Throughout the entirety of human history, independent of culture or period, there is one trade always in high demand, with just a few professionals with all the skills and talent required to hold the title of Courtesan.
You see, it's more than sex. Yes, sex is always in high demand, but if you are a Courtesan, sex is just one of the crafts in which you excel.
Highly educated, sharp-minded, able to please and charm a person in a variety of ways.
Courtesans are a whole experience.
Most have a passion for the arts (and some are even accomplished artists), good taste in all things. Can talk politics, are well informed, and are able to hold a conversation with anyone.
They come with status, influence, and a guaranteed satisfaction over investment.
Entertainment machines.
Naturally, such rare (and coveted) gemstones would surely need protection. The universe is not a safe place, and living off powerful people's desires can often be a dangerous endeavor.
Enter the Girl: Black Ops Special Agent Fer-de-Lance. Went to the moon. Spies on people. Fell for an alien (once upon a time). Field Surgeon. Cat mom. Currently infiltrated as a mercenary.
(You know her, The Girl).
The kind of girl that could deal with whatever curve ball life threw her way (or so she thought). Until Cecily Evans.
The Girl (currently known as Barbara Frost, hired gun at your service) was not prepared for Hurricane Cecily. By the third day on the job, she was positive that Miss Evans was intended as a lesson in humility by the powers above.
Barbara followed Evans like a loyal shadow, and noticed rather quickly that the Courtesan worked 24/7. Cecily had a tight agenda and planned every single step of her day. And boy, she was busy.
Not a single aspect of her life didn't had a clear goal, and that woman could juggle a marathon of "social meetings" and "particular meetings" like it was no effort at all.
Oh, and Cecily was also a full-fledged business woman (as most people in her line of work).
What a lady of her caliber could be doing at Thesus, you ask? Trading influence. Courtesans had close relations with many powerful people. They were keys to strategic networking.
By the end of each day (and Barbara had worked a full week already), Lance was virtually dead.
My God, and I thought my job was demanding , she mused. They were staying at a private rented mansion, and Lance's room was adjoined to Cecily's.
The lethal-lady-in-waiting was now wearing an earpiece, which was being fed directly by a wire in Cecily's room. You see, the courtesan needed a way to request assistance if and when needed, and Barbara should be ready to politely interrupt or kick the door.
Meaning one of Barbara's tasks was to stay listening to the private meetings (yes, those kinds of meetings).
"On my business, safewords are a must", the courtesan joked while briefing the mercenary. Together, they came up with a code meant to direct the Girl's actions.
Like now. Cecily was done with pillow talk. By weaving a couple of code words into her speech, the girl was prompted to politely knock on Cecily's door, saying how sorry she was, but 'Miss Evans, we have an important engagement early in the morning'. Barabara should sound apologetic for the interruption, and look ashamed while being elegantly scolded by the woman. Then go back to her room and wait.
"That will be all for today, Barbara", Cecily said in her usual cordial tone, looking to the top of the stairs, as she walked back. Lance followed behind once the pair went downstairs, watching their interactions and goodbyes from a distance.
"Good night, Miss Evans", the Girl offered a polite nod and went straight to bed. She was mentally drained and physically exhausted.
And tomorrow promised to be a busy day.
Dust and ghastly howls. The gusts of wind carried both while bouncing across the inhospitable rocky, semi-arid landscape which displayed clear signs of human abuse.
Four heavily armored (and yet silent) vehicles made their way through the night, following the 3 motorcycles scouting the convoy's path.
Waning moons lend a faint ghostly-like light to the surface of the planet, which meant the vehicles drivers were using the night vision equipment that showed the path ahead in a screen on the drivers panel.
To pass under the radars, the convoy was slithering between canyons and mountains, avoiding easy routes. They couldn't light away the path ahead.
The motorcycles ahead were responsible for spotting any threats. The helmets' visors were equipped with night vision, which was far more comfortable and efficient than using a freaking screen.
Not surprisingly, the whole line was moving slowly and cautiously.
Doing her best to breathe evenly and slowly, the woman driving the first car in the line had almost her full attention on the screen. Almost.
