A Damsel in Distress

"Sgt. Jorgan, REPORT!" Dur yelled.

"Mission accomplished, SIR!" Sgt. Jorgan lugged a huge crate with six small bars of metal in it through the hangar bay's doors.

"By an incredibly happy coincidence this just came in the mail. The batty woman Dusk Fell still can't get the address straight. If that's how the rest of the Imperial Intelligence runs the business, this war will be over before we know it!" Lt. Dur produced a few twisted pieces still recognizable as a speeder parts from her small shoulder pack and tossed it into the crate.

"Hmm. We are missing something here to make a new chestguard…" Lt. Dur scrolled feverishly through a tiny datapad.

"A cauldron, Sir?" Sgt. Jorgan scowled.

"At ATTENTION!" Lt. Dur yelled more out of habit than out of genuine desire for the Sgt. to shut up his smart mouth.

"What could it possibly be?" She mused and scratched her head. A small cloud of green smoke erupted when she did it and coated her head. Glean looked at her palm incomprehensively.

"Dandruff, Sir?" Jorgan asked solicitously and run his hand over his head. The short fur was soft and shiny. "Never got the helmet hair myself, so can't help much."

Lt. Dur bent over in a fit of cough, the green vapors gathering around her in conspicuous puffs. "I think… I need—"

"A new shampoo, Sir?"

"A medpack… Fresh out…" Glean managed. "G…go… " The words were barely audible.

Sgt. Jorgan made a beeline for the medical droid. A buzz of a news terminal attracted his attention….

He returned to find Lt. Dur slammed against the railing in complete isolation still shrouded in green.

"Good news, SIR! You have a rakhghoul plague!" He reported.

Glean stared at him, coughing out fumes instead of words. But her eyes spoke volumes. How's that good news, Sgt?!

In response, Sgt. Jorgan stabbed a syringe into her neck and pushed the plunger to inject a bright purple liquid into her vein.

"You are going to live, Lieutenant," Aric said, propping Glean up, "but the droid said you'll be out of your best singing voice for a day or two."

/

Lord Becchino watched the meddling crowd impassively. It started with a green swirl of noxious gas. Then the victim clawed at her throat and erupted into violent cough. Finally, she fell apart.

Captain Quinn cut through the crowd on the Fleet, polite, but never allowing anything to swerve him off course.

"I have new data on Lt. Dur, My Lord," he said crisply when he finally made it to her.

"Does the contagion ravage the Republic as well?" Lord Becchino asked.

"Yes, My Lord," Captain Quinn responded in a neutral tone.

"Did you verify that Dur is dead?" Becchino continued conversationally.

"She made a swift recovery, My Lord. Along with as astounding number of people. I must again bring to your attention the miraculous vaccine—"

Becchino forestalled him with an upraised palm. "I am Sith. My blood will protect me from this… fungus. No needles."

"Very well, My Lord," Captain Quinn sighed. "By your leave, My Lord?"

"Dismissed," Lord Becchino barked out and turned away to continue her observations.

Captain Malavai Quinn moved fast, and stabbed the syringe full of the bright purple liquid into the muscular neck. He made a quick prayer it went into the vein, not the artery, a prayer he did not finish. Becchino backhanded him hard. The syringe fell to the floor, and Becchino crashed it with her boot. Empty syringe. Good.

He bowed with a muted: "Blood purity does not offer a sufficient resistance to Rakghoul Plague. Your are now properly inoculated, My Lord." Blood dripped to the chest of his neat gray uniform. He pressed a pristine handkerchief to his nose, soaking up the red. "A pity they did not quite get around to developing a suppository."

"Pack up," Lord Becchino growled. "Summon Pierce. We will go to Tattooine." And she marched towards the ship hangar in furious, purposeful strides.