Gone Hunting

[Rusty]

It should not have been this easy to find a Techno Union official.

Rusty was far from a Luddite, being a droid himself, but the TU was always proud to have the latest and greatest toys to play with. They preferred battle droids to organic soldiers whenever possible. Their ships employed ridiculous levels of automation, and their security, both data and physical, was top notch.

And yet, one call to the Shard Network and he had her location in less than a day.

Rumor had it that the Boss was cozy with a Sith who had their own intel network, and this Malanara was one of their burnouts.

That was fine by him.

Whatever she was making from the TU, it was enough to afford a nice apartment in a quiet part of town. She wasn't home when he arrived, which was also fine by him.

The furniture was mostly cheap knockoffs of more expensive brands. Sturdy and cheap, to be sure, but not nearly as nice as the real thing.

Judging by the lack of dust, the Zabrak had the place cleaned while she was gone. Droids, if Rusty had to guess. Organic servants in the TU were a sign of wealth, and while she wasn't bad off, she certainly wasn't wealthy.

The Shard wasted no time rifling through her things, trying to get a feel for her personality. The refrigerator was stocked with food that was probably healthy for a Zabrak. Nothing fancy, mostly bland, but healthy. No sign of alcohol.

Man, this chick was uptight.

The refresher was much the same story. Nothing fancy, no frills, nothing that smelled good, just cheap and utilitarian. That was probably a necessity on a combat vessel, where females of any species were a rarity. She probably wanted the male contingent to think she was a cold fish. It reinforced the idea that she was a hard case, and kept them from making unwanted advances.

A quick slice into the entertainment center showed that her favorite holos were all news programs, with the exception of one truly terrible Coruscanti soap opera. The Shard supposed that must be her guilty pleasure. Everyone had a vice, no matter how uptight they may seem.

One look at the bedroom told Rusty that the soap opera was far from her only vice. The room practically stank of fear. There were no visible signs that she was into bondage, but from what he had gathered from the Captain, the Zabrak was quite good with illusions.

Something told him that digging through the drawers looking for clues in here would be...traumatic.

Still, it wouldn't do to leave the room unchecked, so Rusty settled on a sensor sweep. There was a scattergun behind the headboard and a holdout blaster in the top drawer of the vanity, but no other weapons turned up. She might have a knife or two or ten, but not even a vibroblade would do more than scratch Rusty's thick armored carapace.

Once the place had been checked out and cleared, there was nothing to do but wait. Rusty made sure everything was exactly like it had been before, then settled down in a corner that wasn't likely to warrant even a glance as the target walked in the door.

The next step was always a gamble. If he broadcast his intent through the Force by focusing on the job at hand, she might wise up. Instead, the Shard flipped a mental switch and went to "sleep." It was more like a very deep meditation, but it would serve his purposes well. As soon as his sensors detected movement through the doorway, they would fire the dart pistol at the target, then wake him up. If it was the cleaning droid, he'd waste a few darts and would have to reset. If it was the target, she'd be sedated before she knew what hit her.

 

[Malia Afredane]

It had been a long patrol, but finally Malanara was allowed to return to her apartment while the Union's Fortune came in for a resupply and redeployment. She stopped at the little takeout place on the corner and grabbed some dinner, she knew she wasn't going to have anything decent to cook and the ship food had been horrendous. Too much salt. She had her duffle on her back, her case of implements by her side and a bag of spicy noodles in her hand as she swung the door open. She had the inkling of a warning just before they hit and she managed to get the case in her left hand up to block the shot that the Force had told her about. At least she thought she did. The sting in her arm said differently. She tried to drop everything and run but the fast acting tranquilizer slowed her, making her dizzy, and stumble into a heap in the door. She tried to look for an attacker, but the sting in her back made everything black.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________

When she woke up, she couldn't move, couldn't feel anything with the Force and there was a bright, white light in her eyes. She felt groggy and her physical senses were still unreliable as she struggled to understand what was going on. The only thing she knew for certain was the shoe was squarely on the other foot.

[member="Rusty"]

 

[Rusty]

Interrogation was a conversation.

