Bad late but I think still fun. Enjoy
“Lo that I enter the sepulcher of the damned and desecrated I shall not fear. For faith is my shield, reason my sword, and the M26 Pershing my big fracking tank!” Agent John’s “battle prayer” before leading the assault against a fortified cult of the Emerald goddess.
Talon-II, medical suit 4-D-
I.Welcome to my world-Simple Plan
Loud, bitter-sweet music poured from the suite’s speakers, the performers’ voices soggy and distorted, filling it with its macabre woe and lost promise. Speaking of lost ages and unfulfilled wonder, of Cyclopean landscapes and majestic cities beyond the imagination of the lesser kin, from before the pages of history. Before the infinite empire or the Rakata, back when the Galaxy was young and pure. Such was the operatic splendor of the “Dreams of R’yleh, even if only a pale imitative copy.
The Bith performers incapable of truly pronouncing the primordial words, shaped as they were for far differently shaped vocals, nor did the recording, made during the height of the Old Republic’s decadence, properly evoke the passions needed for the work. Lacking the boldness and self-assurance of the faithful concerts he’d witnessed in the secluded grotto caves of his family’s compound. Such was the luxuries of his former life, before he had to scramble away in the dead of night. Before the once agust name Delapoers as the fodder for intrigue and gossip rather than fear and respect.
Before he’d taken the name Sebastian Bechham, doctor, and had his features restructured to the late healer’s. Through Bechham rather approved of the latter, finding the doctor’s plain and just slightly doughy face a friendly alternative to his natural countenance. Having strongly inherited from his father Obed the “Delapoer look”, an insulting byword for the narrowness of head and scabrous of complexion which persisted through the family line, which he’d previously only slightly migrated with the forced replacement of his left eye with a synthetic artifice.
The red bauble his one concession from Bechham’s traditional look, believing it added a sense of intrigue and the draconian to his otherwise now jovial and pleasant face, a matter which had been trivially compensated by altering the late doctor’s medical records. It also invested him with a fuller range of the energy spectrum than its meat and tissue predecessor, the sensitive crystalline lattices of its matrix capable of analyzing a being’s physiology and pulmonary responses allowing him to diagnose in a glance. It as well meant he could “read” a human, peer into their soul as it were, and discern if they were attempting to employ subterfuge against him. Something he’d found invaluable in his life, both old and current.
Such was the being which closed the creased, age yellowed pages of the tarnished bronze gilded tome, itself a fragment from his once agust collection saved from the pillager’s torch, and turned a scarlet eye towards the opening suite doors. Attempting to rise from his chair as he saw Gambil, his at once savior and executioner, enter followed by one the chattering droids recently assigned to Bechham as support staff.
“My dear friend, it’s a pleasure.” Bechham scornfully greeted his guest, an impish discoloration on his amiable face, sweeping his treasured copy of “Cultes des Goules” into his seat behind him.” To what do I owe your…magnificent presence?”
Not that he couldn’t guess, or outright determine under his crimson gaze, but he of all people could understand the importance and…enjoyment of observing a ritual. And to see the smarmy Gambil brought low, if only for moment, to admit his innate frailties was worth it.
“Feth you and fething shut off that racket before I shove my boot up your asteroid. Fething understand me?” The Agent croaked, his voice like splintering glass, pushing his way past Bechham and taking a perch on one of the biobeds lining a wall.” Good, now get me some Tri-ox and let’s get this over with.”
Taking his seat there Gambil, with his frustratingly apologetic droid’s help, undoing his garments and weapon harnesses to reveal a lean and lightly scarred torso. His chest, despite the stern control of enforced on his visage, rising and crashing rapidly in shallow, feeble breaths in a fatalistic cycle at odds with the composed, heated words of his scratchy voice.
“Perhaps if you’d given me some warning I might have had something prepared but I didn’t expect you for months still.” Bechham, drawing a datapad from his pocket and pausing the selected play list, answered retreating to the mess of drawers and cabinets which housed the tools of his trade.
