Uncertain Strategy, Part Two

Posted on Thu Dec 24th, 2015 @ 3:15am by Thane & Loren† & Bomoor Thort & Morgo Le'Shaad

2,692 words; about a 13 minute read

Chapter: Chapter IV: Rezer's Edge
Location: Jericho
Timeline: After "Uncertain Strategy", concurrent with Zrad's feast

OLD

A heavy grating noise cut the conversation short, the metallic sounds of one Jericho’s doors screeching somewhere in the next corridor, accompanied by harsh alien tongues and overzealous laughter. Just beyond the next half a dozen of ailing light fixtures, the strobe effect danced about and reflected off of various pieces of metal adorning a selection of figures moving forth in a slow single file.
...
Morgo let her head fall back against the wall, a wry almost-smile on her lips.

"My, my. The heads that launched a thousand ships." She whispered, rolling her head to give Thane and Bomoor a sidelong look from the corner of her eye, "This day continues to bear gifts."

NEW

Having solved the grimy symbol puzzle Bomoor had looked to Thane, "This symbol was plastered all around Nar Shaddaa. A big orange and green symbol worn by Grogga the Hutt's mercenary's and in neon lights in front of his palatial casino."

His expression turning more concerned, Bomoor continued, "If you saw this symbol on the group that just went past, then that means that the Hutt also has dealings with Zrad. From the sounds of it, their deal involves acquiring us, which means the discovery of our escape will be occurring very shortly. We haven't even reached the armoury yet and I'm not feeling much stronger."

That, Thane noted, had been a short while ago now, with Loren urging them to continue with their objective. Following along the route the newcomers had largely taken, their journey towards the armoury had taken them deeper into Jericho's labyrinthine core.

Despite this new threat and added dimension to their troubles, Thane had found his eyes boring into the back of Loren's head, barely wavering bar to glance at the woman's trademark lightsaber, a tribal far-cry from the elegant electrum style of his own absent weapon.

Suddenly, a peculiar but familiar sensation tugged at his mind, not unlike the feeling of being watched. In almost the same instant, as if it were a reaction to his watching her, Loren paused and turned to face Thane, suspicion clouding her features as he did his utmost to mask his own expression. Where once he had found such reassurance in the rippling blue of her eyes, he found now only an abyss, foreboding and threatening to consume him.

Although the moment lingered only briefly, when she finally turned away and began pacing forward slowly once again, the Caanan wondered if the sensation had been mutual, if they had indeed experienced some resurgent connection other than the dismay that seemed to be punctuating their interactions.

Looking down first at his broken hand and then upwards to the age-rusted ceiling of the Exile stronghold, he tried for a moment to focus upon himself, and his place within the surroundings, to reach out to the vast but concentrated amount of life he knew to be present - to even just glimpse the power he had only so recently brushed against.

Whilst it was seemingly to no avail, Thane was certain he could hear and see more, that his pains were subsiding. But it was either fleeting or semi-present, an echo or perhaps the aberrations of an ailing body pumped up with the homegrown concoctions of a murderess and the bodily fluids of a rotting lizard-man.

Stopping when she noticed Thane was not moving, Loren made a sharp gesture to hurry him along, offering a somewhat indignant expression to the lapsed Jedi Guardian.

Responding only with a dark glare of his own, he obliged, noticing with dismay once again the aches and pains of his body, renewed by their brief pause. Still warily eyeing his spiritual predecessor, he took up position now behind Bomoor, permitting him some measure of greater seclusion with his dark misgivings.

Trudging through the decaying halls of Jericho, accompanied only by the surprising lack of activity, the company remained silent. The emptiness itself, whilst conducive to their efforts - underlined mainly by sidling up to corners to peek around them - seemed to only make more abundant the tension between Thane and Loren clearer.

Realising the situation would not be hard for either Bomoor or Morgo to read, Thane wondered what conclusions the duchess would be drawing, no chronicling some fascinating observations about him and the interactions between unorthodox Force users. Inwardly, he mused with some confused upset he may yet provide her with something somewhat more substantial before this sordid affair was done with, as he found himself once more glancing at Loren's weapon.

Anger, the words came to him, shame tumbling across his mind, both a threat and a truth. Fear and rage.

