Private Operate

[Sam Rodarch]

The fight was over.

The woman in black was gone, and with her the slicer she was supposed to have been protecting. All that was left was Sam Rodarch, sprawled across the floor of the cantina amongst shards of glass, half-conscious stare drifting upwards to the mirrored ceiling.

She was exhausted. She was in pain.

She was dying.

The owner of the cantina didn't give a shet, the older woman's anger still evident from the mess that had been made by the fight. There was less culpability if they waited for the woman upon the ground to expire before throwing her body to the curb. Seemed like a cold thing to do, but it was just how things went around here. Nothing personal.

Against all odds, the Mandalorian upon the ground began to move, trying to sit up at first but failing in such a monumental effort. Her remaining hand pushed against the glass-littered floor, the sharp shrapnel embedding itself into her palm as she did so. Not that she noticed.

A soft moan.

Her chest heaved with each labour-intensive breath, every inhale and exhale a sharp stab courtesy of the large jagged shard of glass that protruded from her chest and had punctured her lung, which had by now collapsed. It was hard to breathe. Lack of oxygen made flesh grow pale, made her real tired. Sam wanted to close her eyes, felt the need to just sleep creep over her. It would be so easy.

No.

Something in the back of her mind urged her to stay awake. Don't fall asleep. Her face twisted, contorting in pain as her head lolled to the side. Through dilated pupils, she saw her hand and wrist, separated from the rest of her arm a few feet away. Her cauterised stump still burned, begging for the relief of icy waters.

Sam fruitlessly reached out for her hand but was evident for all to see that it was too far away. There was an absence of logical thought and aside from battling the urge to close her eyes the only thing that the woman wanted to do was get her severed hand as if it would help in some form or other.

A lurch, and somehow she had managed to roll onto her side, the trickle of blood that stemmed from her forehead changing direction and now travelling down a clammy forehead. Rodarch reached for her hand again, but she was just as far away from the limb as before.

Belfry of Tund

 

[Belfry of Tund]

Sam Rodarch

I got a job here. Can I leave you alone for a moment without you ... causing trouble?

A yellow grin in return. 'Course Sam-sam, enjoyaself. Gonna enjoy me for sure. Don't do anything I wouldn't do!

And that was that.

Sam probably hadn't been very happy about that exchange. Since... well... Archibald hadn't promised anything. For a change it all turned alright. From his perspective anyway. Whisky in hand, listening to a good song. Enjoying the ability to finally be off Nar Shaddaa. This world wasn't much better, but it was okay really.

The ruckus didn't faze him at first.

Why would it? Not his problem, until someone came tugging at his sleeve. It was the bar owner in fact.

"Mister, I hope ya got deep pockets, cus ya friend made a right mess outta my bar and herself." Tone accusatory, eyes piercing. There was no fear there for him. Which made sense. Nobody knew the name Sult here. "What friend?" Sult responded after another sip of whisky. Taking his time with responding, because nobody took that tone with him.

"The chick with the attitude, build like a gorram tank and a 'alf."

Brows furrowed there.

"Sammy did do a bad?" "Oh, yes, mister a BAD. And ya better pay up or I am calling the-"

Whoever the bar owner was about to call would be a badly-veiled mystery. It was difficult to finish a sentence sometimes. Especially when a knife was stuck in your throat. They gargled. Eyes wide, struggling, clutching both at him and their throat. The people who were still nearby immediately made room or left entirely.

This wasn't the place to be right now.

He swatted them away, before pulling the knife back out. Wiping it down on the counter.

"There ya go. Paid ya right up." Sult murmured cheerfully, before taking his whisky and walking on over to where Sam had disappeared earlier. It was easier now. Something about leaving Nar Shaddaa behind. Little pushback now for his actions. Ideal, frankly. Maybe He got tired. Exhausted from trying to push him down and take back the steering wheel.

Could be, could be.

Still there though, because His groan could practically be felt on the teeth. They both paused there. Watching Sam trying to get to her arm. Failing, of course, because feth she was wrecked.

