I made it, only a day late! Congratulations, me . . . !

Ah . . . right, sorry, ignore that majorly unprofessional remark. . . :D

Hunter lay on his side in the lower bunk, staring at the wall – or, rather, staring towards the wall, since it was dark and he couldn't actually see anything. He estimated that perhaps an hour had been spent in this unproductive activity.

The hour before that had been spent in staring at the opposite wall, and the hour before that had been spent with his eyes shut.

The clone sergeant sat up, grumbling internally. On the opposite side of the room, Wrecker breathed heavily, obviously sound asleep. Tech and Crosshair were less audible, but Hunter knew Tech was also asleep, for the simple reason that his datapad had finally shut off.

Hunter poked at the mattress above him, but there was no response. Crosshair was just as dead to the galaxy as the other two.

This situation was too common. The first time had been a minor inconvenience, but the hundredth time had all the familiarity of a drill, with none of the usefulness and at least twice the annoyance.

Hunter reached for his datapad, flicked on the screen, and checked his chronometer. Hm, oh-three-hundred. Ah, this is pointless. Might as well get some research done. . .

The screen blurred a bit in front of his eyes, but he stared grimly at it until the letters resolved, then began reading the reports Tech had compiled earlier.

A slow hour passed, and Hunter felt himself growing more and more tired. Just as he was beginning to doze off, Wrecker woke up.

Wrecker went quietly around the room, careful to make as little noise as possible, but the tiny clicks and snaps as he fastened his armor sounded horrifically loud. Hunter groaned in irritation and stuffed his blanket over his ears.

When Wrecker had left to complete his usual insane exercise routine, Hunter dozed off again, briefly . . . just in time for his datapad to give a single, high-pitched beep as the chronometer hit oh-four-thirty.

Hunter opened his eyes and stared mildly at his datapad.

He was going to smash it.

There was nothing for it, however, so Hunter sat up, swung his feet over the edge of the mattress, leaned his head in his hands, and pressed his palms against his eyes until they no longer felt like sand.

Now, how best to get a cup of caf without waking Tech up. . .

Tech was absolutely not allowed caf. Neither was Crosshair, and neither was Wrecker. To be honest, Hunter was the only one who could drink it, and that was only because he'd exempted himself from the no caf rule, courtesy of being sergeant.

He dragged himself to the galley, prepared a six-ounce cup from a twelve-ounce packet, and gulped it down. The bitter flavor helped to wake him, and the dose of caffeine was high enough that he'd last the day no problem, once it kicked in.

Hunter destroyed the evidence by tossing his caf-cup in the incinerator, then went to prepare for the day. He was half ready when, at oh-five-hundred, Wrecker stumped into the cabin and announced, "Nothing's happened yet!"

Feeling much more level-headed by now, Hunter calmly fastened his cuirass and reached for his vambraces. "What's supposed to be happening?"

"Grakkus hasn't come after us. Vos' plan didn't work!"

"Hm." Hunter tossed his pack to Wrecker, who secured it to Hunter's back. "Y'know, Wrecker, it hasn't been that long since we got back to the Marauder."

"Long enough," Wrecker grumbled.

Hunter went over to his bed to grab his knife, then straightened and poked Crosshair in the ribs. "Hey, Crosshair, wake up. It's getting late."

The sniper sat up, rolled out of bed on the opposite side, landed unsteadily, and proceeded toward the armor rack. On his way by the second bunk bed, he stepped onto the ladder and hissed in Tech's ear, "Our scanners have failed."

Hunter rolled his eyes.

Tech sat up with a jolt and groped around for his goggles, eyes half-open. "Which ones? When? Why?"

Wrecker laughed uproariously and headed for the galley.

Hunter followed him, leaving the other two to their bickering. Grabbing the nearest pack of food from the storage unit, he twisted it to start the heating process. "Wonder what Vos has planned for today."

"Hope it's something fun," Wrecker answered.

Hunter wasn't an authority on civilian pastimes, but he was pretty sure that Wrecker's definition of fun was different from most of the galaxy's. He grabbed a fork and opened his food container. The appetizing, but distinctly flash-frozen scent of nerf steak and gravy drifted out. "Want some steak, Wrecker?"

Wrecker opened his own container, stared at the contents, and slid it across the small table to Hunter. "Yeah, you want topato cakes?"

