her cell.

He didn't do so because he felt any sort of disdain towards the woman, just the opposite in fact. In the Soldiers mind she was something of the past. Their history, albeit short, was one that Jorg had compartmentalized and filed away. As far as he was concerned everything that had occurred between the two of them was something that could be ignored until it was once again relevant at a later date. She was a prisoner after all, and he just a soldier.

To her it was likely different of course, especially since Irajah was under the assumption that Jorg had released the tape of her betrayal.

The act, although an amusing one, had never been an actual option for Jorg however. Releasing the tape, or the information that Irajah had turned on the First Order, would have been incredibly detrimental to the Galactic Alliance war effort. Not only that, but it would have been considered a crime against the state, and would have likely ended with Jorg himself being thrown in a much less pleasant prison facility than Site A-13.

Thus instead of releasing the tape, he had simply turned it over to the SIS.

Whatever they decided to do with it was none of his business, and as he helped the Galactic Alliance Guards throw the Duros into the nearest cell he paid Doctor Ven no mind at all. "We'll be staying until tomorrow."

Jorg told the guard besides him.

"Escorting one of the prisoners off world." One of the Crime Lords just down the hall of Irajah was set to go to Trial on his homeworld.

 

[Zark San Tekka]

[member="Irajah Ven"] | [member="Jorg"] | [member="Samka Derith"] | [member="Ghorua the Shark"]

Hangar, Site A-13
Aleen, Mid Rim

In the end, even with his personal identification codes and signed orders from a Lord Protector of Omega Pyre, his transport had been escorted down to the base's coordinates by fully half a squadron of T-110 model X-Wings. The four heavy fighters had taken positions disturbingly close to the four corners of his craft, bluntly and effectively cutting off any potential escape vector even for the agile personal vessel. Damian had not really expected anything else, the SIS took its security seriously, but still felt that the base's pilots could have eased up just a little as a matter of professional courtesy. Apparently the Service's fighter jockeys were every bit as humorless as the Fifth Legion.

"Darksword," the prison's commandant was waiting at the very edge of the transport's boarding ramp, a pleasantly civil expression on his face that was betrayed by eyes of paranoid suspicion.

The use of his real name caught him off guard for a moment, before he realized he was within one of the few places in the universe where it would be acceptable to do so. It had likely been the intended effect, but Deacon was in little mood to verbally spar with someone who saw him as a potential threat, so instead he simply got to the point, "I'm here for Irajah Ven."

"For?" the commandant repeated, all feigned good nature draining from his expression, "As in, to take?"

"To evaluate," the Hapan amended, then shrugged, "But a transfer out of this facility remains a possibility."

"I would advise against it-"

"My orders," Deacon cut the base commander off with the prompted datapad, and waited impatiently for the SIS officer to pore over every detail. Prison wardens always wanted to hold on to their prisoners, they tended to see danger lurking in every shadow. It was the nature of the job. Thankfully, the agent's own mission and the ones who had assigned it to him gave him broad latitude with regards to one particular prisoner, namely the Baroness.

"Everything...seems to be in order," the commandant was forced to admit at last, handing him back the datapad, "Of course I'll have to lodge my protests with High Command."

"You do that, but right now I'd very much like it if you could take me to Doctor Ven."

"You mean you wish to speak with her right away?" the older man asked.

"Yes, I have...a few additional questions for her," Deacon said as he gestured for the commander to move out of his way and take the lead.

It was a bit of an understatement, to say the least.

 

[Samka Derith]

Prisoner Processing

She was escorted, rather roughly, by two guards to what was to be her new quarters. Not a face seemed sympathetic to her apparent plight. Samka shivered, keeping her head down and her pace slow, all maintaining her appearance as a frightened girl. A hard shove to her lower back would push the young woman towards a uniformed man at a console, separated from her and her jailers by a rayshield. The man stared at her for a moment before flickering through something on his console. The group continued to stand in silence for a few agonising minutes watching the man go through his console.

Part of the reason her act was convincing was because Samka truly was nervous. The plan was high risk, even she wasn't headstrong enough to deny that. She'd literally walked into the custody of the enemy, in a secret SIS facility no less, and was relying on the aid of a mercenary she had attempted to kill on Cloud City to pull her out but she wouldn't have gone through with this if she didn't trust Ghorua's sense of honour, if nothing else. The Hellic had an advantage as an ally nobody else could give, he was fighting for friendship. He knew Irajah and his indirect role in her capture, Samka was certain the Bounty Hunter would make good on an offer to make amends even if handing him her valued Lightsaber hurt as much as any injury she'd been dealt in battle.

