Era of Rebellion - Navigation

Brandon Barnes, Christopher Levy, and Shawn Lovelett.
One year after the Battle of Yavin (36:F2:2) in the Chandrila system: Chandrila (Hanna City: The Blackback Inn and Twisted Lekku).
Vuul Branusz (death), Sergeant Major Rake Carson, Giran Kelrian, Lieutenant Sandy Slin (death), and Trooper Kanner Varrik.

Carson shifted uneasily in the booth he had chosen. He was still somewhat stiff from the action he'd been in, and his body felt like it was in total rebellion. Unwilling to become completely inebriated, either by alcohol or medicinal means, he was dulling the pain with low grade analgesics and moderate use of booze. Thankfully his job right now brought him into contact with the latter, and as he sat in the booth of the cantina, he nursed his drink as though it were the nectar of the gods. Snuffing a cigarra, he turned his attention to the run-down looking man in front of him. There was a distinctly unpleasant odor emanating from him, and he appeared to have bathed sometime in the last standard decade. His hair had matted into a solid unit, the individual hairs indistinguishable from one another. His clothes were barely held together by poorly stitched patches, and his skin was two-tone with the effects of alcohol and weather. He was a typical bum, completely unnoticed in the world, and yet always there. Forgotten by most, if they ever even paid any attention to them to begin with, they saw everything, sitting in public places or sleeping outside of bars. It was for that reason that Carson now entertained this man as his guest, buying him booze and food, plying him with credits. "You said you knew the man who turned us in. You give me his location, tell me where he likes to stay, and I'll set you up with enough credits to drink yourself to death."

Giran Kelrian had seen better days. Before the Empire came to Chandrila he did alright for himself, but he made the mistake of speaking out once too often about the corruption of Palpatine and his New Order. Now he found himself down on his luck, unemployable by any business that wanted to remain open during the Imperial occupation. He found himself having to scrounge for credits in any way he could to simply get another drink or spice to get through the day. Even now he was beginning to feel the urge coming over him, and he looked towards Carson with bulging eyes and a sweat stained brow to which his hair was matted down upon. His right hand moved to his left, clawing at incessantly, as if there was some unseen bug constantly biting upon it and making it itch. "It was Vuul Branusz who sold you out," he said, in secret, as he leaned forward across the table. "He's probably at the Twisted Lekku ogling one of the girls," he said, as he began to salivate, looking across at Carson with an unquenchable thirst. "I've told you what you want to know. N-now give me the cr-credits!" he said, raising his voice, and practically lunging across the table at him.

Kanner gripped the rifle along his back as he tilted the bantha hide hat a bit closer to his face, he had been spending the past few weeks with a medical droid, sorting out all the little details of the drama he went through. He was now strong enough to deal with whatever that would be coming his way now.

Carson leaned back from the lunging spicer. "Don't ever fucking touch me, you understand?" He pulled the credit chip from his jacket, placing it on the table and covering it with his hand. "Now what does this man look like? I can't just go into the bar and start asking for him. I need to identify him. What kind of useless information are you trying to give me?" Carson's face twisted into a look of disgust, and then dawning realization. He pulled the credit chip back, putting it safely in his pocket again, and then started to get up, sliding carefully from the booth to avoid touching the bum. Who knew what kind of diseases he carried. "It's obvious you're just playing me for fast money. I'm not here just giving away cash to random spicers. You don't know shit about the informant." Carson started to walk away, then, giving the signal to Kanner that they were about to leave. Hopefully, if the bum actually knew anything, now he'd tell in the hopes that Carson would give him the cash, and probably try to explain how he knew it so Carson didn't think he was full of shit. An age old trick, but a good one.

Kanner pushed off the wall refastening the gloves on his hands as he spat out the small stick he had been chewing on, it kept his mind focused. The boots fell heavy against the duracrete ground as he followed after Carson.

