The Twin Suns Incident [A DotR Prelude]

[StandbyRanger]

Dawn of Diamonds in the Rough
​

>Accessing Data Log...​

>Performing Secondary Function: Access Recent History
>Search: Past Contracts​

>Refine Search: Last 5 years
>Refine Search by Location: Tatooine​

...
.....
.......​

>Search Complete​

>Accessing File: The Twin Suns Incident​

>Initiating Playback…​

Act 1: With No Home to go Back to…​

Far away, an abandoned homestead stood resolute in the twin suns of Tatooine. Their breaths, hot as flames and just as unforgiving, bleached the dome of the aging home. To any regular passerby, though one would have to wonder why they were out so far in the first place, would think of the place as nothing more than a man having succumbed to the misfortunes of moisture farming. Sure, a squatter, perhaps an old bearded hermit, could’ve taken up residence in its sandstone halls, but the doors were barred. Perhaps its last residents tried to protect themselves from marauding Sand People. only to be starved out and never seen again. Though one could hypothesize day in and day out about what happened to the previous owners, the true mystery lay below the very ground.

In the farthest corner of the homestead garage, there lay a pile of spare parts and other assorted scrap. But below that, there was a steel trapdoor, which lead further and further down until one met some high-tech security. “High-tech” is a bit of an overstatement, as technology was still finding its “sea-legs,” but it got the job done, if anyone were to get past both the barred door (laced with other security methods) and the trapdoor (which was similarly secured). Past this door was where the true occupants resided.

A company, of males, females, humans, aliens, (around 75 individuals total) whisked around the area, taking part in the different duties of running a Private Military Company. Some had “desk jobs,” communicating with potential clients and taking care of paperwork, while others trained in the makeshift training room on the east side of the compound. The Combat Team sure did enjoy their exercise. Another group, who preferred peace, quiet and solitude while working, resided in a dark room (the only lights being from monitors and the galaxy map at the center) passing on information to agents in the field. The Intel Team was hard at work today.

Another room, adjacent to the control room at the center, lay empty. The office-like area was neat and organized. A desk lay at the center, and the only two other pieces of furniture (a cot and a “wardrobe”) sat in opposite corners. Though one couldn’t tell just by walking into the place, the room saw a lot of traffic, from both the occupant and the occasional visitor. But today was different. The Commander wasn’t in, and hadn’t been for awhile…

Farther across the desert dunes sat Mos Eisley spaceport, a wretched hive of scum and villainy. Perfect place to catch a bounty. Especially if one were to check the cantina. A man (cropped brown hair, high collared leather coat, face kissed almost too many times by the blazing suns) sipped his drink quietly. No one bothered him, as he had been there long before any of the current occupants were, and he had a nasty look in his eyes that kept them at bay.

Through the hustle and bustle of the filled to capacity cantina, the man’s ears perked up at the sound of three more entering. The man chuckled to himself as he caught a peek at them through the crowd, “A human, a Rodian, and a Quareen walk into a bar…” The bartender gave him a quizzical look, as though he was questioning the man’s sanity, but the ones who could hear him through the small earpiece knew exactly what he meant. As the bartender walked away to tend to his new customers, Soloman, aka “Strider,” delicately placed his finger to his ear.

“Intel, I’ve got eyes on,” he peeked at the trio arguing with the bartender, “They’re making their daily rounds.” The trio, known as the Debt Brothers, were debt collectors, and they were coming for their cut. Though the bartender put up a valiant fight to keep his money, one of the Brothers flashed a blaster beneath his coat. So much for the strict “No Blasters” rule. Soloman took one last sip of his shitty whiskey, and stumbled over to the quarreling group with a drunken facade. He intentionally tripped into the Rodian, placing a hand on the aliens shoulder, who promptly delivered a punch to the face.

“Watch where you’re going schutta,” the disgruntled Rodian replied in his native tongue, “You’ll hurt yourself again.”

Soloman laughed as he “drunkingly” stood up, and put a slur onto his words as he replied, “Oh, yah, I’m getting hurt alright. Shtaring at that ugly mug of yoursh shuuuuure ish painful.”

“What did you just say to me you little…” The Rodian Brother’s hand snatched at his blaster, but the Quareen caught it before anything could come of it.

“Watch it Kreedso. If the boss finds out you put another hole in some stranger, he’ll make sure that face of yours stays ugly.” Kreedso cursed and did whatever the Rodian equivalent of spitting was as Soloman stumbled away.

