Author's Note: As promised, we have now diverged from a linear timeline. This story is set roughly two years or so into Fynta's Epoch career. Yes, they are apparently sleeping together, no I haven't quite figured out how that happened, but I'm sure it'll make a fun story when I do. This oneshot has actually been floating around for a while, I just finally got around to editing it. I wanted to explore how Fynta might have gotten her infamous tattoo. Also, I'm a sucker for chance, past meetings. I may or may not add this into Family is more than Blood. Honestly, I'm still on the fence. Regardless, hope you all enjoy.

Warning: References to torture, senseless murder, and plenty of violence.

3646 BBY
Republic Space Station

Theron paced out his nervous energy while Fynta watched. He had yet to look up from his datapad. As many times as he'd read that file, Fynta was amazed he didn't have it memorized by now. Still, she remained quiet, sitting on the bed with her legs crossed under her, with chin propped in her hands. Fynta's flight left in thirty minutes, and Theron was wasting valuable time pouring over deals to an op he had no part in. Finally, he stopped and rounded on her, "I don't like."

Fynta raised an eyebrow. "Well, that's nice, but you're not supposed to."

Theron snorted and resumed pacing. "This should go to another agent. You're too young," he growled at last.

Fynta rolled her eyes. "Theron, I'm twenty-two, an old maid by my own Mando standards." He glared at her as he made another pass. He'd never let her age be an issue during their frequent post mission debriefs. Fynta had only been twenty when that started. Seeing that her argument did nothing to soothe his annoyance, she sighed. "Look, I'm only telling you because you're my handler, and I'd like someone to know where I am if things go bad."

Theron stopped and held out his arms. "That's the thing, Fynta. I can't pull you out if things go sideways. Not on Ilum. Republic personnel are expressly prohibited. Not to mention going through Orvax IV. Whose brilliant idea was that?"

"Mine," she said simply. "Moff Trenton likes to shop there."

Shan's brown eyes shone with anger, even if his voice stayed calm. "How many agents know about it?"

"Four, I made sure to keep this one close." Fynta uncurled herself from a sitting position and moved to his side, reaching over his elbow to scroll to the flight time. Then, raising another eyebrow at him, continued on in a strictly business like tone. "I've got a contact that says this ship is scheduled to be hit by slavers bound for Orvax IV. I need to be on that shuttle, Theron."

He frowned at the screen. "A contact?"

Fynta grinned and patted his shoulder. "You aren't the only one with a handy Twi'lek on the side, Shan."

That remark pulled a full on scowl from the man, maybe bringing Teff'ith into this was pushing it a little too far. She wasn't even supposed to know about his Twi'lek side project anyway. Theron stared at Fynta for a few more seconds, then closed his eyes and reached into his jacket pocket. "Here," he said, holding out a ticket. When his eyes opened again, there was a grim determination in them. "I don't like sending you in there. Moff Trenton is a monster."

Fynta plucked the ticket from his fingers and grabbed her bag. "I've handled monsters before." With her hand on the doorknob, she looked back at the SIS agent. "I'll see you after?" He didn't speak, merely nodded. Fynta had a feeling she would need Theron once she was done with this one. If she survived.

Aric Jorgan prided himself on his skill as a sniper, but a sniper was only as good as his spotter, and the Deadeye's newest recruit was as fine a spotter as the Cathar had seen. He just needed a little guidance, which was why Lieutenant Vorne had partnered the two together. Jorgan had just made executive officer in the elite sniper squad, and he held that position with pride. Which was why it irritated him so much when the young, brunette naval officer slipped her hand into his while he was on the way to the debrief.

"Fancy meeting you here, Sergeant," Synmari crooned. "How long will you be in? I ship out again tomorrow."

As tactfully as he could, Jorgan pulled from her grasp and nodded to a passing officer, he didn't know the man's name, but they'd been nodding to one another for a few years now. "I'm not sure," he answered once the man was out of earshot.

Ensign Synmari Daplo was an attractive woman by anyone's standards. She had shoulder length brown hair, big hazel eyes, and pouty lips. Her skin was light brown and smooth to the touch. Were they not in uniform and walking through a military outpost, Jorgan may have taken her up on the implied offer. As it was, he had duties to attend to; and a reputation to uphold. "Torv and I are scheduled for a debriefing, I can comm you when it's over, if it isn't too late."

Synmari pressed plump lips into a thin line and the softer aspects of her face grew harsh. "Sure. If not, I'll see you in three months." Jorgan stopped when she turned sharply and marched off towards the battle cruiser she was stationed on. With a sigh, he realized he'd somehow given the wrong answer. Again.

