Wealth. Power. Many dream of the situation in life that they can not afford. They yearn for the glitz and the glamour of the lifestyle. However, one never makes it to the top of the heap without accruing a few enemies – often very substantial nemeses.
There’s a certain dance that must be done, though. Powerful people rarely meet each other face-to-face; they employ intermediaries to do the dirty work. When one such man finds that an opponent of his has stolen something precious, it’s up to a group of hired hands to recover it from on top of the world...
Spanner's fingers drummed against the turret controls, his ribs throbbing in time with the shuttle's weakened engine pulses. "Geonosis first," he muttered. "Get the Vagrant, then—"
"Ryloth next," Koraz cut in. "Gun drop once we have the ship. Debt's waiting." His yellowed teeth glinted in the dim cockpit lighting as he tapped a claw against the shuttle's shuddering bulkhead. "Unless someone's got a better idea?"
FL-AR3 tilted its photoreceptors toward Pron. "Engines aren't dead yet," Pron growled, his thick fingers dancing across the shuddering console. The shuttle's starboard stabilizer let out a metallic shriek that made Xander wince. "But we burn another thruster like this, we'll be pushing this kriffing barge to where ever we're headed."
Roona's antennae twitched as she turned abruptly toward Xander, her fingers freezing mid-adjustment on the nav console. "Call Irdis." The command left no room for debate—her voice carried the sharp certainty of a vibroblade unsheathing.
Xander's fingers hesitated over his encrypted comm for half a second—just long enough for FL-AR3's photoreceptors to flick toward him with silent reproach. The frequency he punched in wasn't one he'd used since Coruscant's lower levels had swallowed Irdis's retreating form amid Black Sun blasterfire. The Chiss doctor had vanished into that maze of neon and durasteel.
The comm hissed static for three agonizing heartbeats before a voice cut through—crisp, clinical, unmistakably Irdis. "You're broadcasting on a dead man's channel, spacer." The Chiss inflection turned the words into an accusation.
Xander exhaled through his nose. "Still using the same encryption. Predictable." His thumb traced the scorch mark on his comm unit—a souvenir from their last joint operation gone sideways.
A pause. Then Irdis's voice sharpened. "And you're still running with Rodian scavengers. Your predictability exceeds mine." Through the comm's tinny speaker, Xander heard the distinctive click of medical instruments being set down too precisely.
"Still alive," Xander said into the comm, the shuttle's groaning hull underscoring his words like bad punctuation. "Mostly." A coolant leak hissed somewhere behind him, filling the cockpit with the acrid stench of burnt wiring.
Irdis's reply came clipped, clinical. "Your definition of 'alive' remains flexible." A pause—just long enough for Xander to hear the whisper of a equipment activating on the other end. "And Roona?"
"Here," Roona cut in, her voice carrying over the console's warning beeps.
"We've got new friends," Xander added, his voice dropping into the dry, deliberate cadence he reserved for negotiations where someone was about to get screwed. The comm hissed static—Irdis's silence stretching like a tripwire.
FL-AR3's photoreceptors flickered toward Spanner, who was busy pressing a torn strip of insulation against a sparking console conduit. The droid's vocoder emitted a noise that might've been amusement. "Friends is an accurate descriptor," it observed.
Xander's fingers tightened around the comm unit. "We need a favor." The words tasted like rust—something he'd sworn off saying years ago. Favors were debts in disguise, and debts had a way of circling back like hungry krayt dragons.
Irdis's sigh crackled through the speaker. "Your favors usually involve arterial bleeding." There was the faintest scrape of metal. "Where are you?"
The shuttle lurched violently as Pron wrestled it through another thermal pocket, its faltering engines spitting sparks over the swamp canopy. Xander gripped the shuddering comm unit tighter. "We're limping over the Rodian jungles like a gutted dewback," he growled, watching smoke curl from the port thruster assembly through the cracked viewport. "City's doable—if we don't crater first."
Irdis's reply came clipped. "Karsteeku's southeast of your last transmission vector." The Chiss's voice carried the precision of a medscanner's report. "Landing protocols are... flexible here now."
"City's a no-go," Pron snarled as another warning light flared on the console. The shuttle's port engine spat a gout of black smoke, staining the already battered hull. "We limp into Karsteeku looking like this, every bounty hunter and Imperial stooge within fifty klicks will be on us before we hit the landing pad." His jowls quivered with the effort of keeping the Lambda level—the controls fought him like a live thing, every tremor in the yoke translating to another groan from the stressed airframe.
FL-AR3's photoreceptors flickered as it processed the mangroves rushing beneath them. "Alternative landing zone required," it intoned, its vocoder flattening the urgency into something clinical. "Probability of detection decreases by 83% if we avoid population centers."
Roona's fingers worked the navigation console as the shuttle's alarms wailed. A waterfall—not just any waterfall, but the one where they'd dragged Rodian doctors Tann and Ninn from the shallows after the Longspine clan had tried to throw them off the cliffs.
Irdis's comm signal crackled with the dry amusement of someone recalling an inside joke. "Tyrius left the hovertruck," he confirmed, voice sharpening as background noise suggested he was already gathering supplies. "Too busy to retrieve scrap." The unspoken implication hung between them—Tyrius Syndicate's ambivalence was their salvation now.
The shuttle groaned as Pron wrestled it toward the coordinates Irdis transmitted—coordinates that matched the waterfall where Doctors Tann and Ninn had nearly died. Roona's fingers flew across the nav console, adjusting for the Lambda's shuddering descent. Her antennae twitched as she recalled the Longspine ambush—the way the waterfall's roar had drowned out blasterfire and the drugged Gena Tann almost becoming a sacrifice to the Swamp Mother.
The shuttle's remaining engine coughed as Pron guided it through the thick jungle canopy, vines scraping against the hull with a sound like fingernails on durasteel. "Just need a little more," Pron growled through gritted teeth, his thick fingers white-knuckled around the yoke. Ahead, a narrow clearing materialized. He banked hard left, just hard enough to avoid clipping a blackwood tree and settled the shuttle down as if it had landed on a pillow. Perfect.
The hovertruck sat tilted against a moss-caked boulder. Its once-gleaming paint was now a tapestry of scratches and scorch marks, the Rodians' failed attempts at sabotage evident in the haphazard pry marks around the control panel. Someone had taken a blade to the ignition wiring—badly. Spanner snorted, running his fingers over the botched job. "Amateurs," he muttered, already pulling a multitool from his belt. The truck's repulsors hissed intermittently, lifting its rear end a few centimeters before sagging back into the mud with a wet squelch as the vehicle was powered up.
Koraz circled the vehicle with a predator's patience, his claw tracing a deep blaster scar along the cargo bed. "Tyrius won't miss this scrap," he mused, the words curling with dark amusement. The Iktochi's ears twitched toward the distant screech of swamp birds—nature's alarm system signaling unseen movement in the canopy. He didn't mention it. They had minutes, not hours.
The hovertruck's repulsors whined like a dying tooka cat as Spanner jury-rigged the last of the power couplings. Koraz watched the kid's fingers—quick, precise, the kind of hands that belonged in an Imperial engineering corps, not grafting stolen parts onto syndicate scrap. "If this thing dies mid-air," Pron rumbled from the cargo bed where he was propping El'Jaameer against a stack of cargo crates, "I'm tossing you first."
Spanner didn't look up from his work. "Noted." The truck shuddered as its repulsors finally stabilized, lifting them six feet above the swamp's grasping tendrils. Roona swung into the driver's seat, her Rodian fingers dancing across the control panel with the ease of someone who'd hotwired worse under worse circumstances.
On Top of the World (Episode 23)
Moderator: GM Fang
Re: On Top of the World (Episode 23)
The hovertruck's patched-up repulsors whined as they approached Karsteeku's domed silhouette—a blister of durasteel and transparisteel rising from the mangroves. Karsteeku was a domed, medium-sized city on the planet Rodia. The surrounding environment was characterized by a hot, humid climate dominated by dense jungles, wetlands, and shallow seas. Roona explained the layout of the city to the rest of the team as she and Xander had been here about a month ago.
Karsteeku was made up of four domed areas. The largest was the commercial district which held the spaceport zone. Across the island chain on the far end was the residential district which included everything from the wealthy sector to the mid-class hi-rises to the slums in the southern part of the dome. The smallest dome was the administrative district which included the academic sector, as well as the government seat. The last dome, slightly larger but nowhere near as large as the commercial or residential districts, was the utility district which contained aquaculture and agriculture, plus power generation which fed the other three domes. They were headed to the commercial district.
The hovertruck sputtered as they skimmed over Karsteeku's outer canals, their wake disturbing the bioluminescent algae into swirling green eddies. Roona guided them through a service tunnel disguised as a drainage pipe—its durasteel mouth puckered with rust where the Syndicate's maintenance had grown lax. The stench of stagnant water and engine grease thickened as they descended into the underworld beneath the city's glittering domes.
The hovertruck's repulsors died with a final, pathetic wheeze as they slid into the dimly lit docking bay—a hidden hollow tucked beneath Karsteeku's main transit hub. FL-AR3's photoreceptors flicked toward the shadows near a stack of dented fuel drums. "Movement," it intoned, just as Irdis stepped into the flickering overhead light.
The Chiss's medcenter in the facility smelled like sterilization fluid and something faintly herbal—Spanner's nose twitched at the sharpness. He'd expected gleaming white walls, but Irdis's domain was all durasteel and flickering holomonitors.
Irdis's gloved fingers hovered over a holoprojector, its blue glow casting sharp angles across his Chiss features. "You need passage off Rodia," he stated, not a question. The holoprojector flickered to life, displaying a rotating schematic of Karsteeku's wealthy sector in the residential district—specifically a tall, stylish building named Redswamp Terrace. "I can arrange that. But first, you'll retrieve something for me." His crimson eyes flicked to Xander. "Plausible deniability is required. My benefactor cannot be associated with this... acquisition."
Irdis, the Chiss doctor, explained about an interesting find that the Tyrius team had located, with his assistance. “An ancient data cylinder that our research team unearthed has been stolen. An inside job... it cost Dr. Gena Tann her life.”
“What about cylinder?” Roona pressed, curiosity lacing her tone. “Figured out what holds?”
Irdis shook his head, frustration flickering across his face. “Not yet. And the competitor who has it now: Bollin the Grey? He probably has no idea either, except that it’s very old and likely priceless. But he doesn’t know its power."