"Damn, woman, I told ya NOT to do wha I wouldn't. The feth." Picking his way through the wreckage of this corner of the bar. Every once in a while Archibald cast an appreciative look around. Damn. They really had some fun here. Until he reached Sam. Pausing there at her arm, severed, still twitching from outputs that would never arrive.

Crouching down and snapping his fingers in front of her eyes.

"You got any auto-docs you know here? Folks that can help? Dis ain't mah place, y'know? Tho. I solved ya bar owner problem for ya."

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Still reaching, still fruitless.

Whilst on her side, the woman had to be careful not to roll any further over, the threat of pushing the shard of glass deeper the biggest current threat to her life other than the temptation to just sleep. It would be so nice. Another pitiful moan. Eyelids heavy. She just wanted her hand back. Just wanted to rest. Not feel.

Fingers snapped, denying that urge once more as the sight of her severed arm was obscured by a crouching figure.

“...hey, el...”

Mercifully forgetting that Archibald Sult actually existed for just a moment, until his voice drawled into her ears, causing her bloodied face to contort as she realised just who exactly was crouched before her. The realisation didn't last for long as she looked up at his face, it was a haze, it was a shape.

Sam decided it was Elliot because she wanted it to be Elliot.

“...i think...i fethed...it...up...”

His question largely ignored with the Mandalorian making laboured small talk as her chest still heaved, her body craving oxygen just as much as sleep, although the two desires were fast becoming intertwined. It would be easier to breathe if she wasn't awake. Wouldn't hurt any more.

“...can ya...get ma...hand...el?”

Even if she was the full credit, Samantha Rodarch didn't actually know anybody here that could help. Hardly a social butterfly full of connections on the best day, although she was seemingly a lot more pleasant upon the cusp of death. Less aggression. More panting.

“'Scuze me,” a voice chimed in, addressing Archibald on the assumption that he was with the woman that had put on quite the show for the rest of the cantina's patrons, “you'll be needin' Droz for your girl. Runs a junk shop right here in the port.”

The green twi'lek was sitting upon his barstool simply observing, with his drink still in his hand, a stack of freshly won credit chits on the bar next to him, he'd put his bet on the right fighter and had made a tidy profit. Made him feel more charitable. He offered Sult a gap-toothed grin before tapping his own right eyeball, revealing it to be cybernetic.

“Fixes up folk who need it too. Doesn't ask questions either.”

Belfry of Tund

 

[Belfry of Tund]

Sam Rodarch

"Yah, ya look like ya did..."

Even Archibald was impressed.

The way her arm was severed? Lightsaber. Archibald had never encountered one before, but Elliot Locke certainly had. Numerous times. The SIS taught its elite agents how to handle a forcer. Clearly Sam didn't enjoy the same kind of training. Before Archie could react to Sam however he got interrupted. Already rising up in irritation, before the voice turned out to be helpful.

"Well, thankya good serah!" Arch drawled there in response. Bloody knife rising up as he sketched a bow. It was probably not very comforting. Then again, he didn't come closer to jab him in the throat like he had with the owner.

So really it was an improvement.

The twi'lek grinned and nodded back. "Of course, mister, hope your friend turns out alright." A tap of his wrist and the coordinates were relayed on over to Archie's commlink. This might have seemed as pure friendliness born out of a good mood. Maybe that was part of it. The other part was that the quicker Archibald left?

The less chance there were of more murders happening here.

"Alright, Samsam, let's get ya to the doc."

Picking up her arm. Waggling it there lightly. "Huh, ain't as heavy as I expected. Ya mind holding it?" Pushing it into her remaining arm, before moving to pick her up in his arms. Which was difficult. She was a big lady. Muscleborn. Luckily Archibald had something few had. The ability to not give a chit to such a degree that the rules of physics just gave up on him.

"Who the kark ya been fighting anyway?"