Torv was waiting outside Lieutenant Vorne's office with a boyish grin. He'd leaned himself against the wall with his arms crossed, tilting slightly to the left to look around Jorgan at Syn's retreating form. "Hey, she's not half bad, Sergeant. I never considered you for the fraternizing type."

As a general rule, Jorgan considered his love life off limits, however, since his spotter was so keen to speak his mind, the Cathar figured he could at least set the boy straight. "She's navy, we're army. Perfectly acceptable."

Torv held his hands up in mock surrender, but the grin stayed fixed. "I wasn't objecting. Hope I can find me a piece like that. Anyway, you ready?"

Unclenching the fingers that Jorgan hadn't realized he'd squeezed into fists, he forced a calming breath. "Let's go."

Orvax IV

So far so good. I've gotten myself caught by shabbing slavers. Fynta stood in a line with the other women, stripped down to her underwear, and shaking with fear in a humid room with bland metal walls. She'd spent the last six months eating only enough calories to keep her body from shutting down, forcing herself into the scrawny thing she now appeared as. Slaves shouldn't have well defined muscles or proper body fat unless they were male. Females were malnourished, too weak to fight back, and terribly thin. It was uncomfortable, looking down and being able to see her hip bones and ribs, but now she blended in with the other women on the slave planet, which meant she would spend less time in reconditioning.

Fynta's target, Moff Trenton, had an affinity for fiery blonds and lethans. Those were rare, so as long as the slavers didn't find any of the red skinned Twi'leks, her chances of catching the man's eye when he came shopping were pretty high. The timing had to be perfect though, which was why her current appearance was so important. If she were held up anywhere in the process, she might miss her mark, then Fynta would be in deep osik.

A woman towards the front of the line screamed as the T'surr guard grabbed her by the hair and dragged her from the line. The blue skinned beast held her black hair in one of his four hands, while another grasped the woman's upper arm. He shoved her down on her knees roughly in front of a higher ranking male, even bigger, probably two and a half meters tall, and snarled.

The dominant T'surr wore a red cape over his shoulders, marking his rank as a warden. He regarded the woman with all four of his solid red eyes, then sniffed the air around her. Bared a mouthful of razor sharp teeth in an unspoken command, the one who had presented her pulled a blaster and fired it into the back of her head.

Another guard cracked a whip, and the women surged forward, being herded into the next room for the subsequent inspection. A few had begun to sob quietly as they filed passed the woman sprawled across the filthy floor. Fynta would find out later that her only crime had been that she was pregnant. Pregnant slaves didn't bring in enough credits. Fynta forced herself to look at the woman's face, a grim reminder of why she was doing this in the first place. Moff Trenton was one of the biggest slave traders in the Empire, and she was going to watch his empire burn.

Coruscant

Theron Shan had been an absolute nightmare over the last several weeks. He was obsessed with the op being carried out by one of his agents, a sergeant by the name of Fynta Wolfe, part of the joint military/SIS squad Epoch. Being a tech meant that Liam Vanshi got all the goods, even the ones he wasn't supposed to have. He had to admit though, while Theron's constant hovering made reporting back to command more difficult, it gave Liam the an excuse to watch for updates. He was sitting on a bombshell. A collar like this could skyrocket his career in Imperial Intelligence. Only problem being, no one had seen fit to write down who the target was. Only that she was targeting slavers.

"Got anything?" Theron asked, leaning a hand beside Liam's terminal.

"Not yet, sir," he answered, his Imperial accent completely indistinguishable from the Republic one he now slipped into effortlessly. It had taken three years to get into this chair. Three years of looking over his shoulder, while he siphoned off minute threads of encoded data to reassemble in his nominal free time, and transfer to command back on Dromund Kaas. It was exhausting work, but if he could figure out this puzzle . . . well, the opportunities were limitless. "Who's her target? Maybe I can keep an eye out for the guy's transport."

Theron shook his head, "Even I don't know that. Just that he's bad news." The man sighed and rubbed his free hand down his face. "Alright, let me know as soon as you have anything."

"Understood, sir," Liam responded, watching the man walk from the room. He was lying, of course. Theron knew exactly who she was after. Pretty soon, Liam would too.

Orvax IV

Fynta spun around and landed on her face on the dirty floor. She was laughing, mostly because it annoyed the T'surr guard even more, and she had a show to put on. Moff Trenton's henchman had finally shown up for their next haul of slaves and word had it they were looking for girls for the fighting pits. Well, fighting was something Fynta excelled at, though, she was taking a gamble on pissing off the guard. It could either show her spunky side, or it could make her look like too much of a handful. Meaning she had to fight back with her mouth, not her fists, not that she could take him. The creature was huge.

