Private The Flight of the Firehawk

[Arette]

"So we're clear on the job, then?" The corpse-skinned woman sipped tea as she spoke, eyes the color of slate sparkling as she grinned from behind her cup. Her ship's 'lounge' area, if it could be called that, was cramped and uncomfortable, but she preferred it that way, especially when entertaining guests. A little bit of discomfort tended to make people more honest, after all. And, if they were weak, compliant. A win-win for the young Sith. Of course, in this particular instance, that discomfort served another purpose as well - petty vengeance. Ren Bishto , the young woman currently seated across from Arette on the barely-space-worthy junker the latter called home, had failed to advertise that she was a child when Arette hired her to offer fire support. Ah, well. Arette couldn't blame her - she hadn't advertised she was Sith, either.

The job in question was simple. Arette had determined the location of an old corvette by the name of the Firehawk, formerly the personal transport of a Lady of the Sith known as Darth Morrow , if what record scraps Arette could dig up were accurate. Currently, however, the Firehawk was being housed in a semi-illegal shipyard run by sympathizers and agents of the former Sith-Imperial regime. Technically speaking, theft of a Sith Lord's ship was a grievous crime in the Empire. But practically speaking, that Empire no longer existed, so kark their laws, and swiping the possession of a powerful Sith Lord away from them was a good way to earn recognition, even if it blew up in your face later (and it would). And Arette wanted a ship with a hyperdrive that didn't start rattling after every jump. Thus, the solution: Arette and company pay a little visit to this shipyard, kill or incapacitate anyone who gives them trouble, hijack the ship, and fly away laughing.

A stream of droidspeak crackled over the freighter's comm systems, before Ren could respond. «Exiting Hyperspace. Approaching target at sublight speeds. Arrival in: 6.4 Galactic Standard Minutes!»

Arette grinned, tapped her fingers against the table separating her from her hire. "If you've got questions, hurry 'em up."

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[Ren Bishto]

Space, Rust Bucket
Outfit​

Ren couldn’t rightfully determine if her luck had dried out indefinitely, or rather increased tenfold in the past few life-altering weeks. A debate which certainly wasn't helped by her current position.

The Sith’s homestead she found herself company in was characteristically bleak. The accompanying space choked any and all occupants with a square footage most would deem inhumane. The rampant discomfort only spurred on by the musk coiling tight around the space the two occupied, like latex against skin. The whole ship was almost comically uninviting. A prospect Ren was quick to internalize without even a whisper of protest. This by far was not her worst gig in recent memory. After all, any Coruscanti living below the sun line was practically desensitized to discomfort.

The girl met her contact’s dead stare with a look of passive contemplation, her arms crossed squarely over her chest as Arette finished recounting the objective. What started as a straightforward theft, became vastly more intriguing to the young apprentice as her contact’s identity was stripped. While she couldn’t confidently label her a Sith, the woman’s imprint on the force was potently dark. A fact which usually lent itself to a strong aura rather than a keen sense on the kid’s side. After all, the girl had only recently taken her infant steps into the realm of the Sith. Her force sensitivity was budding at best, and particularly deafened by Arette's.

Her attention became promptly redirected as a binary accent cut through their conversation, notifying them of the nearing descent. The other woman only grinned in reponse, repeating herself.

“This isn’t glorified dumpster diving.” The girl reclined into the stiff seating with a neutral expression, “From the sound of it, there's going to be a welcome party of resistance.” Sith were territorial, that much was easy to pick up on. “How much and of what caliber should we be expecting?”

The question of why Arette would rather steal a ride from a dormant Sith, rather than pooling her credits was easy enough to answer. A Sith’s thirst for conquest could never truly be quenched.

Arette wanted to goad on higher powers. A goal not shared by the accompanying apprentice, but one she had no issue in facilitating. So long as she surfaced from this relatively unscathed.

Arette​

 

[Arette]

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"Mostly Legionnaires, probably." Arette shrugged, reached under her coat for something - and there it was! A sleek cylinder of black metal, open at one end, with a tuning dial here and a button there. A lightsaber, unmistakably, and one which Arette seemed preoccupied with fiddling with, adjusting some incredibly minor blade characteristic or somesuch. "No official support - I'm sure some former Saaraishash busybody with nothing better to do is keeping tabs on the place, but they're not getting any actual support out here. Too easy to trace." The young Sith made a noise at that - halfway between a grunt and a sigh. Annoyance? No - disappointment. "If we're lucky, they'll have a Graug or two to let loose on us, but...probably just jarheads."

The station Arette's prize was being held at was, at least, well hidden. You stop two-thirds through a hyperlane between a couple of dinky little mining planets, drift galactic east for a few minutes, and then maneuver your way into an asteroid field, where you'd find a small station dug into the surface of one of the larger, more stable planetoids, housing a few assets left over by the Sith after they were routed in the area. Small and relatively lightly defended, the station had, at most, one hundred or so guards, stationed at a handful of areas. They were equipped to deal with exogorths and mynocks - not, by contrast, ambitious young Sith with questionable self-preservation instincts.

"We're gonna be docking as close to the Firehawk's hangar as we can - M8'll give us fire support with this thing's turrets on the landing pad, but once we're inside, it's gonna be pretty useless in a fight. So unless you've got a grenade launcher tucked away somewhere, my recommendation is that you grab the biggest fething gun you see out there, and then we beeline to the Firehawk, cut our way inside, and get the hell out. I figure after the landing, we've got, at most, thirty seconds of breathing room before they run the ship through their logs and start firing on us." The Sith paused as the ship lurched, thrusters re-engaging as the vessel began to slow down. She grinned again, and pulled the respirator hanging around her neck up and over the lower half of her face. Those dull grey eyes, for the briefest moment, simmered a sickly sulfurous yellow. "You ready to have some fun, kid?"

Ren Bishto

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