 

[Sam Rodarch]

The twi'lek's generosity was in fact only coincidental with his good mood. A good mood spawned by a swift bet with another patron, one which he had come out all the richer from. Had enough life experience to know not to bet against the one wearing robes. Them Force-using types were pretty adept at leaving a trail of destruction wherever they went. Pain in the ass for the everybody else, but hey, what could they do?

Make some credits at the very least.

“...fanks...El...”

With Archibald Elliot handing her the lost limb there was a strange moment of disconnect. It was probably a mercy that the Mandalorian was not quite connected with reality at that moment in time, for holding your own severed forearm was likely an activity that would have elicited loud screaming from a more lucid individual.

The sensation of being carried by her new companion was strangely comforting, and it spurred on the urge to sleep even further, each step another rock that caused eyelids to slip like broken shutters. It's okay to rest now. Elliot Locke's here. He's got your back. Didn't even mind him calling her 'Samsam'. Was that right? Was that what he said. No. It was off. No matter. Deal with it when you wake up.

Her face twitched, wincing as the man continued to speak despite her want to slip into blissful, unfeeling unconsciousness.

“...dunno...”

So hard to breathe. Need more air. Tired. Sore. Weak. Little voice of reason, the barest squeak urged Rodarch to keep talking, to stay awake as if it was the more important thing in the world.

“...some...forcie...”

That was the extent of her knowledge on those kinds of people. A few stories imparted upon a small child that lingered onwards in her head. She knew of Force users, but not of Jedi, Sith or those who lay in-between. There was one thing that Rodarch knew, however...

“...I was...I was gonna...win, el,” Sam continued to groan through every stabbing laboured breath, “...but...she...ch-cheated...”

Probably sounded like a serious case of denial to Archibald Elliot but in reality had the fight kept to fists and feet only, she might have come out of the other side the victor. Or at least not half as maimed as she was in that moment.

“...ah fink...she...got...tha...slicer...”

Belfry of Tund

 

[Belfry of Tund]

Sam Rodarch

"Hey, stay awake, that be the quickest route to slip into la la land, dig?"

To punctuate Archibald flicked her over the nose with his fingers. A twap so to speak. Which wasn't really the act of Elliot, so maybe that would tip her off of her savior's true identity. It seemed that in her pained stupor she forgot. Which was usually fine by Archibald, because didn't they all just live to forget at the end of the day?

That was what the 'Khol was for, after all.

"Well, that's what Forcers do, eh? They cheat. Dat be why ya never play fair with dem scum." In fact, Archibald totally believed her. Simply because Elliot had a wealth of experience with them himself. Archibald hadn't encountered one just yet. Not in a real fight anyway.

"Next time don't bring ya fists to a nuke fight."

Which was a bit insensitive.

Since Sam right now was missing one fist, but Archibald wasn't one to mince stuff up to make it nicer. Not when he was dragging a lump of meat around, who was bleeding all over him and murmuring chit. Especially since she was bigger than him. This was really tougher than it looked. It was probably just the desensitization of self that kept Archibald going.

Push yourself deep enough and you could ignore the cries of your body.

Eventually they reached the alleyway tinkerer. The body chopper that would hopefully fix 'er right up. Archibald didn't have money, none that he'd spend on her anyway, but there were other ways to get ya chit.

"What slicer?" Arch asked curiously, while knocking on the door. More like slamming his fist in.

 

[Sam Rodarch]

The flick of her nose sought to remind her who exactly was holding her, but blood-soaked denial ran deeper than the truth. After all, the only warm thing about Archibald Sult was the drink on his breath. It could only be the warmth of Elliot Locke's body that her cold and clammy flesh felt as he carried her.

Could just fall asleep in his arms. No. No la la land. Stay awake.

Hopefully, his lesson regarding Force users would stick in the future, if there even was a future for the woman, her breath ever laboured, the blood upon her face beginning to dry and crack with every new pained grimace.

She found herself startled by his fists pounding on a door, his question still floating around her brain like an incomprehensible shape. The slicer. Yes, remember the slicer? Come on, Sam. Wasn't that long ago. No time to rest, time to think.

