The Sum of All and By Them, Driven

[Aver Brand]

The lovely Cyborg observed [member="The Major"] plaster the Force Magic handkerchief over her face with a strange detachment – the sort of detachment only someone with a Sith Sorceress for a wife might develop. And a Mentalist for a lover on top of that. And an Alchemist for a brother-in-law and/or ex-lover and/or husband’s twin—

At this point, Aver had long stopped paying attention and started putting holes into the other half of the cultists. Her private life was only relevant on the job insofar that it helped her deal with certain… aspects of it.

Like, say, subterranean caverns chock-full of glowing worshippers of some eldritch horror or other. The mercenary employed the Force as a tool equal to any other in her vast arsenal. Whether she was popping eyes out or popping bullets in, it hardly mattered.

If the agent was halfway between an entranced dance and a homicidal spree, the criminal was her cold, calculated counterweight. If guts and body parts rained upon the ground galore under Sybil’s gentle touch, Aver decimated the undulating crowd with the efficient, methodical approach.

“Any second now, [member="Rusty"].”

Occasionally, she cracked the butt of her rifle across a cultist skull that got too close.

 

[Rusty]

The chaingun had an odd targeting system. One didn't simply tell it what to shoot, oh no. That wouldn't do for a portable weapon of mass destruction built for a freaking Jedi Master. It was designed to limit collateral damage. Thus, you had to tell it what not to shoot, and define its field of fire. Fortunately, it had an excellent sensor suite. Rusty was able to tell it that [member="Aver Brand"] and [member="The Major"] were friendlies, and thus, the weapon simply wouldn't fire when the muzzle tracked through their exclusion zones. For their sanity as much as safety, the exclusion zone was a three meter bubble around them. Close enough to take care of business, in other words, but not so close that the bolts would cause undo discomfort.

Other than that, it was really just a matter of holding on for dear life. The weapon had a platform meant for the operator to stand on, and it had motors that controlled traverse and elevation. It could rotate 360 degrees, and could do so rapidly. So, the platform and panic handles were nice. Unfortunately, they were designed for a being roughly the size of a small child, not a towering robot.

"HOOOOOOOOOOOOLLLYYYYYYYYYYYYY SHIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII-"

The chaingun spun on its axis like a top, spitting out scarlet death at a rate of about 50 bolts a second. They almost didn't look like individual bolts; the discreet energy packets were so close together, you'd need a high speed camera to spot the gap. Each and every bolt struck a valid target too, not a single one hit the wall or the floor. Yoda must have been hella serious about this whole collateral damage thing.

Individually, the bolts weren't exceptionally powerful, but when five of them smacked into a target with a hair's breadth of each other, the damage compounded dramatically.

After about 10 seconds of light and noise, the chaingun came to a stop, whisps of smoke leaking from the barrels. Rusty fell off, toppling to the ground. He didn't know it was possible for his mechanical body to get dizzy. Learn something new every day.

 

[The Major]

So much anguish and viscera filled the air -and thankfully for our heroes it was all justifiable. Was it not? These were cultists -evil. No doubt they had dastardly plans with holding unto such a massive tool of hyperdeath. And so justice was dispensed in a fashion equal in sloppiness and style. Sybil wasn't thinking about any kind of the meta-nonsense. She had just run out of things to kill.

"Ugh."

Like a bunch of pent up, hormonal frustration fizzing out into a vague nothingness, Sybil slowly faced about the room, looking for more things to kill. Slicked in gore and sporting a suit and coat that was now soiled and torn beyond repairable plausibility, the agent realizes that she could see -well, as much as her poor eyesight could manage.

!THUNK!​

Letting the musket hit the floor, she pulled out her glasses and thanked their robust construction before placing them upon her raw and red face. Visual confirmation revealed that her temporary comrades had faired far better than she did during this mission. Chalk it up to youth and inexperience. Clearly exhausted, there was a faint hope that now everything was complete.