"Sure." They split half and half, and were nearly done eating by the time Tech and Crosshair entered, got their own food packs, and joined them.

"What's the plan for today?" Tech asked, leaning his elbows on the table. Then he froze, cocked his head, and stared hard at nothing over Crosshair's shoulder. The sniper narrowed his eyes suspiciously and turned. Tech reached across the table and dumped half his topatoes into Crosshair's container.

Wrecker laughed again.

Hunter polished off the last of his meal, idly watching his squad mates as they continued to act like cadets. Crosshair gave his much-increased meal a sour look, stabbed a steak with his fork, and stared grimly at Tech.

Hunter's comm beeped. All hostilities ceased abruptly as he answered the call. "Vos?"

"Yeah, it's me. I've been keeping an eye on what passes for the news channel around here. No reports, no searches . . . I don't think we gave Grakkus quite enough trouble last night."

"We had the same thought," Hunter answered.

"Good. I'm headed to your ship. Be there in five."

The comm clicked as Vos cut the transmission. Hunter turned to his teammates in time to see Crosshair swap plates right under Tech's nose, which – as usual – was very close to a datapad.

Tech poked blindly at his food, then lowered his datapad, apparently realizing what had happened. His eyes widened, and he blinked in outrage.

Crosshair sneered at him and hastily cleared his now empty food pack.

Hunter gave a patient and hypocritical sigh. "Can't you guys act normal?" Before either of them could give him more than a skeptical look, he stood up. "Vos is on his way."

"Wonderful," Crosshair snipped.

Wrecker stood up, jostling his chair, the table, and Tech. "Bet he wants us to make the plan again."

"Whad'ya mean?" Hunter tossed his fork and the empty container into the disposal unit and grabbed four pouches of mineral water. "Wait. . . Vos let you make the plan last night?"

"Not exactly." Tech, completely unbothered by this apparent slur on his and his squad mates' abilities, accepted a pouch of water and opened it. "Originally, he seemed to think that we'd work best without him, but, as you were absent, it was necessary that someone make the decisions. I suggested Plan Fifty-One to him. He agreed."

Hunter frowned. "Vos is even less of a general than I thought."

"Could be worse," Wrecker said. "Least he's not, uh . . . mi-cro-managing us." He grinned at Tech's disgruntled look.

Someone banged loudly on the bay door, and Hunter went to open it, still mulling over the conversation. Halfway to the door, he remembered that the boarding ramp had not been lowered. And yet the knocking was clearly coming from the upper half of the high door . . .

Hunter paused at the entrance and turned on the intercom. "Vos?"

"Open the door already," the Jedi begged.

Vos was knocking on the top of the door, which meant that he was somehow clinging to the centimeter-wide decorative border over the door, which meant – "You're hanging on by one hand?"

"I'm dying here," Vos insisted.

Hunter pressed the release. The door opened to reveal Vos, who opened his mouth to comment just as his grip slipped. The Jedi disappeared with a muffled, "Oops."

Hunter leaned out and looked at the ground, but was forced to jump out of the way as Vos leaped straight up, hurtling through the doorway in a somersault.

"Hey, Sarge," said Quinlan easily, standing up and brushing his shoulder guards free of dust. "How's everything going?"

Hunter didn't answer for a moment. "Why didn't you comm to tell us you'd arrived?"

"Well, I had to dismantle my wrist comm last night," the Jedi admitted, scratching his head. "Kind of hard to build a new one in six hours. I was hoping your resident genius would have some spare parts."

"We've got plenty of spare commlinks," Hunter replied. "Did someone get a lock on your frequency?"

"Yeah, I think so. Might have been when those assassin droids caught me. Ship comm's still good, though."

Hunter watched him for a moment, wondering if all the Jedi shared the same casual, laid-back attitude, or whether Quinlan was simply . . . strange. Then again, Jedi were all strange, really. He'd read that they were able to read minds and lift things without touching them and leap dozens of meters into the air.

Hunter wondered how much of this was true. Some of the research he'd done this morning involved the Jedi. The most recent report filed with GAR command claimed that a female Twi'lek general named Secura had taken out an entire company of droids with the help of only three men. One of those men was Commander Bly, who had written the report. Because Hunter knew that Bly was trustworthy, he accepted the report at face value, but – twelve dozen droids dead within three minutes, with no clone casualties?