“...i'unno...”

Not a great recollection, although she'd never been one for the finer details in a day's work.

“...he was'doin a job fer D-darkwire...m'supposed to be protectin'im.”

Wrong tense, love.

“...'fink ah karked...up...El...wha-wha am I 'sposed tado?”

The door stayed shut but the intercom burst into life, an overly cheery voice suddenly dominating the scene and causing Rodarch to wince as she tried to recollect the hazy memories of the events leading up to this moment.

“Oh my! It looks like somebody had a little accident, hmm?”

The voice from the box may have been musical in nature, but it certainly wasn't pleasant. Even through the distortion, there was a clear cut inflection of mockery and cruel delight. Although, such nuances were lost upon Sam, the woman only identifying the sound as both loud and confusing.

“Where are my manners? Do come in!”

A mechanism on the door clicked, which would lead the pair into a haphazard workshop that seemed to be one-part back alley surgical clinic, one-part chop shop and three-parts board of ethics nightmare. Awaiting them was a Verpine with eagerly twitching antennae who was flanked by two surgical droids.

The insectoid would gesture to an awaiting dubiously stained slab so that his newest customer could be free from the strain of the heavy-looking beast.

“Now, how may I help you today, sir? Recycle, repair or upgrade?”

Belfry of Tund

 

[Belfry of Tund]

In the end Archibald just filed the information away for later.

Clearly he wasn't gonna get anything useful out of her right now. Maybe if she survived this. Darkwire sounded ... well ... kinda edgy, honestly. Like a twelve year old's idea on what an organization should be called, but that didn't mean there wasn't money in it. Sometimes all you needed was to punch the twelve year old in the face to get their candy.

Why work harder than ya had to, eh?

"Survive for one. That would probably be handy." Arch drawled lightly as he waited for the door to slide open. Once it did, he internally sighed, because Archibald knew the look.

Oh, it was a Verpine and they looked all the fethin' same, but trash recognizes trash.

This might become messy.

"Repair." He grunted, before putting Sam down on the nearby surgical recliner. Oh, sure, Archibald's mind briefly went to recycle. It would probably mean a nice chunk of cash. But. That was the shortcut easy way. It aborted a whole arc of Arch's plan for Sam. Well, it wasn't really a plan. More like the concept of one.

It involved a lot of fun times.

"Lady 'ere got cheated, but she a strong one. Still got the arm too." Lips twitched. "Should be a nice discount for that, eh? Don't even need a new prosthetic."

Not that Archibald was planning on paying anyway, but that was besides the point. Always haggle down before you didn't pay.

Sam Rodarch

 

[Sam Rodarch]

If the Verpine was disappointed by the man's choice then he didn't let it show upon his short, green snout as he offered his newest customer a curt nod before directing his attentions to his surgical droids.

“Sedate and stabilise.”

The sentient insect, more commonly known as Zazil around these parts buzzed with amusement as the man began delving into price negotiation straight off of the bat. Not an uncommon affair in his line of business, but entirely unnecessary. After all, he chose to buzz the pair in and he did not do so under the assumption that they had credits.

“I can see that! How delightful!” Zazil commented brightly before plucking the severed limb from the one-handed clutch of the patient, who protested with all the strength of a milk-drunk kitten as the sedatives took effect, “Oh hush now, you'll get it back.”

Maybe.

“It's not always about credits, sir,” Zazil tittered as he inspected the disembodied forearm, mentally noting every detail with keen insectoid eyes from the blatant cauterisation to the split and scarred knuckles, all the way down to the dirt trapped in fingernails that confirmed suspicions that these two would likely do quite nicely for a job.

By this point, Archibald might have taken a better look around the place, noted the wall-mounted turrets that were very much not there for decoration and the suspicious amount of fire suppression systems that littered the room. Overkill and a half. A smart cookie might have fathomed it as a defence system that preserved bodies, blasting chemical compounds not dissimilar to those used in carbonite freezing.