"So glad you are all doing well."

Sybil allowed for her body slump down into a kneeling posture while ignoring the blood and intestinal juice making a pool of a few centimeters on the main floor.

[member="Rusty"] [member="Aver Brand"]​

 

[Aver Brand]

You couldn’t tell, of course – not under the layers of armor and, more recently, gore – but by the end of it, Aver was feeling thoroughly hot under the collar. It had nothing to do with the rapid fire that had just cleared the room in scant seconds.

Or perhaps it had everything to do with it.

The mercenary let out a long breath, turning an appreciative gaze to the red-hot barrels of the chaingun. Behind that helmet, she licked her lips.

“After all this crap… well.” Laughing, she holstered her weapons and walked over to the cooling bulk of the weapon. “It was karking worth it.”

Aver ran a light palm over the metal, coated as it was in a glossy film of organic matter. Everything seemed to be in one piece – everyone, too. A shade worse for wear, of course, but who wouldn’t be, after a day like this?

Flopping down on the podium next to [member="Rusty"] and [member="The Major"], Aver let out a sigh.

“I could do with a drink.”

 

[Rusty]

"I'll drink to that," Rusty muttered. "Just as soon as I hop in my HRD. I'm gonna get hammered."

Whatever the cultists had planned, it had apparently been cut short. The runes were not glowing. The thrumming energy that had been thrumming through the air had dissipated. Barring the off chance that someone had survived, the fighting was all done. The way Rusty saw it, they could all use a bit of a breather.

The Shard eyed the weapon fondly.

"Man, she's a beaut, ain't she? It's a shame they never got around to mass producing these things. By all accounts, the CIS sucked at tactics. The Republic would have cleaned their clocks in short order."

He resisted the urge to reach up and pat the still glowing barrels.

"I've got some ideas in mind by way of improvement. I suspect what we have here is Gertrude's baby daddy."

[member="The Major"] [member="Aver Brand"]

 

[The Major]

Now laying down upon her back near the chaingun, Sybil continues to catch her breath and starts pondering about logistics.

"Rusty, how do you intend to haul out this weapon?"

There was a noticble amount of concern in the question. She was worried that the weapon-smith was going to try and say that all three of them were going to haul. Gingerly touching about her sides was revealing that there might be a cracked rib bone going on. It hurt just to squirm. Thankfully, she could not partake of the somewhat. . . charged energy that Rusty and the Brand had on display right now. The tone was a little disturbing.

But what in Hades. When in Coruscant, right?

"Ow. . . "

[member="Aver Brand"] [member="Rusty"]

 

[Aver Brand]

A longing sigh escaped from her lips as she caressed the looming form of the chaingun with her gaze.

“Mm.” She side-eyed the shard. “Well worth those RCFC shares, ain’t she?” Aver said, clapping [member="Rusty"]’s metal shoulder as she stood.

“Just call a transport. Get a bunch of heavy lifters to do it while we crack open a bottle of something nice.” She had just the drink in mind, too. Such a fine vintage, bottled mid-Netherworld – you could practically taste the apocalypse.

Seemed fitting, given the scene. The merc nudged a limp body out of the way, shaking out her worn limbs. Kark if she wasn’t getting on in the years.

Pausing as she passed [member="The Major"], Aver glanced down. “You need a bacta shot?”

 

[Rusty]

"Already on the way," Rusty said cheerfully. "They'll be here in about fifteen minutes. Had them waiting in orbit until we cleared the place out."

True to his word, a team of weapons experts, archaeologists, and forensic technicians with a specialty in Force-based scenes were crawling all over the place. The runes still slightly disturbed the Shard. Whatever those cultists had been planning, it had involved the chaingun. Though he was no expert in the Force, Rusty had a good eye for engineering, and something told him that the precise alignment of the cultists had been important.