Irdis explains that the data cylinder was stolen by a traitor, who they were able to eliminate, but the cylinder itself was not recovered. Recently, it has surfaced in Bollin's possession. Xander, Roona, and Irdis had completed the mission together with Ymira and Zavi, both of whom have since pursued other endeavors. Irdis inquired about their new companions, and Xander introduced Koraz, Spanner, and the mysterious droid, FL-AR3.
Explaining the situation at hand more thoroughly, "A thief has stolen a data cylinder that is critical to an ongoing research project and has delivered it to a business rival, Bollin the Grey. The data cylinder is of an ancient design, and Bollin intends to display it along with other trophies at a gala he is hosting above his personal museum in the Redswamp Terrace tower."
"The recovery of the cylinder must meet two conditions: first, the cylinder must remain undamaged; second, the operation cannot be linked to Ranem Tiiv or Tyrius Sysworks. Entry to the gala is limited to a closely guarded invite list created by Bollin and Rodian Interfreight. The only other individuals who may have access are building staff and any hired help specifically for the event."
"The gala is scheduled for tomorrow evening at 2200 hours and will run until 2900 hours. This limited window represents the best opportunity to recover the data cylinder before it is returned to deep storage in Bollin's museum vault."
Irdis explains that there are three ways to gain entry to the event. The team can either join as part of the assistance team, obtain an invitation, or sneak in undetected.
Redswamp Terrace, the building hosting the gala, stands 64 stories tall. The gala takes place on the top floor, which features an observation deck and Bollin the Grey’s private restaurant, the Skyfloor Café. This floor is situated directly above his personal museum, and both areas are closed to the public.
The group inquired about the possibility of joining the security detail. Irdis explained that Bollin’s personal building security team is handling most of the security arrangements. However, they have contracted a small portion of the work to local security forces. All security personnel must undergo a background check, as they will have significant freedom to move around the gala once it begins.
"Spanner is far too young for this assignment, and I seriously doubt the authorities would accept a droid for a task of this nature," Irdis remarked, casting a searching glance at Xander, whose expression remained contemplative. "Tell me, can you actually pass a background check?"
In response, Roona let out a sharp, sarcastic hoot that echoed through the room, cutting through the tension. Xander sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly as he conceded, "I probably won't be able to."
With a resigned nod, Irdis turned his attention to Koraz, the seasoned Iktochi gunslinger. His rugged demeanor and piercing gaze suggested he was more than capable of facing the challenges ahead.
"What about the rest of us?" FL-AR3 inquired, his mechanical voice resonating in the room.
Irdis explained that he had been planning for this mission for some time and had been keeping a watchful eye on the catering company, Starflash Catering. He knew where several of the staff gathered at night after their shifts. It would be relatively simple to concoct an elixir that would cause them enough intestinal distress to prevent them from working their upcoming shift at the gala. Given the limited time frame, they needed to find three replacements: Xander, Spanner, and 'Flare'.
Spanner provided a summary, stating, "This leaves us with Roona and Pron. What are the next steps for them? How are they getting in?"
"Pron will take on the role of the getaway driver," was the response. "I have arranged for an airspeeder to be used during this mission. The supply dock located at the back of the kitchens appears to be the most probable escape route. Otherwise the top floor is accessible only from the dual lift tubes that run up the outside of the building. Too easy to get trapped there."
In the operation regarding Roona, the Rodian scout devised a strategic plan. The first step involved Koraz receiving an assignment at the lobby on the first floor, which is less monitored. This would allow Pron and the scout to enter the lift tubes separately at Koraz discretion. It would have to be done when his security partner was away on break.
Irdis confirmed that all guests must check in at the front desk to access the gala, making it one of the least prominent security points. A simple job of verifying invitations. Should be easy to volunteer for.
The plan was for Pron to use a fake invite to go to the 63rd floor to eliminate the security presence there before returning down the lift. Meanwhile, the scout would take the other lift a few moments later, remaining hidden from electronic detection, ensuring minimal security awareness. Once security was cleared by Pron, the scout intended to slip onto the museum floor to proceed with the mission.
"All the guest are heading to floor 64," Koraz suddenly realized, the implications washing over him like a cold wave. "That means the security team on 63 will be completely overlooked, at least for a while."
"And bored out of their minds," Pron added.
Spanner leaned closer, his eyes glinting with mischief. "When the video monitors are finally examined, it'll stir up quite the uproar. An assassin slips in, takes out two guards with ruthless precision, and just leaves. It’s bound to baffle everyone."
"And when Roona steps out of her lift, cloaked in her elusive Cloaking Cloak, the cameras will register nothing but an empty lift as the doors glide open," Pron added, a sense of satisfaction lacing his voice.
Roona, with her sharp features and quick wit, nearly cracked a grin, a rare expression for a Rodian whose species found the nuances of human laughter and smiling elusive. The brilliance of her plan sparked a glimmer of triumph in her eyes. FL-AR3 inquired, "What occurs next at that juncture?"
With an air of casual confidence, Roona replied, "Wing it," her tone dripping with a mix of nonchalance and daring, as if she were inviting a spontaneous adventure into the unknown.
Karsteeku was made up of four domed areas. The largest was the commercial district which held the spaceport zone. Across the island chain on the far end was the residential district which included everything from the wealthy sector to the mid-class hi-rises to the slums in the southern part of the dome. The smallest dome was the administrative district which included the academic sector, as well as the government seat. The last dome, slightly larger but nowhere near as large as the commercial or residential districts, was the utility district which contained aquaculture and agriculture, plus power generation which fed the other three domes. They were headed to the commercial district.
The hovertruck sputtered as they skimmed over Karsteeku's outer canals, their wake disturbing the bioluminescent algae into swirling green eddies. Roona guided them through a service tunnel disguised as a drainage pipe—its durasteel mouth puckered with rust where the Syndicate's maintenance had grown lax. The stench of stagnant water and engine grease thickened as they descended into the underworld beneath the city's glittering domes.
The hovertruck's repulsors died with a final, pathetic wheeze as they slid into the dimly lit docking bay—a hidden hollow tucked beneath Karsteeku's main transit hub. FL-AR3's photoreceptors flicked toward the shadows near a stack of dented fuel drums. "Movement," it intoned, just as Irdis stepped into the flickering overhead light.
The Chiss's medcenter in the facility smelled like sterilization fluid and something faintly herbal—Spanner's nose twitched at the sharpness. He'd expected gleaming white walls, but Irdis's domain was all durasteel and flickering holomonitors.
Irdis's gloved fingers hovered over a holoprojector, its blue glow casting sharp angles across his Chiss features. "You need passage off Rodia," he stated, not a question. The holoprojector flickered to life, displaying a rotating schematic of Karsteeku's wealthy sector in the residential district—specifically a tall, stylish building named Redswamp Terrace. "I can arrange that. But first, you'll retrieve something for me." His crimson eyes flicked to Xander. "Plausible deniability is required. My benefactor cannot be associated with this... acquisition."
Irdis, the Chiss doctor, explained about an interesting find that the Tyrius team had located, with his assistance. “An ancient data cylinder that our research team unearthed has been stolen. An inside job... it cost Dr. Gena Tann her life.”
“What about cylinder?” Roona pressed, curiosity lacing her tone. “Figured out what holds?”
Irdis shook his head, frustration flickering across his face. “Not yet. And the competitor who has it now: Bollin the Grey? He probably has no idea either, except that it’s very old and likely priceless. But he doesn’t know its power."
Irdis explains that the data cylinder was stolen by a traitor, who they were able to eliminate, but the cylinder itself was not recovered. Recently, it has surfaced in Bollin's possession. Xander, Roona, and Irdis had completed the mission together with Ymira and Zavi, both of whom have since pursued other endeavors. Irdis inquired about their new companions, and Xander introduced Koraz, Spanner, and the mysterious droid, FL-AR3.
Explaining the situation at hand more thoroughly, "A thief has stolen a data cylinder that is critical to an ongoing research project and has delivered it to a business rival, Bollin the Grey. The data cylinder is of an ancient design, and Bollin intends to display it along with other trophies at a gala he is hosting above his personal museum in the Redswamp Terrace tower."
"The recovery of the cylinder must meet two conditions: first, the cylinder must remain undamaged; second, the operation cannot be linked to Ranem Tiiv or Tyrius Sysworks. Entry to the gala is limited to a closely guarded invite list created by Bollin and Rodian Interfreight. The only other individuals who may have access are building staff and any hired help specifically for the event."
"The gala is scheduled for tomorrow evening at 2200 hours and will run until 2900 hours. This limited window represents the best opportunity to recover the data cylinder before it is returned to deep storage in Bollin's museum vault."
Irdis explains that there are three ways to gain entry to the event. The team can either join as part of the assistance team, obtain an invitation, or sneak in undetected.
Redswamp Terrace, the building hosting the gala, stands 64 stories tall. The gala takes place on the top floor, which features an observation deck and Bollin the Grey’s private restaurant, the Skyfloor Café. This floor is situated directly above his personal museum, and both areas are closed to the public.
The group inquired about the possibility of joining the security detail. Irdis explained that Bollin’s personal building security team is handling most of the security arrangements. However, they have contracted a small portion of the work to local security forces. All security personnel must undergo a background check, as they will have significant freedom to move around the gala once it begins.
"Spanner is far too young for this assignment, and I seriously doubt the authorities would accept a droid for a task of this nature," Irdis remarked, casting a searching glance at Xander, whose expression remained contemplative. "Tell me, can you actually pass a background check?"
In response, Roona let out a sharp, sarcastic hoot that echoed through the room, cutting through the tension. Xander sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly as he conceded, "I probably won't be able to."
With a resigned nod, Irdis turned his attention to Koraz, the seasoned Iktochi gunslinger. His rugged demeanor and piercing gaze suggested he was more than capable of facing the challenges ahead.
"What about the rest of us?" FL-AR3 inquired, his mechanical voice resonating in the room.
Irdis explained that he had been planning for this mission for some time and had been keeping a watchful eye on the catering company, Starflash Catering. He knew where several of the staff gathered at night after their shifts. It would be relatively simple to concoct an elixir that would cause them enough intestinal distress to prevent them from working their upcoming shift at the gala. Given the limited time frame, they needed to find three replacements: Xander, Spanner, and 'Flare'.