Out in the hallway, Soloman dropped the act and peered around the corner as the Brothers and the bartender walked to what he could assume was the back room. He put his finger up to his ear again, “One target is tagged, I’ve got a tracker on him,” he picked up his pace as he walked out onto the streets of Mos Eisley (packed, as usual), “Boomer, they’ll be leaving out the back entrance. Keep your distance, tell me if they split up. One of them will lead us to their ‘office.’”

He walked for a moment, blending into the crowd as he followed the signal, “Butler, how’s the intel coming? We identify the boss yet?”

@Chask274 @Tristar

 

[Chask274]

The poncho clad figure stood leaning against the sandstone wall of the building, hiding from the heat of the desert planet's twin sun in the building's shade. The multitude of lifeforms walking past would assume he was a moisture farmer or wasteland scavenger resting up before making the trek home. This was fine by him, and was exactly why he was dressed the way he was. No one would expect a moisture farmer to be a highly trained mercenary packing enough firepower to put down a wampa. But that's exactly what Hank had concealed under the baggy garment. Hank "Boomer" Corwin stood up and dusted himself off as his boss' radio message came through. Triggering the discreet push-to-talk button for his headset, he responded.

"Copy that, Strider."

Boomer set off, having positioned himself half a block away from the cantina, and came within sight of the back entrance just as the three targets exited the infamous establishment. Keying his headset, which was concealed under the shemagh wrapped around his head, Boomer spoke. "I've got eyes on the targets, will report if they do anything of note." Keeping a good 10 meters behind the trio, Boomer followed them down the relatively crowded street. It appeared that they'd be sticking to the main roads for a while.

 

[Tristar]

Tattooine’s heat was unbearable, and the sands that irritated the sweaty, damp skin made the stay only more hellish. Night time on Tattooine only exposed you to its nightmarish brother, Anti-Tattooine where temperatures could drop to freezing temperatures. Here on the barren wasteland where death came in a variety of forms that often defied expectations, a middle aged man with slick black hair sat within an air-conditioned cantina, a few ‘bonus’ credit stacks affording him a secluded area where no one could approach without a pass. Oh, some upstart gangsters put up a fuss after they saw what transpired between him and the barkeep- he wasn’t particularly interested about what happened between the two parties, settling to move himself and his datapad- the Pandora’s Box, as one could relate it to- to his new camping ground.


When one of them placed a heavy hand on him after ignoring the various signs and outright objections from the Quarren bartender, he visibly flinched. Outright disgust and contempt marked his face when he turned to face the alien that dared to mar his very expensive business suit with his spacer grubbiness: A suit which the alien could not possibly afford in his life as a shipper and smuggler of all things indecent. His eyes flickered to his grubby alien hand and the Gramorrean with its lack of social graces only clenched harder. The Butler spoke in a firm and deliberate tone, slowly that the simpleton could understand him, his hand reaching to his pockets very slowly as his body turned to face the brute. “That was a very stupid thing to do.”


. . .


. . .


Hindsight as they said, was 20/20. To the gentleman snuggled into the booth at the end of the bar, it was now evident that what he did would prove troublesome to handle later on- the ‘specialists’ were expensive to hire on a situational basis, often charging extra for discretion. A warm pistol lay right next to his typing hand, moving up and down the data pad’s screen. A few messages popped up and the impassive man merely swiped them away off screen, returning to his work with the silent, impassionate efficiency of his. When his employer chimed into his ear, sounding impatient like he always did the man merely tapped once, sending several files worth of information, neatly marked from importance and trimmed to contain only pertinent information necessary to complete the operation to Solomon’s datapad, buzzing aggressively. He was nothing if not meticulous, having sent background information of an up and coming muscleman under employment of an intergalactic Hutt. Expanding into Tatooine required the local touch, so it was natural that Irrbi hired Ztak the Zabrak. In all honesty, Ztak had no real speciality except that he was exceptionally messy when he handled ‘aggressive customers’ and had fingers dipped in the local customs office, allowing for easy spice smuggling. Tatooine was making small money for his Hutt boss for now, but because of its hotspot to more destitute and desperate smugglers, it could easily grow into his next field base.


Tatooine already had enough negative factors for the Butler to hate it.