The leading theory seemed to be that the cultists had been charging up a ritual spell of some kind. The pattern of the runes, both on the ceiling and their bodies, had been significant. The Bunny Dance had likely been a focus, something they could all pour their concentration into all at the same time. If they had been allowed to complete the prescribed number of revolutions around the chaingun, all the while moving and meditation, when they reached their final positions, it would have likely killed them all in one fell swoop, opening a portal to...something.

The team lead was fairly certain they weren't trying to summon anything, just open a portal. She was also fairly certain that, by killing everyone before the ritual could be completed, the portal had been thwarted. However, enough of a jolt of energy had (probably) made it through to make a nice, shiny beacon for anything on the other side. The portal didn't necessarily lead to any alternate dimensions, but, knowing cultists, it probably didn't lead to Coruscant, either.

This was, of course, a rough hypothesis, formed in the ten minutes it took for the gunsmiths and archaeologists to create the chaingun up and carefully move it to the waiting freighter. After a brief discussion with the team lead, Rusty approached [member="Aver Brand"] and [member="The Major"] with a bit of urgency in his step.

"Lisha here says we probably ought to get out of here pretty soon. She can't tell if an extra-dimensional eldritch horror is gonna try to stick its head through to see what all the fuss was about, but if one does, it'll probably happen sooner than later. Something something driven insane by the very sight of it. How's about we head back to the shop for a celebratory drink? Booze is on me."

 

[The Major]

So much information. So much noise. At some point the Agent probably heard [member="Rusty"] explain both himself and the proceedings in his concise and drawling, robotic manner. It was most likely very important information that would be a necessary exploit later on. For now, it was tough to keep attention while your body berated its existence.

“You need a bacta shot?”

For the second time in an hour, the Major was laying down and staring at a skull like object that stood over her. Hopefully this wasn't an indicator of a soon to come death.

"I need a shot of something, Surely." Her tired and torn glove clasped unto Aver's with a pulpy smack. and whatever happened next as punishment was anyone's guess. . .

​

. . .Hours later. . .​

​

. . .An upscale bar that none of them currently fitted into. . . ​

But they were driven by purpose.​

​

It was close though -by the gods. And they probably each had enough currency to buy out significant portions of the planet if the whim hit them. Like an ill wind and terrible omen, they strode in -each of the trio cut like claws to the cushy makebelieveland that these patrons inhabited. Reality check. Big bads ride the galaxy every day. Sybil wished she could command such a presence at the moment. It was safer to say she was barely in traction. The science types Rusty had wrangled together provided a decent application of field aid to her most grievous of wounds. Everything was at least patched or plugged up. For now she had a managed to accrue a mighty thirst.

Shrugging towards [member="Aver Brand"] in response to the gaping jaws from the supposed upper class of this sector and their interrupted meals, the Fallanassi sat at the bar and decided to wait until her companions had ordered before picking a type of drink.

 

[Aver Brand]

Patched, plugged up, shot with bacta. She replenished her reserves of those syringes as religiously as [member="Rusty"] counted ammunition. Seen one too many battlefields not to carry that stuff around.

Sure enough, her muscles were aching as they strode in like they owned place. Each one more terrifying than the next, and each one sticking out like a sore thumb in the polished clientele of the fine establishment.

Though the gunsmith had switched from droid to HRD, he had that weapons maniac glint in his eye that you couldn’t miss. With [member="The Major"], you couldn’t even see her eyes behind those glowing glasses; to say nothing of the retro-vintage-victorian attire.

And then there was the walking suit of armor, of course.

A shard, a spy, and a mercenary walk into a bar…

had to be a joke, right?

Probably what was going through the head of the rodian behind the counter. Or maybe he was madly hoping that he’d had one swig from the bottle too many. Either way, his glossy eyes were looking mighty wide as the trio commandeered three barstools.

And then, in short order, three triple-strength tumblers of something to wash down the day.