Spanner provided a summary, stating, "This leaves us with Roona and Pron. What are the next steps for them? How are they getting in?"
"Pron will take on the role of the getaway driver," was the response. "I have arranged for an airspeeder to be used during this mission. The supply dock located at the back of the kitchens appears to be the most probable escape route. Otherwise the top floor is accessible only from the dual lift tubes that run up the outside of the building. Too easy to get trapped there."
In the operation regarding Roona, the Rodian scout devised a strategic plan. The first step involved Koraz receiving an assignment at the lobby on the first floor, which is less monitored. This would allow Pron and the scout to enter the lift tubes separately at Koraz discretion. It would have to be done when his security partner was away on break.
Irdis confirmed that all guests must check in at the front desk to access the gala, making it one of the least prominent security points. A simple job of verifying invitations. Should be easy to volunteer for.
The plan was for Pron to use a fake invite to go to the 63rd floor to eliminate the security presence there before returning down the lift. Meanwhile, the scout would take the other lift a few moments later, remaining hidden from electronic detection, ensuring minimal security awareness. Once security was cleared by Pron, the scout intended to slip onto the museum floor to proceed with the mission.
"All the guest are heading to floor 64," Koraz suddenly realized, the implications washing over him like a cold wave. "That means the security team on 63 will be completely overlooked, at least for a while."
"And bored out of their minds," Pron added.
Spanner leaned closer, his eyes glinting with mischief. "When the video monitors are finally examined, it'll stir up quite the uproar. An assassin slips in, takes out two guards with ruthless precision, and just leaves. It’s bound to baffle everyone."
"And when Roona steps out of her lift, cloaked in her elusive Cloaking Cloak, the cameras will register nothing but an empty lift as the doors glide open," Pron added, a sense of satisfaction lacing his voice.
Roona, with her sharp features and quick wit, nearly cracked a grin, a rare expression for a Rodian whose species found the nuances of human laughter and smiling elusive. The brilliance of her plan sparked a glimmer of triumph in her eyes. FL-AR3 inquired, "What occurs next at that juncture?"
With an air of casual confidence, Roona replied, "Wing it," her tone dripping with a mix of nonchalance and daring, as if she were inviting a spontaneous adventure into the unknown.
Re: On Top of the World (Episode 23)
Rodian Interfreight, owned and managed by Bollin the Grey, was a large shipping and manufacturing corporation in the Tyrius system and the chief business rival of Tyrius Sysworks Syndicate. While they maintained a headquarters in parts unknown, they did have a substantial presence in the Market Sector of Karsteeku, a shipping hub on Rodia.
In addition to widely-available cargo hauling services, they specialized in the development of auxiliary ship systems for niche users, including such products as specialty sensor packages, slave circuitry, and communications jamming devices.
Redswamp Terrace stands out from the surrounding buildings. The top floor is accessible only from the dual lift tubes that run up the outside of the building and via the supply dock at the back of the kitchens. The external faces of the building are relatively unguarded. The Rodian PSF patrols the skies of Karsteeku intermittently, but there are no special exterior security devices. The building itself is surrounded by several buildings, all of which are at least twenty floors shorter than Redswamp Terrace.
Bollin the Grey’s gala is a night-long affair. It is largely a free-flowing social event, with dancing, dining, and conversation anticipated throughout the event. Bollin has, however, scheduled a few important individual events:
The gala will be populated by more than a hundred attendees, building staff and security, and additional hired help (security, musicians, food service). Non-security personnel at the gala will be requested to check their weaponry at the lobby at level 64, to be returned upon their departure.
This is the situation that the group finds themselves in. Koraz is given a deep red tunic and id, plus a linked comm unit to receive instructions and check in at required times. He is shown around the facility and his volunteering for the main level post is met with chuckles from some of the other hired guards. He is assigned a partner, a young Rodian named Bhazzo Wakk, and they are instructed on how to identify the various levels of invitations for the guests.
The three replacements for the Starfish Catering jobs had been given red uniforms and hats and assigned basic tasks. Spanner is to mingle with guests and provide finger foods and hors d'oeuvres, both on the main floor and the museum level. Xander and FL-AR3 are passing out drinks and taking drink orders, again on both levels, as needed.
The gala hall is a wide open space with a large fountain in the center. A semicircular staircase leads down to the central hall of Bollin’s private museum. There is one primary entrance to the gala hall, which is the front lobby, reached by traveling up to the 64th floor of Redswamp Terrace in one of two transparisteel lift tubes. A secondary entrance to the building is through the kitchen via a cargo landing pad on the exterior of the building.
The café, normally an open area surrounding a long bar, is filled with several large tables for dining guests. The café’s regular seating area, a large open space on the veranda, is also open for seating and milling around. Several long performance risers have been erected on the stage for the symphonic ensemble to perform from. They sit behind the speaker’s podium, with a large curtain dividing the two areas. Two substantial columns of
chairs sit before the podium and stage.
Bollin’s Curiosities Museum, his private storehouse for trophies collected from various places across the galaxy, is located one floor immediately below the gala hall. Similar to the gala hall, it is only really accessible through the front entrance, which is the 63rd floor stop of Redswamp Terrace’s twin external turbolifts. Normally, the building is completely closed off to the public, but during the gala, guests can access the museum by traveling down the central staircase from the gala hall floor into the main hall of the museum.
The museum has several different wings, each containing a variety of treasures. For example, the Hall of Arms contains weapons both modern and ancient, while the Hall of the Hunt contains trophies from various hunting excursions. To the chagrin of Bollin’s collections manager, the displays are chosen based more off of aesthetics than any real academically rigorous sorting.
As the plan continued on and with a flash of brilliance, FL-AR3's voice cut through the tension of the room, igniting a fire of excitement among the group. "What if," he proposed, leaning forward with intensity, "instead of risking it all to steal the data cylinder, we create a flawless duplicate and sneak that in instead?" The air crackled with anticipation as the idea took root, the thrill of deception dancing in their eyes.
Irdis, with a glint of mischief, leaned back in his chair and grinned. "We can do it. This facility has everything we need to craft an exact replica," he declared, the words hanging in the air like a challenge. The thrill of the plan transformed their mission from a mere heist into an audacious game of wits where victory was within their grasp.
In addition to widely-available cargo hauling services, they specialized in the development of auxiliary ship systems for niche users, including such products as specialty sensor packages, slave circuitry, and communications jamming devices.
Redswamp Terrace stands out from the surrounding buildings. The top floor is accessible only from the dual lift tubes that run up the outside of the building and via the supply dock at the back of the kitchens. The external faces of the building are relatively unguarded. The Rodian PSF patrols the skies of Karsteeku intermittently, but there are no special exterior security devices. The building itself is surrounded by several buildings, all of which are at least twenty floors shorter than Redswamp Terrace.
Bollin the Grey’s gala is a night-long affair. It is largely a free-flowing social event, with dancing, dining, and conversation anticipated throughout the event. Bollin has, however, scheduled a few important individual events:
- Gala doors open 2200 hours
Welcome speech 2300 hours
Private museum opened 2315 hours
Betu Symphonic Ensemble – Organ Concerto 2500 hours
Presentation of rare artifacts 2630 hours
Private museum closed 2800 hours
Gala doors close 2900 hour
The gala will be populated by more than a hundred attendees, building staff and security, and additional hired help (security, musicians, food service). Non-security personnel at the gala will be requested to check their weaponry at the lobby at level 64, to be returned upon their departure.
This is the situation that the group finds themselves in. Koraz is given a deep red tunic and id, plus a linked comm unit to receive instructions and check in at required times. He is shown around the facility and his volunteering for the main level post is met with chuckles from some of the other hired guards. He is assigned a partner, a young Rodian named Bhazzo Wakk, and they are instructed on how to identify the various levels of invitations for the guests.
The three replacements for the Starfish Catering jobs had been given red uniforms and hats and assigned basic tasks. Spanner is to mingle with guests and provide finger foods and hors d'oeuvres, both on the main floor and the museum level. Xander and FL-AR3 are passing out drinks and taking drink orders, again on both levels, as needed.
The gala hall is a wide open space with a large fountain in the center. A semicircular staircase leads down to the central hall of Bollin’s private museum. There is one primary entrance to the gala hall, which is the front lobby, reached by traveling up to the 64th floor of Redswamp Terrace in one of two transparisteel lift tubes. A secondary entrance to the building is through the kitchen via a cargo landing pad on the exterior of the building.
The café, normally an open area surrounding a long bar, is filled with several large tables for dining guests. The café’s regular seating area, a large open space on the veranda, is also open for seating and milling around. Several long performance risers have been erected on the stage for the symphonic ensemble to perform from. They sit behind the speaker’s podium, with a large curtain dividing the two areas. Two substantial columns of
chairs sit before the podium and stage.
Bollin’s Curiosities Museum, his private storehouse for trophies collected from various places across the galaxy, is located one floor immediately below the gala hall. Similar to the gala hall, it is only really accessible through the front entrance, which is the 63rd floor stop of Redswamp Terrace’s twin external turbolifts. Normally, the building is completely closed off to the public, but during the gala, guests can access the museum by traveling down the central staircase from the gala hall floor into the main hall of the museum.
The museum has several different wings, each containing a variety of treasures. For example, the Hall of Arms contains weapons both modern and ancient, while the Hall of the Hunt contains trophies from various hunting excursions. To the chagrin of Bollin’s collections manager, the displays are chosen based more off of aesthetics than any real academically rigorous sorting.
As the plan continued on and with a flash of brilliance, FL-AR3's voice cut through the tension of the room, igniting a fire of excitement among the group. "What if," he proposed, leaning forward with intensity, "instead of risking it all to steal the data cylinder, we create a flawless duplicate and sneak that in instead?" The air crackled with anticipation as the idea took root, the thrill of deception dancing in their eyes.
Irdis, with a glint of mischief, leaned back in his chair and grinned. "We can do it. This facility has everything we need to craft an exact replica," he declared, the words hanging in the air like a challenge. The thrill of the plan transformed their mission from a mere heist into an audacious game of wits where victory was within their grasp.
Re: On Top of the World (Episode 23)
The deep red tunic itched against Koraz's shoulders—too clean, too new, smelling of industrial detergent and the faintest hint of Rodian sweat from whatever poor bastard had worn it before security reassigned uniforms. He adjusted the comm earpiece again, the device clicking against his cranial horns with every turn of his head.