Taking from one a hypospray and a second, after a little rifling, a plum colored vial which he inserted into the former. Only letting his mind linger on a greenish hued canister he knew was in the cabinet beside for a moment, as Gambil had made clear that night in the light of his family’s burning palisade’s his untimely death would release certain files and documents the doctor dearly didn’t want loose. Adding to it, being found with the body of an Agent, no less one in which molecular acid had been injected, was not a situation conductive to long life.
Instead only Tri-ox found its way into Gambil’s bloodstream with an almost immediate slackening effect in his pulsating chest and expression of relief on his dogmatic and unflinching face. His tightly wound muscles not loosening as he laid back on the bed, to let the potion circulate and in preparations for the surgery, but taking on a subdued glow. A cocky, smug expression of pleasure and fulfillment.
One he’d worn that night under the greasy haze of Delapoers’ manor house burning down, when he truly realized the noose wrapped the doctor’s neck. Recognizing him despite the muck and grime of his mad plight through the under-berths of the family home and soggy caverns and bore holes which surrounded the estate.
“ Don’t tell me old friends like us are reduced to bureaucratic appointment wrangling.” Gambil laughed twisting his neck side to side, each with a loud pop, to loosen it.” I mean, I have a problem and I came to see you. What is more a more natural or friendly?”
“ I do have other responsibilities, I can’t always drop everything. Even for a “friend” like you.” Bechham warned switching the Tri-ox for a sedative compound.
Taking the time as he did so to see just what he had to work with, his red eye peeling back skin of Gambil’s chest, causing it to dissolve away like mist, before the grayish twilight of the simulacrum innards. Stopping on the hollow image of his beating heart and the morbidly enflamed lungs laboring to either side of it. Noting the mottled texture of the ghostly illusion, the pus filled protrusions he’d have to scour.
“That’s right, I’m your best friend. And friends deserve special treatment, and if we don’t our friends right…they stop being your friend. And then there is trouble.” Gambil, bracing himself as the mechanical arm of the biobed swung over him, taunted.” And we don’t want trouble. So forget your opera for a moment, your moldy old books or even that puissant Tun if that miserable fether is still alive. Just take care of me.”
“When you ask so nice, how can I refuse.” The Doctor replied over the gentle hiss of the hypospray.” And he is alive. Tun that is. Through not much of a conversationist, I was going to do a more detailed cranial scan to determine any further damage but…”
“No rush right? See, Tun isn’t your friend. So you can treat him like feth.” The Agent, quivering more from anticipation than the drug, answered dreamedly.” Like one of your world’s peasants, the ones you abducted in the middle of the night. The ones whose screams you tended to, in the deepest levels of the house, for hours on end.”
Gambil laughing at the analogy, find some twisted germ of humor limited to him alone in it, as the first of the bed’s invasive scans commenced bathing his flesh in a sickly green light. Confirming, in higher resolution and detail, what Bechham’s eye had already seen as well as constructing the surgery parameters which would guide the individual tools once he went in. The embodiment of the Imperial Medi-Tech it was quick, clean and efficient meant to waste not so much as a credit or joule in what was essentially an assembly line. Quite apart and separate from the antiquated in comparison tools he’d had back on his Birthworld, if less tactile.
“ I may have done a few blemishes but it was all in the name of progress. And what are a few lives in a Galaxy so big?” Bechham asked sweetly, retreating from the darkening edges of Gambil’s vision to sterilize and don mask and glove.
“ There was nothing progressive about what you were doing. And those were Imperial citizens, beings who are to live or die at the command of the Emperor or his appointed representatives. Of which, you fething little freak, are neither.” The Doctor heard his patient hurl, groggy and disorientated, as he slipped into unconsciousness.” You could but hope for the fate of Lemelisk if some of what transpired between those walls of stone and iron came to light.”