Pushing up to her knees, Fynta sat back on her feet, and gave him a bloody smile. "That all you got?" She climbed to her feet and swayed side to side, refusing to give the T'surr the satisfaction of knowing he'd dazed her. "Maybe try three hands next time."

He snarled and took three steps towards her.

"Stop!"

Both the T'surr guard and Fynta turned towards the Chiss male looking down from the observation floor. He stared at her with creepy red eyes that looked so much like her mentor's, then waved a hand. "She will do." The guard hissed, baring needle-like teeth in protest, and the Chiss raised a hand casually. "Be still, my friend, she will be punished for her insolence."

"Her eyesssss," it hissed in substandard Basic, flashing a garish smile as he loomed over Fynta. "Give me her insssolensssse eyesssss."

Shab.

"Perhaps." The Chiss considered Fynta while he stroked his chin. "I may have a better idea. My master prefers his women to be unique." Turning to walk back towards the door, he called over his shoulder, "Make her pretty."

A large hand closed over Fynta's head, blue fingers just missing her eye and digging into the bridge of her nose. Then she was dragged backwards into the unknown. A cold fear settled in her stomach, sending electricity up her spine. She barely saw the grimy cages filled to the brim with equally dirty women as her imagination ran wild with ideas of what might be to come. Then, Fynta was being pulled through the men's block, where they sat in chains, not cages, but were equally hopeless. More T'surr guards were starting to take notice, then following behind out of curiosity, elbowing one another and nodding in her direction.

Fynta felt her feet lift off the floor, then she slammed into a chair hard enough to take her breath away. A heavy leather strap folded over her torso, locking her arms by her side. Her head swam from the impact, making everything slightly blurry, until the other T'surr started crowding around, all gurgling and hissing excitedly to one another.

The guard Fynta had initially insulted ran a fat finger down the right of her face and neck. He leaned in, close enough for her to smell the rot on his breath. "Such pretty eyessss."

Coruscant

Liam was watching the entire thing over the cameras that he'd patched into. The idiots here thought he was a technical genius, wouldn't it be funny to see their faces if they found out that he simply had to proper codes? He was passable with tech, and his implants made up for the rest. But, his true talent was in the art of deception. Liam could lie through his arse with the best of them, and he was a generally likeable guy. People didn't look too closely at the activities of likable people. Especially when they pulled off impossible miracles. Like patching into the security cameras on Orvax IV.

He had to give it to the woman on the screen, she could take a hit. Specialist Wolfe didn't cry out when the T'surr started cutting into her face with that ancient, and likely filthy, tattoo machine. Theron, on the other hand, was gripping the back of Liam's chair so tightly that he thought for sure the whole thing was going to flip backwards.

"Who did she snag?" The man asked through gritted teeth. Shan had never devoted this much anger to any of his contacts. Liam got the impression there might be something going on between the two, and filed it away for use down the road.

Leaning closer to his second screen, Liam squinted at the image of the well-known Chiss. Theron remained focused on the feed that showed Fynta Wolfe, as the hulking guards clambered around her. There were still those out there who liked to mark the bodies of their slaves, just so the slave never forgot that they were no more than property. Liam knew for a fact that this particular Moff was one of them.

"Looks like Trenton," Liam finally answered after the allotted time of examination.

Theron sighed and leaned back, "She got her man." A small smile threatened to give Liam away, he knew Theron had been lying.

When he turned back to the screen, the T'surr were laughing, beginning to disperse, while the woman hunched in the chair. The two remaining guards grabbed her upper arms and hauled Wolfe to her feet. She swayed, then bent to retch. Straightening again, she wiped her mouth just as one of the T'surr backhanded her hard enough to knock the woman off her feet again. Probably for making a mess on his boots. Shows over Shan. Liam used the implant in his right eye to activate the virus he'd implanted in the system, and the cameras all cut out just as the guard was tossing Wolfe over his shoulder.

"What happened?" Theron growled.

Liam typed across the console in a flurry, adding lines of code that he knew wouldn't counteract the virus he'd put in. Orvax IV needed to remain a somewhat secret, couldn't have the SIS going back without him to have a look at their operations. "Looks like they've caught on and locked me out. I'll keep working on it."

Theron rubbed his eyes and muttered something to himself before removing his weight from Liam's backrest, allowing him to sit up properly at last. "Fine, let me know when you do."