Giran's eyes followed the credit chit as Carson toyed with it, causing both of his hands to grip at the surface of the table, as his eyes swelled the size of small moons. "N-no! Don't leave!" he shouted, as he became increasingly anxious. He moved over towards Carson, but his sudden exertion had caused a wave of nausea to overcome him. "Uh. Uh..." he groaned, before suddenly throwing up all over in the direction of the Rebel commando. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" he said in a panic, as he reached into his pocket to pull out a filthy, maggot infested cloth to attempt to clean Carson with. "I'll tell you whatever you wanna know. Just give me the money. You want me to go with you? Pick him out? Just one drink! *Please*!" he shouted, as he became increasingly desperate and erratic as the money seemed to be walking out of his life.

Carson saw the man's face literally change colors as he tried to get up and he barely managed to avoid the projectile vomit that launched his way. He watched, utterly appalled, as the bum tried to pull out his disgusting rag and wipe Carson clean. Rake swatted the man's feeble attempts, trying to keep that heinous piece of cloth away from him. "Get the fuck back, spicer!" Carson growled out his command, putting every ounce of his command presence into it. Typically it got results, and Carson desperately hoped that this time would be no different. "You want the money, give me this bastard's information. What does he look like?" Carson enunciated every syllable of the last sentence, speaking loudly but slowly, as one does to someone who was slow, trying to force the man to listen and calm down, to think and relay information.

Giran stumbled back away from Carson, bringing both of his hands up, waving them frantically up and down in the air to attempt to calm him down. "Okay. Okay. I'm sorry," he said, before reaching down to pull at the collar of his own shirt to wipe away the last vestiges of the vomit upon his face. "He looks like ... he looks like," he stammered, as he brought his hand up to scratch at his head feebly. "You got a pad with holonet access?" I'll find him for you, he said, as his eyes then moved towards Kanner. "He with you?" he asked Carson, as suddenly he was beginning to feel more than a little intimidated. The cantina was feeling a bit smaller than usual and the room was spinning for more reasons than him simply drying out and beginning a painful detox. "Maybe a drink will jog my memory..." he suggested, always with a quick side hustle.

He ripped open the top pocket off the BDU jacket, and pulled out the datapad offering it up one handed. Kanner wasn't going to make anymore mistakes, his eyes shifted beneath the brim of the bantha hide hat to the surrounding area, everything looked clear. He didn't offer a word, he had been briefed and knew what needed to be done.

Carson made a motion to the holopad, making sure he was close enough to drop the bum if he tried to make off with the device. He doubted the spicer could figure out how to use it at this stage in his life, but he knew people tended to perform better angry. With that in mind, he decided a little needling would be in order. "There ya go, spicer. I doubt you can operate this thing with that drug-addled brain of yours. I'm pretty sure whatever passes for a man died years ago, and what little humanity and sentience was left over you drowned in drink. Not my problem, though. Results, and -only- results will get you paid. Anything else, and you can rot for all I care.

Giran took the datapad from Kanner, but as he began to activate it, Carson started in with the insults, which caused him to bobble it and drop it to the floor. "Oh no," he said, before bending over to pick it up, but the sudden compression of his stomach caused him to erupt in a loud, obnoxious, overbearing fit of flatulence. As he rose back up the odor that had been emanating from him magnified exponentially, which caused him no shame whatsoever. He finally managed to get the datapad working, despite the fresh crack in the screen. "Ah! Here he is. I told you," he said, as he extended the pad over towards Carson, which now had a poor, albeit usable, image of the individual he claimed sold out the Rebel safehouse. "Now give me my credits!" he demanded, thinking he had done a very good job.

Kanner didn't hesitate as soon as the man threw up all over the cracked screen he grabbed him by the back of his coat, he kicked him forward so the coat would come off naturally since he was having such a difficult time handling things. He took the man's coat, and used it to pick up the datapad, he then used the coat's sleeves to wipe the mess off, before tossing the coat back to the spicer junkie. He handed off the clean datapad to carson after making sure the image was clean despite the crack.

