We didn't see a whole lot of the Havoc Marauder's interior, so I came up with my own design. :)
Quinlan Vos sat cross-legged on one wing of his starfighter, a half-eaten ration bar in one hand and his datapad in the other. Vythia Archane had just sent him a message.
Quinlan – we will not set out for a few days yet. Stay on the planet and in contact. I will notify you when we are ready to depart. You will not have much warning, so stay ready at all times.
He took a bite and tapped out his reply. Message received. I'll be around.
After putting away his datapad, he took another bite of the energy bar, chewed with difficulty, and swallowed hard. It lodged halfway down his chest, and he thumped his fist against his sternum, grimacing. "Ugh. I should probably have replaced these rations a long time ago . . ."
He felt around for the wrapper. Holding it near his face, he clicked on a tiny flashlight and looked for the expiration date. "Wow. These are kind of old."
They were more than just 'kind of' old – two years and three months past the date of recommended usage, to be exact – so Quinlan gave the rest of his supper up as a lost cause. Instead, he fiddled with the half-eaten bar, stretching and twisting it into various shapes. He was just wondering whether he could use it to mend the particularly large crack in the duracrete a few steps away when lights blinked, far above him. He glanced up to see an unusual-looking transport descending at an unsafe speed. It looked like the special ops team had arrived.
Well, that, or he was in trouble from some local authority or other.
Quinlan stood, brushed the crumbs from his clothes, and chucked the ration bar into the cockpit of his fighter.
The ship's finlike wings folded up as it continued to approach, coming in way too fast for safety. Either the pilot was drunk, or he was insane, or he was blind. Maybe even all three. Quinlan was just wondering if he should run for it when the ship cut speed abruptly, swung ninety degrees, and thumped down on the platform, only a few feet away from him. A flight of stairs extended down from the door as it hissed open.
Quinlan brushed his hair out of his face and reached for his lightsaber.
A hulking figure in red and dark grey armor appeared in the doorway, studied him for a moment, and turned to holler back into the ship. "Looks like the right one!"
The very first thing Quinlan was going to teach these guys was what the word 'stealth' meant. He mounted the steps. "I'm Quinlan Vos."
The man turned back towards the ship again and yelled, "Yeah, definitely the right one!"
Quinlan huffed. "Do you want to keep announcing to the entire moon that I'm here, or can I come aboard?"
The big man stepped aside with a wide-armed gesture. He had an emblem of a skull painted on his right shoulder piece, and his helmet's design was odd: a set of teeth over the faceplate, and a number ninety-nine on the forehead area.
Quinlan stepped past him into a hallway. On the wall beside him hung a huge, highly detailed star chart of known space. Thin silver pins had been stuck through several planets – perhaps marking where this team had operated so far.
The doors shut, and he cast a quick glance back at them. "Uh . . ."
"General Vos?" a slightly husky voice with an all-too-familiar accent said from behind him.
Quinlan sighed and sent a patient look at the ceiling. "I was hoping not to have clones on this mission. Too noticeable."
"Too bad," said the voice.
Quinlan turned to face the speaker, who also wore grey and red armor. He had a skull and a small ninety-nine painted on his right shoulder piece.
At least their armor isn't obviously GAR armor. "You're the special forces team Commander Cody sent?"
"Well . . . Part of it, anyway," said the man.
Quinlan frowned. He'd thought that the whole team was coming here together. "So where are the others?"
"In the cockpit." There was a definite smirk audible in the clone's voice. "They'll be here in a minute. I take it you're General Vos."
"Yeah." Quinlan gestured at his lightsaber. "But don't address me as 'general' on this moon or we'll find ourselves in trouble real fast."
"Hm." The clone removed his helmet. "I'm the team leader. Hunter."
Quinlan tilted his head to the side. Apart from his eyes, this guy didn't actually look all that much like a clone. He did have a similar facial structure, but had tattooed half of it like a skull. He wore a dark red sweatband, marked with a skull, over black, chin-length hair. Quinlan would find that very uncomfortable in a helmet, but apparently Hunter didn't.
