"Okay," said Vos, folding his arms. "We've got our comms linked, right?"

"Yes, sir," said Fixer. "You'll be able to hear our progress, but I recommend you don't transmit to us unless absolutely necessary."

The Jedi nodded agreeably. "Yeppers. Wouldn't want to distract you guys with my brilliant soliloquies."

Boss wasn't entirely sure what a soliloquy was, but he thought it had something to do with speaking. "Right," he said. "Inform us if you need an extraction, General."

"Oh, I won't." Vos squinted one eye shut. "Sorry. I will tell you if I need an extraction, but I won't need an extraction, so, y'know."

Boss glanced at Scorch, whose entire posture shrieked delighted confusion, then at Sev, who was alternating between wariness and amusement. That in itself was rather alarming, since Sev tended to have only a dark sense of humor.

"Anything else, sir?" Thirty-Eight asked dutifully.

Quinlan Vos stopped fiddling with his fingerless gloves and looked up. "Um – not unless you want to place some bets as to which Trade Fed is dealing with the Separatists."

"My money's on Gunray," Scorch said.

"Gunray's not even here." Sev elbowed him. "What money?"

"Eh, good point . . ."

The Jedi put on a long-sleeved robe and checked for his lightsaber. "Means you won't lose anything, anyway. Well – here comes my greeting party."

Boss and Fixer watched as the Jedi left the shuttle and approached the delegation of nobles. It was . . . strange, watching how Quinlan Vos greeted them. The Kiffar's entire deportment changed – he walked at a dignified pace, arms tucked into his wide sleeves, and wore a serious expression on his face. He reached the group and bowed to the leader, who spoke a few words. After exchanging polite words and more bows, the whole party turned and headed back toward the mansion.

"That was weird," commented Sev.

"So are you," said Scorch.

Boss eyed them. "Back to business, Deltas. Are we clear to head in?"

"Yes, sir," said Fixer. "I've got the landing pad security cameras set on a loop."

"All right, then. Let's move!"

They ran from the shuttle and sprinted down the short pathway to the information center, where Fixer set to work slicing the doorway.

"He's got a point," Scorch said randomly.

Boss checked the approach, which was empty. "Who does?"

"Vos. I mean – it is going to be a boring mission."

The security doors opened, and Boss found himself staring directly into the barrel of a super droid's blaster. He ducked beneath the gun, grabbed its arm to hold it still, and jammed his vibroblade into its head a few times.

When he finally let it fall, Scorch stepped fastidiously around the heap of sparking metal. "Wow – violent, Boss."

Boss pointed his still-extended vibroblade in Scorch's direction.

Scorch took the hint and shut up for nearly two whole minutes. At the end of that time, they'd reached the information center and killed a couple of droids apiece without setting off the alarms.

"Okay," said Boss, lowering his rifle as he observed the huge computer control center. "Fixer, get to work on this thing. Sev, watch his back. Scorch, you're with me."

"Got it, sir." Fixer promptly set down his blaster and started typing, while Sev hovered behind him, watching the two hallways that led to their position.

Boss gestured with two fingers, ordering Scorch to the left while he circled around to the right. The room was huge, but empty of occupants, droid or otherwise.

They returned to the others, and Scorch immediately said, "Hey, Sev, there's nothing to kill here. You're not gonna beat my count this time."

"Already did," Sev muttered.

"Wait, no you didn't! Every single one of us got two droids!"

"I used fewer lasers," said Sev.

"Keep it down," said Boss. He paused a moment while they glared at each other, then added, "Neither of you won."

"Sounds like nobody won," said Scorch. "Oh, well."

Fixer turned to face them and tapped his vibroblade smugly. The message was clear. He hadn't used his gun at all.

Boss smirked at Sev and Scorch's outraged posture and went back to watching the still room. Maybe Scorch was right, and it would be a boring mission . . . ah, well. You couldn't have them all.


Quinlan Vos sat at the meeting room table, hands folded beneath his chin, and stared attentively at Representative Fols, who was speaking. The tall Neimoidian hesitated every so often in his lengthy speech, seeming slightly discomfited by Quinlan's apparently unwavering focus.

Quinlan's pretended interest was quite a good act, if he did say so himself – especially since not only was he not interested, he wasn't even paying attention. He was getting the overall idea of the official's speech, but for the most part he was listening to the Deltas as they worked their way into the information center.