Carson took the datapad from Kanner, nodding his thanks, then studied the image. He wished Athol were here to cross check the search, but beggars couldn't be choosers. He'd have to muddle through somehow without their techie. Carson ran a reverse image search to cross check public records for the man's name, making sure it matched the one the spicer had given him. When it did, he fired up the program that Athol had loaded into their pads, which executed what looked to Carson like a bunch of technical mumbo-jumbo before it gave him access to the Imperial CCTV and law enforcement records. Using the man's name, he cross checked for arrests, specifically looking for their locations. He then checked the CCTV footage, again checking primarily for location. He also wanted to see if the man had more than one set of clothing, or if he tended to change hairstyles. Either would be problematic, though not insurmountable. So far, it checked out. Handing the holopad back to Kanner, Carson flipped the credit chip to the bum. "Mr. Kelrian, it seems you're not so useless after all. Before you start drinking, I strongly suggest you clean yourself up and get some decent clothes. And while you're at it, maybe you can buy yourself a new identity. Clean yourself up." Carson turned and left, not really caring if the man took his advice. He probably wouldn't, anyway. Most drunks were long past caring about anything other than their next drink. Carson had more important business, though. He pulled his own holopad out, running the CCTV footage back to the day before the raid on their hideout. He was following the informant's movements, looking for the exchange. He needed to know where it happened, and who he met. And this time, patience rewarded him. Carson motioned to Kanner and stepped off for the Twisted Leku. Kanner would have to make his way there alone, so as not to be seen with Carson, but Carson trusted him to trail their target when he inevitably came out. All Carson had to do was be seen by the informant.

Kanner split off towards one of the back streets, the smell of rancid garbage, and something worse than bantha dung assaulted his nostrils. He kept his pace even making deliberate slow strides, after a few minutes of walking he found the appointed alleyway with the fire escape. The gloves grasped the rusted metal bars, and he had reached the roof in no time. The rifle came off of his back without thought as he knelt down and took position, he hit a double click on his comlink to let Carson know he was in position, he made sure the scope was in line with the doorway, and started to take a few deep breaths The shell shock was gone now, he had to do his best so that the Rebelllion could free the galaxy.

The sound of pulsated music could be heard two blocks away from the Twisted Lekku. The current influx of Imperial activity on Chandrila had made everyone feel a greater need to unwind ... whether it was alcohol, spice, or dancing girls. Vuul Branusz had done well for himself, selling the location of a Rebel safehouse to the Empire, and had been spending most of the night trying to impress some of the many exotic dancers from the far reaches of the outer rim with his newfound wealth. With the Empire's xenophobic, human first tendencies he had even begun telling them he knew people who could help them should the Empire start cracking down. *Anything* to get more than a lap dance in the VIP room. After several hours of this he emerged from the Twisted Lekku back onto the streets of Hanna City, staggering slightly from a mixture of exhaustion and alcohol. "Ugh. What time is it?" he asked, as he flicked his eyes down the chronometer on his left wrist ... but it was gone ... one of the dancers had lifted it. "That bitch!" he said, but there had been so many he would never figure out which one it had been.

Carson made his way into the Twisted Lekku, the raucous noise assaulting not just his ears, but his very wits. Thankfully, Carson's hearing wasn't what it used to be. If it was, he would probably be on the ground clutching his head, permanently disabled by the sonic onslaught. Carson pushed through the crowd that had gathered in the club, making his way to the stage. He scanned everyone he saw, looking for a particular face. He never made eye contact, as he didn't want to inadvertently let his target know that he was looking for him. Finally, Carson saw him, close in to one of the side stages, sitting at the low bar that ran along the edge. Carson looked around, found a stage that was in the man's line of sight, and moved purposely in that direction. He had to get noticed for this to work, and he knew just how to accomplish that. As he walked, he changed his stride to the overconfident but slightly unstable swagger of a man just slightly too drunk, and looked for a likely mark. He found one, a big, burly man sitting next to the stage he was aiming for, and moved somewhat purposefully toward him. As he approached, he yelled out to the man. "What the fuck were you thinking, you sack of shit? I told you she's mine!" Without waiting for a response, Carson drove a powerful right hook into the man's jaw, not even allowing the poor bastard to get up from his chair.