“But they were destroyed. All my medical files, all my test subjects. All eradicated by that mad Reek you let off his chain.” Bechham scolded, wagging one finger as he pulled a glove over its hand.
His family, and by extension himself, marked for death for political reasons rather than the fruits of his experiments. Experiments which had meant progress for his family and their goals, the latter what the fearful Imperial Security had imperfectly and most shallowly sensed. Dimly grasping the venerable and ancient family lines which were slowly gravitating towards the Delapoers, but oblivious to the real cause, and setting out for an example which would awaken the complacent local government to action.
Exercising, like a cancerous tumor, his family and the shadow of its influence in one brutal, sudden night. A family of dozens of extended members, some well over their first century, and tens of more of servants and attendants reduced by torch and sword to a sole refugee. A vagabond chained to an arrogant upstart.
All because of the
Pale Man.
Talon-II, primary hanger-
II.Sharp Dressed man-ZZ Top
“Certainly knows how to make an entrance.” Captain Crell George thought from the observation deck as the shuttle entered through the bay’s magnetic screen.
A stylish and customized lambda shuttle, black hulled with crimson windows, emblazoned with the iconography of the Galactic Empire, so wantonly that it was better deserving of the decadent Old Republic, and the raised lettering proudly declaring its name of Imperator Phasmatis. Drifting silently on its repulsar field the gaudy vehicle settled down before the twin columns of Imperial Servicemen, and women, whom had been selected to enjoy the “joyous” arrival of the Commodore.
“You’d think the Emperor was arriving.” Winthrope, naturally at Crell’s side, whispered from the corner of his mouth as the two of them proceeded from the observation deck to the hanger bay.
Entering as the boarding ramp extending from the garish shuttle like a steely tongue and brightly polished white armored Stormtroopers began descending in a ritualistic manner an forming an honor guard for the equally armored figure whom followed at their heels. And it was immediately apparent it was not only the assembled Imperial soldiers and Naval officers whom thought this was the coming of the Emperor. A self-indulgent swagger to the Commodore’s walk, an egotistical grandiosity and conception of importance which had led to the garish trappings of his customized shuttle and personal dress. Not content to wear his Commodore uniform, to stale and unassuming for one whose star burned so bright, the arrogant arse strode in the gleaming white armor plate of a warrior Stormtrooper.
Through not a plain one of course, mustn’t have that, with silver trimming each of the immaculate and dazzling plates while golden pauldrons, shaped and stylized like eagles, clasped in their shiny beaks the hooks for his dark lavender cape flowing behind him. The sigil of the Galactic Empire darkly stained on its outer lining, as if to dare construe the latter and the Commodore were one and the same.
“Looks like Colonel Kratz has got his work cut out for him now.” Winthrope observed in a hushed whisper as Krevin, intoxicated by the assembled crowd, paused to personal greet a few of his admirers.” If he wants to stay the most flashy dunce on board that is.”
The flamboyant, but effective, Kratz having become if anything even more bold and ostentatious since taking the mining station, acting at times with his preening more like a spoiled war-prince under the reign of Xim the Despot rather than a professional soldier.
“Patience my friend.” Crell, equally mutely, advised watching as the Commodore kissed the hand of a particularly pleased to meet him officer of the female persuasion.” Let the fool have his little moment, let him reveal his incompetence, his imbecility, his lusts…”
Watching the slightest tinge of blush appearing in lieutenant Annita Stein face, a normally straight laced officer, as the Commodore upturn that predatory face of his from her cradled hand. Smiling a self-serving smile, hollow and gaudy like his armor, and murmuring little nothings to the veteran officer, whom fawned like an Imperial cadet on her first year, like some two bit, decacred joy-boy. Krevin, without regard for the waiting Crell or the dignity of his office, inquiring onto Stein’s first name, complimenting her on it, and other indulgences of the personal.
“It is a pleasure to meet you, my dear Annita. The Empire needs women like you. If only to remind us what we fight for.” The Commodore suggested as he at last released her hand and made to move on.” And I do hope I, like the Empire, can call on you if need. Say for a tour of your magnificent vessel?”