The Verpine rounded upon the patient once more as one droid went about the task of preventing an untimely death and the other ran a bioscan. The lengthy digits grasped the human's chin, turning its head from side-to-side in appraisal of cauliflower ears and an oft-broken nose before pulling back the creature's lips in a manner not too dissimilar to livestock inspection and ah, yes, missing incisors. The thing groaned, but by now under the haze of sedation, its mind was no longer among their realm.

“Brain scan?”

The green-skinned eccentric operated as if Archibald wasn't even there, querying results from one of the droids and giving an all-knowing hum as he studied the analysis. Post-concussion syndrome.

“As to be expected,” he chittered before finally turning back to his customer, “this is your prizefighter, no? You'll get no further mileage out of this one with mere repairs,” Zazil continued, waggling the hand in the air, “needless, really, you'd be as well recycling.”

Of course, not to push that envelope too hard.

“Or upgrading, naturally. With the right cybernetics you could have a real edge over the competition.”

Belfry of Tund

 

[Belfry of Tund]

Archibald wasn't used to being ignored.

Feared, sure. Being disgusted by him, definitely. Outright being ignored while doing business? No, sir, that was an unique prospect. It made him internally feel a bit queasy. Like something bad landed in the stomach and was trying to get out. This was anxiety. Sadly Archibald had never experienced it before, so he had no idea what to do with it.

It would probably subside by itself.

Out came the flask. In through the throat.

Burning sizzle. Ahhh. And they were back, the strange feeling being crushed, before Archibald had to do any serious introspection. "Mm, I am glad you feel that way, V." Verpine. V. He didn't ask for a name. Didn't give a name. That was not part of the business. Not when they hadn't done any business to begin with anyway.

A stretch there.

He didn't try and dissuade the Verpine from thinking Sam was his fighter. Why would he? The reality was so difficult to explain. This is an old friend of my split personality, she tried to kill me, I wrecked her and now I am tagging along.

Yeah, right.

"Sure, upgrades. What do you want?" Straight and sliced through the humdrum of the moment. The insect was making him feel murderous. By the looks of the turrets and chit that was really not a good way to go. Not right now anyway. "Kark, kill, what?" Very matter of fact there. Some of these jokers were creeps, so he wouldn't be surprised if the Alien tried to go for the first option.

The mental image was already creeping up on him.

Sam Rodarch

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Straight down to business. On one hand, he appreciated cutting out the unnecessary details, too often was he faced with babbling indecision and his time was not here to be wasted. On the other hand, the man's crude manner of speaking and assumption that Zazil would wish to fornicate was so typically mammalian.

They'd rule the entire galaxy were they not so driven by sexual urges. The Verpine wished to scoff but knew when to keep a customer-facing charade on.

“Kill, since you are so forward,” Zazil replied, moving to store the patient's severed arm into a cryo-container for later purpose.

The surgical droids remained on task as the pair spoke, having easily identified the punctured lung and internal bleeding as the main issues at hand. The woman upon the table had since descended into clueless bliss as oxygen was provided and life-saving surgery began right there and then.

“There are those who question the ethics of my work,” the Veprine began, his length insectoid legs carrying himself to an unassuming metal cabinet before pulling out a bottle and a single glass, “frankly, I do not understand it. If there is a demand for Gamorrean snout, then I am more than happy to meet that demand.”

He poured a generous measure of amber liquid into the glass. Bavva ale was a major export across the galaxy, but this was not so lowbrow. A twenty-year-old Bavva single malt, renowned for its rich, fruity sweetness that came accompanied by a finish of peat smoke and spice. A perfectly spherical ice cube fell into the glass with a gentle clink. Zazil did not drink the stuff, he liked to stay clear-headed at all times, but it was handy for sweetening the deal.

Especially when murder was involved.

“As you can see, I operate with at least second-party consent,” he continued, returning to the customer and offering him both the glass to drink, and the bottle to inspect, “unfortunately for some that is simply not good enough.”