Vuul had walked back into the Twisted Lekku to confront the girls about his missing chronometer when an unexpected bar fight erupted. They were par for the course here, so he initially did not pay much attention to it. As the large man went down, he quickly got back up, and prepared to retaliate against Carson for the sucker punch. Still, Vuul was still self-involved with himself and his lost chronometer to trouble himself. Only when the big burly drunk pulled a vibroblade and the girls began to scream did he take a look in the direction. "Shit," he muttered under his breath, as he instantly recognized one of the Rebels he had sold out. He expected the man to be long dead, and the realization that he was alive *and* in close proximity made his stolen timepiece seem quite insignificant. Without saying another word he turned, attempting to blend into the crowd that was moving outside the cantina and back onto the street. He wondered if someone had given him up or if Carson's presence was mere coincidence. Either way, he was not going to stay and find out. Deciding that there was no place in Hanna City that would be safe for him this evening, he elected to seek out his contact with Imperial Intelligence to barter for passage off the system.

Kanner watched as the crowds started to charge out of the cantina, the narrow opening made it easier for him to scan as they started to charge. He spotted the Imperial attempting to duck around another patron. Kanner took in another deep breath as he started to lead the scope, then he let loose a single crimson blaster bolt at the man's head. When he saw it connect, he double clicked his comlink and moved towards the extraction point

Vuul was moving to his comlink to transmit with his anonymous Imperial intelligence contact, desperate to find a way off Chandrila before the Rebellion closed in on him. Little did he know that he was under the watchful eye of a trained Imperial sniper. He had just received the coordinates for a meeting when the blaster bolt connected with his head ... terminating his life *immediately*. In the chaos of the crowd fleeing the bar fight no one saw from which direction the shot came from, but after the headless body fell to the curb the mob turned into a panic. There were screams as terrified citizenry moved off in every direction. It would not be long until Imperial forces arrived.

Carson heard the shot just as the man he'd sucker punched came at him with a vibroblade. The idiot was attacking with an overhand grip, swinging downward, trying to stab down into Carson as he charged him. Carson stepped into the man, grasping the knife hand with his right hand, then reaching his left hand behind the man's elbow to lock the forearm into place, grabbing his own right arm with his left. Quickly, Carson pushed the man's forearm back, pulling the elbow towards him with his left arm. The muscles of the man's hand were overstretched, forcing him to let go of the knife, but it was too late. Carson felt the satisfactory pop as the man's humerus gave way. Releasing his grip, Carson slammed his right elbow into his attacker's throat. Once, twice, three times. The man went down, struggling to breath, and Carson slammed his heavy booted foot down on the back of his head. He'd be down for a while, but it was nothing a bacta tank couldn't fix. As fast as he could move through the crowd, Rake made his way to the front, then physically forced his way through the door. He found what he was looking for laying on the deck outside. The target's corpse lay bleeding out, a holopad clutched in his hand. Rake grabbed the pad and checked the recent messages. There, he saw, was a set of coordinates. Running them against his CCTV footage, he found a match. Knowing the location was fine, but coupled with the CCTV footage, he could figure out where the Imperial tended to wait until his contact showed, and that's what Carson needed. Carson stepped into the crowd, then headed for the rendezvous. As he approached, he began watching people, looking for the Imperial contact. He stopped two blocks short of the rendezvous, with a good line of sight to the point where the Imperial had waited three days ago. There, Carson lit a cigarra, watching and waiting, intermittently browsing the wares of the street venders as he did so.

