The corpse stared up, unblinking, unseeing, the once vibrant brown eyes, now vacant. She was sprawled in the middle of the cargo bay, laying in a large pool of her own blood. I slowly wiped her life force from my knife, the knife I had plunged in her back, she never saw me coming, that was the point, I was a shadow, my face, my gender, my voice, my name, everything was relative. She had something I needed, something that would allow me to see him again. He was on his own mission, and I shouldn’t disturb him, but it was my older sister and not me who had been called to be First Hunter, and so I had freedom, I may never be called so I decided I would help the man I loved with what he needed to do.

I spun around on the bench waiting for the call, I stared at her Ident chip, testing out the name, saying it out loud, then softly, I liked it, but I wanted to keep my face, I wasn’t my sister, who preferred to be a man. She had lifted an eyebrow and rolled her eyes, but she loved me and indulged me.

“It’ll be a few minutes to adjust the identity, it would be easier if you just changed your face.”

“I want him to know it’s me.” I had pouted.

My personal holo blipped and in the same moment the face on the ident chip changed, turned into my face. I smiled answering the call.

“Happy?” My sister asked, in the voice of a man, a handsome man.

“Very, thank you!”

“Watch your back, and say hi to Skavak for me!”

“I will, stay safe Hunter.”

“And you Captain.” She gave me a lazy salute and the call ended.

Captain, I suppose I was now. I dragged the body to the airlock, her head wobbling as I pulled her, the eyes still open, her mouth frozen in surprise. Sticky red blood streaked the ships hallways, and I wrinkled my nose at the mess I would need to clean up. I contemplated the dead girl in front of me, her new ship, new life, she had been a war orphan, raised in the big orphanage on Coruscant, she was young, in fact she was as young as me, difference was she was just starting out in life, and I had spent the better part of my twenty years training to be invisible, to be a ghost. She made it easy for me, no family, no ties, which meant just one death, I liked it when things were clean. I knelt over her, and closed her eyes.

“Thanks for the name.”

I checked the cargo, weapons bound for Ord Mantell, I opened one of the crates and grabbed one of the new Czerka specials, and threw my old blaster into the crate. Holstering the gun, I got to work cleaning my new ship.

***

Clearing the blockade was childs play, I was so giddy to see him. The ship came to a screeching halt and I lowered the gangplank, he was waiting leaning against some crates, his face unreadable.

“Can’t believe you made it through that separatist shooting gallery captain, your ship doesn’t even have a scratch. Takes guts landing in the middle of a battle field. Nice flying!” There was a shadow of recognition, but we played our parts no matter how much we wanted to jump into each other’s arms. My lips twitched up, despite myself.

“I owe it all to my lightning reflexes and crackerjack timing.” He gave me a wink and a smile, I was glad he was pleased.

We entered the hangar and he pulled me into his arms and crushed his lips to mine, “What are you doing here Hunter?”

“Ah, ah, the name is Ainsley Isiz, Captain Ainsley Isiz, and I understand you need a ship?”

“Oh baby, you know just how to make a man smile!” and he kissed me again, his hands cupping my backside.

I pulled back, lips buzzing, skin heating where he had touched me, how long had it been? “Did you find him?”

“No, but I found his daughter, she’s leading me on a bit of a chase, an extra set of hands will be helpful.”

“So cat and mouse?”

“Looks that way. Want to be the mouse for a change?”

“As if, who’s the hunter here? I’m the cat.”

He pulled me in for another kiss, quick, not knowing when our next opportunity to be together would be. Then as quick as blinking, we were playing our parts again when fast footsteps entered the hanger, and a dreaded kid out of breath announced information we already knew. His name was Corso.

Quinn began his shift early. It was the day after Lieutenant Pierce’s daughter’s graduation. They were on the way to the fleet to have the ship retrofitted.

