This ship don't stop there anymore. [Sarge]

[Hazel Scheler]

"Mercenary rule #12, Captain, never disclose client information," Hazel replied, good eye following the progression of another hulking hunk of armor as it trundled into the lab. It was a small miracle they both fit for as much space as they seemed to take up. The dexterity of their suits made her wonder if this man wasn't actually a mechanic, not a medic, come to fix a waylaid cyborg.

The thought caused her to snort.

"Shot? Please, I lost my arm and leg in Netherworld. Torn off by-" my rampaging beastly dog, is what she was going to say, but she disliked insulting the memory of that animal with one instance of aggression, "some wild beast."

There was that word again. Corruption.

"You guys keep using this word..." she rubbed at her temple, "haven't a clue what you're talking about. Haven't been to KDY in years, not since well before the Omega attack. That's part of the problem. Used to get free repairs and upgrades in exchange for testing their new field tech from the R&D department."

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

Reerak gave her a long, dead-eyed stare and then shook his head slowly. "Corruption. The Dark Side." He gestured, "I'm Force Sensitive, and have been trained enough to read the aura being projected by those around me. It's easily fooled, true, but good in an instance like this; it's like being able to smell malignancy in the blood." The corners of his lips tightened, almost into a grimace, but those stormcloud eyes regarded her a few moments longer before he nodded again, seemingly confirming something to himself.

"KDY has good equipment. We'll outfit you with some sturdier models. Perhaps a bit less... refined in appearance, but better able to withstand the rigors of your life. Easier to repair in the field, too, though that doesn't count for too much."

Clenching his fist, the drill began to whir before he unclasped and it stopped. It took some pressure to get it to activate, and Reerak hadn't realized he'd been so tense. "Tell me, when was the last time you consorted with a Dark Sider?"

Hastings stood impassively near the door, hand not straying from his sword. He wasn't tense, however, as he wasn't expecting to pull or use the blade.

 

[Hazel Scheler]

"So long as it works and I can still get into my armor, I don't really care what it looks like."

That one hazel eye lingered on the drill though she tried not to pay it too much attention.

"Mm," brow furrowing, Hazel sifted through her more recent memories, "had a run in with a group of Acolytes about two days ago while I was refueling. Odd bunch, just ... kids. They were just kids. I couldn't understand them, but they kept saying Ship, Ship," she gave a one-shouldered shrug, "tried to steal my ship and ended up with my arm. I've been sick a lot longer than that, though."

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

The apothecary and the swordsman exchanged glances, and Reerak took a step back, bringing up the holographic interface once more. With a twist of outstretched hands, he rotated the image for her, although it wouldn't display anything she didn't already know about herself. "Alright." He says simply, thin lips pursed. There was a wild look to the man, at least normally, but it was far more subdued now. "Well, I'm sure you're aware you aren't in good shape."

Understatement of the century.

"But I want you to imagine that all this red and orange." He gestured to the display in front of him, the flickering blue light playing oddly across the contoured surfaces of his armor. "I want you to imagine that it's in me, and you can sense it. It gnaws at your brain, like the incessant, indiscernible whisper of a murderer in the shadows of a hall."

His lips turned downward. "That is what I feel when I am near you, and such exposure only comes from prolonged contact."

As if to forestall any further vocal ruminations, Hastings spoke up. "There's no reason for anyone to steal her ship." He says flatly. "It's a piece of junk." She knew it. Hastings knew it. Sarge knew it. Anyone looking at it knew it.

"No actual Sith would be caught dead flying that unless in dire straits." He shook his head, lips tightening. "Was there anything about your ship in particular they seemed to want?"

 

[Hazel Scheler]

Hazel released an irritable sigh, good eye rolling in exasperation as the projected image of everything-wrong-with-Lasranae sprang into existence. She was starting to get strong flashbacks to her time spent with a certain blond-haired Sith Lord, of which she was certain was not the source of this apparent corruption. That had been nearly a year ago ... or had it been longer? Feth.

"Not-in-good-shape is sort of status quo for me, Doc. You get used to it after a while."

Hazel dropped her gaze back to him as he attempted to describe what he was picking up from her, sensing. Force Frippery. Her lips drew a flat line, brow furrowing, "I get it, but I can't pick up those sorts of things." Hazel lifted her hand to tap at her forehead, "I'm immune - Epicanthix. And I ain't Force Sensitive. All I have is my gut, and right now my gut's a little numb from this last run."

Really, she was trying to level with him and working on her patience, but then Hastings spoke up and all bets were off.

"Now hold on, Bucket," the Merc landed him with a did-you-really-just-say-what-I-think-you-said look and finished it with a strongly accusatory pointing finger, "you can say whatever the feth you want about me but you leave my ship out of this."

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

Hastings and Reerak exchanged another glance, neither giving away their thoughts. "Bucket." Hastings says, finally, repeating it simply, as though something fresh - something unfamiliar. It was, in fact, a new nickname. In fact, most folk didn't actually bother coming up with anything derogatory to say about them. It was almost a novelty.

But he didn't take the bait.

"Was there anything about your ship in particular they seemed to want?" He repeated.

 

[Hazel Scheler]

Either she wasn't feeling particularly keen on self-preservation; too confident in her connection to Sarge; or she really just didn't care. If anyone was going to assign a nickname to two men armed to the teeth in mecha suits, it was Hazel.

Her single eye, though betraying her exhaustion and sickly nature, remained unwavering. As if to stick the point.

That's right, Bucket.

Apologize to my ship and I'll make it Captain Bucket.

"They never got on it," another one-armed shrug, "I've got a whole lot of nothing interesting on my ship except a pet cactus and a smaller personal shuttle I'm transporting for a client."