Reaching up, Aver slid open her rebreather, grabbed her drink right out of the barkeep’s hand, and downed it all in one go.

“Refill.”

 

[Rusty]

Rusty's HRD never failed to attract attention.

It was built generally along the same lines as his droid chassis: tall, broad, and intimidating. Only instead of hydraulic muscles and fiber optic nerves, it was made of flesh and blood. Or as close an approximation thereof as science could manage, at any rate.

The end result was something of an embarrassment for the Shard. To get approximately the same build, the designers had heaped on slabs of muscle. The body looked like some lost Corellian god of protein shakes and steroids. It didn't lapse into the grotesqueness of a professional bodybuilder, but that, if anything, only attracted more attention. An old friend had described it as "meat candy", right before going weak at the knees.

Rusty kept the dense brown hair cut shortish. It was just a touch too long to conform to most military regulations, but shorter than the average civilian would wear. The facial features were as broad and powerful as the rest of the body, with a jawline that could double as a snowplow if necessary. It was the piercing silver eyes that attracted the most attention, however. They didn't quite glow, but they were, he was told, incredibly intense.

It was all a bit too much in the gunsmith's considered opinion, but it was what he had. He could probably afford an army of HRD chassis, but he'd grown used to this one. And so, he sat at the bar next to the two deadliest women anyone would care to know, wearing a loose fitting T-shirt that had once said something clever but had long since faded to illegibility, comfortable blue jeans, and flip flops.

Underdressed? Maybe. But the gunsmith didn't really care. All he wanted to do was get hammered. If someone tried to start something, well, the .5mm flechette pistol tucked in a holster in the front of his pants would be more than sufficient to get the job done.

He glanced over at [member="Aver Brand"] and [member="The Major"] as they grappled with their drinks. The glass in front of him was filled with...something. Damn. He hadn't been drinking in ages, and the lessons he'd learned had long since faded. He tossed it back in one go, savoring the warmth as it flowed down his gullet.

"Whiskey sour, please," he said as the glass clinked back down on the polished counter.

 

[The Major]

"Cough! Ugh. Ahem!"

That first shot didn't go so well for the Major, and unlike the other two her execution came off a little sloppy. Hot liquor burned on the way down her throat, clearly swallowed in the wrong way. Without much hesitation, she wiped her face with a kerchief somehow hidden until this moment, and ordered something else.

"Coruscanti style Pinot Noir. A bottle, if you will. In a decanter. And no, do not trouble me with the vintage. And be swift, good sir. Be swift."

She ordered this in a way that she cut off the bartender any moment he tried to speak. Frustrated in the manner of his species, he got a waiter to come over and relaid these instructions to young male who appeared caught off balance.

"Like your life depended on it. . ."

​

[member="Rusty"] [member="Aver Brand"]​

 

[Aver Brand]

An appreciative blue gaze raked down the tower of muscle on her left. Then down the victorian chic on her right.

Mmhm.

Ah, married life. Whoring around didn’t quite carry the same appeal as it used to in her younger years.

Aver knocked back her next drink just as quickly as it arrived. Could feel it burning out the fatigue of the day, cleaning out all the blood and the grime that the sonic shower hadn’t caught on the transport back.

Wine, whiskey, brandy… what’d it matter? They were all alive. Small miracle, day like that.

“So, [member="Rusty"]…” the merc began and licked a stray drop off her bottom lip, “ready to seal your end of the bargain?”

​

[member="The Major"]​

 

[Rusty]

Rusty nodded as the bartender placed the glass before him. If he didn't know better, he'd say the poor fellow was scared out of his wits. Come to think of it, he didn't know better. The Shard made a mental note to tip well.

"I've got the contract right here," he said, pulling a datapad from his pocket. "Same basic terms we agreed on before: you get a majority stake in RCFC in exchange for assistance with the chaingun, which you'll be happy to note is in excellent shape. I still get royalties on my work, plus access to company resources for the sake of my little workshop. It's all spelled out in legalese, but I assured my lawyers I'd shoot them in some rather tender spots if they tried to pull a fast one."