The catering manager, a harried Sullustan, had been very clear during their rushed orientation: the gala occupied the top two floors of Redswamp Terrace's building. Top floor for dining dancing and the upcoming presentations and the floor below was the private museum. It was important to cycle through the guests on the lower level museum from time to time. Koraz's security badge granted access to both, though the upper level scanners emitted a distinct high-pitched whine whenever he passed through.
The first guest arrived precisely seven seconds after Koraz adjusted his comm earpiece for the third time—a Rodian merchant in a shimmering emerald cloak that clashed horribly with Bhazzo Wakk's security tunic. Koraz's fingers twitched toward the invitation scanner. "Left or right?" he growled, already knowing the answer.
Bhazzo's antennae quivered as he processed the holo-stamp. "VIP," the Rodian chirped, gesturing toward the left-hand turbolift with exaggerated politeness. The merchant strutted past, his cloak swishing like swamp grass in a stiff breeze.
The next cluster of guests brought trouble. A Twi'lek in a too-tight brocade jacket waved an invitation that smelled faintly of forgery solvent. Koraz's nostrils flared as the Twi'lek leaned in. "Special dispensation from Administrator Drell," the man purred, his fingers brushing the invitation scanner in a way that made Bhazzo's antennae stiffen.
Koraz caught the scent of bacta and cheap cologne—the Twi'lek's left lekku had fresh stitchwork beneath the jeweled clasp. "Right lift," he barked, jerking his chin in that direction. The Twi'lek's smile froze. "But—"
The Twi'lek's protest died as Koraz's hand drifted to the stun baton clipped at his belt—a silent promise written in the Iktochi's yellowed grin. Bhazzo's antennae twitched in approval as the would-be VIP slunk toward the right-hand turbolift, his brocade jacket suddenly looking less expensive under the atrium's harsh lighting.
They came in waves after that—aristocrats in flowing silks that whispered against the marble floors, mercantile guild reps whose jewelry clinked with every step, and more than a few Rodian elites whose ceremonial armor hadn't seen actual combat in generations. Each arrival timed their steps to the distant chime of the grand chrono in the atrium's center, ensuring they crossed the threshold before the welcome chime would signal Bollin's speech.
Across the crowded atrium, Spanner wobbled slightly under the weight of an overloaded tray of pickled swamp eel skewers. FL-AR3's photoreceptors tracked a Twi'lek socialite's passing with deliberate disinterest, the droid's drink tray balanced perfectly despite the three empty glasses clustered near the edge. "Probability of successful subterfuge decreases by approximately 6% per hour," it murmured to no one in particular, just loud enough for Xander to catch as he passed with a fresh carafe of luminescent blue liquor.
Spanner's fingers tightened around the tray's edges as a particularly drunk Hutt wobbled past, his tail nearly upending a pyramid of sugared swamp berries. The teen ducked sideways, barely avoiding catastrophe. "Kriffing hell," he muttered under his breath, shooting a glare at the Hutt's retreating bulk. The scent of overripe fruit and expensive liquor clung to his borrowed catering uniform like a second skin.
Across the room, FL-AR3's photoreceptors flickered as it processed a sudden spike in liquid consumption patterns. A cluster of Rodian merchants near the ice sculpture were draining their glasses at 37% faster rate than the baseline—statistically significant. The droid pivoted smoothly toward the bar, its servos whirring faintly beneath the catering company's crisp white apron. "Refill protocol initiated," it announced to no one in particular, snagging a fresh decanter of something violently blue off a passing server droid's tray.
Precisely an hour into the affair, the crystal chandeliers dimmed precisely as Bollin the Grey ascended the podium, his scaled hands gripping the edges with practiced theatricality. His voice—amplified just enough to carry over the murmur of the crowd—carried the dry rasp of a man who'd spent too many years inhaling Rodian spice fumes. "Esteemed colleagues," he began, and Koraz's comm earpiece crackled with security chatter confirming all sectors were clear.
Bollin's scaled fingers traced the edge of the podium with deliberate theatricality, his claws catching the light as he leaned forward. "Tonight," he announced, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction, "I'll be unveiling select pieces from my *special* collection." His yellowed eyes swept across the crowd like a predator scenting blood—then locked onto Ranem Tiiv with surgical precision. The Rodian competitor stiffened, his blue-green fingers tightening around his drink so hard the glass creaked.
The ancient data cylinder materialized above the podium via holoprojector—its scratched bronze surface rotating slowly to display glyphs of unknown origin. Bollin's tongue flicked out to wet his lips. "Recently acquired," he purred, watching Tiiv's nostrils flare. "Though I understand the original excavation team met with... unfortunate circumstances."
Irdis's fingers tightened around his glass, the blue liquor inside trembling with suppressed tension. His crimson eyes flicked to Doctor Tora Ninn beside him—the Rodian's long narrow face a mask of forced composure, but her thin green fingers had turned bone-white around her datapad. The scars on her left cheek—four parallel lines courtesy of Longspine clan claws—twitched as Bollin's holoprojector displayed the stolen data cylinder.
"Unfortunate circumstances," Irdis repeated under his breath, the words curling like smoke from a blaster barrel. The Chiss's lips barely moved—only Ninn caught the venom in his tone. Her ear twitched in silent acknowledgment as she adjusted the high collar of her formal gown.
Bollin's reflection smirked back at him from the polished obsidian pillar—a Rodian at the pinnacle of his power, scales gleaming with freshly applied oils, ceremonial armor buffed to perfection. He adjusted the clasp of his cloak, savoring the weight of the durasteel-threaded silk against his shoulders. *Mine*, he thought, watching the holographic ticker above the museum entrance scroll through Rodian Interfreight's latest stock surge. *All mine.*
The private comm in his breast pocket vibrated—three short pulses, the signal from his acquisition team in the lower vaults. He dismissed it with a flick of his tongue against his teeth. Let them sweat over the final authentication scans. The artifacts were already his, legally and otherwise. The holographic cylinder hovering above the podium wasn't just stolen; it was taken, ripped from the clutching fingers of lesser Rodians who'd dared to challenge him.
A server droid glided past bearing a tray of spice-dusted fungi from the Southern Reaches—another acquisition, courtesy of his newest trade routes. Bollin plucked one between clawtips, savoring the way the brittle cap cracked between his teeth. Perfect.
The chrono above the turbolifts chimed softly. Fifteen minutes until the museum's grand unveiling. Bollin straightened his cloak and strode toward the panoramic viewport overlooking Karsteeku's glittering spires. His city. His *conquests*. The reflection of his security chief—a hulking Trandoshan named Brossk—appeared beside him on the transparisteel veranda. "Scans complete," Brossk rasped. "No anomalies."
Bollin stepped back onto the gala floor, making small talk with various guests. His jeweled fingers hovered inches from Spanner's arm—close enough that the teenager caught the stink of expensive oils and something faintly rancid beneath the perfume. "You there," the Rodian purred, his voice slick as bacta gel. "One of those... whatever they are." His free hand gestured vaguely toward Spanner's tray of pickled swamp eel skewers, their gelatinous coating glistening under the chandelier light.
Spanner stiffened. The rod-shaped canapés trembled slightly on their skewers as he forced his breathing steady. Up close, Bollin's ceremonial armor was a masterclass in excess—each scale polished to a mirror finish, the leather straps dyed a violent purple that clashed with his emerald skin. The Rodian's nostrils flared as he leaned in, his breath reeking of spice and expensive liquor. "You're doing a fantastic job tonight. I haven't seen you here before." Bollin prompted, tapping one fingertip against the tray's edge with a sharp *tink*. "You must have a drink with me."
Spanner's fingers nearly dropped the tray. Bollin's invitation hung between them like a thermal detonator with a loose pin—too sudden, too close. "Uh. Thanks?" The words tumbled out rough-edged, his throat tight. "I'm, uh, very thankful for the opportunity." Behind Bollin's shoulder, FL-AR3's photoreceptors flickered once, calculating trajectories.
The droid pivoted smoothly, its servos whirring as it inserted itself between Spanner and the Rodian with the precision of a tactical insertion. "Richelian Blue, Administrator?" FL-AR3's vocoder modulated into something approximating obsequiousness as it extended the tray. The glasses shimmered like liquid cobalt under the chandeliers, an almost inner glow radiating from each glass.
The blue liquor hit Spanner's throat like a ionized plasma torch—sharp, electric, and with the distinct afterburn of something that definitely wasn't legal in twelve systems. He barely managed to suppress the convulsive shudder as it seared its way down his esophagus. Across from him, Bollin tossed his own glass back with practiced ease, emitting a wet, guttural chuckle that sounded like a droid being strangled.
"Ah! A human with spine!" The Rodian clapped Spanner's shoulder, his fingers rumbling the thin catering fabric. "Most of your kind cough like hatchlings." His breath reeked of spice and that underlying rancid sweetness—closer now, Spanner realized it was the scent of decaying gingko fruit, a Rodian delicacy that fermented in the stomach.
Spanner bowed stiffly—a motion he'd seen Xander use earlier—and retreated toward the nearest service door. The hallway lights flickered as he passed, their intermittent buzz syncing with the sudden pounding in his temples. He barely registered the clatter of his empty tray hitting a prep table before his knees threatened to buckle. The wall caught him, cool against his forehead.
FL-AR3's photoreceptors dilated slightly as it calculated the optimal moment to address Bollin. Protocol dictated staff maintain passive roles unless addressed—but antiquities fell under its directive's cultural enrichment subcategory, justifying engagement. The droid pivoted smoothly. "Your collection's historical significance merits scholarly attention," it stated, vocoder pitched to mimic academic enthusiasm. "Particularly the seventh-century Rodian funerary glyphs."
Bollin's head snapped around, emerald scales rippling in surprise. His grip tightened around the empty glass. No server had ever spoken to him unbidden. The droid's photoreceptors remained fixed on him, unwavering, its drink tray perfectly balanced despite the weight of three untouched blue liquors.
"The glyphs," FL-AR3 continued, undeterred by Bollin's glare, "demonstrate fascinating deviations from traditional Rodian death rites. Their preservation quality suggests excavation prior to the G'rho meteor impacts." Its free hand, gesturing with precise angles, traced hypothetical glyph patterns in the air. "I eagerly anticipate examining them in the museum."