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

Silence reigned, and it was easy to imagine the impassive man with the angel helm was working over scenarios in his mind. Finally, he gives voice to his thoughts, speaking slowly as if still unsure. "Tell the Lord Inquisitor her ship should be searched."

Her connection to the Lord Inquisitor would get her far, but when the man protecting her was the one searching, well.... that was when things got a bit hairy. Reerak turned to regard Hastings, a brow raised. "Yet she said there was nothing interesting on there."

Hastings gave a tight-lipped smile. "Nothing interesting to her. She wasn't even aware of her exposure to the Dark Side. I'll put credits on her transporting something dangerous, likely without her own knowledge."

 

[Hazel Scheler]

The entire search protocol wasn't new to her. She recalled, with shocking clarity, the search Preacher had performed of her delivery to Sulon. Items carefully stowed away in a crate, the inspection of which went against every Mercenary Rule in the book. But there you had it. This time would be different.

There was no crate of which to open. No items hidden. Just a strange ship and a curious little cactus plant.

Hazel sighed, leaning back on the table against her good arm, "So what's the deal Doc? We good to go on this arm?"

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

He nodded, and Hastings slipped out. Reerak walked to a nearby panel and input something - one of the robotic arms descended, and she'd likely recognize an IV when she saw one. "I'm going to put you under for a little. The synth-graft is likely damaged, and once that's fixed we can get to work on making sure the arm is suitably adjusted to your physiology." The arm descended, and a small droid hovered into view, a brief scan of blue light ghosting over her elbow.

With vein found, and provided she wasn't going to object, she'd find herself slipping into a dreamless sleep.

----

Meanwhile, back at the ranch freighter, Sarge hefted his lantern. He filled it with Force Light, providing both illumination and the ability to sniff out all things corrupt. Truthfully, he just liked the idea of having a lantern. They were neat. But the Light was a bonus to make it seem like there was some kind of plan to what he did (other than a passing fancy for lanterns.)

She didn't have much in the ship, and he certainly knew his way around, but when he stepped into the cargo hold he quickly realized they hadn't been after her ship. They'd been after... whatever the hell he was looking at.

 

[Jorus Merrill]

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

The item in question was a much smaller, much older ship that resembled an eyeball with wings. If you squinted at it and tilted your head to the side, it looked a bit like a classic TIE Fighter, just made of rusty ornate metal and red crystal. Someone had half-enclosed it in shiny metal and a force field for ease of transport.

<<Do you take and keep what is yours?>> said a dispassionate mental voice without preamble. <<Do you allow yourself to be satisfied with your accomplishments?>>

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

Sarge paused.

It wasn't the ship talking that baffled him. Ships could talk. He'd talked to ships before. No, what bothered him was that he hadn't been able to receive - or send - telepathic communication in years, and he could still hear the thing. The lantern was hoisted a little higher, and like an inquisitive explorer, he neared the organic TIE berthed within Hazel's ship.

"Do you always greet people with questions?"

 

[Jorus Merrill]

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

<<Rarely. Only those who deserve questions receive them.>>

A sullen red light gleamed in the crystal canopy. The durasteel packaging-slash-restraints shivered gently, reverberating through the deck.

<<Do you take and keep what is yours? Do you allow yourself to be satisfied with your accomplishments?>>

Again, not a hint of emotion in the voice -- no irritation or impatience or amusement at repeating itself.

 

[Hazel Scheler]

No objections from the Merc. As Doc might've guessed, she'd had quite a bit of experience in hospitalizations and cybernetics surgery. And, well, sometimes a dreamless sleep was a much-needed respite from her normal nights and dreams.

With a grunt she shifted on the table and leaned to lay back. It was only a moment later that the lights ... light went out.


~~~

On the ship the strange little cactus plant sitting on the command consol of the cockpit gave a wheezing spurt of pollen from its largest bloom.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

He grimaced, unused to any voice save his own fluttering around his brain-case.

"And why do I deserve questions?"

 

[Jorus Merrill]

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

"Because you have the key qualities of a student. Your past is full of ruthless purpose. Your mind is uncompromising. You have potential."

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

He stared for some time at the ship, and then began to laugh. It was short, but full bodied, and positively dripping with mirth.

"Someone told me that, centuries ago. His hat was nicer than yours."

[member="Jorus Merrill"]

 

[Jorus Merrill]

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

<<Hats are not relevant. Dismissiveness is not relevant. Your potential will be guided and evaluated.>>

The Ship trembled in its casing, old circuits humming to life. Unique among starship technologies, this vessel could form whatever weapons it needed.

Half-tangible illusions took form: Yuuzhan Vong bearing bloody trophies that had once been human. Each thud bug and amphistaff would strike with real force, courtesy of perfectly-timed metal pellets launched from the Ship's underside.

 

[Sarge Potteiger]

The ship had sass, who'd have guessed. He was about to respond with his usual gruff dismissiveness but the opportunity was stolen from him - by the fact holograms came up. He debated not opening fire up until an alert appeared at the corner of his vision. Whatever these... things were doing, it was causing real damage. His left hand rose, the Force summoned into his grasp to stop the pellets mid-air. The right grabbed for his blade, and with a fling of pellets back towards Ship, the Vong were engaged.

"Ivy is going to be... very cross." He mutters to himself, parrying an amphistaff before slicing the head off an... illusion? Hologram? Figment of his imagination?

Damn artifacts.

[member="Jorus Merrill"]

 

[Jorus Merrill]

[member="Sarge Potteiger"]

The Vong and their bloody trophies vanished in a heartbeat.

<<No visceral reaction. No indicators of distress at traumatic images. No physiological response of tension or fear. Full and conscious control of autonomous systems. No discernable transition between conversation and violence. Ideal.>>