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 Post subject: Loose Ends
PostPosted: Tue Jan 06, 2004 11:25 am 
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(OOC: At least at first, I'm planning on writing this story myself. I may be able to open it at a later point, so please let me know if you are interested in joining. Any comments can be PMed to me, or you can start a discussion thread on this board. Thanks, enjoy!)

The bright disc of Tralus slips over the horizon as dusk falls on Avian City. In the two years since the Battle of Endor, this city has steadily grown, the business association at its heart having profited well during the Galactic Civil War, and still expanding with postwar deregulation. Millions of inhabitants of many species crowd the metropolis, famed for its beautiful streets and the high-quality wares of its Central Market.
But the crowds of the fashionable business districts and the comfortably spacious residential areas are far from Riemann Grieves' thoughts as he passes silently among the shadows of huge, blocky factories, here in the rundown industrial district past the city's southwest edge. A Nikto transport worker watches him pass with no expression on his horned face, a short thick roll of tabac smoldering in one hand as he leans against the side of a pudgy cargo vehicle. Behind him, in the harshly lit loading dock, two battered load lifters monotonously pack heavy plastic crates into the back of the carrier. They could have been filled with anything from cheap clothes to stimpacks to vibroblades; there were few labels out here, beyond the reach of the Quality Assurance Departments of the city's more respectable manufacturers. But this area was beyond the city's taxes as well, and, perhaps more importantly, it was largely unvisited by the authorities.
For factories weren't the only occupants of this stretch of Talus soil. Between, behind, above, below, and even within the factories there were uncounted shacks, dens, and cheap housing modules, home to those unwanted poor, dirty, and dangerous residents that the city endlessly spewed out. In a place like this, Riemann Grieves wasn't likely to get noticed much, which suited his purposes just fine. It suited others of his kind as well, which was precisely the reason he was here now.
It wasn't just any slum, after all. It was "Cracked Egg," as the inhabitants joked; the flawed byproduct of Avian City. Riemann was hunting, and he knew his quarry would inevitably be drawn to this particular slum.

A distinctive shape marked Riemann's current destination. It was like a massive beast, floundering awkwardly against the size of a smaller factory module that had not been used for industry since the early days of the war. The shell of a boxy body and a thick, blunt head were all that remained of the Imperial war machine, gutted now and fused into the side of the factory. No signs marked this extraordinary facade, but everyone knew what the place was called. He pushed aside the rubber flaps over the missing armor panel that served as an entrance, and stepped inside.

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PostPosted: Thu Jan 08, 2004 2:55 am 
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A particularly astringent smell of tabac smoke creeps around Riemann as he enters the rundown establishment; the industrial byproducts that stained the slum soil made the locally grown tabac plants particularly potent. Instinctively, the young fellow committed the floorplan to memory. He stood now in hulk of the old walker, whose cockpit had been converted into a narrow storage space behind the bar. Opposite the bar is a raised stage featuring a surprisingly competent group of jizz wailers, with a sparsely populated dancefloor stretching in between. Past this section is the factory unit, retaining one notable feature of its days in production. A conveyor belt circles the floor, bringing orders and returning used dishes from the tables clustered along its length to the thin-walled kitchen area on the right. Other tables and chairs of various size, shape, and original function are arrayed about the walls and wherever else they can fit.
Riemann removes his swoop pilot's helmet, revealing a thick mass of springy blond hair. He turns his bright blue eyes to the living aspect of this tableau. Close by, rapid clicks and growls draw his attention to a pair of Trandoshan males, one a rather bright yellow-orange, the other a more somber shade of green. From what Riemann knows of Doshan, the ostentacious one is offering to buy the old-model flamethrower that his companion carries. Past them at the foot of the stage, a tall, thin figure sways about on its own. It seems to be human, adorned with makeup and a rather short red dress, but the slightly stubbled face and thick hairy legs make it obvious why this dancer dances alone. The gaze sweeps across to the bar. A pale Twi'lek, slightly past her prime, serves a fizzing brew to a Wookiee in a bulky metal helmet. A strongly built middle-aged human with a shock of red hair converses with a thinner Zabrak, both in matching uniforms of black leather. At the end of the bar, a dejected looking human sits by himself.
Inside the conveyor belt, a kindly looking man works on the drinks and snacks. His patrons include a female Zabrak with a long sniper rifle seated next to a particularly large, nearly black Trandoshan, as well as a portly older Twi'lek, a nervous looking green Mon Cal and his mate, and three young human men armed in a manner typical of mercenaries. Riemann's sharp eyes also pick out a hooded figure in the back corner, seated in a booth with a dark haired woman that gazes towards the bar. He finally picks out another odd couple, seated just off the side of the stage; a plain-robed Trandoshan and a human, dressed in scout gear much like Riemann himself, but with a mature tusk cat lounging at his feet. With his mental accounting of the situation in hand, Riemann turns to approach the bar.

