Story: Fresh Wire

The light in the front of the passage was considerably more dim than the light at the end, casting a shadow of what was around the corner. The shadow of two men around the corner painted the wall in Rufus' view.

As the music dimmed, the voice of a human became more clear. "I swear Orlan, it wasn't my fault."

Another human chimed in with an angry tone. "I gave you a very simple task, and you failed. It does not matter how you failed. You were responsible for the holopad, it was stolen; your fault."

"I-I can get it back, Orlan! I just need time!"

"I don't have time, Irin."

"Please! Give me one more chance."

"Sure, Irin. Now go, and get it back."

"Thank you Orlan! Thank you! I won't let you down, I swear!"

As Orlan rounded the corner in Rufus' view, he was suddenly drug backwards, his screams muffled. Sounds of a one-way scuffle slowly dimmed to a silence.

"You there," Orlan's voice echoed down the hallway towards Rufus, "why have you come to spy on me?"

(OOC – I'm assuming Orlan isn't Chiss, forgive me if he is.)

“Uoh!-” Rufus squeaked, cowering behind an oddly clad arm while some poor soul far larger than he was brutally silenced.
Time about the broken man seemed to move a speed thrice that of any thought he could conjure, like the lucid nightmares that haunted him after a dose of poor quality spice. He could barely breath and as he quaked did itchy fire seem to crawl along his skin. If it weren't for rancid memories of carnivorous worms that would never, ever leave his imagination, Rufus would have run irrelevant of the pain in his left knee.
“..why have you come to spy on me?” Said a vacuum devil in a humanoid's skin.
A repugnant, growing, darker spot grew from the wino's upper thigh. “No shpying!- Ple-ash, uh..”
He wasn't to say Ossumas sends his best regrets to this guy was he? The target was blue skinned, would be an alien Rufus had never seen before, as the cyborg had assured him. Yet, both the Zabrak and the bartender indicated this hallway, but here was not his target. Confusion and terror both gripped Rufus, along with displeasure that he hadn't thought of anything to say after his head had cleared some in the many, many dunkings of it beneath ice cold water. He would likely die now.
“You- Talor?.. Osshhhumaaash” Rufus grit and cursed his under equipped mouth. “.. hash shome queshtionsh you are intereshted in?”
He cowered further, inching towards the lesser certain doom of the goon populated room, and its brighter lighting.

(Orlan is Chiss, it's one of Talor's operating names. He drops the toity Imperial accent when working in the field. It's all good)

"Ossumas?" Talor spoke from around the corner in a coaxing voice, "Forget Ossumas for now. Come down here, I need someone to help me finish my last dose of spice."

@gjknutsen
(OOC – Thanks for the clarification. )

Rufus' rearward retreat stuttered to a stop and he reversed it with a stolid step in the opposite direction.
His lips fumbled and his body was a physical manifestation of his quaking mind. “Shp-p-pishe?”
Somewhere off in the darkest of nights shrouded by roiling impermeable fog was this idea that screamed warning, certain doom and 'worms'. Before the golden glow illuminating the whole universe, that single syllable heaven that would once again make Rufus emperor of all, the dismal pleading of his nether conscience was a worthy laugh.
He took another step.
“Good shp-p-p” He couldn't produce the word Rufus salivated so. “--plishe?”
And another step into the dim of the hallway.
The Chiss offered spice, affluent powerful aliens never lied about sharing spice.. No... ...
...
Rufus held back another step and wiped drool from his chin, trying as best he could to concentrate. No one shares spice, especially not the last of their stock. People kill for spice or sell it. This Chiss must know about the batch Rufus stole however many years ago it was when he stole some spice.
But why?... Nothing made sense and against the temples of Rufus' skull pounded a sudden retribute of ache, equivalent to withdrawal.
“N...no-..”
The man began a tearless weep and fell against the soiled side of the hallway.
“... N-no shpishe...” Me moaned. “..What do.. you want Cshish?..”



@Commander (OOC – Though Namand has a ship right now, I'll actually be twining his adventures in TOR with the roleplaying. When he earns his ship in the game world, then in the realm of our imaginations he will have a ship, etc.
OOC*2 – I'm assuming this rebel base Namand is to appropriate the quarry blueprints from is abandoned or at least mostly abandoned, with the rebels having blown a cave-in to cover the primary entrance.)