Just 5 miles more, come on…
Even with one arm in a cast, Trance could drive that armored monster any day of the week. Not safe or recommended, but her broker didn't have another driver (not everyone was able to operate certain vehicles, especially in that terrain).
However, something didn't feel right.
The rational side of her brain scolded the frightened girl who wanted to jump off that rig. Yeah, there were some attacks to convoys the past few days (attacks? Scratch that. Genocide would be a better term), but none to the type of package they were protecting. And their plans were decent enough, anyway.
Trance was well aware that things would become intense once the Black Ops operation achieved their goal to pitch the criminal factions against one another. But they had not predicted one of the groups (whichever group was) would hit back with such violence.
"Jake, I saw something moving on my screen. In the slope at our left, 10 feet above the ground", pressing one of the buttons in the panel, she opened the channel to the whole convoy.
Jake was the biker on the right, and his helmet was micked: the voices of the bikers were somewhat muffled, but they could communicate freely between trucks and scouts.
"Clare, this is the fourth ghost sighting you had in the last half hour. Get a fucking grip. If you don't have the stomach to drive under pressure, don't take the fucking contract", Jake spat back.
Fact 1: everyone was on edge.
Fact 2: Jake answered way too fast. The fucker had not even looked. And Trance knew.
Taking a deep breath, she gathered the wisdom to not start a ruckus. I've was right about one thing: it had been her own decision to take a contract with a fucking broken arm. But Trance needed the money, and her broker was this close to making her a favorite.
(He had been way more open to business once she started fucking him too, but the agent needed the guy a little more trusting before being able to plant a bug his devices. That would give her people back in the Cradle a channel to explore his contacts and advance their mission).
Fact 3: the meds Leecher sent her to speed up her recovery were fucking with her disposition. And stomach. Literally.
"What the…", the woman muttered under her breath.
What she saw next raised every single hair in her body.
"Everybody, get into position now! Now! NOW!", she screamed to the crew riding the rig with her (and only to her crew).
Trance pulled to the left hard, her little Black Ops brain already jumping into survival mode.
Next thing, a loud bang, and muffled shots.
Chaos.
XXX
In an emergency, what should you do? What does everyone do?
The answer: call the cops.
The police department used open frequencies for communication among the force. Dispatchers would also use the same open frequencies when directing officers, EMTs and firefighters to emergency locations.
The Cradle (aka the Black Ops spaceship) was decked at Thedus Spacebridge, in the USCM-Army level, fueling. Their command included their ship in the authorized list under a fake registration, and each and every member had a fake USMC operative ID.
Aside from the agents ongoing recovery treatment or currently on assignment, most of the rest were out taking a well deserved break. The bridges usually offered amenities: a sizable market, a bunch of stores with varied assortment of products, places to socialize and have fun, a bunch of facilities to accommodate people in between connections or doing laying overs.
However those guys needed to unwind. Properly unwind.
While Breacher and Asher were on Thesus on an extraordinary visit to Lance, the rest got in a transport, and would be back from Thedus the next day.
Dad, the responsible team leader he was, would wait for the first group to come back before dropping down to the planet's surface himself.
He was very much looking forward to getting laid, getting drunk, getting in a bar fight, not necessarily in this order. Cram as much life as possible in a single night.
But right now, all Dad could do was try to relax onboard. Galahad found him on his way to the shower.
"Sir, we received an emergency message from Trance", informed Galahad. Only wearing boxers and towel in hand, Dad was almost at the bathroom's door.
"I've sent the agents on break at Thedus to rescue her", the synthetic completed.
You see, not having a direct contact channel with your team doesn't mean full no contact.
The team at the Cradle had an AI monitoring the police's frequencies, just in case something worth investigating popped up. It was rare, but again: in emergencies, people called the police, and sometimes illegal activities ended up spilling loads of dirt all around. Someone was bound to make a call.
And since they were already monitoring the police's frequencies, the agents infiltrated could reach out by literally making an emergency call.
(It's somewhat poetic: using the cops' open channels to relay urgent secret messages).
They had a whole code for such communications, which the AI was watching out for. Once a call matched the requirements as a potential agent message, someone in the command deck would hear it.
(That someone was usually the unborable Galahad).
What really got to Dad was the fact that this was the second emergency call this week. Lance had called 2 days ago requesting contact.