The pair of them knew that his recycling scheme was more nefarious than words conveyed, but he was hoping for at least a silent acknowledgement of such.

“There is an investigator breathing down my neck who wishes to see my operations ceased and myself behind bars. That simply cannot do. I would like him taken care of.”

Belfry of Tund

 

[Belfry of Tund]

Not a kark?

Well, color him surprised. At least it meant he didn't need to drag someone into the Verp's underground dungeon. He'd also not have to look at the underground dungeon. Yes, Archibald totally assumed it had one. Just look at it. "Why waste time on pleasantries, when there be killing to be done, eh?" He murmured, while watching the Verpine pour the whisky.

It was fun... and odd to do.

Since it didn't have hands, but had... whatever they were. Claws? It looked awkward, but it didn't spill any of it.

Curious.

A yawn, once Zazil explained. "Some folk dun' want any pleasure, an' they try to take it from others as well." A sidelong glance towards Sam. She had been one of them, until he cut her up good. "Sure." Accepting the glass and immediately downing it. No swirling, no taking a sniff from it. Nothing that would bring true exotic pleasure to the bouquet.

"Ya want 'im to hurt or just gone?"

Just like that.

No emotion in the tone. No care for the world.

Sam Rodarch

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Not only did plying the man with expensive whisky serve as pleasantries to sweeten the scene, but it also allowed Zazil to catch a glimpse of the ape's character. As he witnessed him drink the entire thing in one gulp, the Verpine inwardly remarked that it might as well have been bargain basement hooch.

Chaotic.

This, coupled with the lack of hesitation or emotion that his reply came with only fuelled the insect's decision to not ask for the bottle back, opting for smooth sailing in these negotiations rather than risk unpleasantness.

Besides, a creature like that could come in very useful in his line of work.

“Gone,” Zazil responded with a glance over his shoulder to check on progress, nothing out of the usual there, “in whatever manner you'd like, all I want is him out of my antennae.”

A nod, curt and professional as you like. He trusted that this man wasn't so much of an unhinged lunatic that he would spell out 'Zazil' with the investigator's entrails. Although in truth, one could never be entirely sure.

“That will cover the costs of upgrades nicely,” he continued, with a second brief nod, “speaking of, any preferences? Or simply hand-to-hand combat optimisation?”

Belfry of Tund

 

[Belfry of Tund]

A grunt that didn't indicate any sort of emotion.

There was no disapproval, no approval, because Archibald didn't care.

Oh, sure. If it was an enemy of his? They'd hurt. Be in pain. He'd make sure of it. On a job? Eh, it didn't matter to him. In fact. Hell, maybe it did matter to him. Not having to torture the lad would cut his work time in half. That would be nice. Spend some time with this nice little bottle. It looked expensive, but that didn't mean much.

'Khol was 'Khol.

It burned on the tongue and that was that.

"Sure. One dead body coming up." A yawn there as he put the glass down. Didn't even use a little saucer! Instead taking a gulp from the bottle directly and letting out a satisfied ah. "Will need the name, place they hang out at and any other details you want me to know."

From there, satisfied he told the insect all it needed, Archibald wandered over to Sam on the surgical table. "Uuuuh." Another yawn. Stretch. He didn't seem very impressed with how professional the droids were. Or how bloody the work was. Just observing it impassively, while taking sips from the bottle. How he didn't have to throw up was anyone's guess.

It looked nasty.

Then an idea suddenly inserted itself into his brain. An ugly smirk there. "You can probably put something in that encourages her, yah? Endorphines when something is good, bad signals when it be bad?"

Would definitely make things easier.

Sam Rodarch

 

[Sam Rodarch]

Well, that was easier than anticipated.

“But of course! We've had our eyes on him for as long as he's had his eye on us,” Zazil commented, his use of we and us suggesting either a wider network or a simple mistranslation in Basic, “we should have all the details you need.”

That would come later.