"Yes, sir," Liam replied. That would never happen of course, because his codes were now useless. Not that it mattered, he now knew who her target was.

Waiting until the man left the room was the most difficult task. It was risky, but Liam activated the Deadzone protocol, shutting out all audio and visual into the room, and opened up his encrypted line to Keeper. "What is it, Cipher?" The bald man asked in the same bored tone as always.

Liam had two minutes before the program attracted the attention of other techs. "Target acquired."

"Go on," the man said in his ear. That particular implant, the one placed directly behind his eardrum, hidden behind the comms device, had hurt like hell. It was new tech, ever updating, and it cut out the need for encrypted holo receivers, which were bulky and obvious.

"Ilum, Moff Trenton. Slave named Nela Toyorla." He glanced over his shoulder; thirty seconds left. "Cipher out."

Republic Space Station

"You understand your orders, Sergeant?" Lieutenant Vorne asked. He was an exceptional commander, though he'd been talking about retirement more and more lately. The man was getting up there in years. He'd finally given up on his thinning hairline last year and shaved his head; the hair never grew back.

"Affirmative, sir,' Jorgan replied. He was standing in Vorne's office alongside Torv to receive orders for their next target, while the man sifted through the holodisks on his desk. A rogue SIS agent was selling intel to a Moff on Ilum, and had to be stopped. The information had just come the lieutenant's desk that morning, and Vorne was moving them out immediately.

This wasn't Jorgan's first friendly target, but it still made his gut twist every time. That, and the file said it was a woman. He'd taken out a female Imperial general once, but something primal in him still railed against the idea of shooting women.

"Good, the SIS needs this done quietly, son. You understand that, right?" Vorne asked again. Jorgan nodded, and Vorne waved his hand. "Alright, dismissed."

"This is why I can't stand the SIS," Torv grumbled as they walked back towards the barracks to gather their gear. "No one should have that much access to government secrets until they are military. And a woman at that." He snorted. "Hope she isn't attractive."

Jorgan glanced at his spotter in his peripheral. Torv was a twenty-one year old kid who had a bit of a temper, and a lot of opinions on things. Granted, Aric didn't exactly have a reputation for being laid back, but he knew when to shut his mouth. Torv was still in the training process for that particular skill. So far, the kid seemed alright, and he had an impeccable eye for direction and velocity. For that, Jorgan tolerated the constant chatter.

Jorgan checked his chrono, "Attractive or not, we ship out in two hours, make sure you're ready." Torv nodded and broke off to pack, while the Cathar went to make arrangements for transportation.

The last two friendly targets had been SIS too, leaked information usually came from their department. A person can only lie and steal for so long until it became a permanent part of them. Actually, Jorgan pitied them. That was no kind of life. He enjoyed the simplicity of being a soldier, finding his target, completing the mission, and going home with a clean conscience knowing that he'd made the galaxy a little safer.

An hour later, the two snipers were on a Republic transport along with a squad of commandos bound for the Outer Rim. The four man squad glanced over from time to where Jorgan sat with his sniper rifle, and Torv with his gadgets. They both wore lighter armor for mobility, and the commandos found it hilarious. It was fairly easy to ignore, given that Jorgan needed to figure out how to identify their target. He had a name, Nela Toyorla, and a vague description: blond, blue eyes, and the Moff liked to fight her during the day and bed her at night.

Suppressing a shiver, Jorgan forced himself to stay focused on the aspects that would help them recognize her, instead of what kind of a person would trade their government, and body, to a man like Trenton. The file said she might have recently acquired a new facial tattoo in order to obscure her features. Problem was, no one knew what it was, and there wasn't an image of her in the file. That usually meant she went deep, which also meant she had access to the worst kinds of secrets.

Finally, a large man swaggered over and put his hands on his hips, looking down at the two men on the bench. "Snipers, right?"

"What of it?" Torv shot back, tensing immediately in response to the commando's aggressive posture.

"It's just nice to meet a couple of ya. You know, because we infantry guys never get to see you. Not when you're hiding in your perches, picking your targets off nice and easy," the man sneered. "Must be nice when the targets don't shoot back."

"You want to—"

Jorgan cut Torv off with a look, then stared back up at the man. "Now you've seen us." He wasn't about to get into a fight with an army grunt who's body mass was probably the only reason he'd made it into SpecForce to begin with. These infantry commandos weren't known for having a lot between their ears.

The man snorted, "Yeah, now I have." He turned on his heel and wandered back over to his squad, who all burst into laughter, leaning around to make insinuating gestures at Jorgan and Torv.