Bomoor’s trunk twisted slightly so he could catch a glimpse at Thane behind him. It was clear his attentions were focussed elsewhere and his movement was now automatically maintaining the pace of the group while his gaze melted through the Ithorian and straight into Loren. He glanced over to Morgo who also appeared to be keenly observing the affair, while also tucking a few loose strands back into her mysteriously-knotted hair. Bomoor knew there was a history between Loren and Thane but it was one of the few aspects of Thane’s time with the Order that the consular had little insight into; Thane’s early time under Sotah’s tutelage occurred before the pair grew close. Perhaps there was some resentment from Thane for being “rescued” by his rival for Sotah’s respect. While this seemed somewhat unlike his friend, Bomoor decided it best not to dwell on the matter and to instead focus on making it to the armoury without incident.

As they progressed, the ongoing hum of the station seemed to pierce deeper into Bomoor’s body; it began to feel familiar as if he shared a connection across a great distance. As they came to a junction in the corridor, the sensation suddenly changed, driving a shard of fear into his being. Reacting swiftly and silently, the Ithorian stretched his arm forward and tugged on the tight, leathery fabric of Loren’s garb, stopping her motion and pulling her towards an alcove in the wall. Before anyone could question him, a throaty laugh sounded from one of the obscured corridors. With no need for words, the group slid out of sight as heavy footsteps became audible alongside a male voice speaking in Twi’leki; his words the catalyst for the laughter from his companion. From Bomoor’s moderate understanding of the Twi’leki tongue, he was describing the acts he would perform on a particular Nautolan female they were both familiar with.

As the Mandalorian pair crossed the junction, Bomoor wondered how he had sensed their presence in that moment. Looking over to them now, he could still not read them through the Force. Perhaps they had stepped through a weaker point in the Ysalamiri field which allowed him a brief connection with the Force. But it had been only a fraction of a moment before laughter had announced their presence anyway; it could hardly be called a premonition.

Crammed into the cramped alcove out of sight, along with the three Jedi, stray hairs from Loren's head tickled Morgo's chin. Looking down at her brown head with a long-suffering glare, Morgo lifted her chin out of reach as she shifted her weight. Four elbows dug into her sides.

"Goddess preserve me." she muttered as she closed her eyes, her breath kicking up dust along the alcove's walls.

As soon as the voices passed, Mandalorian or otherwise, Morgo shouldered her way out from the tangle of bodies and into the corridor, uncaring if she stepped on a toe or two in her determination.

"Be on your way." She said shortly as she looked from Loren, to Bomoor, to Thane, dusting herself off as if the brief touch of others had dirtied her, "You lot have been distracted of late and the sooner you're armed the sooner you'll be of use."

Between the heated glances shared by Thane and Loren, the morose looks Bomoor shot their way, and the occasional glassy glaze over their eyes, Morgo had quite her fill of Jedi losing focus because of each other.

For Sith's sake. Really.

Bomoor decided not to voice his confusion regarding his brief pre-emptive ability; while curt, Morgo was correct in pointing out their vulnerable nature at present. The Dromachean had already shown that she was a force to be reckoned with; although looking at her now, frantically sweeping dust from her attire, one might mistake her for a sheltered princess. That would be their mistake.

"This junction," Bomoor began, returning to the task at hand, "Is it on the schematics we obtained? We do not want to take a wrong turn here."

As Bomoor spoke, Morgo brought an arm across her brow, her lips twitching downward behind the safety of her sleeve.

Morgo had not stepped foot into Jericho without first glancing at the blueprints of the deathtrap she was entering. Given, the records of Jericho were centuries old, and there was no doubt that some parts had fallen into disuse or were re-purposed. But Morgo was certain that the prison block's armory remained where it was. Temperature and humidity controlled rooms were few and far between here in Jericho. If an armory was to be found, it would be there. Zrad Rezer was a man that cared for nothing, save war. He would store his weapons like he would his own children.

"Left." She said, opening her eyes to look up at Bomoor, the black depths of his gaze still kind despite everything, "We go left."

Morgo stretched her free hand as she turned and pressed herself against the wall's corner, where one corridor intersected the other. Dropping to her knees, Morgo slipped a mirror from her sleeve and edged the silver square along the floor, angled to her eye.

Assured that none patrolled the adjacent hall, Morgo turned and looked over her shoulder at the Jedi, sweeping the hair resting on her shoulder behind her.

They had to move now.