“What horrors with a pointed mind of malice await on this frozen wasteland?” Namand asked of the cold blowing wind. It was what he'd said the day previous before riding non stop until he'd reached the approximate nameless point on this long forsaken world.
Using his own body to block the driving snowy sediment kicked up from bleak stretches, he looked again upon the holo readout of his intended destination. Despite the odd flake streaking through it, the three dimensional translucent image was unquestionably of a spooky natural cave opening. The geographic phenomena around it were smooth mohills, with the permanently frozen lake he stood on before it. Yet in front of Namand was nought more than another small hill smothered in a blanket of white and large rocky disturbances.
“Arxuu,” The cyborg transmitted over his wrist mounted receiver. “bring the Krayt Dragon to my location, there is nothing here to detect us.”
The bothan's voice barely registered over the static and the wind in reply. “Lord Elliot, could- .. under ground?”
“Bring the ship to my location.” Namand repeated, allowing anger to infect his voice.
The flippant hire was like all the rest of his ever changing crew. A bunch of greedy idiots who didn't want anything to do with the Republic or Empire, nor any authority; despite completely lacking the power to maintain independence.
“.. Lord Elliot-”
“I need thermal charges now!” Namand roared.
Whether the bothersome alien heard him or not, no further response came. There were times when the constant threat of ill timed death and puppet strings weren't the worst the business could throw at one.

Talor walked around the corner, coming into Rufus' view. Through the low-light Talor's orange shirt stood out rather remarkably, accented slightly by the long brown duster that looked as if it was thrown on casually. By no means was his attire the neatest, but it was well-kept enough for the bouncers to let him inside.

He still spoke like a human. "I want the things that you want, Rufus; yes, I do know who you are, and who sent you." He crouched down, gently setting a glass vial on the ground and pushing it towards Rufus, it's contents masked by the darkness it was slowly rolling into.

"I want money to buy the things I enjoy. I want to retire to a nice planet on the inner rim. But most importantly, I want the thugs of this planet off my back." Talor stood and took several steps towards Rufus, giving the vial another nudge.

"I can help you get the things that you want, Rufus, if you help me get the things that I want." He took another step towards Rufus. Only a few feet away from him, he crouched again, the bottom of his duster piling onto the dirty floor, his eyes meeting Rufus'.

"Where is he Rufus? Where's Ossumas?"

In mid whimper did Rufus abate all movement, save for the viciously intense focus of his chemical white eyes that followed the small object sliding slowly towards him. “Shpsh-” He didn't even try to enunce the word. Just the thought that so close to his grasp would be the life giving substance, offered freely by the blue alien, instilled paralysis upon him.
When container stopped, and with it for a jiffy; time, the only source of sensation in all the universe about the wino was the rapid beat of his manically stimulated heart. The over exerting organ both pained his chest and flooded the slim remnant of his mind with manipulative thought; thought about how to acquire that spice. He had to have this spice. The chiss-thing could kill him afterwords, but he must have in his veins the glorious drug.
For however many moments Rufus shifted about himself and tried to find the means to respond. “Osshumassh-” He began in a hoarse whisper. “shendsh hish besht regretsh.”
That was the passcode, the words that would mean he did not die spice-free. But even in the cavernous cranium of the homeless man, he knew this wasn't what this alien wanted, probably.
“He- I do not know where he'sh ish-” Rufus jerked upright, the need to be convincing absolute. With vivid hand gestures and a spiking crackle of a voice he continued. “I wash to return to hish home and tell him anshwersh- No-” He blinked and spoke again, even more excited. “I wash to come here- Osshumassh shendsh hish besht regretsh. I wash to then go back to hish houshe and tell him anshwersh to quesht- Queshtionsh!”
Rufus nearly shouted the final word. “I have queshtionsh- you want Nerva yesh?- Shpishe!-”
With the slipping squeak he drew into a cowering pillar of himself and awaited response.

----
(OOC - @Commander, in my ignorance I forgot to mention why I presumed the base was mostly abandoned. In my endless dealings with Namand's past I've garnered a mental image of the man he is, and this infected me with the false (who-knows) that others would know his limits. Namand might be able to sweet-talk/ BS his way into a rebel base that happens to be cyborg friendly, but I presumed that isn't what Dax was testing. Since Namand would be reduced to a pile of steaming meat against an entrenched enemy position (right now at least; he's only lv.1) I figured the test was more recon/ eliminate oriented.
The rest of my ramblings below is just setting up the picture Namand will be entering coming (hopefully) the 15th in TOR proper.)


