/AN: Fooling around with Bounty Hunting Event. Kindda...

Bring 'em In.

"Sir, the mission is on Nar Shaddaa." Sgt. Jorgan greeted Lt. Dur when she entered the mess hall.

"Your point, Sgt.?" Glean sighed, pouring kaf. The ship's holo announced that they have established the orbit.

"We will lose valuable time fighting off idiots shoving money down your cannon and asking what club you perform in, Sir," Jorgan explained between sips from his own mug.

"My cannon? Why?!" Glean asked dumbfounded and pressed the weapon closer to her chest. She wouldn't let some stupid civ to jeopardize the fine-tuned-"

"You lack the customary receptacle, Sir," Jorgan's slanted eyes twinkled merrily. He must be on his second or third mug…. Glean felt distinctively at a disadvantage and hurried to rectify it. She promptly burned her tongue.

"Explain, Sgt," Lt. Dur said sourly, suppressing an unwarrior-like ouch.

"Cleavage, Sir," Sgt. Jorgan obliged. Lt. Dur slammed the mug down, and the life-giving liquid spilled on the counter. Well, at least C2-N2 will have a good start to his day.

Glean turned towards the shiny supply container. It reflected a too tall scowling Mirialian in a tight bodysuit. She turned around, and cranked her neck. Certainly, the black plastoid looked more of a second skin than armor, emphasizing the strong muscles from the backpack down to the heels. Compared to the frontal view, her backside had one advantage. It lacked the glowing patches in the completely inappropriate places.

"It's high performance armor, Sgt. Jorgan," Lt. Dur argued feebly, "The GSI's latest."

"I know it. You know it. The rest of Nar Shaddaa doesn't," Jorgan said reasonably. "Taking into account the local mindset, Sir, we cannot expect the civs to appreciate the battle capabilities of the suit over the… erm… outward appearances." Glean cringed. Stars, was she missing the yelling, hissing Lt. Jorgan she'd first come to know on Mantell?

"Suit up then, Sergeant!" Glean's hand went to the top clip. "We must use our resources in the most efficient way."

Sgt. Jorgan's opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He snapped it shut, and the pointy incisors bit into a thin lip, as the Cathar watched Lt. to remove… the backpack.

"On the other hand, if our bounty is a man, it will give us a tactical advantage, Sir," he finally managed.

"Which we'll lose the moment your ugly face comes into view," Lt. Dur responded crossly. "Wampa's breath, we are docking, Sgt. We'll play dress-up some other time. Move OUT, MOVE OUT!" She threw the backpack back on, and fastened the clips as she rushed down the stairs.

"It was my duty to make you aware of the potential danger, SIR!" Jorgan called after his CO, and hefted his cannon. "And this gal has been married. And serves in the military! Wampa's breath indeed…."

/

"…would have felled a rancor! The Lord, she didn't even flinch, just roared up a little, and crashed down from atop at the miserable wretch. And whoa! A killing blow! When two Sith really go at it, it's a beautiful thing…" Lt. Pierce laughed, and dropped into the armchair. "The carbofreeze… bah. That's for sissies," the big man's legs went up on the low table. Cpt. Quinn noticed, yet left uncommented the fact that the heavy boots pushed back the tray of delicate seafood and the eight carefully chosen dipping sauces. He also chose inaction in response to the pointed look that accompanied the word 'sissies'.

Vette giggled, gave Pierce thumbs up, and disappeared back into the cargo hold. Well, the child got her bedtime story. However, the savage, Broonmark, waddled over, obviously eager to get more details of the slaughter from his human alter-ego. Cpt. Quinn forestalled the shaggy mosquito, fully realizing he was risking a limb.

"I trust you have applied the advanced medpack I have supplied to the burns?" he asked Lt. Pierce mildly. Pierce frowned: "Some medpack, yes. The Lord doesn't have the patience for that sort of…"

Quinn whirled on his heels and stormed off. His steps slowed the closer he came to the doors of her room. At the doors, he came to a full stop.

His every instinct was against confronting a wounded beast.

His entire carrier tittered on the success of the wounded beast and being as close to her as was possible.

Behind the door 2V's flustered voice reported: "Master, you will be pleased to know that I have washed the blood away - Oh. More blood. My deepest apologies, Master, I will get right on with clea— Please, do not deact-"

The doors opened, and the hapless droid flew backwards, hit the opposite wall and sat there stunned. Better him than I. Quinn took a deep cleansing breath, and stepped into the wampas den… if only it was occupied by wampas!

The towering Sith was wrapped in a bloodied towel. Both sabers were momentarily out of her reach. So far so good. He dropped an emergency kolto bomb, coating Lord Becchino with the disinfecting, antisepticising, soothing, disorienting and (no denying it) stinky powder. One of Becchino's sabre's hilts jumped up into the air and into her fist. Not good.

"A wise move, My Lord," Quinn said bowing deeply, and slowly moved the other hilt to a chair. "You need to lie down."

"Get out!" Becchino scowled. "Stop wasting my time. I wanted the MK's yesterday. Prior to setting out to bring in that gangster-loving excuse for a Sith."

"And that is when I have delivered the entire order, My Lord. In fact, I have optimized a few things, and was able to stretch the materials to produce two surplus kits, now placed on the markets. If Lt. Pierce neglected to mention the package I have left in his care-"

Lord Becchino sat down heavily on the bed. Or masked a fall by sitting down. The hilt fell out of her grip and cluttered to the floor. Quinn peeled off the towel, to survey the bloody mess of shrapnel, skin, blood and puss. He nodded and said evenly: "I understand that you believe that managing our supplies is the best use of me, My Lord, but would I have been present in the field when you have confronted the said mastermind, the wound would not have been -" he opened up his med chest and sterilized his hands: "badly infected."

He started working a smaller kolto sprayer: "I will have to transport you to the med bay, My Lord. Are you ambulatory, or should I carry you?"

"You? Carry me? Ctn. Quinn you must have inhaled more kolto than good for you," Becchino started laughing groggily, drugs taking effect fast, but not quite masking the intended insult. Still abusive, but not physically so. An improvement. He couldn't help but being impressed though (and, to tell the truth, relieved) when Lord Becchino pushed herself on her feet, and stumbled to the bay uncomplaining and under her own hyperdrive. To be honest, carrying the pounds and pounds of the muscular Sith might have proven problematic, and calling Pierce… or Broonmark… Ctn. Quinn couldn't afford that just now when the odds were stacking in his favor.

"Dur?" Becchino asked, stretched on the bed in the medbay. The facial ridges drooped now, and the rest of her face started to slack as the painkillers took effect. "Alive and well," Quinn replied, and his voice acquired a sing-song manner, "as you shall be, My Lord, after a good sleep."

"No needles…" she rasped.

"Would I dare defy your explicit orders, My Lord?" Quinn pulled a mask over her face deftly. Gas hissed. A dose sufficient for an average rancor. "Sleep, My Lord, I'll tell you all about Dur on the morrow." Becchino could not move, or talk now, but she made a fair attempt at burning a hole through his chest with a glare. Quinn stood firm watching her eyes grow dim and close then mimicked rocking a cradle. Hush little baby…

He went about his work. It was going to be a long and difficult night, but Quinn had to suppress an uncouth desire to whistle as he cleansed, removed, stitched and patched. With luck, the abomination hated the experience more than he did, and that would spell the end to Lt. Pierce's tenure in the field.