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PostPosted: Sun Jan 11, 2004 11:00 am 
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Flashes of memory come to Riemann as he nears the bar. In 10 years as a solitary operative of the Imperial Security Bureau, he'd infiltrated a religious cult on Tatooine, rooted out traitorous officers, even assassinated a wayward Moff in the Mid Rim with a tree snake from Kashyyyk, framing an upstart Wookiee leader in the process. Missions came through an old model protocol droid, 5LOM; Riemann never knew his human superiors, and besides them, nobody ever knew who he was or what he was doing. The former had changed since the end of the war, and he had come here tonight to make sure that the latter didn't.
In all that time, Riemann had only had a handful of really challenging missions. And though there is at least one recent scar on that broad, handsome face, and the red hair may be just a bit thinner, he's sure that the man sitting at the bar is the same rugged smuggler he matched wits with over six years ago. The feeling that spreads over the young assassin is almost nostalgic, recalling the excitement of a truly worthy opponent. "MacGregor," he calls out, knowing better than to place a hand on his shoulder, "haven't seen you since Dantooine!"
Despite the friendly greeting, in less than a second the stocky young Zabrak is twisting his right arm behind his back and holding a vibroknife to his throat, leaving Riemann's abdomen open to the searching muzzle of the human smuggler's heavy blaster pistol. Wise but troubled green eyes narrow in on blue eyes masked in innocence. "Garnell Ur-Quan, as I recall. I can't say that bugging my ship and likely blowing up my cargo was any way to make better friends with me. You're just lucky that ore wasn't in my ship when you blew it up."
It was actually taking a bit of effort to look nervous and resist the urge to see how fast MacGregor's Zabrak could really move. But he hadn't come here for the smuggling pair; as far as they were concerned he was just an old competitor, one of Riemann's assumed identities. "No thanks for saving your ass from the TIEs, or reminiscence about the evacuation of the old base? Well, strictly business, then. I need a favor, and I can pay well. No tricks."
The older man looks him over for a moment, then nods to his partner. "Let him go, Sarrik." The Zabrak warily seats himself again, still facing Riemann and on guard. But MacGregor turns back to the bar, picking up his mug. "But I don't need your deals, Ur-Quan. I'm a rich man now."
"Not credits, MacGregor," Riemann states slowly. "I know where your father is."

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PostPosted: Sun Feb 01, 2004 3:53 pm 
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Angus studied the man, showing no emotion on his face as he drank the cool Alderaanian ale from the mug. Reading Ur-Quan's expression, it seemed obvious that the man actually believed that he knew where Angus' father was... even though that was one piece of information that no one could ever know. Angus' father was the Corellian Sector Moff, and had been killed more than five years ago when Angus blew up the Star Destroyer that his father commanded.

Angus raised the barrel of his heavy blaster to line up neatly between the man's eyes.

"I tell ya what..." his voice was cold and even. "You tell me what you think you know, as well as what the hell you want with me, and I may decide not to pull this trigger and scatter your brains all over the cantina." His expression was unmistakeable, he had no problems killing the man where he stood. "I may even think about your little proposal, if the money's right. So... tell me where you believe my father is.... and I also want to know who and where you got that info from."

His finger tightened on the trigger. "And the clock's ticking."

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PostPosted: Tue Feb 03, 2004 10:35 pm 
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(OOC: Yeah, I opened this up a little, if you want to show up, feel free.)

Riemann couldn't help but grin for a second as he was threatened yet again. He felt detached excitement, a sort of cool admiration for this cocky smuggler. He quickly modified his expression to look properly worried, however.
"Ok, MacGregor, nothing to get upset about. It's like this. See back during the war, I helped the Rebs crack this coded channel, they used it to check troop movements and it helped me avoid the blockades. It was always set to record and notify me when anything interesting came up, but eventually the Imps found out it had been cracked and quit using it. Nothing came across it for years, until about a week and a half ago. I found a pile of messages one morning, coming across about the Corellian Moff. Sounds like one of those remaining cells of Imps, they mention some coordinates on Dantooine and are talking about this recovery mission and all. There's this one guy, he's a medic or something, found the Moff in a village there with no memory, but he's sure it's him. Look, I've got the chip in my coat here, if I can hand it to you..."

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PostPosted: Thu Feb 05, 2004 7:44 pm 
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"Slowly." Angus warned. "Two fingers... and if you even breathe funny you can forget about an open casket."

He tried not to let the emotion that he felt show on his face. He supposed that it was possible that his father somehow escaped the Star Destroyer before it blew, although it wasn't likely. But then again, he hadn't really had time to do anything but try and avoid getting blown up and get into hyperspace. Taking the time to scan the area for escaping ships or lifepods was out of the question.

He decided not to figure out his next course of action until the proof Ur-Quan was offering turned out to be legit. Chances were that it was a case of mistaken identity, which meant he could lay this whole thing to rest again. But if not... well, plenty of time to figure that out later.

He watched the man very closely, readying himself to squeeze the trigger, just in case.

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PostPosted: Fri Feb 06, 2004 3:09 am 
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The blond fellow complies with the warning, slowly unfastening the top button of his duster, reaching in with two fingers to draw out a small black datachip. He lets the other smuggler get a good look at it, but then curls his fingers into his palm, enclosing the prize. "Now look, MacGregor, I can't guarantee this isn't some kind of hoax, but you know enough to figure that out on your own. In any case, I don't know anything more than that I happened to pick up this transmission; you can even check my log files. Thing is, I've got my own troubles I'm hoping you can help me with. Name of Rendarious." Waiting a moment to let that sink in, Riemann gestures towards the empty stool beside Angus. "Mind if I sit down?" he asks, beginning to slide into the spot without a reply.
Off on the dancefloor, the Trandoshan pair is finally reaching an agreement, the bright one scanning some credits over to his companion's account. Back in the corner, the hooded figure's head turns slightly, and the female companion leans in to whisper something.

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