Private Of Agents & Spies

[Allyson Locke]

//: Frankie //:
//: Varonat //:
//: Attire //:

The jungle's hum seeped through the walls of the small condo perched at the edge of the town as a constant vibration in the air. At the refurbished desk, Allyson sifted through the latest reports, the glow of a datapad casting sharp lines across her face.

Beyond the walls, the quiet buzz of resistance work filled the space, along with low voices, the shuffle of movement, and the occasional clatter of makeshift tools. Though Allyson welcomed them into the home, the threshold between the living quarters and the rest of the house remained firm. No one dared to cross it, not because she forbade them but because there was an unspoken reverence in the air and a sense that something sacred lingered.

A blinking light pulsed at the corner of her vision, her lifeline to one particular individual. Annoyance and empty threats flickered across the screen in a stream of unread messages. She exhaled through her nose and pushed it aside, shifting focus to another device propped against the desk's edge. A message had gone out days ago, summoning one of SIFIA's newest recruits. The group remained small and experimental, but she had ensured it met the Minister's expectations.

The little rebellion knew their pseudo-leader was expecting company. They knew the shadow by her codename, and when the guest arrived, she would know what to say. Still, curiosity buzzed through the ranks like static in the air. They knew little of the woman who occupied the back room, but what she had revealed was enough to convince them she could help free Varonat from the grip of its absent governor. The man did nothing. Not even for himself. And with whispers of a growing threat on Anoat, his incompetence became a liability.

Anoat.

Allyson chewed the edge of her thumb, eyes flicking to the small video feed on her screen. Surveillance had already begun in preparation for her own infiltration. The Ison Corridor's underground network proved helpful, and if she played this right, she could slip through the cracks unnoticed. Still, experience had taught her not to underestimate Taeli Raaf. When the woman summoned her, it was rarely without some semblance of eldritch.

At least this time, she still had her eye. A smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth as she adjusted the leather patch over her eye, fingers feeling the worn edge. Allyson could have discarded it long ago, but the Corellian had grown accustomed to seeing herself this way.

She shifted in her chair, exhaling slowly. Now, all that remained was to wait for the woman from the Commonwealth to arrive.

 

[Frankie]

The humid air clung to her skin like a second coat as Frankie moved through the narrow alleyways of the small town on Varonat. The faint scent of soil and decaying leaves drifted past her with each breeze, a reminder that this world belonged to the jungle, no matter how stubborn civilization tried to cling to it. Frankie kept her head low beneath the brim of her cap, the faded fabric fraying just enough to look like she belonged.

Blonde hair tucked up and hidden away, she walked without hurry but with purpose. Nothing about her screamed Commonwealth Intelligence. Her worn jacket — collar turned up to frame her face — was unremarkable, a standard spacer's cut with threadbare cuffs and a few uneven patches that gave her the air of someone living on credits carefully counted. It was all intentional. Frankie had learned that blending in was as much about presence as it was about appearance. A shadow knew when to fold itself into the scenery, and here, in the tangled streets of Varonat, she did exactly that.

Varonat was of historical importance to the Commonwealth. Frankie would play her part in aiding Archon's return to its governance. Her handler's reluctance was clear — sending Frankie out this far had been a gamble, and the Major had made it plain that if she slipped, she'd be on her own. It was a risk Frankie accepted. She was here to learn, to earn her place in SIFIA and prove that Commonwealth agents could thrive in more volatile environments. Even so, the directive remained clear: home came first, everything else second.

The building she approached was unimpressive — a sagging, single-story structure near the jungle's edge, its windows clouded by grime and the faint flicker of movement behind them. Frankie lingered near the door for a moment, assessing the space. The air carried the scent of oil and sweat, a reminder that this place wasn't just a shelter — it was a staging ground. Resistance fighters moved quietly inside, shifting supplies, their voices kept low. A few glanced at her from the windows, sizing her up before going back to their work. They knew better than to interrupt the stranger walking toward the back room.

She knocked once before stepping inside. The door clicked shut behind her, sealing out the humid air. The person she was meeting didn't exactly come across as the person she had heard about. Still. No one lives this long as an agent, or shadow without scars and stories to tell, and the brunette seemed no different. Frankie felt the weight of the woman's gaze. The blonde examined the older woman, the worn leather strap of her eye patch, the way her stare was calculated.

No pleasantries, "where do we start?"

Allyson Locke ​

 

[Allyson Locke]

//: Frankie //:
//: Varonat //:
//: Attire //:

Allyson barely glanced up at the one-knock warning before Frankie stepped inside. She was mid-message, listening to the clipped fury of a woman threatening to fire her again. Just the usual. With Frankie's arrival, she thumbed the device off and tossed it aside, silencing the sharp voice mid-rant. The old chair creaked as she leaned back, one brow rising at the blonde agent's straight-to-business posture.

Allyson could respect it. But she wasn't in any rush; seeds took time to grow, and Varonat wasn't going anywhere. "Well," she began, folding her arms with deliberate ease, "a hello wouldn't kill you. We've been dancing around each other long enough, and I've heard good things."