"I can take them from here, sir," Torv muttered.

Jorgan just barely resisted a smile, and shook his head. "We'll save their asses one day. Then they'll be grateful." His datapad chirped, and he reached around to unhook it from his belt right as the ship dropped out of hyperspace. It was a message from Synmari: We need to talk, call me back as soon as you can. S.

The Cathar swore silently, he'd never managed to rendezvous with her before she left port, something she was clearly angry about it. Surely she didn't expect an answer right before an op. Granted, Jorgan hadn't told her he'd be out of contact, but she shouldn't be surprised. His missions were top secret. Closing the message, he hooked the datapad back on his belt. They could talk later.

The marque switched on to announce they'd arrived at Ilum, so Jorgan and Torv collected their gear and made for the shuttle bay. As they passed, one of the commandos cupped his hands to his mouth, "Don't miss!" Another round of laughter rolled through the men, while Torv began muttering again.

Ilum

I can't pull you out if things go bad. Theron's warning had been echoing in her ears for two weeks. About the time that Moff Trenton decided he was no longer interested in her services. Fynta had been here for three months, seeing to the needs of the Moff and his son. They liked to watch her fight in their arena. Men, other women, animals; the opposition was only getting more deadly. Then she'd fight a different kind of animal at night. It scared her sometimes that she wasn't insane. Did that mean that somewhere, deep inside, she enjoyed it? One of them had called on her every night for nearly two and half months, then nothing. Something was wrong.

"Nela?" It was one of the other women, a few years older than herself, but just as fiery.

It was always odd being addressed by a name that wasn't hers, but after the first week, it became easier. "What is it, Jaka?" Fynta asked in a curt tone, simply because that was her persona here. In truth, she liked the woman.

"You've been ordered to the pits. Come on, time to suit up again. You're getting flabby," Jaka said with a wink. Fynta nodded and followed, concerned that the tension had grown, instead of dissolved at her sudden summoning.

By the time they made it to the armory, Fynta was so wound up that she was almost dancing on the balls of her feet. Something's wrong. The thought was in her brain the moment she stepped through the door and realized the racks were empty. "What—" Fynta never finished the sentence. Something hard slammed into the back of her skull, knocking her to the floor.

Nausea warred with Fynta's instinct to get back to her feet, and darkness was clouding the edges of her vision. Jaka squatted next to her, green eyes glittering. "It was you, or me, sweetheart." The woman stood and strode from the room. "Trenton wants her on the block."

The block. Shab.

One man grabbed Fynta's arms, wrenching them up behind her back hard enough to make her cry out. There wasn't time for fear to turn to panic, because the man laughed, pulling harder. This time she refused to make a sound. His partner stepped around in front of her and ran his blade across her silk shirt, cutting fabric and skin alike. "I think she's underdressed. Let's make her look pretty for the Moff first." His knife trailed down the sleeve of her right arm, letting the fabric fall away.

After taking a moment to admire his work, he nodded to the other man. "Let's see what the dancers have for her." Fynta managed one good glob of spit to the smiling man's face before her capture yanked her head back by her hair.

Ilum
North End of Moff Trenton's Compound

Torv squirmed next to Jorgan while they lay on their stomachs. They'd been here for thirteen days, still waiting for their target to show. Jorgan had spent most of the time looking down his scope. Blonde hair, blue eyes, tan skin, possible facial tattoo. No other description and no image. Jorgan had taken out targets with as little information before, but half the damn women in this compound were blonde and who was he to decide whether one was tan or not?

There was one in particular that had shown promise. Torv had spotted her a couple of days ago, a woman who fit the description, but had a way of keeping herself hidden, even when out in the open. Jorgan hadn't managed to get a look at her, much less a shot, only fleeting glimpses. There was a tattoo, blue, around her right eye, but that was all the detail he got. Her casual movements, and ability to remain concealed, smacked of SIS training. Training so ingrained that she seemed to do it almost unconsciously.

If Jorgan had to put money on a target, she would be his pick. Which Torv didn't appreciate, because he assured Jorgan that the woman he'd seen was indeed, attractive.

An alarm blared, shattering the morning silence, sending flocks of birds screaming to the skies. So loud that Jorgan ducked his head, pressing an ear close to his shoulder to block out some of the sound. Pulling himself together, Jorgan searched through his scope.