"The big guy is Wrecker," Hunter said.
Quinlan cast a cautious look at the man, who had removed his helmet, revealing a bald head, badly scarred on one side. His left eye was white – probably injured at the same time he'd gotten those scars. Quinlan glanced back at Hunter. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but so far you don't look like clones."
"Got it one, sir," replied Hunter. "I don't think that was the original idea, but . . . it's how we turned out."
Quinlan considered. "Must be why the commander thought you'd be good for a stealth mission."
"Partially," commented a higher voice as another clone entered the hallway, ducking under Wrecker's elbow. His armor was a mixture of regular and recon trooper armor, and his helmet had been modified to allow for a visor over a pair of yellow-tinted goggles. The armor was also more white than grey, though there were red highlights on the arms and helmet. The design on his right shoulder piece was the same as Hunter's.
"This is Tech," Hunter said.
"General," Tech greeted, removing his helmet, which had a skull painted on either side. He was pale, with short-cut brown hair, and his eyes appeared wide behind his goggles. His voice was precise as he explained his previous comment. "Commander Cody often sends us where he thinks our skills will be the most useful. Apart from that, though, and given the particular circumstances, I suspect that our unusual appearance will also be advantageous."
"Makes sense," Quinlan allowed. "And is this all of you?"
"No, there's one more," Hunter said, casting a glance over his shoulder. "Hey, Crosshair, quit skulking."
A tall figure, also wearing dark grey and red armor, detached itself from the wall and glided into place beside Hunter. On his right shoulder piece was painted . . . a skull. Big surprise. It seemed that these guys really liked skulls. On Crosshair's left shoulder, there was a small ninety-nine. The clone was even more pale than Tech, had a crosshair tattooed directly around and over his right eyelid – ouch – and had grey hair. He was also painfully thin.
Actually, the only one who was the same size as most troopers was Hunter, who had a standard height and build. Tech was a bit shorter and smaller, though only a bit; Wrecker was towering and muscular; and Crosshair was skinny and an inch taller than Hunter.
"Hm," said Quinlan. "So, what do you call yourselves? Ninety-nine?"
"Cody named us Clone Force Ninety-Nine," replied Hunter, gesturing at the number on his shoulder. "I guess you'd say that's our official designation. We call ourselves the Bad Batch."
Quinlan couldn't help but wonder why. "Okay, good to know." He glanced at the other three clones. "Names only, for this mission. You'll have to be careful not to use Hunter's rank when talking to him. Same goes for me."
"Simple enough," said Hunter. "My men don't call me 'sarge', and we don't call you 'general' or 'sir' or refer to you as a Jedi."
"Yeah, especially not that last. Quinlan works fine. Or Vos. . . Whatever."
Hunter lead the way to a wide room that opened directly into the cockpit on one side. "So, what's this mission all about? All we know is, it involves artifacts."
"Sith artifacts," corrected Tech. He turned to Quinlan, his eyes questioning. "I was unable to find out much about them. The data available is strangely limited."
"Yeah, and for good reason." Quinlan sat down on the nearest crate. "What did you find out?"
"Sith artifacts – or relics, as they are sometimes called – are ancient items that were either created or heavily used by the Sith," Tech said. "There are several notes about relics such as masks, scrolls, and spirit urns. . . Though there were no indications as to what, exactly, a spirit urn is."
Quinlan nodded. "Spirit urns are used to contain the ashes of Sith lords."
Tech blinked.
Crosshair, who was slouching against the wall, took a toothpick from a pouch on his belt and put it between his teeth.
Wrecker glanced between the three of them. "Ashes of Sith lords?"
"Yeah," Quinlan said. "You know, Sith lord dies, gets cremated, his followers put his ashes in an urn and worship them?"
Wrecker exchanged an uncertain look with Crosshair.
Tech flipped open a hinged piece of his vambrace to reveal a highly sophisticated computer system and began typing furiously.
Hunter seated himself across from Quinlan, rested his forearms on his knees, and regarded the Jedi thoughtfully. "Is that what you're after? A spirit urn?"