He'd learned several things about them so far. Boss was an absolute terror with a vibroblade – as was Fixer. The sergeant also kept his squad from talking much, although that was most likely because he knew that Quinlan could hear everything they were saying and was attempting to sound professional. He reminded Quinlan of Fox, just a bit.

Fixer was the silent type. Alternately, he wasn't the silent type and just remembered that everything they said would be heard by Quinlan. He hadn't spoken except to acknowledge orders or provide relevant information.

Scorch talked a lot and tended to come up with pretty entertaining remarks, and Quinlan was pretty sure he'd forgotten that the Jedi could hear him. Scorch's criticism of Boss' forceful takedown of the droid – the repeated slicing of metal into metal had been perfectly audible – had made Quinlan smirk. He'd quickly covered up the out-of-place expression by pretending to have something in his eye.

Sev was quieter, but he and Scorch seemed to have some sort of constant feud going on. Sev also appeared to think that Quinlan Vos was weird, as evidenced by his statement 'that was weird'. Quinlan intended to agree with him the first chance he got.

"In conclusion," the Neimoidian said, and Quinlan tuned back in. "I welcome you, Master Jedi, and hope that your visit to our headquarters here is pleasant."

The Jedi got to his feet and bowed. "Thank you for your kind words. I look forward to the forthcoming talks."

Not really, but sort of – because the sooner they arrive, the sooner they're over. . .

"Nothing here, Boss," Scorch's voice said in his ear. "Maybe we should go check the next level, scare up some opposition."

"No."

No? That was it? Quinlan smiled pleasantly at the servant who'd just handed him a drink. The various occupants of the room had begun to gather in small groups, talking amongst themselves as they waited for dinner. It was going to be a very boring evening indeed if the commandos didn't start passing him information.

He thought for a moment, then took a sip of the bubbling alcohol and tapped his transmitter to gain the Deltas' attention. "Representative Fols," he said, approaching the Neimoidian. "I'd like to know more about this deal you mentioned. Would you be willing to give me some details?"

The Neimoidian blinked, slightly taken aback, then smiled falsely. "I – of course."

"I have the information on Fols," Fixer said. "I'm going through it right now, General."

"Thank you," said Quinlan, fixing a look of sympathy on his face. "I understand that negotiations lately have been . . . complicated, given the many conflicting interests of the involved parties."

"Yes." Fols sounded depressed. "No one trusts anyone else, nowadays."

Quinlan thought about saying something vague and wise-sounding, but Fixer spoke again. "He just made a deal with Separatist leader Whorm Loathsom."

How absolutely typical. Quinlan went with the wise Jedi persona anyway. "Yes, Representative – a lack of trust in business partners is a true stumbling block on the road to success."

Scorch snorted.

There was a sharp smack of plastoid on plastoid, and Sev said, "It's not funny."

"It is," protested Scorch. "I'll bet he just made that up . . ."

"Scorch," said Boss, sounding long-suffering indeed. "He can hear you."

The shocked silence that followed implied that Scorch had, indeed, forgotten this.

The Jedi smiled and took another sip of his drink, barely realizing that Fols was speaking to him again. Strange – his vision was clouding over a bit. He blinked a couple times and checked the ambrosia in his glass, casting his Force-senses over it. He didn't sense any threat . . .

Maybe he just wasn't used to alcohol. He didn't drink it often, only in situations like this. Obi-Wan, who'd attended many important events, was the one who knew all the different . . . tastes? Flavors? He had another word for it . . . something about flowers.

"Are you all right, Master Vos?" said Representative Fols in a concerned voice.

"Bouquet," said Quinlan.

"I beg your pardon?"

Quinlan was getting dizzy. "I – think I'll sit down for a while, if you don't mind," he said politely.

"Of course." Fols gestured him to a chair in one corner, then left to speak with the other Neimoidians. Fols said something in a low voice, and two of his companions cast Quinlan short, almost expectant glances. Quinlan thought he should infer something from that. Their demeanor was very nearly . . . threatening, somehow.

"Sir?" asked Fixer. "Is something wrong?"

Fixer was a weird name. So was Boss. Why was he named Boss? Because he was in charge? Why hadn't he been named Sergeant? Maybe there were too many sergeants in the army already.

"General, can you answer?" Boss demanded.

"I'm trying to figure it out," Quinlan said impatiently. "Why . . . Boss?"

"Yes, sir."

Yes, sir? Yes, sir, what? He'd only asked why Boss was named Boss. Maybe the sergeant didn't know. Who gave him that name, anyway?

Quinlan looked up, suddenly realizing he couldn't see anything apart from a blur of color and movement. "Uhh . . . That's probably not good."