Lieutenant Sandy Siln had been a hardworking and energetic member of the Imperial Intelligence cell on Chandrila for quite some time. She had gone through great lengths and employed methodology she had sometimes regretted to get as much information she could on Rebel collaborators on this world for quite some time. She had been involved in feeding information about businessmen and government employees with ties to former Senator Mon Mothma, and had also been the handler for the late Vuul Brausz, who had given what she had considered her best intel to date. Unfortunately, the Imperial raid on the safehouse had gone so badly there were some who wondered if she did not walk the Storm commandos directly into a trap. Whatever Brausz wanted she hoped it would be something that could save her reputation ... perhaps even her life. Instead of wearing the white uniform of Imperial intelligence she had changed into a modest civilian attire that she hoped would not draw any attention. There were many still out on the streets, drinking themselves into stupors to ignore the Imperial flags that now flew throughout the city. As she moved into position she noted that the man was late ... people in this line of work were rarely punctual. Some days she hated her job.

Carson looked for anything out of the ordinary, and he spotted what seemed to fit the bill. In exactly the same spot as the last rendezvous a military aged female, better groomed and better kept than most of the others in this area had moved into a rather stationary position. She was just standing there, not really doing anything. The female was wearing civilian clothes but she looked uncomfortable in them, as though she never wore them except on special occasions. She looked very similar to the face he had seen on the CCTV camera but he couldn't be sure. Mentally shrugging, Carson moved towards the woman and just before he passed by her he muttered under his breath. "Vuul Brausz," he said. He watched her eyes, her hands. Death always comes from the hands, and the eyes always show recognition. She was too young, he thought, to be very experienced so she would probably show some reaction. His right hand was already hanging near his DL-44, the flap of his holster unstrapped for quick access.

The moment the individual who was *not* Vuul Brausz showed up she knew the end had come. In that moment she wondered if she would not have been better pursuing a career in another branch of the Imperial bureaucracy ... she would have made a fine administrator. The man was going for his weapon, and she had never even been required to have any training. She carried a hold-out blaster, of course, but only because procedure dictated it. She considered begging or groveling, but suspected something like this might be recorded and she had a family to consider that the Empire might punish if she faltered now. "Rebel scum," she said, defiantly, before spitting down onto the ground, preparing to meet her end.

Carson really didn't care what she said. She'd chosen exactly the wrong course of action by even reacting. Had she simply looked at him like he was crazy there would have been doubt. Instead she'd confirmed her allegiance to the Empire, which was good enough for Carson. Drawing his DL-44, he slammed the muzzle into the woman's gut as he closed the final feet and pulled the trigger immediately after clearing leather, just in case she'd decided to grab for the weapon as he brought it towards her. He kept pulling, dumping several rounds even before the muzzle made contact. When it did, it was hard and fast, a full force blow enough to double the small woman over if she wasn't already from the shock of the impacts. No matter, though. He fired three more times into her abdomen, then brought the weapon down onto the back of her head, forcing her to the deck. Standing over her, Carson fired five more times before the pistol grip vibrated and indicated he had no more charge. Reflexively he reloaded before reholstering the pistol. Now he had to be sure, even though there was little doubt of the outcome. He took his fighting knife from its sheath, knelt over the woman. He jerked her head back with his left hand, then buried the blade deep in her throat with a reverse grip, driving until he felt the blade hit her spine. Violently, he ripped back and forth, working the blade as he did so, cutting sinew and muscle with brute force. The woman's blood vessels, still pumping their valuable cargo with surprising vigor considering how many leaks she'd sprung, forced blood out in steady bursts, the force of the flow rapidly diminishing after the first cut had sprayed blood all over the pavement. Now it was merely a rapid flow, like a garden hose that had been turned on and left without a nozzle, with occasional pumps pushing the blood with more force. Slowly, the intervals increased between pumps until the blood flowed out by gravity alone. At that point, Carson knew she was dead. He wiped the blade of his knife on the woman's blouse, carefully cleaning both sides before sheathing the weapon again. Taking his jacket off, as it was covered with blood, he dropped next to her body and made his way back into the crowd. There'd been enough noise to send them scurrying, but people were funny. For every ten people running away, there were twenty running to the scene. It was simple work to push past them and blend in.

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