cipher four

‘Outpost’ was perhaps a bit of a stretch for this particular station-- maybe it had once belonged to the Empire, but it was long abandoned. Now, it was a hub for morally dubious businesses and illicit dealings. 

No one was looking to get caught, so all of the businesses were run out of ships docked alongside the main station. This way, at the first hint of trouble the place could be empty within a few minutes. It also allowed them to have an easy rotation of businesses. A space belonging to an organ dealer one day might belong to a well-known bounty hunter or a smuggler the next. 

None of those were why Cipher Four had visited the station, though. No, she was chasing one particular rumor. 

“Hello,” She called out, knocking at the entrance of one particular shop. She’d heard he wasn’t around often, liked to travel around to different stations and worlds, so she was lucky to catch him when she did (that’s a lie, she had very detailed info and it had nothing to do with luck). 

He was this close to pushing her away until she recited the code phrase. Then he remembers the point of coming all the way out here. “If that’s the case, then here.” He plucks the flower out from his pocket with his index and middle finger. The flower is presented to the client as they discussed beforehand. “Take it. It’s yours.”

Now he waits for the ‘no, I can’t take it. Blah blah blah. Can we go somewhere where I can get a better look at the flower? Blah.’ They move somewhere they can talk and hammer out the details of the job, and boom. Profit. 

In midst of waiting for her to take her cue, his head buzzes. Déjà vu is the closest thing he can compare it to. The familiarity in the situation almost suffocates him. The flower drops from his hand, but he quickly catches it with his other hand.

“My bad. Fucking butterfingers,” he mumbles. His eyes grow when he realizes he’s deviated from the script. He scans over the client’s face to see if her expression changed at all. Solo jobs are hard to find on one’s own as it is. He doesn’t need the self-sabotage to get in the way of filling his pockets. 

“No, I couldn’t--” Muna’s already halfway through the agreed-upon response when her contact deviates from the script. She freezes. This isn’t how things are supposed to happen. 

She knows, of course, from prior experience that Vestir is a professional. A little rough around the edges, maybe, but easily one of the best bounty hunters she’s had the privilege to work with. He can’t know that she knows this, though. 

“Ah...” She lets herself hesitate for a long moment, taking detailed account of his face and the-- fuck, is that recognition? Is that the look that says ‘where have I seen this person before’? Muna breaks eye contact. Better to get through with this as quickly as possible. He’d still delivered the right response, anyway, even if it had gone off the rails towards the end. 

On the eve of the holy day, the Temple is silent―the Guardians yet to return from the caverns, and the Disciples with them. In another version of this story, Aerith might be with them, too. He might be a Guardian by now―more than a Temple rat with dirt in the cuts on his hands, trying to make something, anything, out of himself. But he’s not.

The preparations Master Inyri asked of him are finished, and Aerith rests now in the courtyard, beneath the shade of the towering tree there. They say if you listen closely, patiently, the tree will sing for you. It’s a deep, ancient hum, they say. But all Aerith hears is― a cry for help? Surely that’s not right.

His bones protest as he stands to make for the nearby control panel, his fingers hesitant with the sequence that will lift the door open. The Temple is vulnerable, and not all who come through these parts are as harmless as the Guardians would like to believe. Were she here, Master Silara might say something about the benefit of the doubt, something perhaps about asking the Force for guidance, too.

But as the door lifts open, giving way to the world outside, as Aerith takes in the sight that meets him, as his heart drops, his wariness all but disintegrates. 

“Shit. Here― here, come in.”  

See, Aerith is not at liberty to deny help to those who truly need it. The problem is where exactly he intends to find it.

“Thank you so much, by the Force, I wasn’t sure if anyone would answer, I didn’t know if anyone was even awake, but-- thank you,” Cipher four is aware she’s babbling as she starts to drag her Informer into the temple. It’ll help sell the cover she’s quickly cobbling together for herself. 

If anything, though, her acting is really to help distract from the fact that her outfit isn’t quite civilian. It’s visibly tactical and geared towards stealth-- but maybe, just maybe, the man who let them inside won’t notice? He seems... Nice, and that usually means ‘easy mark’.

Blood streaks across the floor behind her as she moves. 

“I’m so sorry, I know it’s late, and I should have tried to find a hospital or something, but I don’t even know what happened, and we were passing by this place, and I didn’t know if he’d survive the trip anywhere else, and--” She covers her mouth, visibly on the edge of tears, as she stumbles to a halt finally inside. When she moves her hand again, she’s left blood on her cheek. 

“I think he was shot, or something? I don’t know, I was just supposed to pick him up, but when I got there, there was blood, and I panicked, and-- you guys can do Force healing or something, right? Or at least help me patch him up? This was probably a really stupid idea, I’m so sorry for disrupting anything--” She interrupts herself again, putting pressure on her Informer’s wounds. He had actually been stabbed in the scuffle-- shots would have been better, at least then the wounds might have been cauterized. 