"Let's get this ship outta here, and get into a dropship to pull them back", he instructed, turning on his heels and speeding back to the command deck, hoping the guys didn't have much time to get smashed.
With five teammates still recovering in the med-bay, if he had to pull any infiltrated agent, the command would need to wake up a backup team.
The best-laid plans of mice and men…
XXX
Unlike Trance's emergency, Lance's call was not a request for rescue. Her goal was to alert the Cradle to changes in her plans - and if you are using the (literal) emergency channel, it means it's fucking important to get everyone informed of whatever is going on.
For days, Fer-de-Lance spent the few breaks between appointments meditating about the force of nature named Cecily Evans.
Two nights before the assault on Trance's ill fated convoy, a light bulb went off on the Girl's Black Ops brain.
It went like this:
Barbara was escorting Cecily at a restaurant, watching the courtesan entertain a group of people.
Marveling at how Cecily's little gathering featured some influential names in Thedus political scene and mafia circles, Lance could not deny, Miss Evans was a masterpiece.
Poor dudes, probably believe Cecily is some sort of ultimate prize, when in truth she preying over them all…
Enlightenment.
It was like Fer-de-Lance was seeing the courtesan for the first time. And really seeing her, this time. The Girl cooked her head, a faint smile on her face.
Of course. Who else could bring such a group together? Oh my good lady Cecily. You know them all intimately…
Positioned at the bar, Barbara Frost kept her watch over her charge (watching, not estaring, per Cecily's instructions. Barbara could not make the guests uncomfortable), sipping juice and scheming.
The Girl was past her third non-alcoholic drink, when she signaled to one body-guard that she would step out for a moment, and off she went towards the toilet.
Upon locking the toilet's door behind herself, Lance called the cops using a burner phone. Passing as the eye witness of a made up assault.
Not even 5 minutes later, Barbara walked back, making eye contact with the courtesan. They still had an hour before heading back to the mansion to get both Woman and Girl ready for Cecily's late evening engagements.
XXX
Two nights after the fabricated emergency call, Lance found herself dealing with two outraged teammates while trying to relay precious information. Mind you, their indignation was not about Lance's supposed change of plans.
"Fucking unbelievable", Breacher voice boomed.
Lance slapped his arm.
"Dude, it's fucking 3am. Do you want to wake up the whole building?", she scream-whispered, exasperated.
"How come I don't get this type of assignment?" Asher grumbled.
"Yeah, I'm having loads of fun hearing to the lady's work meetings", Lance was not amused. Actually she had been quite embarrassed every time she had to sit and listen to her client's sexy times. But true mortification would come at breakfast; the boss would politely ask for her personal impressions and feedback.
"Even if I was celibate, it would be way better than staying cooped up at the Cradle", Asher seemed amused with Lance's sensibilities.
"Oh man, just…", Lance took a deep breath.
And counted to ten.
"Will you talk to Dad? I just have four days left working for her", the Girl decided that it would be better to plead her case than discuss who had it worse.
(She was going to lose that debate, anyways).
"Sure. I'm quite positive we can use her. And if she has so many contacts… it's worth the risk", Breacher pondered.
"Man, she does. Judging by all the pillow talk I heard these past days, she really does".
Miss Evans, a business woman of the entertainment industry: the ultimate low hanging fruit for useful contacts and information.
Asher and Breacher agreed: there was a reasonable chance that the courtesan was a doorway to a good portion of the intelligence they still needed to gather.
Lance's mission was to locate and neutralize a mercenary association providing highly dangerous Alien specimens to the black market. The same association that 4 decades ago had delivered Seizei's special order of Xenomorphs and Yautjas.
Nothing about Seizei's project was authorized. And after decommissioning the facility, her division placed efforts to hunt down the motherfuckers selling potential disasters.
You see, her division was a well hidden secret, but still very much part of the United Americas Allied Command. And operations against big corporations were complicated for a myriad of reasons. No one had a clue about the government involvement in the 'disaster' who put an end to all the illegal projects involving hybrids. But the government suffered anyway. Being pressured to take action against 'terrorists' by a angry interplanetary organization was no easy business.
Avoiding the distribution of more specimens was now the primary goal, but much more difficult to execute. The assignments were way more dangerous, the infiltration process more delicate.