Quinlan shook his head. "I'd better start from the beginning. There's a crime lord here known as 'the Prince' –"
Crosshair sniffed.
" – who is putting together teams of bounty hunters. Their job is to find and recover Sith artifacts. I don't know if he's really intending to sell them to Dooku, but one thing's for sure: the Prince doesn't want them for anything good. I've been ordered to find out what I can about the whole deal."
"Infiltration?" Hunter said thoughtfully. "We could follow one of the mercenary teams when they go to locate the artifacts."
"Maybe." Quinlan studied him. "Trouble is, I'm still trying to figure out how to go about this. I know where the Prince's headquarters are, and I've been hired by his representative."
"As part of the team?"
"Yeah."
Hunter nodded. "Any information about the rest of the team?"
Quinlan pulled out his datapad, flicked through the screens to reach Vythia's message, and showed it to him. "My orders had just arrived when you guys showed up. As for the team – I'm not really sure. I know she's hired a few well-known bounty hunters. A Kyuzo warrior named Embo, a human named Dengar, and Cad Bane. But Bane isn't part of the team I'll be on, apparently. What did you find out about him, by the way?"
"Not much." Hunter shrugged slightly. "Bane picked up an overdue payment from some Hutt named Grobba; got high-quality maintenance and upgrades done on his pistols, jetpacks, and ship; and bought a lot of specialized supplies."
"Would he have any reason to be suspicious if he saw you again?"
Hunter thought for a moment. "Not that I know of. He might have noticed us, but we were resupplying, just like everyone else in town. We had a bit of trouble with droids, but Bane also shot down a number, so . . ."
"Wait a sec," said Quinlan. "What were droids doing on Nal Hutta?"
"Grobba bought a few hundred to serve as security." Hunter sounded bored. "They didn't do much good – too many people decided to use them as target practice."
"Yeah!" added Wrecker with a laugh. "This one storekeeper was talking to us, and a droid walks by and he shoots it. Pretty good shot, for an old half-blind Twi'lek."
Tech looked up, giving his wrist a flick to close the miniature computer that was built into his vambrace. "At least he had the sense to shoot from inside. You just went into the street and smashed the rest of the patrol."
"Aw, come on," grumbled Wrecker. "I was bored! And you had fun, too."
"I don't think that 'fun' is quite the correct word."
"Tech!" Wrecker sounded aggrieved. "It was the 'correct word' this morning! You said that wrecking droids was fun."
Quinlan watched with interest as Tech put his nose ever so slightly in the air. "I didn't say that."
"You did!" Wrecker stood to his full height and towered over Tech. "Right after you shot up that old security droid!"
"No, you were the one who said, 'wrecking droids is a lot more fun than hanging around waiting for Hunter'," insisted Tech. "I simply agreed."
"That's the same thing!"
"It is not. I did not say that wrecking droids was fun. I said 'yes'. That was all."
Wrecker deflated for a moment, but then brightened. "But if you agreed, then that means that fun IS the correct word after all!"
"I agree with the overall sentiment, but I still do not think 'fun' is quite accurate."
"Aw, now you're just being difficult."
Crosshair removed the toothpick from his mouth with a world-weary sigh and flicked it into a receptacle some twenty feet away. "Stop acting like children," he snapped.
Wrecker rounded on him. Crosshair straightened, apparently eager for a fight, but Hunter stepped between them. "All right, fellas, cut it out."
Crosshair resumed his slouch and Wrecker sat down without a word. Hunter raised an eyebrow at Tech, who looked mildly apologetic for perhaps half a second.
Quinlan watched them curiously. They obeyed Hunter readily enough here, but what about in a combat situation? And could they really pull off stealth missions, or would taking them along be too much of a risk?
He looked at Hunter. "How many missions have you been on?"
"Four so far, all successful." Hunter didn't say 'sir', so at least he'd remembered that one all right. So far.
Still . . . Quinlan rubbed his jaw. This wasn't going to be easy. "I'll let you know the worst right off."
Four pairs of eyes focused on him.