“Ahem…Commodore. That would be ill advised. Lt. Stein duty is overseeing her turbolaser battery.” Captain George, rather loudly, cut in, his own warning forgotten, as he swept hurriedly to reach the lecherous Krevin.
Winthrope trailing less than a step behind, a corporeal shadow clinging to its masters, doing his best to maintain the selected stride without breaking his droll and dutiful expression. Looking every aspect the smartly regimented officer, like a battle droid rolled off the Confederate assembly, whom blandly sought only the stale glory of fulfilling his duty. A far cry from the counterpart the Commodore had in Tyler but not without his uses.
Knowing, from remembrance, that the fastest way to become good with a ship’s captain was to promote the second officer to it, allowing a second avenue if his first outreach to Crell failed to flourish. Not that it should, the old dog no doubt was itching for whatever bone thrown his way, but it never hurt to have a contingency.
“But of course, my apologies then Captain.” He said with all the grace he could manage to the stuffy, old officer and than with more sincerity towards the lieutenant.” And to you of course Annita. I certainty do not want to interfere with your proscribed duties.”
Earning another smile from her before he was forced, by decorum not by choice, to return on the crusty face of the Talon’s captain. An act mimicked and reflected by the polished white of his bodyguards who, the Commodore’s acts of a humble hero over, swarmed protectively around him like fire-wasps around their queen blocking sight of the assembled crewmembers.
“I’m sure of it.” Crell answered Krevin darkly, the Captain making motions to turn and be followed as he lead them from the hanger.” And your right, the Talon is a magnificent ship sir. Perhaps not the equal of the Judgment but she proudly served through countless battles against Emperor’s enemies.”
“ Perhaps more than her share since I’ve assumed authority. I do have a tendency to go in blasters blazing.” The Commodore mirthfully joked only to see it fall skewered to the deck.
No trace of humor in Winthrope’s voice as he agreed, citing dryly that the number of engagements the Talon had endured, having already boasted ten long years of service, having doubled since assuming its place under Krevin’s squadron.
“I doubt even Death Squadron would be called upon so much.” Crell added.” But, as you say, we on the fringes have to make do. Nor is that likely to change for the immediate future.”
“Such is the wages of War and Conquest.” Krevin offered, suddenly feeling like a Nexu caught in a hunter’s pit, as they exited into the hall.” What else can we do but endure.”
From within he heard the sharp tongues of the sergeant-at-arms as they dismissed those of the crew whom had assembled, the mammoth blocks of people dispersing into individual rivulets as Crell continued guiding the Commodore and his entourage. Try as he might through he couldn’t sneak another glance at Lt. Stein, finding the prospect of her company increasingly more entertaining than the likes of his current companions.
“But let us not talk of that Commodore. I’ve prepared a light refreshment in your honor, a select cadre of officers in attendance, and after wards my SubCommander is prepared to carry out the inspection you want.”
All while showing off how immaculate the Talon’s operations ran and how much of a Tionese raider Krevin really was. The brazen fool had nearly done their work there on the hanger deck, Crell still disbelieving the informality and blatant attraction he’d shown to an Officer of the Galactic Empire, and in a darker moment the Captain had thought to leave him to it. But no, that would hardly have been dignified to let it be seen of him openly associating with the lecherous Commodore all but pawing a comely Lieutenant. Better to show stewardship and paternal prudence to the crew interrupting the scoundrel’s act.
Later, after a few drinks, during the inspection he would be freed from Crell’s oversight and he in turn of the responsibility. Free to show the idolatry masses the true face of the Commodore ship scuttlebutt was beginning to idolize. Unless one of the mute warriors who encircled him acted as a suppressant, a subtle voice of reason, to his baser urges. Unlikely, the imbecile unlikely to court opinions contrary to himself, but one Crell and Winthrope had prepared for.