It took 4 decades to gather the intelligence, resources and channels for her division to be able to execute the last past assaults to 3 different trade-points in the last 6 years. Lance's team being responsible for the last one.
Fer-de-Lance was part of the 5th team to integrate that extended mission. By shaking the underground trading landscape, they hoped to get clear tracks that lead them to their target.
(Which sounded like using a cannonball to scare a bird).
But maybe… maybe Cecily's contacts could give the team what they needed to play a smarter game.
And if she didn't? Well, maybe her colleagues would. Cecily was not the biggest name in her trade.
XXX
While Asher and Breacher tried to extract details of Cecily's sexual prowess from Lance's mortified brain, Mauler was leading the agents engaged in Trance's rescue.
They arrived at the location after verifying the perimeter for hostiles and all sorts of activity. It took more than an hour to find the vehicles. Hurrying to her side could have them killed.
The undercover agent was in a state of semi-shock when they found her. She was alive, yes, but not thanks to her skills, luck, or incompetence on the attackers part.
Which put the whole rescue team on edge. It was pretty clear Trance should not be alive, and since she was still drawing breath, it could only mean one thing: whoever was responsible for the attack allowed her to live.
Why? No one had an answer, meaning they had to get the fuck out right the fuck now.
The dread they felt only started to subside when the dropship sent by the team leader took off.
Galahad was quite busy on the pilot's seat, but all that silence was quite uncommon. After almost 4 decades of experience among the agents in their division, the synthetic was quite able to correctly predict what those silences meant. And it was not good.
XXX
Ho'kan was laying on his belly uncomfortably at the med-bay, while Lar'Jar plucked the last projectile embedded in his back.
Thanks to his armor and thick hide, no shot was able to do any actual damage. The only bullet who would give the Medic more trouble was the one lodged in his hipbone.
By their side, Ah'kaedh was extracting one bullet from his shoulder, growling his frustrations.
"It's unlikely the ooman saw anything significant, brother", Lar'jar offered, still working on the Kids back.
"I know", the other dark Yautja grumbled.
The assault had been quick and violent. They were cloaked, and the oomans had done good part of the work anyways. Half of them had died to friendly fire, while the predators used the canyons and darkness in their favor.
And yet, the Enforcer was not pleased. Nothing to do with their injuries or with the fact they only got a handful of prisoners to question later. They had to leave one ooman behind.
Lar'jar was the one who pointed to the female's condition: pregnant. While cloacked, the Medic knocked her out, and killed the two individuals who stayed with her inside the rig.
With the amount of attacks they staged against mercenary's groups in that region, they were bound to come across some obstacles eventually.
And this was the first (and only) ooman left behind still drawing breath.
XXX
For Lance, the last day on the job was somewhat bittersweet. Cecily had grown on her. Yeah, the lady was doing business with the mafia, but she was also an excellent conversationalist, had good taste, polite with the whole staff.
During the rides between engagements, the Girl had the opportunity to understand a bit of Cecily's point of view. For someone removed from the world like Fer-de-Lance, it was interesting to listen to a knowledgeable and sharp minded individual about the current times.
Barbara escorted the Courtesan to the spaceport transfers deck. Miss Evan was traveling privately, but her ship was docked at the Spacebridge.
"I will be recommending your services, darling. Not everyone is capable of keeping up with my agenda", she complimented the Girl.
"Miss Evans, I appreciate your generosity. But I'm afraid I will need a holiday after these two weeks".
"I had no doubts that would be the case. Take care, dear", the woman had such a pleasant voice that Lance could spend the whole day just listening to her.
"Godspeed, Miss Evans".
As the woman got close to the dropship, the Girl saw two crew members coming down. In pristine and elegant uniforms. And Fer-de-Lance knew them very well.
Mauler and Leecher.
Oh, boy. Her bodyguards don't stand a chance.
The Girl smiled inwards, looking down. She would rather live in a world where interesting women like Cecily wouldn't do business with the Mafia. A world where scientists were not sadists. Where black-markets were just a tale, and mercenaries were not part of the workforce. No underworld, no monsters. A world where humans didn't predate their own fellowmen.