"So you are versed in antiquities," Bollin answered with a surprised smirk, his emerald scales rippling as he leaned closer to FL-AR3. The Rodian's breath fogged the droid's polished chest plate, leaving a faint sheen of moisture. Not only a servant, but a droid servant, Bollin thought to himself. His laughter was a wet, guttural sound that drew glances from nearby guests.
FL-AR3's photoreceptors dimmed slightly in what a human might interpret as modesty. "My primary function was archaeological survey prior to memory core degradation," the droid replied, pivoting its torso just so. "Seventh-century Rodian funerary rites remain a... personal interest."
Bollin's tongue flicked out to wet his mouth—a quick, predatory motion. His fingertips tapped against his empty glass in a staccato rhythm that matched the distant thrum of the gala's music. "How fascinating," he purred, turning to nearby guests. "You shall enjoy the show, I am sure." The nearby guests laughed with Bollin and he was quickly swallowed up by others vying for his attention.
The catering manager, a harried Sullustan, had been very clear during their rushed orientation: the gala occupied the top two floors of Redswamp Terrace's building. Top floor for dining dancing and the upcoming presentations and the floor below was the private museum. It was important to cycle through the guests on the lower level museum from time to time. Koraz's security badge granted access to both, though the upper level scanners emitted a distinct high-pitched whine whenever he passed through.
The first guest arrived precisely seven seconds after Koraz adjusted his comm earpiece for the third time—a Rodian merchant in a shimmering emerald cloak that clashed horribly with Bhazzo Wakk's security tunic. Koraz's fingers twitched toward the invitation scanner. "Left or right?" he growled, already knowing the answer.
Bhazzo's antennae quivered as he processed the holo-stamp. "VIP," the Rodian chirped, gesturing toward the left-hand turbolift with exaggerated politeness. The merchant strutted past, his cloak swishing like swamp grass in a stiff breeze.
The next cluster of guests brought trouble. A Twi'lek in a too-tight brocade jacket waved an invitation that smelled faintly of forgery solvent. Koraz's nostrils flared as the Twi'lek leaned in. "Special dispensation from Administrator Drell," the man purred, his fingers brushing the invitation scanner in a way that made Bhazzo's antennae stiffen.
Koraz caught the scent of bacta and cheap cologne—the Twi'lek's left lekku had fresh stitchwork beneath the jeweled clasp. "Right lift," he barked, jerking his chin in that direction. The Twi'lek's smile froze. "But—"
The Twi'lek's protest died as Koraz's hand drifted to the stun baton clipped at his belt—a silent promise written in the Iktochi's yellowed grin. Bhazzo's antennae twitched in approval as the would-be VIP slunk toward the right-hand turbolift, his brocade jacket suddenly looking less expensive under the atrium's harsh lighting.
They came in waves after that—aristocrats in flowing silks that whispered against the marble floors, mercantile guild reps whose jewelry clinked with every step, and more than a few Rodian elites whose ceremonial armor hadn't seen actual combat in generations. Each arrival timed their steps to the distant chime of the grand chrono in the atrium's center, ensuring they crossed the threshold before the welcome chime would signal Bollin's speech.
Across the crowded atrium, Spanner wobbled slightly under the weight of an overloaded tray of pickled swamp eel skewers. FL-AR3's photoreceptors tracked a Twi'lek socialite's passing with deliberate disinterest, the droid's drink tray balanced perfectly despite the three empty glasses clustered near the edge. "Probability of successful subterfuge decreases by approximately 6% per hour," it murmured to no one in particular, just loud enough for Xander to catch as he passed with a fresh carafe of luminescent blue liquor.
Spanner's fingers tightened around the tray's edges as a particularly drunk Hutt wobbled past, his tail nearly upending a pyramid of sugared swamp berries. The teen ducked sideways, barely avoiding catastrophe. "Kriffing hell," he muttered under his breath, shooting a glare at the Hutt's retreating bulk. The scent of overripe fruit and expensive liquor clung to his borrowed catering uniform like a second skin.
Across the room, FL-AR3's photoreceptors flickered as it processed a sudden spike in liquid consumption patterns. A cluster of Rodian merchants near the ice sculpture were draining their glasses at 37% faster rate than the baseline—statistically significant. The droid pivoted smoothly toward the bar, its servos whirring faintly beneath the catering company's crisp white apron. "Refill protocol initiated," it announced to no one in particular, snagging a fresh decanter of something violently blue off a passing server droid's tray.
Precisely an hour into the affair, the crystal chandeliers dimmed precisely as Bollin the Grey ascended the podium, his scaled hands gripping the edges with practiced theatricality. His voice—amplified just enough to carry over the murmur of the crowd—carried the dry rasp of a man who'd spent too many years inhaling Rodian spice fumes. "Esteemed colleagues," he began, and Koraz's comm earpiece crackled with security chatter confirming all sectors were clear.
Bollin's scaled fingers traced the edge of the podium with deliberate theatricality, his claws catching the light as he leaned forward. "Tonight," he announced, his voice dripping with smug satisfaction, "I'll be unveiling select pieces from my *special* collection." His yellowed eyes swept across the crowd like a predator scenting blood—then locked onto Ranem Tiiv with surgical precision. The Rodian competitor stiffened, his blue-green fingers tightening around his drink so hard the glass creaked.
The ancient data cylinder materialized above the podium via holoprojector—its scratched bronze surface rotating slowly to display glyphs of unknown origin. Bollin's tongue flicked out to wet his lips. "Recently acquired," he purred, watching Tiiv's nostrils flare. "Though I understand the original excavation team met with... unfortunate circumstances."
Irdis's fingers tightened around his glass, the blue liquor inside trembling with suppressed tension. His crimson eyes flicked to Doctor Tora Ninn beside him—the Rodian's long narrow face a mask of forced composure, but her thin green fingers had turned bone-white around her datapad. The scars on her left cheek—four parallel lines courtesy of Longspine clan claws—twitched as Bollin's holoprojector displayed the stolen data cylinder.
"Unfortunate circumstances," Irdis repeated under his breath, the words curling like smoke from a blaster barrel. The Chiss's lips barely moved—only Ninn caught the venom in his tone. Her ear twitched in silent acknowledgment as she adjusted the high collar of her formal gown.
Bollin's reflection smirked back at him from the polished obsidian pillar—a Rodian at the pinnacle of his power, scales gleaming with freshly applied oils, ceremonial armor buffed to perfection. He adjusted the clasp of his cloak, savoring the weight of the durasteel-threaded silk against his shoulders. *Mine*, he thought, watching the holographic ticker above the museum entrance scroll through Rodian Interfreight's latest stock surge. *All mine.*
The private comm in his breast pocket vibrated—three short pulses, the signal from his acquisition team in the lower vaults. He dismissed it with a flick of his tongue against his teeth. Let them sweat over the final authentication scans. The artifacts were already his, legally and otherwise. The holographic cylinder hovering above the podium wasn't just stolen; it was taken, ripped from the clutching fingers of lesser Rodians who'd dared to challenge him.
A server droid glided past bearing a tray of spice-dusted fungi from the Southern Reaches—another acquisition, courtesy of his newest trade routes. Bollin plucked one between clawtips, savoring the way the brittle cap cracked between his teeth. Perfect.
The chrono above the turbolifts chimed softly. Fifteen minutes until the museum's grand unveiling. Bollin straightened his cloak and strode toward the panoramic viewport overlooking Karsteeku's glittering spires. His city. His *conquests*. The reflection of his security chief—a hulking Trandoshan named Brossk—appeared beside him on the transparisteel veranda. "Scans complete," Brossk rasped. "No anomalies."
Bollin stepped back onto the gala floor, making small talk with various guests. His jeweled fingers hovered inches from Spanner's arm—close enough that the teenager caught the stink of expensive oils and something faintly rancid beneath the perfume. "You there," the Rodian purred, his voice slick as bacta gel. "One of those... whatever they are." His free hand gestured vaguely toward Spanner's tray of pickled swamp eel skewers, their gelatinous coating glistening under the chandelier light.
Spanner stiffened. The rod-shaped canapés trembled slightly on their skewers as he forced his breathing steady. Up close, Bollin's ceremonial armor was a masterclass in excess—each scale polished to a mirror finish, the leather straps dyed a violent purple that clashed with his emerald skin. The Rodian's nostrils flared as he leaned in, his breath reeking of spice and expensive liquor. "You're doing a fantastic job tonight. I haven't seen you here before." Bollin prompted, tapping one fingertip against the tray's edge with a sharp *tink*. "You must have a drink with me."
Spanner's fingers nearly dropped the tray. Bollin's invitation hung between them like a thermal detonator with a loose pin—too sudden, too close. "Uh. Thanks?" The words tumbled out rough-edged, his throat tight. "I'm, uh, very thankful for the opportunity." Behind Bollin's shoulder, FL-AR3's photoreceptors flickered once, calculating trajectories.
The droid pivoted smoothly, its servos whirring as it inserted itself between Spanner and the Rodian with the precision of a tactical insertion. "Richelian Blue, Administrator?" FL-AR3's vocoder modulated into something approximating obsequiousness as it extended the tray. The glasses shimmered like liquid cobalt under the chandeliers, an almost inner glow radiating from each glass.
The blue liquor hit Spanner's throat like a ionized plasma torch—sharp, electric, and with the distinct afterburn of something that definitely wasn't legal in twelve systems. He barely managed to suppress the convulsive shudder as it seared its way down his esophagus. Across from him, Bollin tossed his own glass back with practiced ease, emitting a wet, guttural chuckle that sounded like a droid being strangled.
"Ah! A human with spine!" The Rodian clapped Spanner's shoulder, his fingers rumbling the thin catering fabric. "Most of your kind cough like hatchlings." His breath reeked of spice and that underlying rancid sweetness—closer now, Spanner realized it was the scent of decaying gingko fruit, a Rodian delicacy that fermented in the stomach.
Spanner bowed stiffly—a motion he'd seen Xander use earlier—and retreated toward the nearest service door. The hallway lights flickered as he passed, their intermittent buzz syncing with the sudden pounding in his temples. He barely registered the clatter of his empty tray hitting a prep table before his knees threatened to buckle. The wall caught him, cool against his forehead.