Even the most successful commando squads didn't have that level of success.

At least, not so far.

Still . . . Hunter glanced at the Jedi, who was studying the star map with casual interest. Secura seemed to be a fairly capable leader, but Vos. . . Well, he wasn't Secura.

Hunter cleared his throat. "What's the plan?"

The bland look Quinlan wore immediately changed to one of interest. "Grakkus didn't come after us despite his lost shipment of slaves. We need to cause more trouble, and I figure the best way to do that is to rob his stronghold. Of course, we've got to do it without your being recognized."

"I'm going on this mission, then?"

The Jedi Knight lounged against the wall, observing Hunter keenly. "Vythia has to know that there are four of you to hire."

Hunter thought back to the dark palace and Grakkus' hidden bounty hunters. His team had only been on active duty for a little over three weeks, and the missions they'd carried out had been simple. This one, though . . . well, it was sounding more complicated all the time.

The challenge was intriguing.

"We can start late this afternoon," Quinlan added. "In the meantime, I need to get my fighter back to the Prince's territory. One attack with me around could be a coincidence, but two – any idiot would get suspicious at that."

Hunter nodded slowly. "Tech can take care of the fighter."

"What, fly it? I'm sure he can, but –"

"No," Hunter interrupted. "He can program it to fly there."

Quinlan frowned, running a finger over the bright yellow marking that ran across his face. "Without crashing it?"

"Yeah."

Tech materialized beside Hunter to stare intently at the Jedi.

Quinlan eyed him. "Can you put a lifeform generator in it?"

"Yes!" Tech replied, and vanished as quickly as he'd come.

Hunter smirked and answered Quinlan's unasked question. "Yeah, he knows you want it in your fighter, and he knows you want your fighter near the Prince's headquarters."

"Okay, great. . ." Vos looked uncertain, then shrugged. "You want to head into Grakkus' place earlier?"

Hunter raised a hand, gesturing him toward the holoprojector. "I reviewed the intel while you guys were gone last night. Grakkus' security is lighter during the day."

"You think his security will be a problem?"

"Normally, I wouldn't worry about it," Hunter admitted, turning on the projector. "I don't want any surprises, though. We're already playing a double hand."

Quinlan knelt next to the holotable, his face practically in the map. "Actually, we're playing a triple hand." He leaned even closer, and blue projections slid across his features. "Hey, where's Grakkus' throne room, anyway?"

"Currently?" Hunter checked. "Above your right eye."

"Oh." The Jedi sat back on his heels. "Where's your team?"

Hunter shrugged. "I can call them."

"Nah, don't bother. Listen, if I sent you guys on this by yourselves, what plan would you come up with?"

Why is he even asking? He can't be intending to stay behind. "Uhh . . . first I'd need to know what you wanted us to take from Grakkus."

"Jedi stuff."

Hunter raised an eyebrow. ". . . You're gonna have to be more specific."

"Grakkus has a bad habit of collecting things from Jedi – lightsabers, robes, datapads, specialized armor. That kind of thing."

"He's killed Jedi?" It would explain why Quinlan seemed hesitant to go back to the palace.

"Not officially," Quinlan said. "Still, I'd stake my reputation on the fact that he's been behind their deaths. He's always in the market for Jedi's possessions, especially lightsabers. Kind of like . . . a sign of his power? Hutts are obsessed with power, and Grakkus – well, he's even more obsessed than the other Hutts, if those cybernetic legs of his are any indication."

"Yeah," Hunter agreed. "I wonder if he can move fast."

"I dunno, but if we make him mad enough we're sure to find out." Quinlan Vos seemed pleased at the thought.

Hunter looked down at the map again. We? "You're coming along?"

"Well, yeah, of course." The Jedi gave him a sudden, piercing look. "You think I'm afraid of Grakkus, don't you?"

Hunter shrugged minutely. Looks like the mindreading part is right . . .

Vos folded his arms abruptly, looking uncomfortable. "Let's get one thing straight right now. I'm a psychometrist, not a mind reader. Only a couple Jedi really have the ability, and they don't use it. Reading people's thoughts – that's something the Sith do."

It was the most sincere Quinlan had sounded so far, and his face was actually serious for a change.

Hunter gave him a nod. "Okay."

"Reading people, well, that's just something I'm good at. Observation and inference, nothing Force-related - well, mostly. Sometimes I get a read on emotions without intending to, but that's different."