He slid the contract over, then took a sip of his drink. It was excellent. Before he knew it, one sip turned into two, then a gulp, and then the glass was empty, save for a couple of cubes of ice. He tapped twice on the bar, and before he could lift his hand for a third tap, a fresh glass was sitting in front of him.

Oh yeah, this guy was getting tipped crazy good. Tips for days.

"As soon as you sign, the transfer will take place. I understand it'll take a couple days for the anti-trust commission on Dressel to clear the deal, but they don't have authority to stop it once it's happened unless they can prove shenanigans. Which they can't."

[member="The Major"] [member="Aver Brand"]

 

[Aver Brand]

Clicking her tongue, Aver motioned at her empty glass as she took the proffered datapad.

“I’m surprised there’s lawyers alive willing to work for ya,” the merc said, chuckling, and began to scan the document. Not that she figured [member="Rusty"] for a liar, but… you know.

‘Honor among thieves’ was a term coined in C-grade action holovids as far as she was concerned.

Another sip from her glass. Another click of the tongue.

“Looks good. And that’s fine – reckon it’ll take a couple of days for us to sober up.” Aver canted her head at [member="The Major"], who was making a dent in that bottle of Pinot as efficiently as she’d done with the cultists.

She rummaged around her belt, then emerged with a pen. Digipen. Or was it datapen? Something or other. Scrolling right to the bottom, the merc added a stiff aurebesh signature next to that of the shard.

“Done.” Grinning, Aver slid the datapad back over. “You ever need some more manufacturing power for one of your gadgets… mm. You know who to call.”

 

[Rusty]

"I'll be sure to throw the occasional product up the chain, but I'm glad to get back to running a workshop instead of a bloody corporation," he said with a grin. It felt weird to actually be able to match emotion with facial expression. Rusty made a note to break out the HRD more often.

Especially since the liquor was hitting harder than he remembered. Must have been because the liver wasn't getting properly exercised. A couple of quick adjustments dialed down the spin in the room, leaving only the pleasurable effects of the whiskey.

The Shard glanced at his companions, and couldn't help but chuckle. If [member="Aver Brand"] was getting drunk, he couldn't tell. Hers was clearly a liver that saw regular bouts of powerlifting. [member="The Major"] seemed to be doing fairly well too, though she was starting to get flushed.

"Ladies, I propose we take this party out on the town in celebration of a job well done. Drinks are on me, but you pay your own bail. What say you?"

 

[The Major]

Midway through [member="Rusty"]'s final question about a night on the town the woman sometimes referred to by monikers huffed in annoyance at something popping up in her field of view. Agitated, the produced a datapad from another one of those hidden pockets resting in her coat. Flicking through the glowing device only caused her annoyance to more clearly display upon her face.

"Celebration? Almost sounds like a day off." She downed her glass, apparently unsatisfied.

"Today was my day off." An slightly exasperated sigh escaped her lips.

"Alas, duty calls. Tah, Rusty. Your company proves to be choice." A wind of change seemed to grip her. Already a credit tip was flicked over with a thumb. Standing and facing the Shard, Sybil clicked her heels and placed a clenched fist by the level of her heart. Whatever this meant clearly had some sort of significance to the young operative.

"La---ah. . . Brand: the pleasure is all mine. May Sky and Space serve you as one." To [member="Aver Brand"], she offered a bow.

Although it was clear Sybil was reluctant to leave, she marched out neatly from the establishment all the same. Outside, this system's star began to dip below the horizon. The sky was awash in orange and pink -divided by swirling and wispy clouds. A small crowd of friends chatted amongst themselves happily in the hopes of good evening. They never noticed a bespectacled woman seamlessly slipping past them; and they never noticed that like a breeze she was already gone.

. . .Exit. . . ​