Without the heat of the speeder's poorly maintained engine to keep the cyborg warm his exposed skin was beginning the unhealthy turn to frostbitten blue. While the mechanical components about him thrived on the sub zero temperature, Namand's organic self loathed every moment he was forced to sit sheltering behind a particularly large jutting boulder that blocked the easterly wind.
Beyond the endless grey skies an impotent mother star offered little suggestion of time, however the ghostly song of driving tempest over the eddies and cracks in the eternally frozen ice was a foreboding indicator to him. That baleful elemental laughter was the herald of night, sent forth by the dropping temperature's pressure change.
“Arxuu, respond! Why are you not at my location?” Namand spoke with his mouth almost kissing the small port of his wrist mounted communication unit.
As had been the situation for several standard hours, there was no response save for the static of the radio void. The winds were powerful enough now that landing even on the open expanse of the solidified lake was dangerous, but this was a recent phenomenon. The Krayt Dragon could have easily crossed the distance between them in three score of minutes, perhaps fifty percent longer if it were forced to hug the contours of the semi mountainous terrain. A quarter of a day had transpired.
Potentialities of every fathom, from idiotic to entirely plausible, formulated in his twin mind, crossing puppet strings and feeding his already dark demeanour.
Something had happened, as Namand still sat there. Beyond that everything was conjecture. Was that Chiss involved? Perhaps the drug addicted fool Rufus had perturbed the obviously influential alien. Perhaps Dax had sent him here to die and intercepted his ship; the rebel base seemed uninhabited after all analysis. Undoubtedly that Sith, Nerva was her name, was involved. Since the beginning of his wake twenty years previous the darkside wielding empire and he always seemed to be crossing paths. Perhaps they were the puppet masters of toyed with him, or mayhaps-
Uncontrollable shivers that drove pain with each shake eviscerated the pontifications and computations he was romping recklessly in. An internal sensor told him his core had dropped already to a hypothermic state, the beast within boasted back that most beings of any race would already be a frozen corpse. If the morrow's daybreak were to be one of beauty, salvation and the beginnings of exploration, he'd need be alive to witness it. Namand began forming a mental picture of an under-snow dwelling that cocooned he and that speeder's precious noisome engine.
“Arxuu, resp-”
Next to the infinitesimal receiver on his wrist an implanted diode heated temporarily, warning of an impending burst transmission. A shivering partially gloved finger depressed the diode and up sprung a flickering three dimensional image of a rodian, Namand's current co-pilot Forsasco. Evidently the bug eyed alien had recorded the burst transmission from Namand's cockpit, the black leather of the seats made for some very tall species clearly evident behind Forsasco's antennae.
“This is a delayed transmission” Came a robotic voice, an inbuilt translator whose incorporeal drone was barely tolerable. Namand knew from the barely audible buzz of Forsasco's gloating that the alien was genuinely pleased with himself. “.. as I have been able to are find” The translator was ancient and poor at its function. “.. the remote detonate or on my ship.”
A feeling that sank to a deeper abyss than the temperature consumed Namand, he already knew what he was about to hear.
“Unfortunately I am not able remove sequence of detonate or. So we get hyperspace out of range. Die die human machine scum.”
The limited capacity of the burst transmission ended, but not before Namand painstakingly froze the image of the temporary captain of the Krayt Dragon.
“All of your lives are not worth a ship.”
He'd been bested not by the awesome and invisible powers that ranged everywhere, but by unimaginative worms of an cowardly underlings that had come 'highly recommended' in the spaceport.
As if sensing his plight the wind kicked up to blot out all sound, save for a noise like a roar of some monstrous carnivore somewhere out in oncoming night.
“Blast it.” Namand swore into the heightened tempo of the gale.

Talor stood in order to make his appearance more menacing. His duster drew in and his face disappeared into the darkness that shrouded the upper portions of the hallway.

"I know where Nerva is going."

Talor put his boot on top of the vial, pinning it to the ground without crushing it.

"Now, take me to Ossumas. You know where he is, don't lie to me."

Rufus' spewtum flecked lips mumble 'know where she is... know where she is...' while his eyes dimly reflecting the sickly yellow of the overhead light never left the supposed container of spice.
His chemically whitened tiny pools focused, pupils diaphanous but unchanging in their intent. "I take you to Ossumass- machine man? Yes.- Question two... Did you know Nerva and.." Worry spread across the broken wino's features; deeply creased panic that further devolved his physical appearance. In a moment is subsided. "..Dax- Nerva and Dax are lovers?"

