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Downtown Coronet City was a bustle of activity. Maddeningly aggressive Corellian cabbies constantly honked their horns, weaving their speeders through traffic. Curses were shouted, obscene gestures overused nearly to the point of cliché. Citizens dashed to and fro; some frantic, caf in hand as they strove valiantly to make it to work on time, others simply so used to the fast pace that they didn't know how to slow down.
Lieutenant Aelianus Atratinus of the Galactic Alliance Special Forces 3rd Regiment leaned against a metal pole at one of the city's many speeder-bus stops, watching it all, intense green eyes calculating. He was dressed to fit in with the local populace's current definitions of style for a young, common man; simple black trousers, a thin blue shirt and dark brown jacket, sun glasses and a hat snugged down over his head. The last time Aelianus had been in Coronet he'd blown up a cantina. Alliance Intelligence had supposedly cleared that up, but he wasn't going to run the chance of being identified by a random person who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
This time, he hoped, there would be no need for explosives. So long as the operation went smoothly, it would be a simple snatch. But operations never went smoothly, that was a fact recognized by every soldier in the galaxy, even more emphasized by those involved in the sorts of clandestine activities that were Aelianus Atratinus' bread and butter. The mark of a good operator was one who could pull off an assignment even when things went to hell. Those who couldn't got killed.
Aelianus puffed on a false deathstick as a bus pulled to a halt next to the stop. Designation T3-2J1--this was the one. He stuck his hands in his jacket pockets and watched the door as people streamed out, waiting for the face he knew. The face of his support for the mission.
Lieutenant Aelianus Atratinus of the Galactic Alliance Special Forces 3rd Regiment leaned against a metal pole at one of the city's many speeder-bus stops, watching it all, intense green eyes calculating. He was dressed to fit in with the local populace's current definitions of style for a young, common man; simple black trousers, a thin blue shirt and dark brown jacket, sun glasses and a hat snugged down over his head. The last time Aelianus had been in Coronet he'd blown up a cantina. Alliance Intelligence had supposedly cleared that up, but he wasn't going to run the chance of being identified by a random person who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.
This time, he hoped, there would be no need for explosives. So long as the operation went smoothly, it would be a simple snatch. But operations never went smoothly, that was a fact recognized by every soldier in the galaxy, even more emphasized by those involved in the sorts of clandestine activities that were Aelianus Atratinus' bread and butter. The mark of a good operator was one who could pull off an assignment even when things went to hell. Those who couldn't got killed.
Aelianus puffed on a false deathstick as a bus pulled to a halt next to the stop. Designation T3-2J1--this was the one. He stuck his hands in his jacket pockets and watched the door as people streamed out, waiting for the face he knew. The face of his support for the mission.