Over the course of a session, the interrogator and subject would communicate on a number of levels. There was the verbal communication, which was as often as not an elaborate string of lies. Then there was the body language. Establishing dominance was vital for the interrogator. The subject would be seated or strapped to a gurney, blinded by bright light, with no clues to determine the passage of time. Below everything was the emotional bond formed between the subject and the interrogator. The goal was to establish trust. The subject had to trust that everything the interrogator said was the Force's own truth.

That last part wasn't as easy as it sounded. Making threats was standard. Making promises was as well. The threats and the promises had to be carefully balanced, and they had to be within the power of the interrogator to deliver on them. Or at least, they had to be able to give the appearance of being able to deliver on them. That went back to the whole elaborate string of lies thing.

If the interrogator said they'd have the subject's family killed, and they couldn't cough up proof, that violated that bond of trust, and nothing the interrogator said would carry as much weight. If they promised they could take it easy on the subject, and couldn't at least make it look good, that too would give the interrogator less leverage.

This wasn't an interrogation.

Malanara had nothing to say to that Rusty wanted to hear.

The first step was a collar. It would emit a constant low level electrical shock that would paralyze her vocal chords. That, in turn, would keep her from screaming. That was important. While the rooms here all had pretty decent soundproofing, a loud enough scream could still be heard in the hall. On top of that, Rusty couldn't set up a privacy field, on the off chance that someone might visit. He doubted Malanara was the sort to keep steady lovers, but she wasn't unattractive, and could probably have set up a date if she wanted. Or maybe a colleague would stop by with some paperwork or something.

It was impossible to account for every variable, so no privacy field. The paralyzing collar would have to work.

Once that was in place, Rusty went ahead and started an IV. Standard hospital procedure would have been to set it in the back of the hand, but the Shard didn't want to have to move it before he had to. He'd get to the feet eventually, but the hands would be seeing some attention pretty early on. He carefully sterilized the area, inserted the needle in the vein, and removed it, leaving the catheter and saline lock in place. A transparent bandage went over the area. It would hold the saline lock in place, and keep the area sterile. Some folks liked to make it sloppy, but Rusty's technique was textbook perfect. In his own way, he took pride in professionalism.

The IV was a chemical cocktail perfected over centuries of work with belligerent Force users. There was a tranquilizer that would scatter the thoughts and make it difficult for the subject to focus enough to gather the Force. There was a stimulant that would increase feelings of anxiety and agitation. The effect, he was told, was hellish, and not just because mixing uppers and downers was really, really bad for the nervous and cardiovascular system. In addition, there was a constant saline drip that would be replaced with plasma once the blood loss started.

The next step was to remove the clothing. Every scrap of fabric was examined in detail, and Rusty scribbled down notes on a datapad. This was for the benefit of the subject. Not only was it humiliating, but for one used to being in power in these situations, the complete loss of control was often as bad as the first few opening shots of physical pain. They'd get to that in time, however.

Next came depiliation. Every single scrap of hair was removed, cataloged, and annotated. There was no practical point to taking samples, but judgment on such a deeply personal level was as unsettling as anything else that had gone on thus far.

Some schools of thought would call for a cavity search next, but Rusty was of the opinion that such crude tactics degraded the effectiveness of the session. There would be plenty of time for cruelty for the sake of being cruel, but the implied connotations were utterly distasteful in his eyes. And besides, the Captain had been spared that particular invasion, so the small act of mercy would be returned in kind. That didn't stop him from employing an auto-catheter to prevent the subject from soiling herself. It required no effort on his part, and it was vital to keep the operating area sterile.

The subject would die as a result of this session, but not today. Not for many, many months, if he did his job right.

Focusing on the job, on the procedure, was important to Rusty. He couldn't allow himself to tap into the rage that burned within him. This...thing, this creature, had hurt the Captain, and for no other reason than because she enjoyed it, and she could.

The Captain thought he called such ventures "hunting trips" because he enjoyed running his quarry down. That wasn't true, or at least, it wasn't the whole truth.

What Rusty hunted for was the subject's reason for being. He wanted to know why they were the way they were. He wanted to find that spark that gave them pleasure in their work, and he wanted to snuff it out. That was his trophy, the knowledge that the subjects innermost desires and motivations had been shattered and reformed into their greatest nightmare.

