Ask Catch and Release

[Kellan Solari]

Corporate Workcamp ‘LifeTime’​

Rampa II​

Corporate Sector​

0430​

Sometime after the events of 'Crime and Punishment'

-

The siren blared loud enough to seem to resonate inside of the prisoners' skulls. A split-second later, blinding fluorescent lighting flooded the quarters, wrenching the last of them from their fitful dreams. The trilling of the alarm died away and was replaced by the audible ca-chunk of the bunkhouse doors unlocking, sliding open and the stomp of B1 Battle Droids filing in, pulling and prodding the prisoners from their berths.

“Move, move, move!” they ordered in their oddly compressed voices.

Bodies were shoved, blaster barrels pressed against backs or foreheads as the bleary-eyed inmates were corralled out of the squat building and into the waiting repulsortrucks outside. They climbed up into the uncovered truck beds where they sat blinking dumbly in the pre-dawn darkness. The wake-up routine was abrupt, harsh and familiar. But after a suitable stint in the corporate workcamp, it woke a body up at least as effectively as a strong cup of caf.

The trucks idled in the dawn as the B1’s took a perfunctory roll call, secured them with leg restraints before slamming the bed doors shut. Even now, as the grumbling convoy pulled away from the row of bunkhouses, exited the camp and turned onto the utility road that stretched out towards Rampa II’s vast flatlands, the day’s heat was already beginning to blossom. A gunboat swept overhead, seeing to its morning rounds.

The trucks ground to a halt outside a mining complex presided over by guardtowers. In the center of the facility, a cavernous mine entrance marred the landscape like a open wound. The truck doors swung open and once more the B1’s leapt into action with their programmatic sense of urgency. The prisoners filed off the trucks into long lines to be issued their day’s mining equipment.

The last prisoner approached the bed’s exit only to meet the business end of a blaster rifle.

“Not you, TAS-588298.” the droid shook its conical head as the rifle gestured back towards the bench. “Take a seat.”

–

The ride for the prison’s repulsortruck and its single organic occupant came to an end just outside a modest moisture farming settlement. With its rounded, crumbling buildings of adobe and plaster, the place gave every impression of a forgotten backwater with no purpose beyond awaiting its inevitable consumption by the sands of Rampa II. The guards pulled TAS-588298 from the transport and ushered them past the sleepy outposts outer walls and through the front door of a rundown cantina. The droids gave the prisoner a final brusque push through the doorway before taking point outside.

Once TAS-588298’s eyes adjusted to the light, it didn’t take long for them to identify the purpose of their impromptu detour. The establishment was desolate and barren, early as it was. There was little more to see than a curve of bar manned by a service droid and a number of dingy tables. At one such table, near the back, sat a pair of men.

The smaller of the pair was a younger man with swarthy features, his dark eyes alight with a clear and keen intelligence. The larger figure, a man with the authoritative air and rigid mannerisms of an Imperial, sat to the younger man’s right. Both wore civilian clothing. Whatever conversation they might've been engaged in, withered and died away at TAS-588298’s approach. Neither spoke to the prisoner or even bothered to look his direction. Rather, they seemed to content themselves in careful study of their respective drinks.

Then, the smaller man put one bootheel on the base of the sole unoccupied chair and slowly slid it away from the table. Its legs squealed and squawked against the cantina's duracrete floor. The foot's owner never looked up from his glass. The larger man was studying a datapad he had produced from some unseen hidden pocket. At length, he set it on the table before him and fixed the inmate with a contemplative stare. He nodded towards the open chair.

“Have a seat, kid.”

@Eccles @Arcangel

 

[Yvon]

The sharp blare of the predictable morning siren stirred TAS-588298 from their fitful slumber. The cold and pitted floor was hard against the skin not covered in their old and worn Czerka worksuit, once a crisp and clean yellow and black, now faded in a motley dust brown that matched the rest of the prisoners. Light seared against their lids and they shifted on the floor, body still aching from the work of the day before, and the one before that. And the one before that. Their skin itched with the dirt and grime of years as they shifted upright, sitting with their back against the scored wall that marked inumerable days. The days of those who had come before, and their own days to come.