FL-AR3's photoreceptors dilated slightly as it calculated the optimal moment to address Bollin. Protocol dictated staff maintain passive roles unless addressed—but antiquities fell under its directive's cultural enrichment subcategory, justifying engagement. The droid pivoted smoothly. "Your collection's historical significance merits scholarly attention," it stated, vocoder pitched to mimic academic enthusiasm. "Particularly the seventh-century Rodian funerary glyphs."
Bollin's head snapped around, emerald scales rippling in surprise. His grip tightened around the empty glass. No server had ever spoken to him unbidden. The droid's photoreceptors remained fixed on him, unwavering, its drink tray perfectly balanced despite the weight of three untouched blue liquors.
"The glyphs," FL-AR3 continued, undeterred by Bollin's glare, "demonstrate fascinating deviations from traditional Rodian death rites. Their preservation quality suggests excavation prior to the G'rho meteor impacts." Its free hand, gesturing with precise angles, traced hypothetical glyph patterns in the air. "I eagerly anticipate examining them in the museum."
"So you are versed in antiquities," Bollin answered with a surprised smirk, his emerald scales rippling as he leaned closer to FL-AR3. The Rodian's breath fogged the droid's polished chest plate, leaving a faint sheen of moisture. Not only a servant, but a droid servant, Bollin thought to himself. His laughter was a wet, guttural sound that drew glances from nearby guests.
FL-AR3's photoreceptors dimmed slightly in what a human might interpret as modesty. "My primary function was archaeological survey prior to memory core degradation," the droid replied, pivoting its torso just so. "Seventh-century Rodian funerary rites remain a... personal interest."
Bollin's tongue flicked out to wet his mouth—a quick, predatory motion. His fingertips tapped against his empty glass in a staccato rhythm that matched the distant thrum of the gala's music. "How fascinating," he purred, turning to nearby guests. "You shall enjoy the show, I am sure." The nearby guests laughed with Bollin and he was quickly swallowed up by others vying for his attention.
Re: On Top of the World (Episode 23)
Meanwhile -
The Togruta's fingers trailed down Xander's forearm, her fingernails catching delicately on the crisp white fabric of his catering uniform. "You have such steady hands for a human," she murmured, her breath warm against his ear as she leaned in to retrieve her drink. The scent of her lingered even after she pulled away, her blue-and-white montrals swaying with the motion.
Xander didn't blink. "Standard pouring technique," he said flatly, adjusting his grip on the carafe. The liquor inside caught the light, throwing fractured blue reflections across his wrist.
She laughed—a soft, throaty sound—and took a sip. "Mm. You're no fun." Her gaze lingered a moment longer before she turned away, her montrals swaying as she melted back into the crowd. Xander exhaled through his nose and pivoted toward the next cluster of guests, his expression as neutral as the droid's across the room.
Once the museum had been open for a time and enough guests had wandered down there to look at Bollin's finds, Xander slipped down the grand staircase as well. It was a chance to look around for where the vault might be.
Xander's footsteps echoed too loudly in the museum's lower level corridor, the durasteel flooring amplifying each click of his catering shoes. The Togruta's laughter followed him—light, melodic, and laced with enough spice-liquor warmth to raise his hackles. He paused beside a display case housing Rodian ceremonial daggers, their curved blades catching the dimmed gallery lights as he feigned interest in the exhibit labels.
"You're not very good at this," the Togruta murmured, her montrals brushing his shoulder as she leaned in to read the same plaque. Up close, her breath carried the tang of Alderaanian frost wine and something sharper—corellian brandy. She likely had been drinking before she arrived at the event. Her fingers traced the edge of the display case, nails tapping against the transparisteel with deliberate nonchalance. "Servers usually serve."
Xander leaned into the conversation, letting his shoulder brush against her montrals in a way that made her pupils dilate. "Servers also listen," he murmured, nodding toward the dagger display. "Especially when guests know more about the exhibits than the placards." His fingers trailed along the edge of the case—close enough to hers to feel the heat radiating from her skin, but never touching.
The Togruta's laugh was quieter this time, more deliberate. She pressed closer, her hip bumping against his thigh. "You want a private tour?" Her fingers toyed with the high collar of his uniform, tracing the starched edge. "I know all the... hidden corners."
Xander exhaled through his nose, his gaze lingering on her enchanting eyes. "There's cameras all around. Do you know of any less public spots?"
She smirked, her fingers sliding down to tap the security badge clipped to his belt—a cheap catering pass that wouldn't open anything more secure than a pantry. "Pity. The really interesting artifacts are in the sub-level archives."
Xander's pulse kicked up a notch, but his face remained impassive. "We don't have any way to access those." He adjusted the carafe, letting the liquor slosh audibly. "But if I see anything... unusual, I'll mention it." The lie tasted like cheap synth-ale.
The Togruta's fingers lingered near his wrist for a heartbeat too long before withdrawing. "Shame," she murmured. She turned away with a swirl of silk, leaving him standing there with the distinct impression he'd just been handed a live thermal detonator—no pin included.
Upstairs, FL-AR3's photoreceptors flickered about the crowd. People were mingling, dancing and enjoying food and drink. The droid pivoted toward a passing server droid, liberated a fresh tray of blue cocktails, and glided through the crowd with the precision of a missile lock.
Spanner wiped his mouth on his sleeve, the lingering burn of Bollin's liquor still clawing at his sinuses. He'd just straightened when FL-AR3 materialized beside him, pressing a chilled glass into his palm. "Hydration is advised," the droid murmured, its vocoder pitched too low for nearby guests to hear. "Your epidermal temperature suggests metabolic distress."
Spanner knocked back the water in one go, the coolness soothing his raw throat. "That Rodian's drink tastes like engine coolant filtered through a Hutt's liver," he rasped, wiping his mouth again. His hands had stopped shaking, but his vision still had a faint blue tint at the edges.
After the last guest arrived, Koraz took a much-needed break. Roona had sent a message on their encoded comms that she needed information on the museum level and possible doors to get to the security area. He entered the elevator and pressed the button for the 63rd floor. Upon reaching the museum level, he stepped out into a lobby that, while sharing the same basic layout as the ground floor, had its own distinct character. Here, the lighting was softer, casting a warm glow that contrasted with the sleek, modern furnishings. Koraz glanced around, taking in the security desk and the minimalistic art adorning the walls.
In the center of the lobby, he spotted the security team on duty. One of the guards was a green-skinned Rodian named Zidd Ovvo, known for his sharp gaze and no-nonsense demeanor. Next to him stood Shabbo Denn, a striking Rodian with bright red skin that almost seemed to pulse under the lobby's lights. Koraz exchanged a nod of acknowledgment with them before passing through the lobby to the museum level.
Koraz stepped into the museum area, feeling the atmosphere shift around him. The Hall of Arms was renowned for its extensive collection of historical weapons, each piece telling a story of its own. As he wandered through the dimly lit space, the walls adorned with cases of intricately designed swords, blasters, and armor caught his attention. The faint echo of his footsteps on the polished floor mixed with a few hushed conversations from nearby guests.
He paused in front of a vibrant display of ancient blasters, their craftsmanship a testament to the skill of long-gone artisans. As he admired a particularly ornate weapon, Spanner’s earlier observation echoed in his mind—the lower floor area certainly felt different from the gala floor above. There were hints of undiscovered corners, hidden secrets concealed within the museum’s design.
Unbeknownst to him, the Togruta woman lingered in the shadows, her eyes glinting with a mix of intrigue and intoxication. She swayed slightly on her feet, the warmth of the alcohol coursing through her veins. Earlier, she had boldly approached Xander, her boldness fueled by the effects of the drink. As she watched him now, she couldn't help but notice his large hands, calloused and strong.
Koraz continued his exploration, his eyes scanning the walls for anything unusual. That’s when he spotted it—a slight indentation in a seemingly ordinary section of the wall. It blended seamlessly with the surrounding decor, but he could sense it held something more. He approached and pressed against the area, looking for any sign of a mechanism, a button, or a lever.
To his disappointment, nothing happened. He pushed harder, then tried sliding his hand along the edges, but the door remained stubbornly closed. Frustration began to bubble within him; there was clearly more to this place than met the eye.
With a determined breath, he took a step back, contemplating his next move. Koraz could feel that he was close to something significant, but he needed a new approach. Maybe Roona would have more success, as that was more her forte. As Koraz made his way back to his post on the ground level, he reported his findings over the secure comms that the team shared.
The Togruta's fingers trailed down Xander's forearm, her fingernails catching delicately on the crisp white fabric of his catering uniform. "You have such steady hands for a human," she murmured, her breath warm against his ear as she leaned in to retrieve her drink. The scent of her lingered even after she pulled away, her blue-and-white montrals swaying with the motion.
Xander didn't blink. "Standard pouring technique," he said flatly, adjusting his grip on the carafe. The liquor inside caught the light, throwing fractured blue reflections across his wrist.
She laughed—a soft, throaty sound—and took a sip. "Mm. You're no fun." Her gaze lingered a moment longer before she turned away, her montrals swaying as she melted back into the crowd. Xander exhaled through his nose and pivoted toward the next cluster of guests, his expression as neutral as the droid's across the room.
Once the museum had been open for a time and enough guests had wandered down there to look at Bollin's finds, Xander slipped down the grand staircase as well. It was a chance to look around for where the vault might be.
Xander's footsteps echoed too loudly in the museum's lower level corridor, the durasteel flooring amplifying each click of his catering shoes. The Togruta's laughter followed him—light, melodic, and laced with enough spice-liquor warmth to raise his hackles. He paused beside a display case housing Rodian ceremonial daggers, their curved blades catching the dimmed gallery lights as he feigned interest in the exhibit labels.
"You're not very good at this," the Togruta murmured, her montrals brushing his shoulder as she leaned in to read the same plaque. Up close, her breath carried the tang of Alderaanian frost wine and something sharper—corellian brandy. She likely had been drinking before she arrived at the event. Her fingers traced the edge of the display case, nails tapping against the transparisteel with deliberate nonchalance. "Servers usually serve."
Xander leaned into the conversation, letting his shoulder brush against her montrals in a way that made her pupils dilate. "Servers also listen," he murmured, nodding toward the dagger display. "Especially when guests know more about the exhibits than the placards." His fingers trailed along the edge of the case—close enough to hers to feel the heat radiating from her skin, but never touching.
