SIA SPECDIV
AGENT ESKOL
"HAMMER"
Hammer entered the firing range, for his qualification.
SPECDIV or not, he had to qualify with his
weapon- not that he used that in the field much. He moreoften preferred civilian-bought slugthrowers, disruptor pistols, or other locally sourced weapons to keep any trail back to the Alliance off of him. He entered the firing range- out of uniform, unmarked. He was dressed down, a button up and a pair of tactical-ish pants, and boots that were cut low at the ankle and made more for hiking than they were soldiering. A perfect 'everyman'. Save for the small on his face, Hammer was the kind of person you'd look at and forget. No tattoos, no marks, a standard haircut, human male. Average everyman. The only other difference was his eerily glowing eyes. To the more culturally and scientifically inclined, it was his heritage. To the less inclined, it was an unnerving, piercing stare from a man who appeared like a phantom and moved just as quietly.
Unfortunately, he'd probably stab you in the back, or wrap a rope around your neck. He was SpecDiv. He was a ghost, he was a hyper-lethal vector. Not a children's idea of a spy, not the politician's over-politicized emphasis on the SIA. He was a killer, he was a ruthless viper in the grass. He emanated death and deceit, lies and betrayal. He was a scumbag, in other words.
But he loved the Alliance, by every metric. He just didn't trust anyone in it. He hated everyone else in the galaxy enough to not want to fight for anyone else. Maybe Hammer really did believe in the Alliance. Maybe he just liked to kill people. Maybe he was just a sociopath in an agency. Maybe he was a lot of things. He entered the range, inputting his identification to record his scores and get the affair over with.
Perhaps it was him, perhaps it was SpecDiv, but his real name didn't appear in the registry. Today, it was Hammer. Tomorrow, it'd be something else. And the next day, another name, another identity. Only a few inside SpecDiv knew his name, let alone his rank, let alone where he went and what he did. A constant cycling of identities since Coruscant was paramount to success, concealment, and operative deniability.
He didn't speak to anyone, he didn't make eye contact. But he checked every corner, he watched all their hands as he made his way over to the firing position, and began to load his handgun. He was a scary mother fucker, to put it lightly. Wherever they plucked Hammer from, or whatever he did before the Alliance, it wasn't pleasant. He wasn't a good person, that much was clear. But he was good at what he did. He pulled up his sidearm, that damned quiet little thing- and aimed in, waiting for the course to begin, biding his time.