"It's nothing impressive, more's the pity." Quinlan leaned back on his hands and regarded the clones. "Biggest problem – I work alone, or with other Jedi, and never more two of them. Also, I usually know what the mission entails before jumping into it . . . So, yeah. I have no idea where to put you guys or what I'm even aiming for yet. And I won't know until I do more recon."
Hunter folded his arms, a glint of something in his eyes. It might have been concern, amusement, or even both at once. "Well," he said. "You can't put us to work until you know what we do."
Quinlan cast a quick glance at the ceiling, wondering if he looked as foolish as he felt. Probably.
"True enough," he answered. "Guess we'd better start there."
Hunter looked him straight in the eyes for a moment, as though testing him. It was an oddly Jedi-like thing to do. No – maybe it was something that a lot of people did, and Quinlan just hadn't observed it in others before because he mostly associated with either Jedi or criminals. Criminals didn't look often look one in the eye unless they were assessing that person. Well, that, and they looked people in the eye when making a threat, or lying through their teeth. Or both.
The other commandos hadn't missed the byplay. Even Wrecker, who seemed slower on the uptake than the others, was observing him. For Quinlan, being watched nearly always meant that he or his mission was in danger, but this time . . . well, he didn't know what it meant.
This is going to take some getting used to. Guess it's first things first.
The Jedi Knight settled himself more comfortably on the crate, crossing his legs in a meditative posture. "Okay, Hunter. Fill me in."
Hunter nodded casually. "We're an experimental unit of genetically modified commandos. Wrecker's got the most obvious difference, physically. He's – strong." He cast the big clone a look. "I don't know how strong. So far. . . Last mission, a piece of durasteel the size of your starfighter almost landed on some civilians. Wrecker caught it and threw it into the Seppies' ranks."
"Took out a lot of droids," Wrecker added gleefully, cracking his knuckles.
"Yeah." Hunter smirked appreciatively, then got back to business. "Crosshair's got exceptional eyesight. He never misses. He's taken out a tactical droid with a headshot at eight kilometers."
Quinlan measured eight kilometers in his mind. Wow.
Hunter elbowed Tech, who was perched on the same crate. "Tech here is our computer specialist. His programs can get through just about anything you can think of."
"And you?" Quinlan asked, after a short pause.
Hunter shrugged. "I can feel electromagnetic impulses."
Quinlan raised a questioning eyebrow.
Hunter tilted his head to one side. "Best guess at explaining it – Cody says I can sense droids like Jedi sense lifeforms. What about you?"
"What about me?" Quinlan was occupied with wondering how any of these skills were even possible.
"What's your special skill?" Hunter asked.
The Jedi eyed him carefully. "What makes you think I have one?"
"You've never led as a general. You've been out on high-risk, high-gain missions since the beginning of the war, mostly on your own. Solo missions are dangerous, even for Jedi, and especially here . . . So you must have a special skill that makes the risk worth it."
Well, looks like these guys did their research on me. "I'm psychometric."
"Oh." Tech straightened interestedly. "Isn't psychometry exclusive to certain Kiffar?"
"As a race, yeah, but some Jedi also have the ability. I'm a psychometric Kiffar and a Jedi, which means I've got a stronger level of ability than most. It's, uh, good and bad."
"Why?" asked Crosshair abruptly.
"Uh. . . Well, to simplify, the way it works is that I touch something and try to get impressions of the last person who held or used it . . . or impressions of the last thing connected with it. Emotions, surroundings, memories, that kind of thing. I can't do it with everything, though."
"Impressions," repeated Hunter, narrowing his eyes.
Quinlan nodded. "Say someone owns a weapon, and they use it a lot, or like it a lot, or are feeling a very strong emotion when using it. I'm more likely to get an impression from that than I am from something that wasn't used much, or wasn't cared about. Force-sensitives leave stronger impressions."
"There are a good many variables, then," Tech said.
"Yeah. Too many."
Crosshair and Hunter watched him, obviously waiting for him to explain.