A world where a Fer-de-Lance wasn't needed.
But that was not the Girl's world. And in this world, the real world, the Girl was Fer-de-Lance.
XXX
"Oh, erm… hi sir", Lance greeted her team leader. Awkwardly. Because she was definitely not expecting to meet Dad so soon.
She had seen him across the avenue that led to the spaceport. And immediately felt her stomach drop. He waited for her to reach him, and while his face betrayed none of his intentions, Lance simply knew nothing good would come from this impromptu visit.
He was here to either scold her for another 'brilliant idea', or…
"Miss Frost", he nodded and signaled for her to follow him.
They walked in silence for some time, until they reached a car.
"Rented?", she asked. The guy just nodded.
"Alright Dad, this whole suspense is killing me", she whined after 5 minutes of silent driving.
"I'm pulling you out", he announced without preamble.
"What? Why?", Lance knew better than jump to conclusions, however she was already trying to think of good arguments to defend her actions.
(And Dad had agreed to them, after all. Why else would her teammates be on Cecily's dropship?)
"We probably managed to piss off the right group of mercenaries. While you were playing security for Cecily Evans, a number of convoys were assaulted", he sounded calm. And if he sounded calm, Lance knew nothing good would come next.
"Assaulted?"
"Slaughtered and taken would be a better assessment. Per Trance's report a number of them have not turned up anywhere", still calm and driving.
"Is that all?", the Girl prompted.
"We rescued Trance from one of those assaults. She was left alive on purpose", he over Lance briefly.
"Do we know why?", the Girl felt a knot swell on her throat.
"No", the man sighed.
Lance sighed and murmured her next question:
"Did they… how is she?"
"She was not violated, nor badly beaten".
The Girl released the breath she didn't know she had been holding, relieved.
In a heartbeat her brain was already back on her mission.
"And why am I being pulled out?"
"Lance, don't start", he warned.
"We have actively avoided each other, you know that", she protested.
Lance and Trance were both posing as mercenaries in the same trade point. Since there was always a chance that their covers became compromised, they decided to keep their activities apart. If one cover was blown, they would still have one infiltrated agent.
The mission started with 5 of them going on field. Cardinalis' assault, months ago, required the presence of all active agents - their command wanted to avoid awakening another team.
Which was a dumb decision (and Lance was secretly glad that there was a good chance next time she woke up, they would most likely have a new boss). There is always a risk of losing people to death or injuries, and two field agents were among the people who were still undergoing recovery at the Cradle.
(Luckily missing mercenaries were not exactly something who raised any concerns, especially if they were new to the place).
Lance could understand why Trance was burned: the Agent would have too much to explain if she ever set foot on that tradepoint again.
So now they only had two field agents still operating undercover (and the other one was playing his part at the USCM garrison, investigating if any crooked officials had strong deals with the local mafia).
In a nutshell: if Dad pulled Lance, the mission would be aborted.
"Listen, kid. Nobody gives two fucks about our lives but ourselves. Under the circumstances I can pull the whole team without any repercussions for us."
"Dad, I…", she took a deep breath. "I know. But our command is after the group who has been providing dangerous alien fauna for decades…"
"Are you even listening, Lance?" He growled.
"Of course I'm. But they are commercializing fucking Xenomorphs and sentient species. Again. The parasitical fuckers are bad enough…"
"Lance, this is not a discussion", his humor kept souring with each new word spoken by the girl.
"But it is! Months of our work wasted. Everyone is working across decades to keep the fucking Xenomorphs away from colonies."
"Kid, you are an agent, not a fucking hero."
"So why did you send our team after Cecily?"
"I contacted the command to report and inform them of our retreat. They requested we go forward and abduct the lady, per your suggestion. She will be processed at the HQ, her contacts and information will be used by another team".
"Wait, when will they send the next team?"
The man's answer was silence.
"Dad, I can stay here and do the handover", she pressed.
"Are you…" he held his temper, before continuing "Lance, what part of being pulled out you didn't understand?"
"Come on Dad. All this work for…"
"Fer-de-Lance, cut the fucking crap. You will either tell Me why you want to stay, or I'm gagging you".
Uh-oh. Someone used my whole tcodename.
"Oh boy, are you going to use my given name next?". Her grin went from ear to ear.