TAS-588298 cracked their violet eyes against the light, dull and deadened from years of mindless drudgery. They found the last empty spot on the wall next to them, a few scant inches near the floor that had yet to be marked. They produced a small scrap of metal, sharpened to a hard point, and scratched. Scratched and scratched, carving a fresh, shallow line in the wall. Another mark, another day. The years had gone unmeasured, impossible in this place. But the routine held fast, the morning ritual, the assurance that they were still alive. Could still make some small, imperceptible mark on the world. Another mark on the wall, the center of their world.

TAS-588298 stuffed the small shiv back into its home, pocketed between the folds of cloth that wrapped their chest tight under the faded jumpsuit. Aching, they found their feet under them and shuffled out the open cell door and into the hall of bodies that made their way onwards to another day of suffering. The prisoners were lined up outside and TAS-588298 blinked against the rising sun, a bead of sweat slowly trickling from their head as the morning heat replaced the icy chill of the cellblock. Their once white hair hung limp and dirty, dyed a sandy dark by the grime that itched and scratched against their somehow tanned Echani skin.

The morning routine continued as usual, heads counted and missing numbers cellblocks checked for corpses. After every piece of company property was accounted for, the trucks were loaded and dust filled the air and prisoners lungs.

TAS-588298 coughed quietly into the sleeve of their dirty jumpsuit. The road grit had a way of clinging to the mouth and caking against the teeth if they opened their mouth to cough freely. The heat beat down on them as the trucks reached the fields and one by one prisoners filed off the bed.

“Not you, TAS-588298.” the droid shook its conical head as the rifle gestured back towards the bench. “Take a seat.”

TAS-588298 blinked incredulously for a moment at the droid, blank expression at the sudden shock of broken routine. A few prisoners glanced back, noting the change. Hateful glares, jealous stares, and just plain empty shock. TAS-588298 shuffled back, easing into the seat achingly as the truck rumbled and drove away. Their gaze lingered on the work fields as a fresh spark of curiosity lit behind their violet eyes for the first time in years.

-----​

TAS-588298's eyes were closed when the truck suddenly came to a halt. They slowly opened their eyes, ending the short cat nap they had managed to snatch away from their usual work time. Even if the entire trip turned out for nothing, that nap would have been worth it. The droids shuffled TAS-588298 out of the bed of the transport and into a decrepid cantina.

It took TAS-588298 a few moments for their eyes to adjust to the darkness after walking through the bright Rampa II sun. The cantina was run down, occupied by a sole droid at the bar and two men sitting at table in the corner. TAS-588298 narrowed their eyes slightly as they looked over the men, taking them in. It was clear that these men were the reason that TAS-588298 had been brought here, and so they shuffled forwards slowly. Their blank violet eyes were mostly dead and dull as they approached, but behind them a long sleeping cunning was slowly starting to wake up.

There was silence as TAS-588298 stood there, waiting. The possibilities were endless and for now there was little to do but wait until they were told what to do. The men had all the cards, and TAS-588298 didn't even know what game they were playing. A chair was pushed out and the larger one told TAS-588298 to sit. They sat, fidgeting for a moment as they found a piece of the wall to stare at, carefully watching the two men in their peripheral vision.

@Tic @Eccles

 

[Dismas Zaa Fenn]

As a longtime "agent" of the Imperial Security Bureau's Blackout Fleet, Dismas was sure he had been officially given the rank of 'Lieutenant' at some point between selling intel on the cartel and selling intel on pirate crews operating near Imperial space. Since a failed smuggler operation on Raxus he had the unfortunate pleasure of joining forces with an uppity naval lieutenant called Keln Slurry. Something like that.

Their first shared assignment? Talk to a slicer imprisoned in a Czerka labor camp. See if they can be of any use to the Empire besides manual labor. When they arrived to their table, Dismas was already regretting the long flight over. It's not that he hated flying, not at all, but he hated flying with the naval lieutenant. Most boring man alive.