That was far more difficult and far more rewarding than simply tracking them down and putting a bullet in their head.

Speaking of heads, it was time for the pain to start.

Rusty picked up a pair of pliers from the tray next to the makeshift operating table that was actually the dining room table.

"I'm going to start with your horns," he said.

And so he did.

 

[Rusty]

Apparently, snapping Zabrak horns off at the base was painful. The subject tried to writhe in agony, tried to keep away from the pliers, but the restraints were far too tight.

Rusty places them all in separate specimen bags. The first couple had splintered, but he quickly got the hang of the technique. A horn each for the Captain and Captain Rees seemed like a fitting souvenir. Maybe he'd polish them up and make something from them. Underneath the rough exterior, there was some interesting coloration.

Fear was written plainly on the subject's face. Her resistance was surprisingly fragile. She was ready to talk and tell him anything he wanted to know.

The next step was to remove any identifying markings. Zabraks were fond of facial tattoos. They had some cultural significance, and the subject was no exception. The bold lines and geometric patterns common to her people were etched in ink on her face. They would have to go.

There were a number of ways to remove tattoos. There were creams that would break down the ink and allow the body to metabolize it harmlessly. Lasers could painlessly break down the ink, and unlike primitive versions, left no scarring.

The Shard had a different tactic. He picked up a small surgical hammer and opened a package containing a series of sterile tattoo needles. Into a small bowl, he poured a measure of bleach concentrate that would leech the color from the ink without harming the skin's natural pigmentation. The catch was that it had to be manually hammered deep into each and every pore, a time consuming at excruciating process.

He lined the needle up to his designated start point, right below her left eye. He carefully considered the power of the strike, mentally added thirty percent, and drove the needle straight into her trigeminal nerve.

The left side of her face went completely slack as the caustic bleach on the needle's hollow tip attacked the nerve. Enough got to the ink to begin breaking it down, but that was a minor quibble when compared to the white hot agony that must have been wracking her head. The right side of her face was a mask of terror and pain.

"That simply won't do," he said. "I can't have you making faces. This is hard enough without trying to hit a moving target."

Rusty dipped the needle in the bleach and repeated the process on the right side.

"There. Much better."

Her eyes danced around wildly. If he had to guess, the Shard would say she was looking for anything that might help her escape, or, barring that, end her life and sent him the pleasure of continuing the session. Her wrists flailed frantically against the restraints, but they had been chosen because, despite being intensely uncomfortable, the edges weren't sharp enough to break the skin.

Death would not be an escape.

"Now let's get to work on the rest of this mess. Honestly, bold lines do not suit you at all."

 

[Malia Afredane]

They were just some smugglers. Their records didn't give any indication that there was a damn thing to either of them but as the Shard worked, Malanara's mind raced with trying to find a reason that the Shard would visit this pain back on her. She was certain she would never walk freely from this room, it was just a matter now of time. In her remaining time, she wanted to know why. No one sends a professional to avenge a couple of nobodies, so who were they that it called for this?

Paralyzed, she could not ask, only try to piece together her broken thoughts through the sharp stabs of pain and terror.

 

[Rusty]

The questions were written plainly in the subjects eyes:

Why her? Why now? Surely the small-time smugglers he had been associated with hadn't been worth this.

"All in time, my dear, all in time."

The tattoo removal had been laborious, and probably exceedingly painful. Rusty had first learned the technique from a divorced mercenary he had worked a few jobs with back in the day. In his culture, there was no paperwork for a wedding. All you had to do was get the customary matching tattoos on the ring fingers. It was done by hand, with an individual needle, over the course of a week. The tattoo artists were paid nothing, instead supported by the local community. Their job was of vital cultural importance, and they were revered as elders. Every community also had one who could nullify marriage by removing the tattoo in exactly the same manner as the Shard removed the subject's facial tattoos.

Given the pain of entering and leaving marriage, it wasn't a subject young couples took lightly. The mercenary in question was an outcast. He had left his wife, but still carried the tattoo. It wasn't that he couldn't bear the pain. She had simply been sleeping with the removal specialist.