"What's the delay?" One of the guards at her side asked, clearly now frustrated at the wait.

The man at the console looked up with a frown, "This one was an unexpected addition. I'm making sure everything in her file is correct, there's a few irregularities." He leaned up over the console to peer down at Samka, his expression neutral. Like most of the other staff she'd seen here, he didn't look unkind but neither was there empathy to be found in his gaze. Rightly or wrongly, he believed in his cause, they all did. "Who did you say your father was?"

"I-I didn't. I don't know who my birth father is..." her voice was weak, stuttering and carrying off at the end.

The man behind the rayshield sighed, "we'll get to the bottom of this even-" the console at his fingertips turned red causing the man to frantically start pouring through the data after a moment's confusion. "Something's in the system!"

This was her signal.

A devilish smile crept onto the young woman's face. She reached out with a sudden, powerful kinetic pull, sending the man's head slamming into the console. The machine sparked up and shattered on impact with its user instantly out cold. In the blink of an eye her attention was on the two guards, a swift kick, swatted away the weapon of the guard behind her. The one at her side responded quickly, grabbing her and attempting to pin her with a bear hug. She flailed but the guard was stronger than her physically and it became apparent there was no easy escape from his grasp. In the struggle, she thrust her cuffed hands close to the guard's knee, close enough that a spark of Force Lightning from her fingers shocked the man's leg. In pain and surprise, his grasp on her weakened letting Samka get free with a lunge. She collided with the other guard who had intended to stop her but the momentum from a burst in Force Speed meant even the lightweight girl could knock down the larger guard. Now free from them both, she had the ability, if only for a few moments, to concentrate fully on the Force. She seized both men by the throat in a potent Force Choke before they could recover. She squeezed, cutting them off from their air supply and finding sadistic satisfaction in watching her victims wheeze and collapse to the floor.

The temptation to finish them off was strong. There was a need to quench her blood lust and ensure there were no witnesses but this was all part of the arrangement. Both of her allies this day, Irajah Ven and Ghoura the Shark, would not look kindly upon what they'd see as wanton brutality so she left all three men unconscious on the ground. Another burst of Lightning around her palms blasted through her shackles, letting the cuffs fall to the ground broken and smoking.

Relishing a sense of freedom, the Ren ran her hands through her hair with a stretch. Hopefully the cameras had been incapacitated and she had a few moments before a firm response. If not, the girl was sure she could improvise.

[member="Irajah Ven"] | [member="Jorg"] | [member="Deacon"] | [member="Ghorua the Shark"]​

 

[Ghorua the Shark]

Ghorua found himself at the door of [member="Samka Derith"]'s cell before she reached it. Under his cloak, he watched a set of guards take the seemingly scared little girl past the door. Invisible to all, he raised an eyebrow at the Ren's acting. She was good. If he didn't know her, he might've believed it.

But he did, so he didn't.

They were both waiting for the same signal. His wrist datapad indicated the prison's systems went down, and Ghorua was ready to attack. It turned out Sam didn't need the help.

The Shark began to rush forward, his cloak flapping, before stopping, and leaning on the wall. It seemed the 'little girl' wouldn't need help dispatching her captors, and Ghorua could enjoy the fireworks.

Then, stillness.

The large Herglic suddenly appeared outside Samka's cell, apparating with the pull of fabric from his body. He stashed his spidersilk cloak in his satchel, and looked through the ray shield at the Master of Ren, eyes hidden behind an emotionless helmet. He pressed a few buttons on the nearly-destroyed terminal, and the shielding between them dropped.

Ghorua's voice came out of his helm, modulated to an incredible, ear-damaging low metallic growl. "Ms. Derith." One could almost hear the smile in his words. "I've posted your bail, as promised." A lightsaber was thrown to the woman, and he stepped aside, to let her take the lead. With deft fingers, he pulled a slughthrower pistol from his bandolier, and nodded, suddenly growing serious.

"Let's go get her."

- [member="Irajah Ven"] - [member="Deacon"] - [member="Jorg"] -

 

[Kuzo]

Of course, the distraction didn't last long. Eventually, Irajah wandered back across the room. Back and forth, back and forth, slow and deliberate but still a circuit of the room. Lie down on the bed. Get up. Back and forth. Settle at the desk. Back up. Back and forth. And once more, to the desk. She reached out, plucking one of the soft edges charcoals, her hand coasting absently across the paper in a repeat of the motions from a moment ago. Back and forth, slow and deliberate, but now a circuit of her mind instead of the cell. The curve of a face, half realized, when the sound of someone outside of the door gave her pause.