No guards were storming the hills, and the sky was devoid of fighters, which meant Jorgan and Torv hadn't been spotted. These alarms were for another purpose. Torv shoved his shoulder, and the Cathar glanced over to see his spotter pointing and yelling, but Jorgan couldn't hear him over the sirens. Tracking with his scope to where the man was motioning, he saw the large, ornate doors open into the fighting pit. Jorgan realized this was a call to the people that the show was about to begin, not a warning of an intruder. Only, he and Torv had been privy to several fights, meaning this must be something special.

Just as suddenly, everything grew quiet again, and Jorgan could hear the crack of a whip over the ringing in his ears. Guards were hauling a slave out in chains, blond hair thrown over her face, as the men shoved her forward. She stumbled and hit a stone pillar, sliding down to her knees, and swearing in a dialect that Jorgan didn't recognize.

One man walked up behind her, using his body to shove her into the pillar again, while the other wrapped her chains around it and secured them on the other side. She was wearing only scraps of white silk, some already stained with blood, and when she threw her head back into the mouth of the man behind her, Jorgan caught a hint of a tattoo through the veil of her hair. The guard stumbled backwards, holding his mouth, then lunged forward to drive his fist into her right kidney. She growled through gritted teeth and sagged against her chains.

"Sir." Torv's voice nearly made Jorgan jump, he'd been so focused on the scene playing out in front of him. "You think that's her?"

Jorgan continued to watch in silence as a red skinned Sith Pureblood in deep purple robes stepped up with a whip. The people bore witness, so silent in their captivation that Jorgan swore he could the woman's gasp when it snapped through the air, biting into her exposed back. She yelled unintelligible insults over her shoulder, taunting the man. The whip struck her again, and the woman turned her face against the pillar and snarled.

This whole situation felt off. If that woman was their traitor, then wouldn't she be too valuable an asset to publicly flog? Unless she'd outlived her usefulness. Still, that seemed unlikely. Jorgan ran over the details of the target's file in his mind again as the whip snapped twice more.

Jorgan's heart pounded with adrenaline and anger as he sighted up, putting one of her dark blue eyes in his crosshairs. "That look like a woman who's selling out her government?" He asked Torv, honestly curious about the young man's opinion on the matter.

Torv was silent for a long time, staring down the monocular. "No, sir," he finally replied. "She's being punished."

Jorgan agreed. Traitors were publicly flogged, thieves even, but not potentially beneficial allies. Whatever intel might have said, Jorgan's gut told him this woman hadn't betrayed the Republic. She'd betrayed the Moff. With a sigh the Cathar looked over at his spotter. "I don't feel right about this mark." It was a warning, an opportunity for Torv, who would likely go down with him, to object. To tell Jorgan to do his duty.

Instead, the young man leaned closer to his monocular. "What about the bastard swinging the whip?"

That meant Torv agreed, and was willing to take the risk to do the right thing. So, Jorgan lined up the shot. "Yeah, I could do that."

Taking a deep breath, counting heartbeats, holding in between the third and fourth, Jorgan squeezed the trigger. The man's head snapped back in a red mist. He stood suspended in a moment in time, then his body collapsed, and the guards went mad. Blaster bolts tore into the crowd and through the air in all directions.

The woman had her head down, hanging from her bonds to get as low as she could, out of the line of fire. Jorgan couldn't go after her, but if he shot the chains, she might make it out. The stone pillar could shatter, of course, sending pieces into her arms and hands, but that had to be better than her current situation. The next shot was less precise, took less time, but the chains exploded all the same. Then Jorgan was forced to focus on the guards advancing on them, his second shot having given away their position.

Torv pulled his own weapon as they ran, returning fire. When Jorgan looked back to check on the woman, she was gone. If she were an agent worth her salt, she'd find a way home. Right now, Jorgan needed to focus on getting this twenty-one year old kid out of here in one piece.

Ilum Spaceport

The place was in an uproar, making it easy for Fynta to slip through the spaceport, even in blood stained silk that barely covered her body. Everything ached; her head from the Keldabe kiss, her body from their rough treatment while they changed her clothes, and the subsequent beating she took when she fought back. It had been a distinct pleasure to see Moff Trenton's head split open, while his brains leaked onto his precious, imported tile dais, though. His empire was burning now, even if it hadn't been Fynta who set the fire.

Focusing on the task at hand, Fynta knew she needed to move quickly if she was going to get off world before they shut down the spaceport, meaning she needed a ship. She took a look down at herself, and realized she had a little to work with. The Moff's desire for a fighter had put meat and muscle back on her, meaning Fynta didn't look like a half starved slave anymore. Ripping away the torn and worst stained pieces of her outfit, Fynta did her best to sort herself, smoothing her tangled hair into a manageable mess, and stalked up to the first pilot she found.