Quinlan frowned and fidgeted with his gloves. "The sensations can be a flicker, just enough to point me in the right direction. . . or." He shrugged. "They can be overpowering."
The last time that had happened was still fresh in his mind. The seething, jealous hate that woman had felt for her husband before she murdered him had burned in his mind for days afterwards.
He came back to the present and saw that Hunter was observing him – not cautiously or worriedly, just . . . observing.
Quinlan shifted and stood up. "So. Far as this mission is concerned, I've got to find a way into the Prince's headquarters so I can access the artifacts he already has."
Crosshair took a couple steps forward, resting the end of his long rifle on one forearm. "Cody didn't send us here to wait on the sidelines."
"He sent us here to assist the general," Hunter corrected him mildly. "If that means waiting on the sidelines, that's what you'll do."
"Aw, nuts!" Wrecker spoke under his breath, but was still clearly audible.
Crosshair switched the toothpick – when had he gotten a new one? – from one side of his mouth to the other and eyed Quinlan in an unfriendly manner.
Quinlan raised a disinterested eyebrow.
Hunter rested his chin in one hand. "Of course, Vos, we won't be of any use to you sitting here. But it's your decision."
"Right." Quinlan thought about the darkened headquarters and the sensation of being watched from the shadows. "The easiest situation would be if we could all work openly together. It would be best to get you guys hired by Vythia."
"You said she is a Nautolan?" Tech hopped down from his perch. "I'll use the ship's computer to run a search on her. Perhaps I can discover something useful about this Vythia Archane."
That . . . was actually a good idea. Quinlan nodded. "Knock yourself out, Tech."
"Hey!" protested Wrecker.
Quinlan raised a placating hand. "I just meant for him to run all the searches he wants."
" . . . Oh."
"How are we supposed to get ourselves hired?" Hunter mused. "I don't know if we can convince her that we're a team of bounty hunters. Or if she'd be willing to hire guys who were completely new to the job. We don't have any records yet."
Quinlan considered for a moment. "Well . . ." He smirked. "Best way to get hired is to get yourselves noticed. Best way to do that is to get in trouble with the authorities. Best way to do that is to wreak havoc on Grakkus the Hutt's business – which I wanted to do anyway. . ." He rested his chin in one hand. "Uh, though only on his illegal businesses, of course. So. You guys think you're up to the task?"
The commandos exchanged glances.
"Ha! Sounds like my kind of mission!" yelled Wrecker, slapping Crosshair on the back.
The sniper lurched forward a few steps and retaliated by jabbing the end of his rifle into the bigger clone's stomach.
"Our ship is named the Havoc Marauder for a reason," Hunter said coolly, but his eyes were gleaming with the challenge.
Quinlan tilted his head, curious. "Oh, yeah? Because you always cause havoc?"
"Yes and no," Tech interjected, not looking up from where he worked at something on his datapad. "Originally it was just named the Marauder. Hunter changed it to the Havoc Marauder after the Battle of Kamino."
"Ah . . ." Quinlan didn't quite see how that was relevant. "Yeah, I heard about that."
Crosshair set his rifle against the wall. "Commander Havoc died in that battle."
"Yeah." Hunter folded his arms. "He was an ARC trooper. One of the best. So, we added his name to our ship."
Quinlan sensed an unspoken story behind those words, but merely nodded.
"And, of course," Tech went on. "The commander chose his name because he always caused havoc among the droid ranks."
"And the ARC ranks," cut in Hunter with a dry smile. "And the Kaminoans."
"Ha!" Wrecker grabbed his helmet and jammed it on his head. "That's for sure."
Quinlan realized what Tech was trying to say. "And now you live up to his name."
Tech glanced briefly up from his work. "That is the general idea, yes."
Hunter drew a knife from his vambrace sheath and spun it lazily. "So . . . What kind of businesses are illegal on a place like Nar Shaddaa?"
"Eh – good point." Quinlan thought. "Anything you can get away with is technically legal here. Let's take a different route. Concentrate on the immoral instead of the illegal."
"Hmm." Hunter looked intrigued. "Give us a few hours."
