#hurtvector:threads

[thehurtvector-blog]

In Presence of a Lady | @ladyaniasisvader

          It'd been some time since she's seen Coruscant up close, with fresh eyes. Even now, in the rotted heart of the long-dead republic, Yain kept her face hidden within the private, protected, confines of her helmet. The HUD presented across her T-visor's inner screen kept a steady stream of updates fed to her along the left-most edge. Open Warrants updates flickered in color-coded detail, green for Hutt Cartel, Blue for Empire, and a range of others determining the difficulty by language used to describe the targets.

          Dead or Alive coded in White or Red borders.

          The time was 17:28:02 Galactic Local Standard. 10 BBY.

          Not her ideal. Didn't want to be here.

          But no one refuses that kind of call.

          The transport shifted under her boots, the hiss of compressed, pressurized air squeezed between tight metal channels hushed against her sensitive ears through the high-powered amps of her buy'ce. The list of chems she took on rotation lined the right side of her HUD, carefully listed in order of next dose and countdown of effectiveness listed. Mid-cycle of the upper. She's set for a time.

          Her trepidation shivered under her skin. Pupils pained under worn eyes and heart working overtime.

          No one refuses.

          The doors ding open and she steps inside the plush office. The hum of a field tingles over her armor, playing temporary havoc with her own personal shield until she passes. She's met with a scene of personal droids and body guards, of a small contingent of personal aids caring for a lavish home. Impersonal, as Yain understands it.

          Mandalorians are not particularly fond of lavish and luxury.

          She greets the droid at the desk with the solid, impenetrable silence of a person full fitted in armor. That she only stood a fraction of the height of the guards was small matter—she walked as if she owned the floor, as if nothing in the galaxy could touch the expertise she held under her belt. She walked as all Mandalorian professionals do, and touched the reception with gloved hand.

          She blinked her vocal outbounds active, and her amps murmured: “I am to see Lady Aniasis.”

[thehurtvector-blog]

Another Slow Night | @deniedinheritance

It'd been some time since she'd last seen Nar Shaddaa.

"Jes' as dirty," as she remembered it. Her HUD certainly complied--a long list of pollutants flooded the stream across the side of her vision, all unknown origin or to be wary of. That the Sector stood just shy of freezing was yet another damned thing to flash orange on her screen.

Simple enough job: go into the sector, find the runaway, bring them back to Cujo ya Hatta. Easy. She'd been good enough at that, once upon a time.

Once upon a time was a long kriffin' time ago.

The cantina breathed around her in the pulses of uncomfortably loud music, pounding even through the muffled proofing of her helmet. Nar Shaddaa's gritty, expensive and rich populous enjoyed, on occasion, the foray into the desperate living. Romanticize the suffering in their little parties that made some cantinas more money than some planets in one night cycle.

She wanted to killbreak something.

A red target cursor flashed across her HUD. There you are. It settled on the human's face just as he leveled his bloodshot eyes on her.

And there he goes.

She sidestepped the crowd, making her way to the first exit of two--guessing he'd leave through the side exit as opposed to the alley entrance through the kitchens. Sadly, her guess proved right, and so went the mind numbingly simple job--with even the bouncers leaving her be, she wondered just what the hell her purpose there was, exactly.

He rammed neck first into her extended arm as he turned too fast out the door, and collapsed to the floor. She placed her boot on his chest as he lifted at the waist to get up, and abruptly leveled the point of her blaster between his eyes.

"Alive was listed as preferable," chilled her helmet amps, mechanical and distant.

The target stopped fidgeting.

"That's a good boy." She dropped cuffs on his lap. "Put these on, if y' don't mind."

[thehurtvector-blog]

In Search Of Water | @inpraestrigiae

Twenty five hours awake and counting, Yain couldn't recall how she got there--only that she hated being on Coruscant. Hated how beautiful and clean the upper levels looked while the lower districts churned beyond the reach of the system's sun. Hated how it reminded her of Nar Shaddaa. Hated that being on loan meant going wherever the Hutt wanted her.

Though the pay made it worth it, even with being on the other side of the planet, she hated being so close...

That she couldn't remember what she was doing there shifted entirely beyond her concern in that moment.

Dirt and grime caked the catwalk she hung suspended from, both legs dangled beneath her over a fifty meter dead drop. A second rotation of stims were queued in for delivery in the next ten minutes, but she couldn't wait that long.

So she didn't.

Yain kicked out as the skylanes' ever shifting traffic took advantage of the changing signal directions. Her gloves slipped from the metal--too early. It took all her focus to resist the powerful urge to flail as gravity seized her. Down, down-- Rusted metal cracked, hard, under her beskar as she hit, chest first, the secondary catwalk below. Her fingers skidded on the wet grating, falling to find purchase as she slipped further.

Shab. I'm gonna die on Coruscant.