He seemed strangely defensive, Hunter thought. Maybe he'd been accused of mindreading a lot. "Okay," he said again.

Vos glanced away. "Uh. Yeah, that's all."

Hunter leaned on the holoprojector. "Back to the plan . . . It seems to me that he'd keep his Jedi collection in a secure room. Throne room?"

"I'm thinking the vault, actually." Quinlan pointed to a wide room at the base of the map. "I didn't sense anything Force-related yesterday."

What does that even mean? Hunter considered asking, but instead nodded, tapping his comm twice to signal for Crosshair. "Okay, we'll try the vault. What are our mission parameters?"

"Uh. . . Complete objectives without dying?"

It was impossible to tell whether Quinlan was mocking him or truly confused about what mission parameters meant. To be fair, though, there wasn't much to do on this particular mission. It would probably be wisest to just get in and get out with minimum damage to all concerned parties.

Crosshair entered the room, his dark eyes fixed suspiciously on Quinlan. Hunter wondered if the sniper was going to antagonize the Jedi the same way he antagonized most other strangers, but for once he kept his mouth shut.

Hunter pointed at the map. "Hey, Cross, listen up. We're heading back to Grakkus' place to get his attention."

"How?" Crosshair folded his arms. "Are we going to blow it up?"

"Tempting," Quinlan admitted. "But, no. We're going to steal back some of the stuff he's stolen from Jedi."

One eyebrow went up, and Hunter could see the question forming in Crosshair's eyes as to how a Hutt, of all beings, had managed to best Jedi.

Hunter elbowed him. "I want you to get down there and find us an entrance that won't require us to use the Marauder."

"Got it." Crosshair hefted his rifle and left.

"He's going by himself?" Quinlan asked.

"He's good at recon."

"Yeah . . . but this is Nar Shaddaa we're talking about." Quinlan scratched thoughtfully at his chin. "Course, you know your guys better than I do."

Hunter inclined his head. "Once we've got an insertion point, we'll head straight in, grab what we can, and get out. I take it security cameras won't be a problem, since we want to be seen."

"Right, but you can't go in looking like that," Quinlan said, gesturing at Hunter's armor. "Grakkus will recognize you in two seconds flat. I recommend you get some sort of, I dunno, paint job or something. . ."

"What about you?" Hunter asked critically. He did not like the idea of repainting his armor, apart from the occasional touch-up.

"Hey," said the Jedi, straightening up with a grin. "I'm a master at getting into places unnoticed."

"Uh-huh . . ." Hunter eyed the bright yellow stripe that ran over the bridge of Quinlan's nose. "Pardon my saying so, but that's pretty noticeable."

"We have this thing called face paint, y'know."

"Yeah, I'm looking at it."

The Jedi snickered. "No, this is a tattoo. Speaking of which –" He gestured at Hunter's face. "Yours is pretty noticeable, too. And you had your helmet off when you talked to Grakkus."

. . . blast. Can't believe I forgot that. Hunter shrugged. "Actually, engine grease works pretty good."

A flicker of interest crossed Quinlan's face. "How well does grease cover armor?"

"Considering Tech's last engine repair. . . really well."

Quinlan smirked. "Okay, that's our plan."

As far as Hunter knew, 'engine grease' did not translate to a workable plan, but then again, he couldn't really protest. It wasn't as though Clone Force Ninety-Nine thought up complete plans before jumping into a situation. "Okay."

"Any questions?" the Jedi asked breezily.

"Yeah." Hunter tilted his head. "Why'd you make it sound like you weren't coming along?"

"Oh, well." The Jedi folded his arms again, glancing at the ceiling. "I know I'm the highest-ranking guy here, but - like I said. I don't work with a team, and I don't want to be making plans for a team. You take care of your side of the mission and I'll handle mine. You guys are effective on your own. I'm effective on my own. "

Hunter said nothing. That's what I thought about the commander.

A lot of conversing in this one, but I'm trying to make it realistic in the sense that there is, in real life, a lot of conversation and interaction that goes on in between drama. :)

Anyone got any good tips on how to really increase the quality of one's writing? I've been reading Sabari's story 'Survivors of Fortune', which really does a fabulous job of building up story world and characters. . . Something which I struggle with.

In other news, I randomly got an idea for another Misadventure . . . so that should be up this week.