Ah, memories. They kept him from losing his cool and loosing the rage within.

"You'll experience residual swelling and redness for the next two to four weeks, but there will be no lasting blemish from the removal. I did notice that you have remarkable facial bone structure. Very clearly defined cheek bones. That simply won't do."

Rusty intended to erase everything that make the subject unique, physically. Remove the physical identity, then start unraveling the personal identity. The latter did not require the former, but it certainly helped.

Planing down cheek bones was a common cosmetic procedure, one that any competent plastic surgeon could do in their sleep.

The Shard was far from a competent plastic surgeon, but he could hum a few bars and dance a few steps.

The first step was to inflate the subject's face. To that end, he first started by making a small incision, then carefully worked the scalpel around underneath the skin in order to separate it from the supporting musculature and bone. Once a pocket of the proper size had been carved out, he inserted an air line into a second incision. Since the first would allow leakage, the airflow would need to be constant.

The left side of the subject's face looked like a balloon at this point, which was perfect.

Into the first incision went a hand-powered bone planer. There were powered devices that would remove the shavings as they went, but Rusty figured that was too expensive to be worth the time. It wasn't like this was something he did everyday, and he planned on leaving the bone fragments in place. It was a simple matter to nudge the shavings down to the bottom of the flesh pocket he had created. The subject might opt to have them removed to spare herself the agony later, but he rather suspected she'd be terrified to go under the knife again for any reason.

Which was, of course, the plan.

Once the lines on the left side of the face had been resculpted, the skin was allowed to deflate, and the incisions were sealed up.

Time for the right side.

 

[Rusty]

It was hard to tell, what with all the swelling, but Rusty was sure the operation had been success. The subject's once distinctive cheekbones would now be plain and ordinary, though it was likely the sores that would result as the shards of bone abscessed would likely be grotesque. Oh well. She definitely wouldn't be pretty then.

The subject's eyes were the next problem. They were a striking gray-blue that many would find either attractive or intimidating. That was solved by the simple expedient of a could of drops of the bleach solution left over from the tattoo removal. It was difficult to leech the color from the iris without damaging the musculature, but the Shard's hands were steady. The subject learned to keep her eyes perfectly still after, while rolling her eyes around madly to throw off his aim, a drop managed to work its way underneath the eye itself. The pain must have been severe enough that she thought it best to stop resisting. Either that, or she had passed out, but judging by the spasms that wracked the rest of her body with every drop, Rusty figured she was still awake.

Might be going into shock though. Couldn't have that. The Shard injected a dose of a vasodilating drug that would keep the blood flowing normally, and a small dose of adrenaline to keep her conscious. That had to be balanced with another dose of downers to keep her from focusing correctly, but that was no big deal.

Larger than average mammary glands, coupled with a lean stomach, suggested that the subject was probably proud of her physique. Rusty knew females of humanoid species with her build tended towards extra fat around the middle, which meant that the subject probably worked out relentlessly. Well, that would be an easy fix.

Next into the saline lock went a persistent metabolic inhibitor. It a smart molecule that would store itself in fat tissue, and would also use the tissue to replicate itself. The more weight gained, the stronger the effect of the on the metabolism.

That would have been plenty for the average office worker, but for the subject, fitness was likely a way of life. She could still overcome the effects, and that simply wouldn't do. To counteract that, Rusty prepared a series of syringes, loaded with drugs that would target and destroy nerves. It wouldn't take much, but a small dose into each major muscle group would make it difficult for the subject to control them, much less engage in the repetitive stress of a good workout. The lingering persistent pain that would accompany her to what was, in all likelihood, an early grave was just a bonus.

Into the mammary glands went a dose of nannites that would eat away all the adipose tissue it could reach in just under an hour. A shunt inserted into the bottom of each gland would allow the liquefied fat to drain, in order to keep it from putrefying. That was important, because if left behind, it would likely kill her in days.

Eventually, the fat in the glands would return, especially with the rapid weight gain that would follow the session. However, until then, the glands would be empty sacks of skin. Seeing as how modern culture placed a great deal of emphasis on them as secondary sexual characteristics and measures of attractiveness, the loss would make it difficult to pick up prospective partners.