He joined the man in observation of the inner-workings of the human female, the shards of glass now extracted and laying upon a tray like bloody confetti. Any internal bleeding had been stemmed with a hemosponge soaking up any excess to keep the area of work clear, a bio-sterilisation field active to prevent any possibility of infection.

“Replace the lungs,” the Verpine requested plainly as he noted the damage, it was nothing that couldn't be fixed in an organic sense but fully operational lungs were a necessity for the fighter and sacrificing functionality and capacity was not the play here, “base model will be adequate.”

His first request came courtesy of a sinister grin, and it was not a request for optimisation for his beast but rather behavioural modifications. The notion did not bother Zazil as he nodded in agreement, absorbing a new notion of what kind of relationship these two held with one another. Control chips, inhibitors and slave tracking devices were not uncommon in his line of work.

Usually, insurance to keep indebted souls in line, although they usually were left aware of their predicament. This seemed to be a more subtle affair, a neurological carrot and stick approach.

“Better than that,” he replied matter-of-factly, “we have implants that would allow you to control brain chemistry at the push of a button. Endorphins, serotonin, dopamine and more, all at your fingertips,” Zazil continued as his spindly digits waggled in the delight of possibilities, “in short, you could reward it with feelings of pleasure, euphoria, arousal, self-confidence and even lessen pain to reinforce good behaviour. On the other end, to punish bad behaviour you could induce fatigue, anxiety, depression, stress and even headaches.”

That was just the tip of the iceberg, there were so much more possibilities there. Mammalian brains were so fascinating.

“With subtle enough application your fighter would be none-the-wiser. Is that what you desire, sir?"

Belfry of Tund

 

[Belfry of Tund]

A grunt there, but nothing more.

His interest had already waned and shifted towards Sam on the table.

It was kinda gross, but also fascinating to see. The way the droids systematically took her apart. Turn her inside out and replace what was damaged. Another sip of the whisky. Throughout it Arch hadn't offered a sip to the insect. That would be a waste of amber liquid, he figured. "You must really hate dis investigator..." Archibald murmured lightly. Since the Verpine didn't expect any cash, but was fully willing to replace and upgrade Sam. Even though he had only wanted a repair job from the get-go.

Interesting.

Internally Arch made a note of that. Maybe it would be worthwhile to mess around with this investigator's files after the fact. Could be there were some interesting files on hand.

It was always a good thing to have some leverage.

"What else can ya do 'ere? Tracker? Stamina enhancements? Keep her going longer, chit like that." Another sip. He was going through the expensive 'Khol like it was water at this point. Didn't seem to bother him either. That liver must either be shot or replaced already by something else. "Either way, how long this surgery gonna take? I got places to be."

A pleasantly small smile there.

"Like your journalist's home."

Sam Rodarch

 

[Sam Rodarch]

“He is trying to destroy my livelihood, sir, and that is truly unforgivable.”

And if all Zazil needed to do to rid himself of such a stain was upgrade some toothless monkey in exchange then why not? A small loss in profits couldn't really compare to a hefty, if not lifelong jail sentence.

“A tracker can be implemented alongside the behavioural modifications,” the Verpine confirmed (having coincidently already planned to implant one for insurance purposes) before approaching the side of the slab, insectoid eyes peering into the inner workings of the mammal with great detail, “but I wouldn't waste your time on performance packages without an entire organ overhaul.”

A pause, almost thoughtful as his eyes suddenly lit up in apparent excitement.

“Oh, I'd say an hour at most,” he muttered absent-mindedly, other things evidently upon his mind “time enough for a debriefing on the target...”

He couldn't hold it in, the Verpine just had to ask.

“May I replace the liver? This one is in such rare condition,” Zazi inquired in earnest, before decidedly showing his entire hand, “it would fetch quite the pretty penny and naturally, I would split the profit with you, sir.”

Belfry of Tund

 

[Belfry of Tund]

"Yuh, I am sure being stuffed in a black hole with no food ain't up ya speed."

This was Denon Corporate Authority space after all.