"Oh, so it's serious". Dad sighed. Lance's snark was a well known defensive maneuver. She would bait the hell out of people, get them pissed into the next dimension, while the subject at hand would be (hopefully) forgotten.
"Yeah", Lance winced, dropping her act.
The thing about being a well hidden secret in the military: there was no such thing as leave of absence.
"You need to tell me what the fuck is going on, kiddo. I can't help you if I don't know".
"I already told you, Dad", she deflected.
"You told me Jack shit."
"There is nothing more to tell". Which was a lie. A huge lie.
"Really?", and the man sighed, exasperated.
They both knew she was lying. Lance had the decency to not say anything.
"Lance, you have not been yourself for 2 years. You can say whatever to the command, but I know you. I know you" he repeated the last part very slowly.
"Oh, fuck me… alright. I spent months participating in someone's torture, hating every minute of it. Torture. You read the reports just like me. You knew Dahle was seeking self gratification…"
"Is that your problem?", he had to ask. You see, they were fucking Black Ops, not White Knights.
"Fuck you! Yeah, that's my problem. I've spied, betrayed, murdered…", she was showing a finger for each point. "Hell, I've collaborated with the economical collapse of a colony that now has most of its population below the poverty line. But I can't shake whatever got to me. I can't", Lance felt her voice falter.
She knew exactly what that 'whatever' was, though.
"So that's it? You want me to keep you here, so you can fucking die?"
So he did notice, she sighed. Lance had flirted with suicide by combat during their last mission.
"I would arrange it myself, if dying was my goal. Seriously", she looked to her hands, steadying her tone.
"So what do you want?", another growl. Dad had started his career in the Colonial Marines, touchy-feely stuff was not his forte. It was true that some of them could be like teddy bears, but her team leader was more like a grizzly.
"Closure? I want to catch those fuckers, finish this fucking job and move on", if she sounded a tad uncertain it's because she was.
"Again, kid: you are not a hero".
"I fucking know it, goddamnit", she roared. "I just want to do my funcking part. I can hand over my position and easily have an agent or two in my place. And I will have time, Dad. Time to breathe", the Girl completed in an even tone.
Maybe that's what she needed. Time to catch her breath
"This is madness, Lance. You will be alone here. The command will scrutinize everything about your stay. It will take 2 to 3 months until the next team's arrival".
"The command will do it anyways. And I will lay low during those months. Get resources, contacts, everything ready so the next field agents won't need to start from scratch. You know I can do it".
"I don't doubt you can, kid. But you will be here alone. For months. Besides…" the man stopped talking abruptly.
(Dad was bad at feelings).
"I know. When I get there you guys will be in stasis already".
And she would be older. When your team is your whole life, small details like that can become huge.
They were all aging together, apart from everyone else. When military folks say their unit members become like brothers and sisters, they are not joking. But in Lance's case?
"Jesus fuck… you better make it back in one piece", he said after a long, long time.
"What choice do I have? You guys have my cat", she laughed, trying to wipe away the odd tear that forced its way out.
XXX
If you ever walked inside a butcher's shop, you know exactly how the cargo ship smelled.
Ho'kan would not take off his mask even inside the Yautja vessel. A small part of his brain was sure the stank of blood and flesh would never leave his nostrils.
They were making progress, but towards what end? He was not sure.
On another hand, Lar'jar seemed to enjoy the whole carnage in a sinister way. The medic had a curious personality during his whole life, and after centuries hunting, he had settled as a medic. It granted him plenty of opportunities for traveling and exploring his unusual interests while doing his share for the clan.
What the medic didn't enjoy was witnessing his brother spiraling.
Ah'kaedh was clearly torn between his duties and wishes, and the latter seemed to be winning. Which was the only (albeit serious) sign of things going sideways.
Lar'jar was already 3 centuries old when Ah'kaedh, recently blooded, joined the vessel with his freshly formed hunting pack. 5 groups were heading to the same planet, and that was how the medic finally met one of his many younger brothers.
He was the last pup his mother carried, nursed and raised. One would think a mother would go easier with her last suckling, right? Think again. After losing children to their chivas, some Yautja mothers had a tendency to become more strict and exacting. And their mother made damn sure her last child would have the type of character to pass his chiva with flying colors.