 

[Rusty]

Rusty was nearing the end of his tricks for removing the subject's physical identity.

Given a few months and a gene therapy lab, it might of been possible to corrupt her DNA enough that a scan wouldn't recognize her. An entechment rig could forcibly remove her soul and place it in a droid's body, but those things were rare.

No way to alter the retina without rendering the subject blind, and that wouldn't do. He wanted her to watch herself become a stranger in her own body.

A few swipes with a cauterizing garrote flayed the palms and soles of her feet, which would prevent print identification. A little work with a sonic chisel flattened her teeth into functional, painfully sensitive nubs that would be useless when matching dental records.

The Shard decided he had been as thorough as he could in the time allotted, and moved on to removing the subjects ability to feel physical pleasure.

A little work with the tattoo removal bleach made short work of the nerves in her tongue that would transmit taste. A fine acid spray attacked her sense of smell, and water jets inserted into the ears ruptured her ear drums. The water and the remains of her inner ear were then suctioned out. Deafness wasn't the goal, however. Into her ears, Rusty screwed in primitive cybernetic eardrums that would allow her to perceive sound and understand speech, but not tone. She wouldn't be able to enjoy music anymore.

Erogenous zones were removed where possible. When that wasn't practical, Rusty went back to work with the needle, destroying the nerves responsible for transmitting the stimulation to the brain. Though arousal was still technically possible, it would bring no pleasure, only excruciating pain.

All in all, the physical work was just about finished. There were two items left.

Almost all of the subject's injuries could be treated with bacta. She might not regain full use of her body, but enough to live a comfortable, if sedentary life. That wouldn't do.

"I want you to pay very close attention to what I have to say. In this syringe is a vaccine. It contains a genetically modified form of the common cold. The molecular structure has been almost completely rewritten. It will trigger an immune response, and your body will recognize it as a threat and form antibodies. Those antibodies will then proceed to attack anything that closely resembles the virus. In this case, it's a dead ringer for bacta. Any attempt to treat your injuries with bacta will result in a severe allergic reaction, with a high possibility of rejection of regenerated tissue."

He held up another syringe.

"And in this one, we have a different virus, one that is vastly different, but with a similar purpose. It resembles midi-chlorians. Over the course of the next week, you should expect your connection with the Force to weaken and die as your body systematically flushes them from your cells. It likely won't kill all of them, but you will never be able to use the Force again."

And with that, he swabbed her arm and stuck in both needles. [Bleep] a hypospray, needles were so much more fun.

 

[Rusty]

The console on the desk beeped.

Rusty checked the alert.

[Bleep]

It was a recall order. The subject was being called back to the ship. Something about a pirate crew caught that needed to be worked over.

"Unfortunately, it looks like our time is drawing to a close a little earlier than I anticipated. I was looking forward to finding out what makes you tick. It's a shame, really. I'm sure your past is full of horrid things that made you the person you are today. Oh well. I'll leave you a parting gift to remember me by."

The Shard picked up a scalpel off the tray. So far, there has been very little blood loss. That was all well and good, but it lacked the drama that would make this a scene to traumatize the first responders. Their horror would reinforce the subject's, and that was always fun.

With a few deft slices, the Shard removed the subject's nose. She was beyond struggling now, but the tears that ran down her face told him that she was conscious for the procedure.

"Open your mouth," he said.

The subject shook her head.

"You can either open your mouth, or I'm going to break your jaw and open it the hard way."

The subject shook her head again, but slowly, her lips parted. Rusty forced the bloody mass of tissue between her teeth and into her tongue.

"It's going to be at least fifteen minutes before the medics arrive. You could choose to allow yourself to choke to death on that, but they'll revive you and your failure will be complete. So what you're going to do is chew and swallow, and then you'll never see me again."

The horror in the subject's eyes was almost worth missing out on the unravelling of her life. She chewed, and when the Shard figured she'd tenderized the nose enough to be safe to swallow, he deactivated the collar. It took her a minute to realize that she could use her vocal chords. Her agonized wailing followed the Shard as he got into the lift at the end of the hall.

It has been a good hunting trip, he thought.