Those folks didn't go in for due process. Which Archibald could respect, really. Why bother with judges, properly ran prisons and appeals, when you could just throw people in holes and take the ladder away? Let them fight between themselves. The problem will sort itself out. Cheaper too. All that chit about humanitarian laws was a waste of time.

The fact that they'd throw him in jail first chance they would get?

Well, that didn't matter.

"Sure, ya the doc." He drawled lightly. Maybe a bit too light there. "S'long as she functions properly to kill, that be fine for you... and me." Another sip, before he finally screwed up the bottle.

If Archibald had murder to do in an hour it would be better to save the other half for after.

Celebrate a bit.

'Rare' condition. That wording brought him back from his own musings. Brows quirking up, shifting his attention to the bug. "Ya mean she a drink virgin and the liver be pristine." Suddenly sharp there. Maybe that was enough validation for the Verpine's own internal musing. That this monkey might be a brute, but there was something turning in its head.

And none of it was pretty or simply dumb.

"Sure. Fifty fifty and ya throw in a really nice artificial liver for 'er. One that gets 'er drunk, but won't get all cancerous on me."

Priorities.

Sam Rodarch

 

[Sam Rodarch]

“Indeed, not a terrible amount of drink virgins to be found in this galaxy,” he agreed, very much amused by the man's phrasing. Wasn't he just a box of surprises? Weren't they both? A concussed, brawl-happy lump of a monkey that didn't drink and her chaotic yet lackadaisical handler, who was holding far greater complexities beneath the surface.

A pity he wasn't on the slab, his grey matter was likely a very interesting affair.

“Perfectly fair,” he chirped, knowing full well the price that the organ would fetch on the market, after all, it was a very distinct and distinguished crowd that demanded fresh replacements for their own jaundiced bodies.

“One of the Party Harder models,” Zazil noted to his droids, the clue being in the name that the replacement would enable as much drinking as one desired, the entire catalogue was designed for hedonists that wished to not be burdened by the flesh.

Internally the Verpine was trying to piece together the man's requests. Behavioural modifications made sense in terms of an unruly and undisciplined fighter. Where did the necessity to drink come into this? It appeared that the creature didn't subscribe to alcohol in the first place. The insect wasn't entirely sure if it was his prizefighter any more.

Most curious. Best kept in the realm of thought, however, ours is not to reason why.

“We can always make adjustments and further upgrades if anything isn't to your liking, of course,” Zazil began anew, seeing a glimmer of opportunity at hand here as the creature's lungs were replaced by the new artificial model, “and if you'd be interested in working for us again they'd be on the house, alongside very fair payment, naturally.”

He had no idea if they'd be of any use to his business until the investigator was taken care of, but there was no harm in sowing the seeds of further cooperation now. This ape and his depraved lack of morality was too rare to pass up.

Belfry of Tund

 

[Belfry of Tund]

Sam Rodarch

Who knew that Sam-Sam would end up bringing him a profit?

While half dead too.

That was a nice surprise.

"Mmm, pleenty of rich folk who be hatin' metal in da body." Archibald didn't really get it. Metal in your body made you stronger. What was the point of being rich, if you weren't upgrading your body? Put a cybernetic liver in and you could drink all day. It would keep you drunk, but wouldn't end up killing you on the other side.

Stronger arms, sharper mind, plenty of things you could improve.

Rich folks were weird as feth.

Aaaaand there it was. Archibald smirked his ugly smirk over at the insectiod. "Hard finding good help da dun' ask questions, eh?" A stretch there, letting the bottle swirl in his hand. Then a shrug. "We will see. Mebbe I be tired of it by the end of the night, mebbe not." They'd first have to do that first kill, then they'd see just if it was worth it.

Working for an insect.

"Anyway, gonna go grab some shut eye. Wake me when she up an' we will be to work."

If there was a bench, seat, he'd settle in. Bottle perched under his arm pit. Head tipping back, eyes closing and relaxing. Well, relaxing from the outward perspective.

Who knew how fast he could pounce and what weapons he had.