 

[StandbyRanger]

As the incessant buzzing of his datapad began, Soloman dodged into an alleyway and began examining the info. Ztak the Zabrak; Never heard of him, but the bounty on his head (along with how much the Debt Brothers were worth) justified this little escapade. Small money, but it would be enough to purchase some new gear for his “employees.”

Soloman sighed, and rubbed his temples with his free hand. Jobs were becoming more and more infrequent as Hutt power began to expand. No one wanted to hire a company known for its anti-criminal activities when Hutts were on the other end of the stick. Staying on Tatooine wasn’t as lucrative as it was before, and it was getting increasingly dangerous for his soldiers. They needed to find a way to expand out, get out of the desert.

The datapad started to beep, and he switched over to the tracker. They were making their way down the main street, and Soloman needed to catch up. He pocketed his datapad and got back on track. It wouldn’t be long before he got Boomer in his sights, along with the targets. Soloman was a few feet behind, doing his best to blend in, but managed to keep eyes on. The Debt Brothers were beginning to pick up their pace. Either they were late to see their boss, or they may have caught wind that they were being followed...

 

[Chask274]

Boomer followed the trio for awhile, taking care to occasionally stop and blend with the crowds, and only occasionally looking at the brothers directly. Many people had a sixth sense when it came to being watched, and so he took precautions to minimize that from happening. The trio had just come to a major intersection when Boomer saw the Rodian glance in his direction before muttering something to his two compatriots. With a nod, the Quarren and Human split off to the left while the Rodian went right. "They've split up. I'll go right and stick with the Quarren and Human. Rodian went left. I can't tell from sure yet, but they may be onto us, or at least me." Boomer followed the two for a moment before speaking again. "In case these two intend to fry me, what's the RoE on them?" Picking up their pace, the duo stepped into an alley. A minute later, and Boomer cautiously entered. Blinking repeatedly in an effort to get his eyes to adjust quicker to the alley's dimness, he failed to notice the his two targets lying in wait behind a dumpster. The stun baton to the stomach caught him by surprise, and he felt his legs buckle out from underneath him. Groaning, he looked up as the two men loomed over him, a nasty glint in their eyes. "So, you think you can get the fecking jump on us, huh? Who the hell do you work for, ya street rat?!" Thinking as quickly as he could, he babbled an explanation in Huttese, "<I'm just a common thief, man, it looked like you guys were loaded is all!>" Drawing a beefy looking blaster pistol, the Quarren sneered, "Oh, we're loaded alright. Too bad you'll be too dead to do anything about it." Boomer muttered under his breath into his mic, "Anytime now with those RoE, Strider!"

 

[Tristar]

His sense of danger gnawed at him persistently, fingers clasped together as though the man was praying to his deity. Back within his private room, the Butler sat with a bored expression and a lit screen in front of him, the list of binary digits and data scrolling past him incessantly. 'Boomer' was a soldier, not one of his intelligence lackeys. As much as their team leader suggested for the man to pull up his weight, the Butler did not trust the man to have nearly as high of a stalking skill and so with as much discretion sent out one of his operatives to stalk both Boomer and his target.

It was a necessary precaution and as much as he wanted to have caught Boomer's face as he realized he had been followed all along, the Butler was above such things. Things like money and who needed what interested him more than the dilly dallying of a soldier. A curt voice muttered in his ear, the raspy tune of a Sullustan snaking into his ears. "Brain, Finger One reporting- chef has caught the chicken." The code for trouble, and from the hinted sense of urgency, Boomer had fallen into the biggest of troubles.

"How proceed, over." A soft sigh escaped the chapped lips of his, a glass of water raised to cool his parched throat. It would be so simple to order the death of his colleague then and there. Were it to be beneficial to him, the Sullustan would have shot the petty human. But to do so at such an early phase would only be throwing caution in the wind and bring suspicion to him. Unnecessary attention.

A long, thin finger pressed the button on the lapel, his smooth voice spoken to the ears of his operative. "Finger One, this is Brain. Loose the chicken. Hammer the trap, if possible." Just like that, the order was given to assist Boomer. In the occasion that Strider wanted them alive for questioning, Finger One had been ordered to stun them. A flashbang perhaps- the noise would have been lost in the din of the crowd, before two minute blasts of energy, dissipating as soon as it struck their chests.

The Butler leaned back, lit a cigarette and closed his eyes with knowledge that he had lost his first chance at getting rid of a possible nuisance.