Some moment in the timeless void of the small artificial alcove where the only light emanated from a round red diode futuristic in appearance, and the only warmth from a dead snow speeder engine, a single blue eye opened. Namand knew it was daybreak, though exhaustion induced by more extreme physical requirements than he'd thought survivable inhibited his means of associating his inorganic clock with morning. His shins and elbows were severely burned from constant inadvertent contact with metal engine covers that once had glowed with heat. Save for these inflamed, ragged areas all skin visible through the torn scraps of clothing were pale and revealing within them the cruel signs of frostbite. Blood along his arm, shoulder and face had long since coagulated and even showed signs of inhuman rejuvenation. His head wavered and his partially agape mouth was frothy, the kind of bubbly sputum exhibited by dire pain. Were he more human, more able to accept he was doomed with natural neural flow, he would be dead and already frozen.
Circuitry hummed and drew as a vampire does upon the sustaining electrical feed of his tortured mortal self, metal ground and shifted and fused adrenal chemicals with peptides. A pungent reek of melting steel permeated the air and Namand moaned yet further in agony.
Through all reasonable vital barriers he drifted out one arm, followed ineptly by the other. Dragging himself inch by insufferable inch the cyborg slowly, mechanically achieved the entrance to his personal snow cave and flopped onto the sunswept bleakness of Hoth's lifeless ground.
The glaring light emanating from every direction stung as sharply as the bitter cold, and blinded both of his optical senses; though he did not notice this. Nor was he cognisant that the mound he stumbled over was the corpse of the wampa that had given him his deep gouges just hours before. Delirious to the extent that bio-electric operated at a higher order than organic, Namand's normally eternally paranoid demeanour wasn't even able to register the grim humanoids walking towards him with dark objects raised in their hands, nor hear their words beyond alien mumbles.
One of those objects spat electricity and the sweet solace of unconscious took the cyborg and ended his brief refutation of plight.

Some moment in the timeless void of sleep haunted by dreams best forgotten, of times that threaten to have been a past once experienced, of the insanity that could seemingly plague any being and had to horrid consequence, a single blue eye opened.
Namand was in a kolto tank, suspended both in its thick green translucent fluids and a magnetic field strong enough to counteract the extreme lack of buoyancy of his cyborg body.
Beyond the vision distorting gelatinous mass healing his body and a transparisteel barrier was a square room hewn from rock, that for all generic suggestion was once a medical bay. Now suffering abandonment and the depreciating effects associated with such estrangement, dust coated the cluttered work benches and the other kolto tanks appeared to be generating their own bacterial colonies. Within these mostly ransacked tight confines were two males engaged in quiet discussion. Both were clad in the mostly white warm and efficient fatigues of Republic commandos, though to Namand's trained perception, they were not this. Too scrawny, and facial features too unblemished to be of that violent cadre. The only characteristic distinguishing either zabrak or human as belonging to one group or another, was the torn black stitching jutting from either shoulder, where once the insignia of the Republic had sat.
The larger of the two eventually glanced at Namand, following the movement with a full rotation of his body. “You're awake. Good.” The human male said, his voice tinny through the projection unit mounted in the ceiling of his enclosure. Saying nothing more he held aloft a boxy sensor of some sort and vertically scanned Namand in a practised manner. “You are.. recovering at an astounding rate..” He spoke with some enthusiasm. “I must say, the technology responsible for your inorganic parts is mostly unfamiliar to me, though-”
“We weren't to speak with the intruder.” The zabrak male responded, having turned to also face the Kolto tank.
“Sod that, this is an opportunity of a lifetime!-”
“Orders are orders.” Despite the interceding speakers of ill repair, the zabrak's tone gathered a touch of malice.
“Have you seen such arcane architecture before? We cannot pass up this opportunity-”
“There is no time to dissect it!” The zabrak spat, subtly cowering the larger man. “Unless you wish your life to end with his.”
An unspoken contest of wills ensued, of which the result was for both to turn about amidst whispers unheard by the cyborg and leave the room. Upon stepping through to the shrouded hallway beyond, the wily human male in the stolen fatigues threw an inquisitive look at Namand, an evil gleam shining from his foul smile.
...
Some moment in the timeless void of primeval response, the ruthless need to live and vanquish those who opposed this, a merciless gluttony of blood spilling and terminal screams, a single blue eye opened once more. Gore, the odd blaster wound and even spattered entrail bedecked the cyborg as he trudged messily through the gruesome destruction left scattered about the poorly illuminated hallways of the subterranean base. Until he found a haphazard shower that managed little more than to rid him of the crimson coating and none of the smell, he was naked save for the metallic girdle left over from the kolto tank.
Long minutes later, gathered in a Republic commando's arctic wear as well as the two blasters he'd discovered in his hands when he came to his full senses, Namand achieved the improvised hangar where two mechanics vainly attempted to open the durasteel blast doors confining their ship to its underground prison. At some instant in the instinctual semi-consciousness of his violent void Namand had effortlessly sliced into a terminal and through its AI walls and taken all schematics therein, hopefully including the ones Boss Dax had wanted. He'd also noticed that his victims were attempting to escape on quite possibly the only non mass transport class ship left on Hoth.
A single blaster shot removed the left eye socket of one mechanic, while the other took a shot to the shoulder as that human woman tried for her blaster pistol. Quickly, resolutely Namand was over that female's whimpering, cringing form without further incident of retaliation.
“I'll die before speaking Sith scum!” The pathetic girl said, her voice shrill and suffused with pain.
Despite the splitting headache, a migraine worse than any Namand had felt in his twenty year wake, he managed to conjure the words necessary for the greatest likelihood of survival. With the burning barrel of an appropriated blaster against the girl's forehead Namand spoke. “What makes you think I'm Sith or even with them?”
“You killed..” She appeared as if to cry. “Everyone I ever called family.”
“They tried to kill me. I was more powerful.”
“What?! You would be dead anyways if it weren't for them-”
“A more pleasant death than dissection after untamed interrogation.”
The girl looked away from Namand's living and metal eyes, apprehending the war taking place beneath the skin she saw. “I'll die before I talk.” She sniffed.
“You will do neither...” He paused, removing his gun. “The ship that jumped into hyperspace just before nightfall; did you register it?”
“Ye- That was your ship.”
“It was” Namand emphasized the word. “my ship. Did you log its jump direction?”
Finding the courage to slowly stand, favouring the side that didn't possess a blackened blaster wound, the shaken girl tried to claw at some dignity. “We also caught and decoded the burst transmission-”
“Then you should already know I am not Sith. I am going to kill those insubordinate wretches, and do so very slowly.”
The girl half shivered, lilting slightly before such malice.
Namand continued. “What was their jump coordinates? It wasn't in the databanks when I searched.”
“They- we don't keep records of criminal ships, we aren't republic-”
“What was their jump coordinates?” Namand spoke, his brassy terribly deep bass voice reverberating.
“Hutta, I think.”