A hysteric laugh bubbled up in her throat, caught under the roof of her tongue as her fingertips left the metal edge and she fell--

[thehurtvector-blog]

Water and Ice | @corporateandcold

Given enough time and resources, Yain knew she could simply ride out her current situation and leave. She was, of course, more hooked on the access to information than maybe she should have been. Knowing enough, collating information that could easily lead to several wars across Huttspace.

That kind of power should've gone straight to her head, but the dim and dangerous awareness that she'd done nothing to earn the position--aside from her first night on Nar Shaddaa, but she'd done well to put those memories far behind her--kept her humble, and right on the edge of hyper aware bordering on paranoid.

Didn't help the snow followed her wherever she went.

The office was as clean as she'd been told to expect--and the warnings she'd received she kept close to heart. Don't eat anything, don't drink anything, don't take off your armor.

So she didn't.

But she did have to stop and admire the way the woman's desk overlooked an impressive portion of the district--a breathtaking view that only power, influence, or a combination of both could afford; and acted as a clear enough warning to watch her step and her words. Then the rather angular chair behind it turned, and even had she had a fool's word to say, it was lost in her throat at the embodiment of frost and snow whose chilled eyes seemed to read her secrets even from within the safety of her buy'ce.

But, thanks to her recent position, she bounced back easily enough and shelved her anxiety in the little hole that she kept locked away behind her heart.

"Yain, under employ of Cujo ya Hatta. 'm here to assist in the pickup, ease shipment, and smooth ruffled feathers on delivery." She mentally gave herself a pat--she almost sounded like she knew what the haran she was doing.

[thehurtvector-blog]

Fire in the Hole | @rc1262

Lying during the first impression never was a good way to make friends. That much, Yain knew from experience--the kind of experience that put her on all sides of that kind of situation.

But she never did stick to lessons learned... though she waved that away with the fact that hell, stubbornness and tenacity were good qualities to have. Even if it meant she got shot at every once in awhile.

Not that she was expecting to get shot today.

'Cuz she wasn't.

Mostly.

"Glad y' could get here 'n a timely manner." That was polite, right? Shab, she needed more caf. "Client's name's Elaena." Yain pointed over to the woman sitting solo in a booth towards the back, away from the front windows.

"She got a kid. She had a yaim. Now she don't--couple o' kungs smoked it outta the ground." Yain didn't think she had to mention it, the woman probably would've gotten into it herself, but she didn't want him to go into the conversation surprised. "She a little rough with Basic, so don't mention payment," she added. "'s covered."

She leveled a flat stare on him. "'m gonna be honest: this' edgin' on personal." Pause as she looked to the woman, and then back to the man who came highly recommended. She circled out from around the bar. "She bakes the bread f'the place 'cross the way." Because that explains everything.

"I'll translate f'what she can't say. C'mon."

[thehurtvector-blog]

Needs Sugar | @fixer1140

It wasn't often Yain did business in this side of town. Not that she had anything against the homegrown mandos, but it was easy to see how quick some were to press the colorful "outsider" slur around when it suited needs.

Mandalorians. They weren't all a pretty, homely bunch ready to hold hands and sing kumbaya by the campfire with any armored up warrior who decides to land on the planet. And that side of town... The only place "open" to international trade, and also the most dangerous.

That's just how it was, and she should've vacated the damn area while the sun was still in the sky. Now she's cold, she's alone, and a kilometer from civilization, but five minutes if she could just find her speeder... there it is.

Freezing my shebs off. Last time I--shab!

She hit the snow, cursed the sky, and thanked the Manda for her armor. And when she turned to look behind her, her heart jumped in her chest.

A body--?

"'Ey--!" She hissed, pushing up out of the snow, and crawled over to dig... double shab. Where's his shirt? His armor? He's already blue.

Nowhere near safety. What if he deserved to be out there? What if he's dangerous?

Hell, everyone on this damn planet is kriffing dangerous. She couldn't just leave him. She wouldn't.

Damn it. Demala's makin' you soft.

Deployed emergency blanket from her kit. Maneuvered him over her shoulder. Three... Two... One... lift.

"Son of a Sith harpy how're y'so flippin' heavy."

She loaded him onto her speeder, and jammed the engines to haul jets back to her tapcaf.

[thehurtvector-blog]

Small Favors | boss1138

Sundari had seen it's better days.

Sitting at the very end of the old polished oak bar over breakfast--a cup of double-shot caf and a high-nutrient meal bar--she read the local news-stream from her datapad. The thought drifted through her mind, along with another--one that wondered if Boss had visited the city during his time in the GAR, but Yain had never deigned it appropriate to ask. He'd probably tell her, when he finally showed up. 

Sure, she didn't really need a big, strong man to help her move furniture, but if it got him out and about and coming to keep her company in this chakaaryc city, well. She was never above a small lie and a hit to her ego.

Ugh. These side favors took too much time, kept her away from home for too long. She just wanted to set up the canteen, make sure it runs smooth, and leave--but a month, a whole month in and she still couldn't quite find the right kind of staff to upkeep.