He was a Twi'lek, a dark blue male around forty, old enough by far to be her father by Mandalorian standards. Then again, Moff Trenton had been nearly old enough to be her grandfather.

Squaring her shoulders, Fynta approached the man with an added swing in her step. "Pardon me, good sir." She put a light hand on his arm, bringing the man's wide, green eyes up to meet hers. "Any chance I can barter passage off this rock?" He looked her up and down, settling on the torn pieces of fabric. "There are many services I can offer to pay my way."

The pilot held Fynta's gaze for a few seconds, searching her face for something, then his hand came up to pat hers. "I'm sure I can find something for you, young one." His voice was gentle and kind. "First, we must find you some decent clothing."

Turning away from Fynta, the Twi'lek nodded towards a small freighter. "Go on, get aboard before someone sees you." His kindness was almost overwhelming. When she looked back, the pilot was checking over his boxes. "Those have been checked, want to grab a couple on your way in?"

Fynta smiled, and picked up two of the boxes, maybe her luck had finally changed. Maybe she'd managed to find the one decent man on this entire shabbing rock. Which reminded her, in all the rushing about, she hadn't stopped to consider her escape. How had her chains broken?

Fynta sat the box down, nothing for the first time that her hands were bleeding. They were coated in stone dust, and embedded with shrapnel. The rock had blown apart between her hands, her chains dangling from her wrists. Snipers. There weren't any other possibilities. She'd been rescued by a shabbing sniper, and she had no clue why.

Republic Space Station

"You're a damn fool, Aric Jorgan!" Lieutenant Vorne slammed his datapad down on his desk with enough force to make the Cathar wince. He'd heard the man shouting orders on a battlefield, but he'd never been on the receiving end of his wrath. Still, Jorgan stood straight and stared at a fixed point on the far wall. The older man put his hands on his hips and shook his head. "What were you thinking?"

"Our intelligence was faulty, sir," he answered simply.

Vorne looked at Jorgan for a long time before pressing. "Care to explain that?"

Jorgan resisted the shiver than tried to crawl up his spine. That woman was brave, she'd faced her punishment for whatever crime the Moff had condemned her, and she'd railed against it. He wasn't sure exactly how to explain it to the war veteran in front of him, though. So, Jorgan cleared his throat and stuck to the facts. "Sir, we were told that we were going in to take out an SIS agent who was leaking Republic intel to the Empire. What we encountered was a woman being punished and publicly humiliated."

Jorgan finally pulled his eyes back to the lieutenant, meeting the man's angry stare. "Seems an odd way to treat someone feeding you information, doesn't it?"

"That is not your call, Sergeant," Vorne said in a voice shaking with anger. "I've got a kriffing mountain of paperwork to fill out, and both politicians and SIS blowing up my holo because you went soft on a target." Vorne came around the desk and put a finger to Jorgan's chest. "If you weren't such a damn fine sniper, Jorgan, I'd have you stripped of your rank and thrown out of the Deadeyes. If you ever disobey one of my orders again, I'll see your career in the latrine. Am I clear, soldier?"

"Yes, sir," Jorgan replied, forcing another swallow through a dry throat.

Vorne rubbed an age spotted hand over his face and turned back to his desk. "You're on guard duty until further notice, you and Torv both. Dismissed."

Jorgan nodded, doing his best to make a casual retreat. He stopped outside to take a shaky breath, then his datapad chirped with an incoming message from Synmari. Jorgan stifled a groan. Having never gotten back to her, it didn't surprise the Cathar when he opened it to find that she had decided to terminate their relationship, although a few of the things she had to say were a bit harsh.

Jorgan hung the device back on his belt, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Honestly, after the day he'd had, the Cathar was fine with swearing off women altogether.

Coruscant

It had been a long day. The news had come in three hours earlier. Moff Trenton was dead, killed by the sniper Liam had sent to kill the Republic agent. Trenton had known Wolfe was a mole, and while Liam knew the sick old man liked his toys, keeping her his house was downright reckless. Apparently, so was trusting Republic sniper squads to do their jobs.

Everyone was in an uproar. The SIS wanted to know why a valuable data asset had been executed prematurely, and the politicians wanted to know what Republic troops were doing on Ilum soil, even if they denied the incident completely. And Theron kriffing Shan had vanished as soon as it all went down. Who knows where the man went to? He was a ghost when he felt like it.