"You're TAS-" Dismas frowned and instead of simply reading the number off of Yvon's uniform he took the datapad, "-Five, Eight, Eight, Two, Nine, Eight?" By all Kriffing Hutticides under the Tatooine Twin Suns that was a terrible number to give your laborers. Who could ever remember such a thing?

"Kriffing hell, mind if I smoke?" he asked, retorically, and pulled a scented cigarra from his pocket and casually lit it up. The scent was Agamarian Binka Fruit, sweet almost soft like honey. Some called it an acquired taste, but one had to do something to survive the monotomy of the Empire.

"You know my mother is a slicer," Dismas shared for no real reason other than to drag this out just to irritate the indoctrinated imperial beside him. The cigarra now dangled from his lips as he leaned back in his chair and started massaging his right earlobe. "She said you gotta keep up or you're useless. Kinda like you, I imagine-" a slight grimace almost made the dangling cigarra fall until Dismas tightened his lips and exhaled sharly through his nose. "-you've been here for a long time, haven't you? Sandra."

@Tic @Arcangel

 

[Kellan Solari]

Blackout Fleet, the naval wing of the Imperial Security Bureau, had long been the subject of much conjecture and debate among the rank and file of the Imperial Navy proper. The scuttle ran the gamut from unsubstantiated rumors to potentially libelous accusations. During his time as a commissioned officer in the Emperor’s navy, Kellan had heard no shortage of conspiratorial whispering when it came to the shadowy organization.

And so, as he listened to a seasoned operative of Blackout Fleet ramble in some sort of detached, stream-of-consciousness fugue state, he was understandably perplexed. Lieutenant Solari had first encountered Dismas Zaa Fenn while the latter had been attempting to smuggle a droid off of Raxus. After a tense pursuit, ISB operatives had revealed the hapless smuggler’s true nature to the stunned Imperial pilot. The man was an Imperial asset! Dismas had been an abysmal smuggler, but if he had truly operated as a Blackout Fleet agent for as long as they suggested, well Kellan assumed he must’ve been good at something.

But so far his negotiating skills appeared as hamfisted and clumsy as his piloting had been.

Kellan shook his head as though trying to clear the remnants of a bad dream. He looked the kid over. Youthful features draped over a well-worn soul. Whatever enterprising young slicer had entered this corporate hellhole was long dead. Worn down, compressed, and transmuted into something new by some twisted alchemy of cruelty. This version of (he stole a glance at the datapad) Yvon might prove even more useful.

He laced his fingers together and leaned forward over the dingy cantina table.

“Look, kid.” he said easily. “What my partner here is trying to say is that we know it can’t be easy staring down the barrel of a one-hundred and fifty year bid for a bit of white collar espionage. You tried to spoof some IDs, boot up a dataplague, killed some corpo drone. Boo hoo! And for that some stiffnecked judge trying to impress his senator pals back on the pleasure yachts makes an example of you and buries you out here for the duration.”

He tilted back in his chair and snapped his fingers in the direction of the bar. The barback droid’s cranial unit swiveled, and Kellan motioned down towards his emptied glass. A moment later, the rickety droid unit was tottering towards the table with a refresher. Kellan gave the amber-colored drink a discerning sip, smacking his lips in concentration. He shook his head.

“You guys drink bantha-pass out here, kid.” he set the drink aside. “Look, point is, we think we have an offer that might be amenable to someone in your…”

He gestured broadly around them. The cantina’s overhead lights hummed angrily. Heat slaked in through the front door, an unspoken promise of the day’s coming brutality. Kellan’s smile returned.

“...predicament.”

@Eccles @Arcangel

 

[Yvon]

TAS-588298 glanced at the smaller man who recited their number off a datapad hesitantly. It wasn't really a question, of course that's who they were. That was all they were... wasn't it? Their violet eyes met the man's for a second, brushing over his features before lowering to settle on the datapad in his hand as he lit his smoke. The man's features nagged as a distant itch in the back of their mind, but the present technology turned that itch into something more.

Desire.

It was the first time in a long time that TAS-588298 had felt something like it. Not need, like the need for water, or food, or freedom. But a desire for something more than they had. A desire for something familiar, something comfortable. Something that felt like home.