Standing from the chair, Allyson reached for the jacket draped over the back. With ease, she slipped into it, circled from behind the desk, and clicked the door behind Frankie solidly.

"The children don't need to hear anything," she said, smiling. Allyson turned, hands sliding casually into her pockets. "You can call me Allyson while we're here. Not many people get that name, so let's keep it simple. Anything in particular you want to be called?" It was a fair question. They were agents, spies, and creatures of secrecy. Unfortunately, their mission wasn't sanctioned in the same sense as others; this one was under the table—a favor.

She let the silence hang for a beat before continuing.

"Couple of things before we get into it," Allyson said, motioning around the space. "The house is under renovation. People will be in and out, fixing what they can. But this office is off-limits unless I'm here. The same goes for the rest of the house besides the living room and outside only. Understood?" There was a subtle shift in her voice, something quieter underneath. Allyson didn't meet Frankie's eyes as she stepped back toward the desk and then leaned against it.

"I'm working to overthrow the absent government on Varonat," she said bluntly. "The governors left the people with nothing, especially regarding the Blackwall. Everything looks clean on the surface, but it's an illusion." Her voice was steady, but her jaw had tightened. Allyson hated how much she cared. She could feel the storm brewing under her chest, but she remained composed as she continued the small briefing.

"We'll keep planting evidence," Allyson said, her smirk returning like armor. "Stoke the unrest. Push the people to act. And when it hits its peak, I'll cut off the head of the snake and install someone who actually gives a damn." It was ruthless but direct.

"Any questions? Concerns?" she asked, her tone easing just slightly. "I know where you're from. The Commonwealth doesn't exactly jump into other people's problems. Still, if there's a way this benefits your people, I'm open to that. I know what it's like to want to protect your home."

 

[Frankie]

Frankie didn't have time for pleasantries, not here, not now. When Allyson introduced herself, the young agent offered only a curt nod, her expression unmoving. She said nothing at first, just stood there, shoulders squared, watching as the older woman slipped her hands into her pockets.

"Frankie," she said flatly, her voice dry and clipped. That was all. No titles, no formalities — just her name.

Silence stretched between them, awkward but purposeful. Frankie wasn't one to fill empty space with idle chatter. She simply waited, her gaze steady, absorbing everything Allyson said.

The rules — of course there were rules. Frankie's expression barely flickered as Allyson outlined the plan. Inside, however, her irritation simmered just beneath the surface. More waiting, more caution, she thought bitterly. The mention of Blackwall — the elusive figure said to be fueling the unrest — sent a twitch through her fingers. Frankie wanted to solve the problem directly, her way. The simplest solution was always the most effective: find the problem, eliminate it. Yet here she was, a willing piece on the Commonwealth's board — another quiet cog in a larger strategy she wasn't fully privy to.

She knew better than to resist. The Commonwealth's directive was clear: Home first. Everything else second. Duty before self — that had been drilled into her from the moment she earned her place in the Intelligence Directorate. Every world at the Commonwealth's edge — every fragile, fraying link in their chain — would need her service. Varonat was no different.

Allyson's brief mention of overthrowing the absent governor piqued her interest. Frankie arched a perfectly sculpted brow, her cool blue eyes narrowing. There was more to this than Allyson was letting on — there always was. Otherwise, Frankie wouldn't be here. This wasn't just about stabilizing the region; this was about control. Plant evidence, stoke unrest, push the right people to act — a simple nudge here, a whisper there. Cut off the head of the snake and install someone who would actually give a damn.

Allyson was right about one thing. The Commonwealth didn't jump into other people's problems without cause. But Varonat was valuable, too valuable to ignore. Strategic, resource-rich, and historically tied to the First Order. That mattered.

Frankie wouldn't give anything away. Not yet. She didn't know Allyson — not really. The Corellian might have a reputation, but that meant little.

For now, Frankie would play her part — watch, listen, and wait. The moment an opportunity presented itself, she'd act — and Varonat would belong to the Commonwealth once more.

Allyson Locke ​

 

[Allyson Locke]

//: Frankie //:
//: Varonat //:
//: Attire //:

Allyson finished talking and stared at Frankie. The blonde had said precisely one word. Just one. Maybe she had a funny accent. Maybe she hated the sound of her own voice. Or perhaps she was just that stoic. Allyson wasn't sure. It had been a while since she'd worked with another field agent, but even by spy standards, Frankie was stone-faced.

Subtle irritation coiled in her gut. Had she said something wrong?

Her eyes flicked around the office, scanning anything to distract from the awkward silence suddenly pressing down on them.

"Okay then," Allyson said, more to herself than to Frankie. She leaned back against the desk, careful with her balance, as she popped open a drawer and retrieved a small caramel.

Walking over, Allyson held it up like a peace offering. "A little lesson," she said, gently slipping the candy into Frankie's pocket with a practiced sleight of hand. "You'll get more of what you want, intel, cooperation, what have you, with honey, not vinegar." She grinned. "Should help with that sour face of yours."