Subtly needling the Commodore, the two of them would, about the need of such an impressive escort within the steely bosom of the Talon-II. Stroking his ego, his wish not to be seen as “stand offish”, to whittle his security force to nothing. After all, each would at some point press, what could possibly be a danger aboard an Imperial Star Destroyer?
Talon-II, medical suit 4-D-
III.the beast in me-Johnny Cash
“Please forgive my inferior and most faulty circuits O’ glorious master Bechham.” The moping droid wailed at the operating Doctor’s elbow.” I do not mean to trouble you too unduly but, not that I, your most undeserving servant, doubt your ability or knowledge honored sir, but am I correct in surmising that you know what you are doing?”
The question posed after drawn out, terse minutes of Bechham, eyes glued to the biobeds terminal and through it the actions of the robotic limbs he controlled, lasering open Agent Gambil’s chest. Peeling back the folds of skin with delicately slender versions of the bulk clamps he pried and wedged the operative’s ribs apart with. Freeing space the space needed for the bed’s spider like appendages, knobby and disjointed, to enter into the cavity. Each bristling with myriad pustules of tools and equipment; from old style scyth-saws, to plasma cutters and Synthskin sprayers by which he used to cut and seal mottle growths protruding in lumpy clots from the operative’s lungs to localized anesthesia needlers which prodded each time brain activity registered pain from the ordeal.
Each, with the Doctor’s nominal guidance, operating in accord with its mechanical siblings to degrees no human team of surgeons could rival. The plasma torch never hesitating in its act, never endangering the tiny silver clamps that would hold each pus filled growth and than lift it up to the large bladed claws which fished the trimmings out into a bio-waste bag for incineration, adjusting and modifying its fusion beam on a microscopic scale swiftly with every change in its feed back sensors. Concentrating or attenuating it as needed to carve off the enflamed boils while leaving the rest of the tissue intact and viable.
The limbs’ redundant processors cataloging the Agent’s vitals every few thousandths of a second, capable of correction whether that entailed staunching blood loss or reconnecting a nerve cluster before the attending physician would even be aware of the error. Through lacking the independence and adaptive programming of a medical droid such as a 2-1B unit the surgical bio-bed apparatus proficiency and intuitive controls ensured even a first year medical student could have replaced Gambil’s lungs. Which considering the state of the doctors the Empire turned out, specially for unglamorous ship duty, was likely the only reason any Stormtrooper survived their butchering.
But the device’s use was mentally sterile, tedious even, and strangely detaching. None of the sensations Bechham would have experienced using his traditional tools, elbow deep in squirting muck hacking his way through a bit of toughened gristle or bone, or the same smells. A mixture of anti-septic perfume released regularly by the limbs succinct sealing of any incision negating the normally “earthy” boutique of an operation.
“Don’t worry my little rust bucket, I must have performed this procedure a dozen times on our friend.” He answered absently rotating a control stick to tilt the terminal’s viewpoint over another of the rancid protrusions.” He has nothing unduly serious, regrettably, merely the ultimate result of being born in the lowest depths of an Ecumenopolis.”
“ I do not doubt you Master, and I offer a thousand pardons on my insistent refusal to understand, but when you assigned me to serve master Gambil I took it upon myself, foolish and imperfect creation that I am, to review his file master Bechham. It does not contain any listing of chronic illness.” The droid QT offered meekly and with a hesitant air, like a shivering pup.
Which was how it should be, Gambil and then Bechham going to extreme lengths to ensure all his biological data practically shined as an exemplar example of Homo Sapien. That such pronouncement failed to describe the whole truth…well what the Empire didn’t know couldn’t hurt it.
“It’s more of a bit of pride than anything but living down in the squalor of the deepest depths, the unfiltrated air, the radiogenics, the pollutants, the general refuge and debris unsanitarily disposed of from the upper berths…some genetic perversion is unavoidable.” The Doctor intoned lancing another boil.” Such as in our friend’s case, the gene sequence for his lungs has been corrupted so they developed these cancerous polyps.”