"Sev, Scorch, get over here," Boss ordered. "Fixer, get me his bios."

"On it, sir."

What was a bio? A biography? Why would they want his records? He was right here, they could just ask him.

"Why, Master Vos," said Fols' voice. "You are looking unwell."

Quinlan looked dizzily up at the closest blotch of color. "You're looking weird."

Wait – no – he probably shouldn't have said that. Diplomacy and insults didn't go together. Except for Obi-Wan.

"That can happen with too much ambrosia," Fols said. He sounded cheerful, and Quinlan knew that something was wrong. He just wasn't sure what, or what to do about it if he did know . . . kind of inconvenient.

"Don't worry," said the Neimoidian. "I'm sure you'll feel better soon. The rest of us will be in the dining hall. Please join us when you are ready."

The blur of color left.

"Sir," Fixer said urgently. "I can't get a good reading, but his heart rate's definitely too high."

"Sounds like he'll need an extraction after all," said Sev.

Quinlan thought for a moment, wondering who they were talking about. He couldn't come up with any answers, so he decided to just wait for a few minutes.

"General," said Boss. "Are you still conscious?"

Of course he was still conscious. He hadn't drunk that much – only a sip, really. He moved his hand with an effort and set the glass on the small table near him.

"We're coming in to get you. Hold on."

Well, that was strange. They weren't supposed to be seen. He opened his mouth to say as much, but couldn't quite form the words. That was . . . alarming . . .


"What do you suppose happened?" Scorch whispered, ducking back around a corner as a patrol of droids marched past.

Boss stared after the droids, trying to figure out why exactly a supposedly neutral group was using droids as open security – inside the information center didn't count – but gave it up after a few seconds. "My guess would be poison."

Sev waved them across the hall. "All clear. The room's empty, except for him."

"Good. Let's extract the general and get out."

Fixer opened the door, and the four of them walked, completely unchallenged, into the elegant hallway. Boss raised an eyebrow behind his helmet at the crystalline decorations and wondered how long they would last in a firefight. More to the point, if it came to a firefight, would shrapnel from destroyed crystalline be dangerous? "Scorch, Sev, get the general. We'll cover you."

"Three lifeforms approaching, Boss," Fixer said, turning toward the tall, paneled doors that led to the dining hall.

Boss crossed the room in four steps, ducked to the side of the door, and waited while Fixer mirrored his position.

Three Neimoidians walked in, letting the doors swing shut behind them. The lead one, who wore a crimson robe and was probably Fols, froze in shock. One finger lifted to point at Scorch and Sev, who had hoisted Vos to his feet between them.

"Clones!" he gasped.

Scorch waved a greeting with his free hand.

Fixer stepped into the Neimoidians' line of sight while Boss poked Fols in the back with his blaster. "Not a word."

"What – this is treason!"

"You're not part of the Republic," Boss said reasonably. "Get over near the wall."

"You can't do this!"

Since Boss very obviously could and was, he didn't bother answering. "Fixer, please secure our guests."

Fixer cuffed the three Neimoidians together with Fols in the middle. "Are we taking them with us?"

"No!" gasped Fols.

Boss nodded to Fixer. "We'll let General Kenobi deal with them."

Fols stared at him. "We are peaceful! We have nothing to do with the Separatists!"

With exquisite timing, a patrol of droids clanked past outside the tall, gleaming windows. Boss stared at them, then at Fols, and tilted his head pointedly.

The Neimoidian gulped.


Back on the ship, with their prisoners secured in the lower level, the four Deltas gathered in the cargo hold, where Vos was leaning back against a wall, sound asleep.

Fixer scanned him while Boss commed General Kenobi. "General. We've got the information you need – patching it through now – and a question."

"That was quick," the general congratulated. "What was your question? And how is Quinlan's mission going?"

"That was my question." Boss thought for a moment. "I'm not sure how to proceed with the mission – Vos is with us."

General Kenobi huffed in irritation. "Quinlan, you were supposed to stay with Representative Fols!"

"Representative Fols is here as well," Boss said, turning to see if Fixer had finished his scan yet. He had, and was now scanning the glass of ambrosia, which he'd grabbed on the way out.

There was a rather long pause. "Sergeant? The Force and my own good sense are telling me that I won't like the answer to this question, but – what happened this time?"

"I think Fols tried to poison the general, General." Boss hesitated at how that last sentence had sounded while Scorch snorted in the background. "Delta Forty's scanning him now."

