Roan Lands

Red. 

It drips from his shoulder, down his bicep. Self-inflicted. Too clean, easy to close. But it gets him past security, through the door. 

A Sullustan medic hovers, gloves bloody, an air of confusion about her. She does her job, gluing skin shut with steady fingers. He doesn’t flinch. 

The woman could be going by any name, maybe not the one he was given. It’s an old one. Chyla Richi. But the name doesn’t matter, just the face, and he’ll know it when he sees it. It’s burned into his brain just like the last one, and the one before, and the one before that. 

The medic finishes her work, helps him stand. He fakes a stumble, crashes into her, knocks her into her cart of blades and debridement tools and falls to his hands and knees. Surgical durasteel scatters across the floor, drawing shouts of warning and annoyance from the staff and patients walking by. 

His hand closes around a scalpel. Armed. This is better.

Scalpel in his sleeve, he gets to his feet, forces out an apologetic phrase. It’s what the General and the Doctor would tell him to do.

The medic waves him off, points him to the exit and he walks. He glances into the faintly reflective durasteel of opening turbolift doors as he passes them. She’s already turned around, tending to another patient. He side steps into the turbolift as if it had been his destination all along and slides back against the wall, behind doctors and patients and visitors.

His leg is cramping; uneven walking has taken a toll. But he needed the leg injury to get inside the last hospital. It doesn’t register as pain, just...inconvenience. A muscle in his left forearm twinges beneath his sleeve. There’s freshly-glued skin there too.

The turbolift doors slide back. Four. Visitor level. He knows the number from the schematics on his ship. Big windows, too open—but lots of people to hide in. 

He steps off, finds the line of communication consoles along one wall. For visitors, but still connected to the hospital’s intranet. Ninety seconds of rapid keystrokes and he has the list of hospital medical staff. He scans rapidly, looking for the face. 

He stops on a holoimage of a woman in her 30s. It’s her.

Two more keystrokes and he has her floor number and is back on the turbolift. Soft dings, and a metallic voice chimes “twenty-one.” The doors open to a surgical floor.

He’s hit with the smell and he flinches. Smells of singed hair. It tastes like his own blood. Industrial cleaner. The lights hurt his eyes. It’s all stronger here than it is downstairs. He grits his teeth and drives a thumb into his left forearm, still inflamed and sore. 

A spike of pain. His vision clears.

Red.

He lifts his chin, uses his height to glance over the few beings in the hallway. The woman at the end of the corridor. It’s her. Richi.

He approaches briskly but carefully, heavy boots making little noise on the floor. She begins to turn to face him and he grabs the arm of the nearest person. Some young, petite human female. Perhaps a child. He doesn’t even look at her; she doesn’t matter. Only RIchi.

He pulls his hostage into his chest, wraps an arm around her waist and presses the gleaming durasteel scalpel against her side. A quick movement and the blade will slip between her ribs and pierce her heart.

Ferus:

Roan: ...For safety.

@tachiisms @bellassan @enneads

X-7 narrows his eyes slightly when the other agent takes the lead. He wonders, just briefly, if it is a show of superiority or simple convenience. Because X-7 remembers the other projects, how they would behave, and they had all been disappointments. 

But assuming that this man, this other machine, is weak won’t get them far. No, it won’t–but being prepared for him to be weak, that is important. Because X-7 will not let him bring him failure.

He makes sure to keep close to the man, not letting himself defer the way he suspects he was meant to. Instead, he moves back into step with him. Keeps his pace until they get to ship.

However, he realizes he might fall into the trap of arrogance himself if he is not careful. So when the get to the transport he says, “You have more experience piloting.” Directing him to pilot the transport.

Besides, it would give him time to try to place this feeling he has. This confusion about who this man even is. What X-7 is to do with him.

He acknowledges the simple statement of fact with a slight nod and jogs up the boarding ramp. Perhaps his superiors really are looking for a replacement. He'll give them no reason to consider this agent over himself. He makes his way to the cockpit and immediately sits in the pilot's seat, running his scarred and tattooed fingers over the controls, glancing over the pre-flight checklist, double-checking the crew's work before they take off.

"I assume we were given the same intel about our target, and the same instruction from command."

He really didn't–it was a safe bet that he'd been briefed individually as well. It wasn't the protocol on the books, but it often happened anyway. The Empire didn't like to leave room for error; even their contingency plans had contingency plans.

He doesn't bother to glance at his…companion. Just speaks, assuming that he's being listened to. They've both been briefed, yes, but he wants to cover all his bases.