Pushing open the door to his lavishly decorated apartment, Liam went immediately to the whiskey. He poured a short, fat glass, and tipped it back, swallowing in one gulp. The alcohol burned down his throat and into his gut, causing him to screw his eyes shut. He savored the brief buzz he experienced just before his chemical detection implants kicked in and injected a scrubber into his blood.

Just like that, Liam was sober again. That was one of the things they never warned you about at the academy. The inability to get drunk. It was a crying shame, because Liam was at his best when he was drunk, or he had been, once.

A sharp pain stabbed in his ear, followed immediately by the piercing chirp of his encrypted link. Keeper wanted a word. No matter how many times he did it, Liam still felt like an idiot standing in the middle of his living room talking to himself. "Cipher Eight," he answered, slipping into his Imperial accent again.

"You've been a busy boy," the man answered in that same dry tone. "I assume you've heard?"

"Yeah, about three hours ago. Target got away."

"She did. Moff Trenton was a fool, but he was a powerful name. Any idea where those snipers came from? We know it was republic ordinance," Keeper asked as if he already knew the answer.

Liam's choices were to come clean, or risk a lie, save his own skin, and hope Keeper bought his bluff. He'd covered his trail well enough, sending the orders through an Outer Rim general of no consequence.

Liam smiled at his reflection in the mirror that hung above the fireplace. "No idea. Moff Trenton has been on the Republic watch list for five years. Their agent got intel out before she vanished, I'm guessing the lead agent sent in a cleanup crew to extract her." He paused, pouring another glass, and swirling the amber liquid. "Trenton stopped being discreet a few years back, he did this to himself, sir."

Keeper was silent for a while, then he sighed. "Indeed. Carry on. Keeper out."

The call ended with a sharp pang in his ear, though he'd mastered hiding the wince that used to follow it. Liam tipped the glass back again, and floated with a crooked smile for thirty-two seconds. He'd survived again, because no one was better at lying out their arse he was.

Republic Space Station

Fynta thanked the Twi'lek pilot for the clothes again as she stepped off the ramp onto the Republic space station. He'd fed her and treated her like an honored guest. Even showed her photos of his wife and daughter, all without ever asking about her disheveled arrival on his ship. It had been nice to grab a quick shower, somehow feeling cleaner when she stepped out of the rusty freighter refreshers than she ever had in the lavish tiled showers on Ilum. The rough coveralls were far more comfortable than any of her silk shirts.

Fynta nodded to the guards as she walked through, her head down, but she saw them. A young man with dark hair and a scowl, the other much taller, his full helmet concealing his features. Neither of them acknowledged her as she boarded the lift along with fifteen others bound for the main floor. Fynta kept her hood pulled up on the tunic the pilot had given her until she was upstairs at the rendezvous in the cantina.

As Fynta slid into the seat, she lowered the cover, and leaned back with her eyes closed. The air smelled of industrial oil and that almost stale smell of fatigues from the other officers surrounding her. No one bothered to ask who she was or where she'd come from. Besides, the bar keep knew Fynta well enough, and if he didn't mind her in his establishment, no one else would object.

Fynta was nearly asleep when someone slid into the booth beside her. "Not sure I like the new look."

A smile spread across her face as she looked over at Theron. "Really? It's kind of growing on me." She was now the proud owner an incredibly recognizable, target shaped tattoo that nearly encircled her entire right eye. Those T'surr had a sick sense of humor. He said he wanted to make sure everyone noticed her pretty eyes. Well, a target around one of them would sure as shab do that. Sure, she could have it removed, but Fynta wasn't lying when she said she was starting to like it. Even if she couldn't explain why.

Theron was scowling at her, blinking at odd intervals, meaning he was performing some scan or another with those freakish implants. Every now and then, Fynta liked to rub her fingers over them, just because they fascinated her. Unfortunately, they also appalled her.

"You okay?" Theron asked after a while, slipping an arm around her shoulders, apparently satisfied that she wasn't hemorrhaging internally or about to go homicidal.

"Yeah, I'll be fine." Fynta closed her eyes again and took a deep breath, reveling in the familiar warmth of his touch. Making her feel safe for the moment, almost normal. She didn't lean into him or swoon, simply sat there and let her humanity return, one breath at a time.

Mando'a:

shab - excrement (used as a curse)

Keldabe Kiss - slang term for a kov'nyn, a Mandalorian headbutt. Usually performed with a helmet, a kov'nyn could either be employed to cause injury to an opponent in unarmed combat, or in a gentler capacity between two Mandalorians as an armored greeting, contributing to the "Keldabe kiss" nickname.

osik [OH-sik] dung

Other Languages:

Kriff or Kriffing: a vulgar expletive