The rest of the man's words wiggled their way through the prisoner's mind and TAS-588298 took another look at him. Scant little information was present there, bits and pieces that were indexed away in dusty shelves of the mind. Gears slowly ground to a start, rust crumbling away as TAS-588298 glanced back at their face, examined their body language. They decided the man wouldn't have lasted five minutes in camp lifetime.

The larger man spoke and TAS-588298 turned their eyes to him, a swift twitch as they focused from one subject of analysis to another. Their mind still slugged with fatigue, their lips parched with thirst, but a fire was slowly kindling behind their eyes as thoughts engaged. Like a machine slowly warming up out of long hibernation.

The man held himself different from the first. Stiff backed posture. A clear, concise speech and mannerism. They glanced at the first man, who they had already decided had barely spared a glance at the file on the datapad about them. This man was the opposite, he had read it in detail. They glanced at the datapad, finger twitching slightly against the thigh of their jumpsuit as their hand itched to hold the piece of technology, eyes already keen to get a peak of what exactly the file on them said.

The droid poured the man a fresh drink, cool amber liquid, some kind of liquor. TAS-588298 looked at the glass longingly for a brief moment, their eyes torn away from the datapad as the liquid splashed into the glass. Their lips moved slightly as they distinctly felt the dryness there. They looked at the man, military, they had decided. The man finally got to the point. TAS-588298 had something they wanted, and if the first man's words were any indication, it had one part to do with their former skill as a slicer. They could only imagine what the other parts might be. Imagine, and wait until someone told them.

"I'm listening." They said hoarsely, the first words they had spoken since they had woken up for the day. The first words they had spoken in what seemed like days. The words felt foreign on their tongue, crawled over their dry lips and made their presence known in the still air as they met the military man's eyes with their own. There was no desperation in the words however. Despite the hoarseness, the voice was even as they expressed their desire for the man to continue with his offer.

@Tic @Eccles

 

[Dismas Zaa Fenn]

Dismas Zaa Fenn. He was behaving like a man who grew up around slicers, murderers and pirates. Where a tall tale by "Tall [tale] Tulo" entertained an entire pirate crew enough that they'd follow him into raiding the heavily protected hyperlanes and terrorize any Rim-world that lacked a navy. A new crewmember only had one job: survive. If they're lucky they could even impress, but that wasn't exactly a requirement.

Now, while Dismas worked for the Discovery & Exploration Corporation (DEC) as an astronavigator he noticed that for some people in the Core it worked a little different. It mattered to which school you went, which grades you got and if the boss liked what they saw. You worked your ass of for a bonus that never came just in order to provide for yourself and your family. Dismas now realized that the man he had dubbed "The Most Boring Man Alive" fitted in this perspective on life. Dismas Dolan might've agreed with him, if the situation had been different or when he was older perhaps.

Turning to the droid that delivered the bantha piss, Dismas held his hand above his glass to signal that he didn't want any. "The prisoner and I will have bantha milk," he stated without bothering to smile to a droid. His mother always kept a droid around and Dismas was used to seeing it mindwiped and getting reprogrammed, scrapped, refitted and having its parts replaced. One time his mother had promised to visit the Monkey Lizard enclosure near their home in Mos Espa, but also didn't want to miss out on a work call, so she had the droid use its holographic disguise matrix to pretend to be her and take an eight-year-old Dismas to see the Monkey Lizards. It didn't take him long to realize and quickly developed a dislike for droids... whether that dislike was misplaced was something he should one day discuss with an Imperial psychologist.

"I think," Dismas took the cigarra from his lips and slowly turned to face the prisoner again, "we're wasting time here, unless-" he removed the logged credentials from the datapad and then shoved it across the table, "-they can tell me what Czerka wrote in reference to their uses for an infrastructural plan on Begali."

The droid returned with two glasses of bantha milk, placing one before Yvon while Dismas took the other and treated himself on a large sip of his favorite childhood drink. The datapad belonged to a closed subnet and the slicer would only be able to read their own file, if they either broke the encryption on it or managed to enter in credentials with the right access.


@Tic @Arcangel