With a nod to Morgo, Bomoor stepped out from his hiding place and glanced around the corner to the left with one of his eye stalks. The corridor did not stretch on for long and was well lit due to two long transparisteel view ports on either side of the corridor, which allowed the deep molten colour of the sun to seep into the station. The intense heat and light of the rays were dulled by the protective shielding nature of the transparisteel. Seeing this, Bomoor realised this corridor was one of several that connected the outer reaches of the station to the central hub. Crossing this, meant edging closer towards the dangerous heart of the beast. Thinking back to the plans he had viewed, the armoury should be but a stone's throw away from here.

He looked over his shoulder and motioned to Thane and Loren, "I think we are very close. But we must be careful crossing into the central station here. There will be nowhere to hide should anyone come along. It's times like this that the Force comes in handy."

Thinking about it, Bomoor realised the Force was pretty handy in most situations.

Morgo slipped down the corridor, fibers from her clothing snagging lightly on the jagged wall as she picked her way noiselessly through the broken glass and other hazards upon the ground. Her feet sank upon the dirt covered ground, the fine grit thankfully silent as she made her way to the armory, leaving careful footprints within larger footprints where she was able, before she came face to face with a large metal door and an old, Imperial access panel.

The woman bit her dry, bottom lip as she produced a blade from her sleeve and slid the thinnest part into a groove.

She spared only a moment of her time to hope that the rest of the group would not be so stupid as to follow her until she managed to open the door.

The metal panel popped open with a soft, rusted groan. From there, it was short work inserting her data chip into the right groove. Perhaps for any other, matching the stone-age security ports would have been impossible. She was inserting her solspiid chip into a veritable cave dwelling crevasse after all. But you received that which you paid for.

And it was with no small amount of satisfaction that Morgo watched the metal tip of her chip recognize the model of its intended target and changed its shape accordingly, like liquid mercury. The corner of her lip edged up ever so slightly as the armory doors slid open with a hiss, sweeping strands of her hair forward into the blessedly cool air of the climate controlled room.

Not bothering to wait for the others, Morgo stepped inside.

Her first thought was that the gloriously stocked room, clean, white, brutally organized and brimming with all the weapons a small army would need, was so very at odds with the disaster that was the rest of Jericho.

Her second thought was that she might sit down on the nearest crate, embrace the nearest grenade launcher, and wait until Loren's braided head rounded the corner.

Morgo was only a little disappointed when someone stepped in behind her, the accompanying dust from their feet making quite a mess from their haste.

The other trunk-like foot came down as Bomoor hurried around the corner into the armoury, quickly moving out of sight from the corridor. He was not unaware of his lack of grace in this moment; having lived his entire life with such a hulking form, he had made peace with the fact he would never dance at the Galaxies Opera House (although Thane had often suggested he would make a good bass singer). At this moment, Bomoor's concerns about grace were minimal.

Stopping a hair's breadth from Morgo's statue-like form, the consular revolved his gaze around the room. While there appeared to be no standardised organisational system, it was apparent that care had been taken with most of the devices stored in this room with some cleaned and hung up and a small number stored in individual vacuum cases. However, what stood out immediately were the items that did not have a perch or container of their own. Near the centre of the armoury was a large chest full of assorted weapons and other offensive devices. The thought occurred that these items were those yet to be claimed, those taken from vanquished foes or taken during a raid.

Bomoor raised his upper body as if to move forward but halted, noting that Morgo continued to hold still before him. He wondered if she had further reason for caution. He himself could see no traps or cameras, but, then again, he was running with one of his primary senses disabled.

In the sterile light of the armory, white and cold like that of a space-morgue, the dark shadows under the woman's eyes were stark against her skin, weary-bruised. Morgo glanced askance at the hesitant Bomoor.

"It is secure. For now." she said to him, even as she tilted her head to better view the chest that had so caught the Ithorian's eye.

The tilt of her mouth was vaguely sly even as her eyes were hollow.

"But be careful, Bomoor. These weapons know their masters..." she warned, cryptic.

Morgo looked to the ranged and melee weaponry, their grips and triggers shimmering a tell-tale green at the right angle. The newest and best technology to come from the user-identification corner of the galaxy. It would shock an unidentified user and alert security of unauthorized personnel in the span of a heartbeat, if handled.

Gaze returning to the only weapons chest she knew Bomoor would be interested in, Morgo took half a step away, assessing.

"...I wonder if you know yours."

Morgo's eyes cut away meaningfully to the open doorway, just as Thane and Loren stepped through. Pale eyes lingered on the diminutive woman.

TBC

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