"Got it, sir," said Fixer, approaching with the glass. "This drink contains bereglot, a form of poison fatal to most humans. It's not poisonous to Kiffar, though. Their blood is different."

"Bereglot," said General Kenobi, sounding dazed.

Fixer nodded. "However, it has been known to act as a strong hallucinogen."

"Oh, dear." There was another long pause. "And you don't know for sure whether Fols poisoned him?"

"No, sir," said Boss. "But he was at the scene, and was the only one to speak directly with the general."

"I see . . . Nevertheless, we will need proof. Where did you say Fols was, Sergeant?"

"We've got him and two others in the lower hold."

"You kidnapped them?" the general asked.

"We arrested them," Boss said.

"Informally," added Sev.

There was an intense crackle of static that eventually faded away into the end of a long, loud sigh from General Kenobi. "Trust Quinlan to start a diplomatic incident when he's not even conscious. Sergeant, hold position for now unless you are threatened. I'm on my way."

The comms clicked off with finality.

Boss shut his own comm off and looked at Scorch and Sev.

Scorch took off his helmet and tossed it onto the nearest crate. "Well, guess that's that. Anyone up for a game of sabacc?"


Two hours later, the general arrived. He landed his starfighter next to theirs, walked over to the ship, and waited politely enough for Scorch to open the door; but the minute it was open, he entered the cargo hold in a billow of robes and irritation. Folding his arms, he kindly but icily demanded, "Sergeant, where is he?"

Boss gestured to either side. "Vos is sleeping in the cockpit, Fols is still in the hold."

"I see." General Kenobi stroked his beard uncertainly. "I can hardly accuse the representative of a murder plot."

"Why not?" Scorch asked curiously.

"Well . . . " He appeared to give it some thought. "I suppose I could, but it would cause more problems than I care to deal with. I despise creating unnecessary incidents."

Sev lifted his rifle. "We could scare him into talking. The Jedi wouldn't need to be involved."

The Jedi raised both eyebrows. "No, I'm afraid that won't do at all. You are quite obviously soldiers of the Republic. Fols could always say that you intimidated him into admitting falsely to a crime."

Fixer, who stood close to the cockpit door, had been listening with his head tilted thoughtfully to one side. "We have evidence that Fols made a deal with Whorm Loathsom, sir. Wouldn't that be enough?"

General Kenobi brightened. "It would be enough to warrant further investigation, certainly. Perhaps I'll just –"

The cockpit door opened. Vos entered the room at a brisk pace, looked alertly around, and saluted Boss. "Hey, Commander. Let's get to work."

No one moved.

Vos approached Boss and snapped his fingers close to his helmet. "Hey – anyone in there? These aren't just suits of armor, are they?"

"General?" Scorch said in surprise.

Vos spun on his heel to face him. "No?"

General Kenobi put a hand to the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes. "You said that poison was bereglot, Fixer?"

"The heck is bereglot?" asked Vos. He looked down at the table and picked up Scorch's hand of cards, then leaned back against the wall and sorted them, singing under his breath.

Boss wasn't quite sure what was going on. Despite what Fixer had said, Vos didn't seem to be suffering from hallucinations – apart from mentally promoting Boss to commander.

"I'm going to look for evidence," General Kenobi said.

"We could go instead," Fixer offered, a little too quickly.

"No! Ah, much appreciated, but . . . no." The Jedi Master cast a quick look over his shoulder at Vos. "I'll be able to, ah, locate the evidence more quickly than you – and you'll need to watch the prisoners. And Quinlan."

"It won't take four of us," Scorch said optimistically.

"Not to watch the prisoners," agreed General Kenobi, already out the door. It shut behind him, and Boss looked out the viewport to see the Jedi Master literally running for the information center.

He and Fixer exchanged concerned glances at the sudden burst of speed.

Vos flung the cards down. "I win. Want to go another round?"

". . . Sure?" Scorch sat down across from him and reshuffled the cards.

The Jedi watched, apparently alert, though his eyes were brighter than they should have been. Then again . . . he hadn't acted all that normal before he was drugged, so Boss couldn't really say whether Vos was acting out of character or not.

Remembering Scorch's earlier words, he sighed. Boring mission – right.


I feel like this is sort of repeating my plot with Obi-Wan . . . Oh, well . . . :D

Obi-Wan, to Fixer and Boss: Bereglot? You don't say . . .

Obi-Wan, internally: wondering how fast he can get off-planet and leave the commandos with Quinlan.

One might say he's had former experience with this. :)