And in a few generations of the aggressive defect would likely render any hypothetical decedents of the Agent wholly dependent on transplants in order to survive. Adding a burden the Empire, or whatever government now sprang with them lost in another Galaxy, could afford better to use in more productive sectors like munitions. Which was likely the depressingly mundane and pragmatic reason, rather than heated rhetoric of manifest destiny, the Empire cracked down and increasingly regulated near humans and alien rabble reproduction. Not that they much hope in removing the “impure” from the genetic pool. Like his family, the Delapoers, people such as Gambil always ensured to cover their tracks, hide their alleged taint from prying eyes.
“I see Master, actions meant to ensure master Gambil’s protection from sanctions. Efforts I jeopardized with my incessant and unneeded probing of his medical file.” The droid sobbed as a start of an apologetic fit.
One which Bechham cut off with a raise of his hand, reminded a particularly abject retainer of his family, not having the patience for it. His first impulse to take a laser scalpel to the thing’s vocalizer and perhaps if he wasn’t still engrossed overseeing the Agent’s surgery he might have done so. Instead deciding on a diversion.
“That it is unnecessary. No was harm done, merely good prudence to protect one I entrusted you with. Now then, I do have a job for you if you do not mind.” The Doctor asked.
Wincing at the profuse and spinelessly determined squee from the ruinous piece of hardware, the overzealous droid almost begging for a chance to “redeem” itself. An errant program flaw Bechham exploited across the room to the corner where Tun floated suspended in a bacta tank.
“Do you see the control panel? The one with all the green lights? I need you to monitor it and if any of them turn red to alert me immediately. Tun’s life may depend upon it.” Lied the Doctor with a practiced air.
Not that it was needed, the pile of junk nearly jumping out of its circuits at the proffered opportunity and scuttling to monitor the tank’s life support controls, which while important were rigged to alarm, for a patient it was doubtful would ever regain consciousness. It’s metal feet clomping against the deck plate, regressing in the background, as the Doctor spun a claw around to snatch and lift up one of the remaining boils. Triggering the plasma torch only to have, instead of a narrow jet of super heated plasma capable of incinerating through a durasteel bulkhead, the terminal chirp in maddeningly warbles as the blood red text “parameter incongruent” scrolled across the flickering screen. The readout splitting itself in two, one half becoming deeply map template the biobed was using as its basis while the other began highlighting the differing anomalies.
Through the terminal’s eye he watched a pustule metastasize from nothingness along with dozens of others, predominantly situated in the lung tissue but radially spreading out from there, one which undulated when he probed it with a steel claw. The leathery sack of its skin rippling from the contact then splitting open down a middle seam, the serrated flaps folding back and receding from glisteningly wet, oozing orb which rotated towards the offending appendage. A burning, unblinking pupil staring up through the camera lens.
From somewhere distantly behind him Bechham heard the squeaky voice of the droid ask him some simpering question, asking if there was a problem with “master Gambil”, which he tried to shout down. Tried to release the surgical controls and retreat, to chronicle the metamorphous from afar, but at that same moment some mucus sheathed strand of sinew and meat ruptured out from the now immobile robotic limbs like a regellian blood worm. Its tips, which it curved serpent like through the mechanical appendages towards the Doctor, oozing pus as it too split opened and swelled into an ocular gland.
“Yog-Sothoth, keeper of knowledge, have mercy…” Bechham pleaded to his ancestral deity, that which had guided Delapoers for centuries, before the fleshy tendril snapped about his throat.
Its painful constriction silencing his out cry and subduing any struggle as the tentacle retracted him atop the surgical opening, now alive with writing curdled milk-gray maggots which revealed themselves with their emergence as leprous hands. Clammy, soft, misshapen things that soggily ended in growing, yellow claws which bound the Doctor’s limbs or body with iron grip or triflely snapped apart the bed’s mechanical arms. Tossing them aside as it pulled him inside, where the meat genuflected and folded sprouting thistles of ivory spurs on each fleshy end which blossomed into sickle like fangs.