Without waiting for a response, she stepped back and pocketed a small black comm, sliding toward the office door. She waited for Frankie to follow, then locked the door behind them with a clean click. Allyson trusted no one.

That's why she carried Madelyn's comm. It was why she never left anything important lying around, even in friendly company. They moved through the house, pausing when one of the younger rebels flagged her down. He handed over a plain box, and Allyson cracked it open. Inside: signal probes are small and efficient.

"These scrubbed and loaded with the right data?" she asked. The boy nodded a little too eagerly. Allyson's face softened. He couldn't have been more than sixteen. Brilliant, sharp, loyal, but still a kid. They all were.

"Good work." She offered a quiet smile and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

As they made their way out, the others waved, knowing their pseudo-leader was off to handle something bigger than they could. That was the deal. She took the risk so they wouldn't have to.

Once they were far from the safe house, Allyson glanced at her companion. "You have nice teeth, you know. No need to keep your lips pressed together like that." She said it with a shrug as she climbed into the speeder. The girl in front started the engine, and when Frankie settled in beside her, they took off. The jungle thickened around them, lush green swallowing the road as Edgefield faded behind.

Allyson let her thoughts wander, then reeled them back in. "They're signal boosters," she said, tapping the box beside her. "The governor finally decided to start countering our little message campaign. So we're going to make it louder."

She smiled at the sunset bleeding through the canopy. "Once we boost the signal, we find their radio tower, cut it off, and go home." Simple and clean.

As they approached the city's edge, the hum of unrest rose into a roar. Chants echoed through the streets, calls for reform, freedom, and an end to the deadbeat governor. Allyson's quiet operation had caught fire. The people were burning for change.

She grinned to herself. "What do you think about a giant statue in the city center?" the Corellian asked, striking a heroic pose with hands on her hips and her chest puffed. "Me, obviously. Flowing hair, inspiring jawline." Laughing, she tossed a few probes to Frankie.

"Head toward the wall's edge and embed those. I'll loop around and meet you on the other side." She hefted her own share, turning toward the opposite path. The probes were easy enough to plant, and frankly, leaving Frankie alone gave the Commonwealth agent room to do whatever she wanted.

Allyson wasn't stupid. But she understood.

 

[Frankie]

Frankie watched as the other agent began to ramble, rattling on about honey, vinegar, and the nuances of getting what you want. The Corellian was animated, expressive — a little too comfortable in her own skin for Frankie's liking. When the brunette accused her of having a sour face, Frankie didn't so much as blink. Not a frown, not a smirk. Nothing.

Allyson didn't get it.

Frankie wasn't here to make friends. She was here to do a job.

The blonde followed in silence, boots silent against the worn permacrete as she trailed behind Allyson like a quiet shadow. She didn't need to speak — not yet. Her eyes did all the work: cataloging every face, every door, every alley they passed. The safehouse behind them still buzzed with the distant hum of resistance activity, but she kept her senses forward. Focused. Sharp.

She watched as Allyson barked an order at a wide-eyed civilian, instructing them to scrub and load intel. There was something about the casual authority in the other woman's voice that might've impressed someone else — Frankie just filed it away for later.

Once they were clear of the safehouse and approaching the edge of the city, Allyson kept talking. Something about teeth — smiling, specifically. Frankie didn't bother responding. If a smile was required for a mission, she'd do it. She'd wine, dine, and make someone feel like the center of the galaxy if it got her results. But now? On the edge of a city fraying under civil tension, with protests stirring and the scent of smoke starting to bite at the air?

Now was not the time for smiling.

The hum of unrest rose as they drew closer to the city's heart. Chants echoed in the air, bouncing between buildings and alleys, swelling in power with every passing second. Reform. Change. Down with corruption. It was the kind of music revolutions were made of.

And then came the statue.

She slowed as Allyson gestured toward it — a towering monument in the city center, the kind of overbuilt sculpture meant to convey power and permanence. It was clean, unweathered, as if someone had ensured its preservation despite the growing rot around it.

Allyson mimicked the statue's pose, and that's when Frankie realized it.

It was a statue of her.

A beat passed. Frankie looked up at the stone likeness, then back at the woman beside her. She didn't laugh. She didn't comment. She simply arched a single, elegant brow — the kind that spoke volumes without saying a word. Of course you'd have a statue.

Allyson tossed a handful of recon probes her way. Frankie caught them with practiced ease, no flourish, no fuss. She moved toward the wall as instructed, fingers already skimming across the surface of the first probe.

She did what she was told. But she also did what she was there to do.

As the data streamed in, so did the quiet whispers of Commonwealth coding layered beneath. Her own upgrades to the probe software ensured that every scrap of environmental metadata, heat signatures, and surveillance footage would ping back to CID — and more specifically, the Major. Her handler had insisted. Oversight from Dosuun didn't end just because she'd left their space.

No, the eyes of the Commonwealth never truly blinked.

Frankie never looked back at Allyson as she worked. She didn't need to.

She was there to observe, report, and ensure that if Varonat fell into anyone's hands — it would be the hands that wore Commonwealth gloves.

Allyson Locke ​