Deamora watched the people milling around for anyone who caught her eye as a possible lead to what her Masters had sent her here for. She reached up to adjust some of the jewelry around her montrals. Reaching back she pulled her light jacket to the side to let some of the nice temperate air hit her skin. Glancing up she watched the girl acting suspiciously and smiled slowly like a predator. Stating to follow the girl she waited until she was close to the taxi stations but closer to an loading dock alley. Bumping into the girl Deamora slipped her hand into the girls pocket to grab at the possible ID in them before quickly pulling away to apologize.

“Oh god I am so sorry! Are you okay? Is there anything I can do help you?” The girl knew something but she was unsure of how she might be connected to what her master wanted. 

“Oh! I’m so sorry--” Muna had almost made it to the taxis unscathed, but it seemed the Universe had other plans. Good. 

Cipher four knew a lift when she felt one-- not that she felt the actual lift, it seemed her new acquaintance was skilled in the area, but she knew how to spot the technique and could feel the lack of her id card when she pulled away. Random or targeted, she wondered? 

That id card could get someone into Senator Morvis’s office, and several more sensitive places as well. It wasn’t an all-access pass to the Senate Building, of course, but it would certainly help anyone that was after Morvis’s husband. He did run the Coruscant Financial Exchange, after all. It was part of why the Cipher had been placed where she had been. 

“Oh, no, I’m such a klutz, please don’t worry, that was totally my fault,” Muna regained her stability and glanced around, obviously flustered, “I’m just on my way to a, uh, meeting.” She hesitated, for just a moment, before heading back towards the taxi bay. 

“I really shouldn’t be late-- sorry for bumping into you like that! I should hurry, though, have a wonderful day!”

At the start of their career, every member of Imperial Intelligence is given a capsule of potent poison to keep on them at all times. Cipher 4 still knows exactly where hers is, and is ready to use it should the need arise. 

That’s only for worst case scenarios, though-- a lot of training has gone into every agent, and it’s a tragic waste of resources every time one dies in the field. 

Which is what Cipher 4 is trying to prevent, actually. 

“Come on, please, open the door!” She hammers a fist against the unforgiving stone once more, “Anyone!” 

Local hospitals are out of the question, too high a chance of local authorities, and the Cipher doesn’t know Jedha well enough to find any safer medical facilities. This was all she could come up with. 

Everybody loves being in dimly lit bars where nobody can tell the difference between tusks, second set of arms, or any other distinguishing features. Those locations give comfort to those who remain hidden. With that being said…

Vestir doesn’t give a fuck.

He still can’t see that well in the dark. Growing up, he was never aware this is a Zelosian exclusive problem. 

( ‘What’s wrong with you, kid? You blind or something?’ ‘You must think I’m an idiot to believe all of you can see in this darkness.’ )

Nar Shaddaa, though. Obnoxiously bright from the streets to the indoor scenes. He insisted on setting this place as a meeting spot, and he always likes getting his way. He enters in wearing a smug little grin and a Jade Rose sticking out of his jacket pocket, as planned. 

The clamor at the bar catches his attention. He’s tempted to get a drink despite knowing alcohol bears no effect on him. The taste is pretty shit too, but staring down people to find his client will look better if he has a drink in hand. As he approaches the bar, he points at something random along the wall behind the bartender.

And now, he waits.

A fucking disaster. 

That’s what this is-- it’s always a worst case scenario to run into someone from your past, but this particular guy from that particular incident? Disastrous. Cipher 4 is immediately rattled when she sees him at the entrance, and things only get worse when she realizes that he’s her contact. 

Her first instinct is to get the fuck out of there, but that would be suspicious. Trying to hide her face or disguise her voice would be suspicious, too-- and the guy’s a bounty hunter, a damn good one, he’s not just going to let that slide, is he? 

Confidence. That’s the key. It’s carried her through plenty of situations in the past, and it’ll get her through this one as well. Her current cover isn’t anything like the one he’s met, and it’s been four years-- there’s no way that incident was as big of a deal to him as it was to her, anyway. It hadn’t been his career on the line, or his first big fuck up. Chances are low he’ll recognize her. 

Nar Shaddaa is a trash planet. It’s the truth! It’s made of trash, it’s covered in trash, and more trash builds upon it every day. If there was ever anything good at the center of this discarded moon it’s long since been destroyed by the Hutts, their greed, and the disreputable crowds that they attract. Cipher 4 hates it.

Muna’s never been before. 

The drop point is at a bar on one of the middling levels. Not far enough down that the Exchange or any of the other crawling filth will pick a fight with you, but certainly far enough down to look suspicious. Far enough down to pick up the stench of illness underneath the expensive perfumes of the upper levels. 

With that in mind, Muna sits at the bar and tucks her clothes around her, looking conspicuously out of place. Everything about her is designed to look wrong in this environment-- too soft, too well-tailored, too anxious. She refuses a drink at the bar, and clutches her datapad to her chest, visibly waiting for someone.