The Togruta's laugh was quieter this time, more deliberate. She pressed closer, her hip bumping against his thigh. "You want a private tour?" Her fingers toyed with the high collar of his uniform, tracing the starched edge. "I know all the... hidden corners."
Xander exhaled through his nose, his gaze lingering on her enchanting eyes. "There's cameras all around. Do you know of any less public spots?"
She smirked, her fingers sliding down to tap the security badge clipped to his belt—a cheap catering pass that wouldn't open anything more secure than a pantry. "Pity. The really interesting artifacts are in the sub-level archives."
Xander's pulse kicked up a notch, but his face remained impassive. "We don't have any way to access those." He adjusted the carafe, letting the liquor slosh audibly. "But if I see anything... unusual, I'll mention it." The lie tasted like cheap synth-ale.
The Togruta's fingers lingered near his wrist for a heartbeat too long before withdrawing. "Shame," she murmured. She turned away with a swirl of silk, leaving him standing there with the distinct impression he'd just been handed a live thermal detonator—no pin included.
Upstairs, FL-AR3's photoreceptors flickered about the crowd. People were mingling, dancing and enjoying food and drink. The droid pivoted toward a passing server droid, liberated a fresh tray of blue cocktails, and glided through the crowd with the precision of a missile lock.
Spanner wiped his mouth on his sleeve, the lingering burn of Bollin's liquor still clawing at his sinuses. He'd just straightened when FL-AR3 materialized beside him, pressing a chilled glass into his palm. "Hydration is advised," the droid murmured, its vocoder pitched too low for nearby guests to hear. "Your epidermal temperature suggests metabolic distress."
Spanner knocked back the water in one go, the coolness soothing his raw throat. "That Rodian's drink tastes like engine coolant filtered through a Hutt's liver," he rasped, wiping his mouth again. His hands had stopped shaking, but his vision still had a faint blue tint at the edges.
After the last guest arrived, Koraz took a much-needed break. Roona had sent a message on their encoded comms that she needed information on the museum level and possible doors to get to the security area. He entered the elevator and pressed the button for the 63rd floor. Upon reaching the museum level, he stepped out into a lobby that, while sharing the same basic layout as the ground floor, had its own distinct character. Here, the lighting was softer, casting a warm glow that contrasted with the sleek, modern furnishings. Koraz glanced around, taking in the security desk and the minimalistic art adorning the walls.
In the center of the lobby, he spotted the security team on duty. One of the guards was a green-skinned Rodian named Zidd Ovvo, known for his sharp gaze and no-nonsense demeanor. Next to him stood Shabbo Denn, a striking Rodian with bright red skin that almost seemed to pulse under the lobby's lights. Koraz exchanged a nod of acknowledgment with them before passing through the lobby to the museum level.
Koraz stepped into the museum area, feeling the atmosphere shift around him. The Hall of Arms was renowned for its extensive collection of historical weapons, each piece telling a story of its own. As he wandered through the dimly lit space, the walls adorned with cases of intricately designed swords, blasters, and armor caught his attention. The faint echo of his footsteps on the polished floor mixed with a few hushed conversations from nearby guests.
He paused in front of a vibrant display of ancient blasters, their craftsmanship a testament to the skill of long-gone artisans. As he admired a particularly ornate weapon, Spanner’s earlier observation echoed in his mind—the lower floor area certainly felt different from the gala floor above. There were hints of undiscovered corners, hidden secrets concealed within the museum’s design.
Unbeknownst to him, the Togruta woman lingered in the shadows, her eyes glinting with a mix of intrigue and intoxication. She swayed slightly on her feet, the warmth of the alcohol coursing through her veins. Earlier, she had boldly approached Xander, her boldness fueled by the effects of the drink. As she watched him now, she couldn't help but notice his large hands, calloused and strong.
Koraz continued his exploration, his eyes scanning the walls for anything unusual. That’s when he spotted it—a slight indentation in a seemingly ordinary section of the wall. It blended seamlessly with the surrounding decor, but he could sense it held something more. He approached and pressed against the area, looking for any sign of a mechanism, a button, or a lever.
To his disappointment, nothing happened. He pushed harder, then tried sliding his hand along the edges, but the door remained stubbornly closed. Frustration began to bubble within him; there was clearly more to this place than met the eye.
With a determined breath, he took a step back, contemplating his next move. Koraz could feel that he was close to something significant, but he needed a new approach. Maybe Roona would have more success, as that was more her forte. As Koraz made his way back to his post on the ground level, he reported his findings over the secure comms that the team shared.
Re: On Top of the World (Episode 23)
Koraz leaned against the obsidian pillar near the turbolifts, watching Bhazzo Wakk's chrono tick toward break rotation with the patience of a hunting sand panther. The Rodian security guard's scaled fingers drummed against his thigh—one minute forty-three seconds overdue. Typical. The Betu Symphonic Ensemble had already begun tuning their electro-harps in the gala hall.
Bhazzo's departure from the security station coincided with a sudden arrival of a new "guest". Pron strode through the entrance, his hands showing off the counterfeit invitation that Xander had concocted for this part of the plan.
Koraz's fingers brushed the counterfeit invitation's edge with deliberate hesitation, letting the holostamp glitch just long enough to sell the charade. "Ah," he rumbled, tilting his head toward the rightmost turbolift in a gesture that could've been deference or dismissal—Pron would know the difference. The Iktochi's nostrils flared imperceptibly as Roona's cloaked form ghosted past the security checkpoint. He focused on Pron's collar instead, noting the frayed stitching where the Sullustan's nervous sweat had eroded the synth-fibers. "Welcome to the gala, Mister Gorlan," Koraz lied smoothly, loud enough for any security watching on monitors to overhear. "Turbolift Gamma."
Pron's jowls twitched in suppressed amusement as he adjusted his ill-fitting formal jacket—stolen from some noble's unattended speeder, judging by the Naboo embroidery on the cuffs. "Of course, officer." His voice oozed obsequiousness, but his black eyes darted toward the lobby's ornamental fern, where Roona's presence made the leaves tremble without breeze.
Pron's boots clicked against the turbolift's mirrored floor as the doors hissed shut behind him, his reflection stretching unnaturally in the warped surfaces. The lift smelled of ozone and expensive cologne—some aristocrat's lingering presence pressed into the walls like a ghost. He flexed his fingers inside the stolen jacket's tight sleeves, counting the seconds until the ascent. Twelve. Thirteen.
The adjacent turbolift chimed softly. Koraz was already moving, his security boots silent against the marble as he pivoted toward the sound. The doors slid open to reveal an empty compartment on any security screens, despite Roona standing there nonchalantly, its interior lights flickering like a faulty glowrod. He stepped in front with deliberate haste, helping to block any camera's view with his broad shoulders. "Control," he growled into his comm, "we've got a malfunction on Turbolift Beta. Doors activating without command." His free hand hovered near the stun baton—not a threat, just a charade to whoever might be watching the feeds.
Roona's fingers twitched as she brushed the shoulder pack that held the fake data cylinder. The turbolift hummed upward, counting the rhythm of each passing floor by the vibrations beneath her feet. Fifty-eight. Fifty-nine. Sixty. Pron should be just about done by now.
Pron exhaled to calm himself as the turbolift slowed—a soft hydraulic sigh that matched the quiet click of the playing cards being dealt two meters away. Through the widening gap of the opening doors, he caught the fluorescent gleam of a sabacc chip skittering across the security desk. The Rodian on the left—Zidd Ovvo—was too busy scowling at his hand to notice the turbolift's arrival. His partner Shabbo Denn had one elbow propped on the desk, her crimson fingers drumming against her thigh in poorly concealed anticipation.
Neither guard looked up.
Pron launched the stun grenade before he fully left the lift—a smooth underhand toss that sent the metallic sphere sailing through the air deceptive laziness. It came to rest precisely between the two Rodian guards' boots. Shabbo's crimson fingers froze mid-drum when the grenade's casing split with a wet *hiss*, releasing a concentrated burst of ionized gas that turned the air electric.
The flash was blinding—a staccato burst of blue-white light that painted the lobby walls in stark, flickering shadows. Zidd Ovvo's emerald hands convulsed around his cards, the flimsiplast curling instantly into blackened ash. His partner's scream died in her throat as the shockwave hit, her body locking rigid before she toppled sideways into the security console.
Pron's boots scuffed against the marble as he lunged for cover behind the security desk. Another guard stepped through the doorway to Pron's right with his blaster already drawn. The acrid tang of ionized air from the grenade hung thick between them.
"Freeze!" The new guard—a broad-shouldered human with a jagged scar bisecting his left eyebrow—leveled his blaster at Pron's chest. His trigger finger twitched with the tension of someone who'd fired first and asked questions later before. The muzzle didn't waver.
Pron's blaster slipped out of its holster in a flash—not the clean draw of a duelist, but rather one of brutal efficiency. The shot punched through the guard's scarred eyebrow before he could finish squeezing the trigger. The man crumpled like a marionette with severed strings, his blaster clattering against marble.
The smell of scorched flesh bloomed thick in the air. Pron didn't waste time watching the body hit the floor—he was already moving, boots skidding as he lunged around the security console. Proiah Pron hesitated for just a moment as he contemplated the situation. They couldn't afford the guards to wake up and impede Roona's mission. Two quick blaster shots ended that worry. Behind him, the turbolift doors hissed open.
Pron's boots hit the turbolift floor with deliberate weight, echoing hollowly as the doors sealed behind him. He didn't glance toward Roona's cloaked form slipping through the adjacent lift—didn't need to. The Rodian moved like shadow given intent, her presence only betrayed by the faintest ripple in the lobby's fern leaves as she passed.
The descent felt slower than the ascent, each floor number blinking by with taunting lethargy. Pron flexed his fingers inside the stolen jacket's stiff sleeves and quickly removed it, leaving it on the floor. He counted the bodies in his head—three, counting the scarred human who'd been faster on the draw than he was smart.
Pron's reflection in the turbolift's warped metal panels fractured as he stabbed the ground floor button—three rapid jabs that made the droid voice announce "Descending" with mechanical politeness. The Rodian blood on his sleeve cuff had already oxidized to a dull rust-brown, blending into the Naboo embroidery. He peeled off the stolen jacket entirely, balling it up with the deliberate care of someone disposing of evidence mid-stride.