His scarlet eye of artifice able to appreciate and capture in splendid detail the budding calcium peaks which rose up from the tissue like a long lost city being regurgitated from the sea or the webbing network of muscles sprouting and witheringly nurtured from the surrounding tissue. Just as it, before the saliva caked spikes were thrusted into him, captured the pained expression of Gambil awakening to the scene. His pale, sweat drenched face tortured in agony and fear as his mouth twisted agape in an utterly soundless scream, trying by instinct to use organs which no longer were.
Replaced by new ones which, aggressively worming their connections through his body as they were, belonged to another. A darker presence, one hungry and voracious, gnawing like a nest of rats up through him. Feeling it, its numbing tendrils, burrowing through him dividing endlessly through his being hooking into muscles, organs even his bones. Greedily devouring it the same as Bechham, torn into messy chunks, was sucked within the gestating creature. Sustaining it, fueling its growth.
Through it would need more soon, more fuel to drive, more flesh to sculpt, so very soon. But that would come it was sure, now through it had to feast. To grow strong, to prepare for the coming of more. Of more constructs of bone and meat, crude and simplistic vassals of the universal filament, through which it could expand. Survive and spread…its only goal.
One which the other living being in the suite counted on as she roused herself from her placid serenity, body flowing like wax as she moved through the murky, sticky fluid to tear away her rebeather. Setting of alarms and warnings as her fist, far more slender and diminutive than Tun’s, burst through the tank’s crystalline side. Forming a gushing outlet for the immersion substance which poured out into a stream. Forming a widening puddle beneath the cowering droid who nervously turned faintly gold glowing eyes to the suddenly active form within the capsule.
“Oh bother…” It wailed raising an arm to shield its face from the shattering glass.
The broken panes smashed aside to make way for the raven haired woman who daintily stepped out of the ruptured Bacta tank with mild splash, a hand rising to wipe a matted clump of tresses from her flint like eyes as she turned them piercingly towards the sniveling robot.
“Don’t even try it. I’m not in the mood.” Sylph warned it in a cold as stone voice, dismissing it immediately afterwards as she started towards the door.
Stretching her arms out and working the kinks from her altered once more muscular, a welcome relief to feel her customary lithe limberness rather than the blocky stiffness of Rynths or Tun.
“Never master…er mistress.” The machine groveled in a gratingly pathetic voice.” Far be it for me, your most lowly of servants, to question your wisdom oh great madam but I am but at your service. Give the word and by my Maker I shall have it done.”
“Cute. And the Bureau would love another Clockwork to play with…” Sylph toyed pausing at the exit, one hand running up its edge.” But I really don’t need the baggage. And in a few minutes our friend over there will be hungry. Why don’t you be a doll and alert security.”
Releasing the bulkhead, and moving with the confidence as if she owned the Destroyer, she than swayed from sight of the meek profusely acquiescing, droid. Promising to contact the Stormtroopers until his auditory sensors could no longer detect the noise of her footfalls or subdued breath, then abruptly ceasing as he canceled his thespian program. Becoming a new droid as he curved his palm and wrist towards his face. One confident and secure as his hand split open revealing the concealed communicator and he spoke to his master.
“Believed I have found “Rynth”, a polymorphic creature just exiting the medical Suite. Current form was of a human female wearing only a pair of bacta trunks. Further caveat through, the appearance of a voracious, mutagenic organism. Appears to have incubated in Agent Gambil and is currently absorbing Doctor Bechham. Gambil appears conscious but incapacitated.” The droid reported icily watching the operative’s face feebly turn towards his wordlessly begging for help.” “Rynth” recommended I alert security. Advise?”
“ Follow the lady’s advise then proceed to the extraction point.” The voice of the Man In Black answered back.” I’ll handle our other guest…”