(OOC - @Commander, there you have it. Sorry for the presence of rushing; I wanted some serious role play in this quintessential proving mission, and learn what surprises you had ready for Namand, but already TOR is upon you and soon (unless Bioware wants an unpleasant visit from me) me.
Namand will go through his trials and tribulations on Hutta, which will be incorporated into his story. Whether or not he finds the bastards who tried to murder him and stole his stolen ship, we'll see. Either way, Namand now has the schematics Dax wanted.)
(OOC2 - @ gjknutsen, if by tonight you haven't had the opportunity to respond to the barely articulated mumbles of Rufus, I'll complete that RP in the manner I did with Commander. For reference, and I divulge the following based on the likelihood that Talor would know some of it from his years of training:
Namand often operates on planets via the Amoebic Cell. Even more adaptive and difficult to eliminate than the more famous terrorist cell, the amoebic cell is actually surprisingly similar to an everyday occurrence: the social group in a larger social setting. People accept themselves as members and suffer a variable association with the group; while they benefit from said group, they also aren't directly tied to it either. In an Amoebic cell no one knows anyone else's name and this is generally one of the few strictly enforced rules. 'Mr. Pink' and 'Mr. Black', etc. as Reservoir Dogs coined it. There is an accepted honour system and differing levels of preferential treatment given to other members of the cell, as well as an understood dire consequence for betraying the cell (which generally never happens because discovering a consciously prearranged Amoebic cell is nearly impossible, since they are so similar to the infinitely common social cell). Other than one or two members, rarely do many of the members of the cell know who all is in it.

Example: Troy the street peddler with too much time on his hands, watches Big Bill's girlfriend's apartment for Big Bill, to ensure she isn't entertaining other men. Big Bill lets Troy into the club on Fri-Sat, ahead of the line. Troy also knows Suzi the car mechanic and further enforces his importance by introducing Ms. Pink to Mr. Blue when Mr. Blue's car broke down... etc. (They use alias' because some of them are involved in illicit trades). Multiply this by a paranoid cyborg and again by long hyperspace jumps.

I mention this because, Rufus is not in that planet's Namand cell. Anyone with keen deductive skills, as Talor would undoubtedly have, would know that a cyborg bounty hunter who is not yet dead, would never trust a spice addicted wino to anything, at least not without a terrible amount of proving if there was time for such.)