Frowning slightly in surprise, she turned around in her chair. Carefully, she set the charcoal down on the desk, absently brushing a strand of hair behind her ear- and leaving a smudge of black across her cheek. She settled her hands in her lap, where whoever was coming in could see them. It was easier, rather than going through the whole song and dance, to simply make sure they knew that she had no intentions of being difficult.

Honestly, she had neither the strength nor the energy for it.

"Someone here to talk to you, Doc."

She arched an eyebrow at that, but otherwise didn't say anything. It was really the only reason someone would come to her door outside of meal time. To ask the same. unending. questions. To cover the same. tired. ground. She simply hadn't been expecting someone right now, not right after a prisoner transfer. And certainly not a new face.

Irajah leaned back in the desk chair, head tilted slightly to the side as [member="Deacon"] entered. She didn't say anything. Had nothing to say really. This wasn't a social call, a friend come to visit her home. This was just another person connected within the ranks of her jailors. She figured he'd ask her whatever he was here to ask, whether she said anything first or not.

So instead she just watched him with those hazel eyes. Tired, resigned. A little wary.

| [member="Jorg"] | [member="Samka Derith"] | [member="Ghorua the Shark"] |​

 

[Zark San Tekka]

[member="Irajah Ven"] | [member="Jorg"] | [member="Samka Derith"] | [member="Ghorua the Shark"]


With a faintly resounding mechanical clang and an affirming tone, the hatch locked behind him and the SIS agent was alone in the comfortable, if spartan and cramped cell chambers with the Kiffar prisoner of war. Deacon forced himself to remind his instincts that he was in a secure facility, as years of intelligence work had left him feeling uncomfortably naked outside a suit of specialized body armor. While the SI-17 stealth blaster still hung at his hip, the sidearm never far from his side under any circumstances if he could help it, Damian was otherwise dressed more or less in civilian attire. A smart but affordable suit in contemporary, fashionable Core style that could hang in the closet of any civil servant. His cybernetic implants, on the other hand, were a little more indicative of his status as something more than middle management, but with the retractable lenses resting in their chambers on either temple, they were relatively unobtrusive looking.

For her part, Doctor Ven did a commendable job of keeping her expression inscrutable. With what little time the intelligence officer had on the brisk walk from the hangar to the cell he had spent perusing the most recent, more detailed reports of her interrogation sessions up to this point. He had no reason to believe she would think of him as anything less than a practical threat at best, an ideological enemy at worst. Either way, the combination of her present disposition towards him and the Alliance in general as well as the short timetable between now and when she would be transferred out of this facility and out of his jurisdiction made the prospect of gaining any valuable intelligence a challenge, to say the least.

"Good morning, Doctor Ven," he said as he approached the desk between them, careful to keep his tone non-threatening but not overly cheerful. Neither of them wanted to be here, and it would only insult her as she made her first impressions to pretend otherwise, "I know the accommodations don't offer much in the way of a view, and in the interests of full disclosure it is the middle of the night outside, but since it is unlikely you'll be getting a tour while you're here, I figured we might as well go by Dosuun standard, if that's alright with you. It is currently 0836 Canthar time, I figured that would mean more to you than if I were to tell you the local hour or Sullust standard."

He set down the trio of datapads he had been holding under his arm on the desk, the top pad active and displaying the first page of the Doctor's file. Before taking a in the room's other chair, the Hapan moved past her to the surveillance camera in the corner of the room, bracing himself against the wall as he leaned up to sever the wiring. As he did so, he glanced over his shoulder to make eye contact with the cell's occupant, offering an apologetic expression.

"Forgive the theatrics, I assure you there is nothing sinister about it. I have no intentions of roughing you up a little, or indeed making threats of any kind," brushing out the wrinkles the gymnastics had created in his suit, he took a seat opposite her, "Small comfort, I know. I'm here to take over supervisation of your case for the remaining duration of your time in our custody. I am not here to prosecute, intimidate, telepathically probe or influence you. I am simply here to see to your immediate needs, after which I may ask some questions you have every right not to answer one way or another. Before we begin, do you have any questions for me? Keeping in mind my powers of influence in this situation are finite."