Not surprisingly, it turned Ah'kaedh already stoic tendencies into something harsher than your already usual violent young blood. But instead of impulsive flames, he was cold and calculating.
Lar'jar ended up taking a liking to his brother. If anything, Ah'kaedh was way less annoying than his peers.
Many centuries later, their relationship had developed into a solid and close brotherhood bond. This obviously changed with his younger brother's capture. He came back different, and at first, Lar'jar attributed those changes to imprisonment and torture.
When it came to his time in captivity, Ah'kaedh shared everything pertinent to pursuing and eliminating any threats to their people. Which was a lot.
However, he was rather reticent about what happened to him on a personal level and about the ooman who helped him escape. The Enforcer was well famed for his dutiful character and cold demeanor. So for the most part, people avoided prying into details of his personal experience.
But not Lar'jar, who had to extract by force any detail beyond what his brother had related already.
He was not exactly the type to meddle in people's businesses, and had no intentions of busy himself by parenting a goddamn Enforcer. At the same time, he was not willing to spend decades watching his brother decline and become feral.
The medic placed his instruments over the table in which he had yet another body being dissected, and went to wash off all the brown stick mess sticking on his body.
At least the hunting is entertaining, which was true enough. Pursuing other interests didn't mean that hunting on occasion was ruled out as a fun activity.
After stepping out of his bath, and throwing clean net and loincloth, he went to the command bridge, to find Ah'kaedh working.
Silently analyzing notes, crossing information, and sure enough piecing together a plan.
"Ho'kan has retired for the evening. Would you mind sharing what exactly you are looking for?", inquired the older Yautja.
Being subtle had not worked. So now he was taking a direct approach.
Ah'kaedh didn't react outwardly. He had probably seen this coming. Lar'jar had been a decent hunter, and the way he was structuring his attacks probably gave away his intentions.
"The ooman who released Ho'kan", was the response.
"Ah'kaedh, do me the courtesy of respecting my intelligence", Lar'jar didn't sound annoyed, but tired.
The younger brother got up, to face his brother. And looked pensive enough that Lar'jar rightfully assumed he was trying to find a way to placate the older Yautja concerns without giving away too much.
Typical.
"Why is this ooman important? And don't try to tell me she might know who could be trafficking or requesting our people's heads. You already have reliable leads on this".
The shift in Ah'kaedh's aura was instantaneous. The Enforcer didn't move a single muscle. But there it was: the brutal wave of cold violence.
Lar'jar was getting used to the uncomfortable silences too. Used enough to wait for his brother to understand he was not dropping the subject, nor helping him by walking on eggshells.
"It's probably nothing, Lar'jar", the Enforcer finally said.
That made the medic furrow his whole expression - 'what the fuck' painted all over it.
"Try again".
Silence.
Ah'kaedh was not willing to share whatever was going on in his brain. But he also knew there was a limit for his behavior. His brother was not being unreasonable in his inquiries, and just dismissing him because Ah'kaedh himself was an Enforcer and could do it was blatant abuse of his position.
And he would not allow this insanity to have such an impact on his character. At least that he could do.
"This ooman might be linked to my imprisonment", he offered, hoping it was enough.
"How?"
No, it wasn't.
"Unless two oomans can smell exactly the same, I've met it before".
"Ho'kan description was not accurate enough to precise age, but the slave described a young female".
"I know".
"Which makes it impossible. You were captured decades ago".
"I know", Ah'kaedh gathered the wisdom to not throw back the comment about respecting one's intelligence right at his brother's face. But the drop on his voice timber clearly pointed to his growing exasperation.
"So what are you expecting to find?"
That was a fair question.
"I don't expect anything".
An honest and horrid answer.
"And the unknown somehow takes precedence over a band of Bad Bloods?"
"I want to be done with this, Lar'jar".
Whatever this was. Ah'kaedh was not sure himself. Maybe be done with this planet. With the possibilities.
That discovery had thrown him so off balance that the Enforcer probably just wanted to have his precarious peace back. Living with the ghost of his memories had not been so bad. At least not as bad as this restless force pulling at his sanity.
"Very well. How can I help you, brother?"