The descent felt slower than the ascent, each floor number blinking by with taunting lethargy. He counted the bodies in his head—three, counting the scarred human who'd been faster on the draw than he was smart.
The lobby's sterile lighting made him squint as the doors hissed open. Koraz stood angled toward the main entrance, his security badge glinting under the atrium lights—perfectly positioned to block the nearest security cam's sightline. Pron strode past without breaking step, his boots scuffing the polished floor just loudly enough to be dismissed as a guest's haste. The Iktochi simply waved and wished the departing figure a pleasant evening.
Roona's fingers flexed against the doorframe that the downed guard had left open as she slipped inside the museum proper, the scent of ionization and scorched flesh fading behind her. The air here smelled sterile—preservation gels and polished display cases, the faint metallic whisper of climate control humming through hidden vents. The museum's lighting was deliberately dim, casting elongated shadows that suited her purposes perfectly. Rodians died all the time. These ones just happened to die quietly. Mostly quietly.
She moved past the first exhibit—a collection of Twi'lek ceremonial headdresses suspended in stasis fields—without glancing at them. The second display held an array of Geonosian sonic weaponry, their jagged silhouettes throwing spiderweb patterns across the floor. Roona stepped over them, her bare feet silent on the polished marble floor.
The cloak pooled over Roona's arm like liquid shadow. Beneath it, the cocktail dress clung to her slender frame—a deep emerald number with strategically placed cutouts that showed off her Rodian patterning while obscuring the holster strapped to her thigh. The fabric shimmered under the museum's muted lighting, shifting from green to near-black as she adjusted the drape over her shoulder bag.
Two Twi'lek socialites passed by without glancing her way, their laughter bouncing off the display cases as they debated which noble house had donated the ugliest headdress. Roona pivoted smoothly to step out further onto the floor and admire the Wookie ryyk blade in the nearby display case. A security guard patrolled the perimeter—human, dressed in the same deep red tunic as Koraz. No one had noticed the Rodian woman materialize from the shadows.
------------------------------------------
Unused XPS (earned 25)
Spanner - 25
FL-AR3 - 25 (+40)
Pron - 35 (+40) (spent)
Koraz - 35 (spent)
Xander - 25 (spent)
Roona - 30 (spent)
Vagrant Group Funds - 3373 credits
Archelon Group Funds - 5591 credits
Gear: quick sale value in ()
3 Geonosian Rifles hidden in cargo hold for Nyn
4 Blaster Pistols (200 ea)
Bhazzo's departure from the security station coincided with a sudden arrival of a new "guest". Pron strode through the entrance, his hands showing off the counterfeit invitation that Xander had concocted for this part of the plan.
Koraz's fingers brushed the counterfeit invitation's edge with deliberate hesitation, letting the holostamp glitch just long enough to sell the charade. "Ah," he rumbled, tilting his head toward the rightmost turbolift in a gesture that could've been deference or dismissal—Pron would know the difference. The Iktochi's nostrils flared imperceptibly as Roona's cloaked form ghosted past the security checkpoint. He focused on Pron's collar instead, noting the frayed stitching where the Sullustan's nervous sweat had eroded the synth-fibers. "Welcome to the gala, Mister Gorlan," Koraz lied smoothly, loud enough for any security watching on monitors to overhear. "Turbolift Gamma."
Pron's jowls twitched in suppressed amusement as he adjusted his ill-fitting formal jacket—stolen from some noble's unattended speeder, judging by the Naboo embroidery on the cuffs. "Of course, officer." His voice oozed obsequiousness, but his black eyes darted toward the lobby's ornamental fern, where Roona's presence made the leaves tremble without breeze.
Pron's boots clicked against the turbolift's mirrored floor as the doors hissed shut behind him, his reflection stretching unnaturally in the warped surfaces. The lift smelled of ozone and expensive cologne—some aristocrat's lingering presence pressed into the walls like a ghost. He flexed his fingers inside the stolen jacket's tight sleeves, counting the seconds until the ascent. Twelve. Thirteen.
The adjacent turbolift chimed softly. Koraz was already moving, his security boots silent against the marble as he pivoted toward the sound. The doors slid open to reveal an empty compartment on any security screens, despite Roona standing there nonchalantly, its interior lights flickering like a faulty glowrod. He stepped in front with deliberate haste, helping to block any camera's view with his broad shoulders. "Control," he growled into his comm, "we've got a malfunction on Turbolift Beta. Doors activating without command." His free hand hovered near the stun baton—not a threat, just a charade to whoever might be watching the feeds.
Roona's fingers twitched as she brushed the shoulder pack that held the fake data cylinder. The turbolift hummed upward, counting the rhythm of each passing floor by the vibrations beneath her feet. Fifty-eight. Fifty-nine. Sixty. Pron should be just about done by now.
Pron exhaled to calm himself as the turbolift slowed—a soft hydraulic sigh that matched the quiet click of the playing cards being dealt two meters away. Through the widening gap of the opening doors, he caught the fluorescent gleam of a sabacc chip skittering across the security desk. The Rodian on the left—Zidd Ovvo—was too busy scowling at his hand to notice the turbolift's arrival. His partner Shabbo Denn had one elbow propped on the desk, her crimson fingers drumming against her thigh in poorly concealed anticipation.
Neither guard looked up.
Pron launched the stun grenade before he fully left the lift—a smooth underhand toss that sent the metallic sphere sailing through the air deceptive laziness. It came to rest precisely between the two Rodian guards' boots. Shabbo's crimson fingers froze mid-drum when the grenade's casing split with a wet *hiss*, releasing a concentrated burst of ionized gas that turned the air electric.
The flash was blinding—a staccato burst of blue-white light that painted the lobby walls in stark, flickering shadows. Zidd Ovvo's emerald hands convulsed around his cards, the flimsiplast curling instantly into blackened ash. His partner's scream died in her throat as the shockwave hit, her body locking rigid before she toppled sideways into the security console.
Pron's boots scuffed against the marble as he lunged for cover behind the security desk. Another guard stepped through the doorway to Pron's right with his blaster already drawn. The acrid tang of ionized air from the grenade hung thick between them.
"Freeze!" The new guard—a broad-shouldered human with a jagged scar bisecting his left eyebrow—leveled his blaster at Pron's chest. His trigger finger twitched with the tension of someone who'd fired first and asked questions later before. The muzzle didn't waver.
Pron's blaster slipped out of its holster in a flash—not the clean draw of a duelist, but rather one of brutal efficiency. The shot punched through the guard's scarred eyebrow before he could finish squeezing the trigger. The man crumpled like a marionette with severed strings, his blaster clattering against marble.
The smell of scorched flesh bloomed thick in the air. Pron didn't waste time watching the body hit the floor—he was already moving, boots skidding as he lunged around the security console. Proiah Pron hesitated for just a moment as he contemplated the situation. They couldn't afford the guards to wake up and impede Roona's mission. Two quick blaster shots ended that worry. Behind him, the turbolift doors hissed open.
Pron's boots hit the turbolift floor with deliberate weight, echoing hollowly as the doors sealed behind him. He didn't glance toward Roona's cloaked form slipping through the adjacent lift—didn't need to. The Rodian moved like shadow given intent, her presence only betrayed by the faintest ripple in the lobby's fern leaves as she passed.
The descent felt slower than the ascent, each floor number blinking by with taunting lethargy. Pron flexed his fingers inside the stolen jacket's stiff sleeves and quickly removed it, leaving it on the floor. He counted the bodies in his head—three, counting the scarred human who'd been faster on the draw than he was smart.
Pron's reflection in the turbolift's warped metal panels fractured as he stabbed the ground floor button—three rapid jabs that made the droid voice announce "Descending" with mechanical politeness. The Rodian blood on his sleeve cuff had already oxidized to a dull rust-brown, blending into the Naboo embroidery. He peeled off the stolen jacket entirely, balling it up with the deliberate care of someone disposing of evidence mid-stride.
The descent felt slower than the ascent, each floor number blinking by with taunting lethargy. He counted the bodies in his head—three, counting the scarred human who'd been faster on the draw than he was smart.
The lobby's sterile lighting made him squint as the doors hissed open. Koraz stood angled toward the main entrance, his security badge glinting under the atrium lights—perfectly positioned to block the nearest security cam's sightline. Pron strode past without breaking step, his boots scuffing the polished floor just loudly enough to be dismissed as a guest's haste. The Iktochi simply waved and wished the departing figure a pleasant evening.
Roona's fingers flexed against the doorframe that the downed guard had left open as she slipped inside the museum proper, the scent of ionization and scorched flesh fading behind her. The air here smelled sterile—preservation gels and polished display cases, the faint metallic whisper of climate control humming through hidden vents. The museum's lighting was deliberately dim, casting elongated shadows that suited her purposes perfectly. Rodians died all the time. These ones just happened to die quietly. Mostly quietly.
She moved past the first exhibit—a collection of Twi'lek ceremonial headdresses suspended in stasis fields—without glancing at them. The second display held an array of Geonosian sonic weaponry, their jagged silhouettes throwing spiderweb patterns across the floor. Roona stepped over them, her bare feet silent on the polished marble floor.
The cloak pooled over Roona's arm like liquid shadow. Beneath it, the cocktail dress clung to her slender frame—a deep emerald number with strategically placed cutouts that showed off her Rodian patterning while obscuring the holster strapped to her thigh. The fabric shimmered under the museum's muted lighting, shifting from green to near-black as she adjusted the drape over her shoulder bag.
Two Twi'lek socialites passed by without glancing her way, their laughter bouncing off the display cases as they debated which noble house had donated the ugliest headdress. Roona pivoted smoothly to step out further onto the floor and admire the Wookie ryyk blade in the nearby display case. A security guard patrolled the perimeter—human, dressed in the same deep red tunic as Koraz. No one had noticed the Rodian woman materialize from the shadows.
------------------------------------------
Unused XPS (earned 25)
Spanner - 25
FL-AR3 - 25 (+40)
Pron - 35 (+40) (spent)
Koraz - 35 (spent)
Xander - 25 (spent)
Roona - 30 (spent)
Vagrant Group Funds - 3373 credits
Archelon Group Funds - 5591 credits
Gear: quick sale value in ()
3 Geonosian Rifles hidden in cargo hold for Nyn
4 Blaster Pistols (200 ea)