The news-stream updated, and yet another image of the results of yet another violent disagreement jumped to the main feed.

Once upon a time, Sundari had been the site of vicious fighting during The Clone Wars. Ultimately, Kryze's forces had won. Sure. Nearly ten years ago, after the end of the Republic as everyone knew it. And after followed a bloody decade since, skirmishes and in-fighting on the outskirts as the return to militant mando-hood struggled to keep the peace.

And then the rise of young adolescents disappearing in the deep of night? Felt too familiar.

It was a terrible place for a kid on her own.

"The capital city's not lookin' too steady, yeah?" She looked up to the young bartender, a new hire a month in and the only person Yain's deigned to keep so far. Might need to start considering getting the sleemo to ship people out here if he means to keep this hole.  "I can relocate you. Y' got the skills, y' don' need t' stay here."

"Where would I go?" The girl--Torra--asked with a half smile under her ice blond hair and blue eyes. "This is my home. I've seen it at its worst. I couldn't leave it now."

"Yeah y' can." Yain sighed as she took a bite from the meal bar. "Y' just don't wanna make the leap. I can see it fine."

"Where would I stay?"

"With me." Obviously. "Until y' get your feet under you."

"Your land's off limits."

Yain didn't need to ask to know who set that, so she didn't. Instead, she snorted. "I don' own the land, I pay rent."

The girl sighed. "That's not the point."

"It's dangerous here, ad'ika." Yain stood and pointed at her with the meal bar, still chewing, to emphasize her point. "More dangerous than if y' broke rules for two days while I set you up in Keldabe."

"I lived here twenty years," Torra snapped as she finally set the caffa pot down. "And nothing's happened to me y--"

A trickle of ice curled in Yain's gut and blossomed, suddenly. Get down--

Yain leapt over the counter, shoulder-checking Torra in the chest as she took her down behind the thick oak bar. The dual front doors of the small cantina exploded open in a bright flare of a frag and a cloud of shattered, melted, glass. Torra screamed as it rained the remains of the front window around them. Overhead, a spray of blaster bolts PINGed against the wall, sending chunks of duracrete to rain down over them.

Shab. Yain hadn't thought to armor up. Keldabe made you soft.

Hands under the bar, looking for the--there. The hidden panel slipped open and dropped a blaster into her hands. And, with a breath, she controls the adrenaline coursing through her muscles, soothing the shake in her hands.

"Come out, Seybaht'a." A command. In Huttese? "No one else need hurt."

Seybaht'a... It can't be. 

"How 'bout we put the weapons down an' make nice, yeah?" Yain asked loudly. 

The oak bar bounced under the suddenly spray from a flak cannon. Guess that's a no. Yain looked over to Torra, placing her free hand on the girl's cheek. 

"I'll get you out of here." A fool's promise, but there it was. But how?

Boss, if you're on your way, how 'bout you walk a lil faster.

[thehurtvector-blog]

Seasons Don't Fear The Reaper | @old-psycho

                    ...all alone in the woods with                                                           wolves in the dark     pleading

                                                                               little red, won't you stay...?

She couldn't say no. Hell, if'n she were to be honest, she knew she wouldn't say no. Get out of the cantina, have everything set and paid for and a warm shelter with basic needs when she got back? An upgrade from the sad ten by ten under the cantina. 

Multi-tasking had its uses, of course Manda knows she needed to learn, better, how to balance multiple appointments across more than simple comm-calls. 

And maybe having an extra pair of hands in friendly discussion at her three would keep a comfort in a place she didn't want to admit needed filling when she crossed the long-disused tracks and into years-condemned territory. Initial reports pointed to the fifty story block as clear: completely devoid of sentient life. Just scattered remains.

Scattered... fresh remains. A dumping ground, perhaps. Maybe occasionally a deadbeat would take a short trip to cross through, or use the place as his last hit before tanking over the last Force line.

Go in, survey, use your talents and assess the place.

Easy. The Cujoe clearly needed to start her on easy, and Yain refused to give idle thought to the rage that trickled down her spine at the thought. What was she? A child, incapable of simple tasks?

Yes.

The automated lift DING'd the end of it's whisk to open on Level 99 of the Refugee District. She'd originally uploaded the coordinates to one mister Old and Scary, at an open location by a well-used and populated block--one where the clinic she funded with her extra credits found itself situated. It was public enough, open enough, and she had a delivery to make as well as more than a handful of contacts in the neighboring blocks in the event he wanted his fancy firing stick immediately.

And while some concern flitted the back of her mind at whether the man intended to show up in timely manner to the meet, she decided to deal with that issue when the time came.

Even if the time approached rapidly at the turn of the next corner, to the open-air fountain situated before the dipped and scaled up entrance of the otherwise shoddy free-clinic. Her boot heels clicked, noisy across the rotten, rusted grated metal ground, and the delivery to the clinic weighed her shoulder down to the obvious limp she otherwise attempted to disguise in bad posturing.