Pierce has a daughter that is not on record, he also has a record that does not include his assignment to the Wrath. He thought. More black ops nonsense, that kind of poor record keeping has no place in the Empire. He brought up the Lieutenant’s record. He nodded with satisfaction seeing that there were two records, one contained information about Amilla Pierce, the other about the Wrath. Quinn smiled with smug satisfaction.

He set about combining the two files, in an uncharacteristic fit of curiosity he looked at the Lieutenant’s first name. Milton. His lip quirked, I’ll be sure to use that when he particularly gets on my nerves or perhaps I’ll just let it slip to Vette. It would be marvelous if she could actually be useful for something.

When the files were combined, he nodded to himself with satisfaction. He double checked the procedure to make sure he deleted the duplicate, to his consternation he found another file. He opened it, this one contained information about a previous operation not found on the other two records and no information about his current post or daughter. Quinn rolled his eyes, Even the man’s files are as sloppy as he is. He sighed and combined them, his eyes flicked over the information, Pierce’s first name was oddly listed as ‘Roger.’ Frowning Quinn did a wider search, fourteen separate files with different pieces of data, all with different first names.

Jaws clenched at the affront to the order that the Empire demands he combined the files choosing the worst first name he could find which was currently at, ‘Wilbur.’

He sighed with relief and closed the connection. He tapped his fingers idly as if he did not trust the console itself, he opened the personnel database again. He searched for the Lieutenant. Twenty-eight results showed up, all with missing data all with different first names, the Lieutenant’s identifying picture smiled back at him taunting him from a growing number of files. With a snarl of frustration, Quinn closed the database and shut down the console.

What kind of man smiles in his ID picture anyway?

Maru'bri'ishna. That's what the Ascendancy called her.

Ubrii. That's what her tutors called her.

Bri. That's what her parents called her.

That Chiss was dead. Had been dead for many years. A female with her DNA walked, spoke, ate, occasionally laughed, but she was not Maru'bri'ishna, nor Ubrii, and certainly not Bri. She did not live under the rule of the Ascendancy. She did not have tutors, eat fine dinners, chat with the children of politicians. She did not have a parents.

Askari Ma'grav. That's what the Empire called her.

Bounty Hunter. That's what her employers called her.

Skari. That's what her all too few friends called her.

The Chiss that went by these names was alive. One who never backed down. One who took the hard jobs and found a way to walk away again. One who fought to keep people at a distance...and failed too often.

Skari ran a fingertip around the lip of the glass in front of her, watching the door of the Slippery Slope from her vantage point in the corner. Her finger stopped as a female Chiss walked in. She was tall, lean, like herself, with an easy grace to her stride. She scanned the room and then turned unerringly and met Skari's eyes. Her expression was more open than Skari's; her face unmarred by the scars of a life too dangerous for most to survive. The Chiss walked across the room, to the table where Skari sat. The tightness in Skari's chest added to the stress that flattened her lips.

"Hello sister," the newcomer said, a smile hovering on her lips although her expression was wary, unsure of her welcome.

Skari leaned back and tried to smile. "Hey Esma," she said, gesturing for her sister to sit.

"Thanks for agreeing to meet me. Sorry I'm late. Got delayed by some business in the Nikto sector." Esma said, sitting down, at ease with her back to the room in a way Skari never would be.

Skari shrugged. "It's no big deal."

"I have some questions, if you don't mind."

"Questions?" Skari asked.

"What were our parents like?"

Skari picked up her glass and took a drink, thinking over the question. "Impulsive. Well, by Chiss standards anyway. And more concerned with smiles than family accomplishment. In other words, they were nuts." She grinned.

"I don't suppose you have any of those character traits?" Esma asked with a grin.

"Me? Nah," Skari said with sarcasm dripping from her tone, "You?"

"Let's just say the Jedi Order and I don't always agree," Esma said with a small smile.

"I guess the Maru family has a streak of rebel in them," Skari said with a salute of her glass.

"Our family name was Maru? Are there any members left?"

Skari shrugged. "I think we still have some cousins back in the Ascendancy."

"This feels strange to even ask it," Esma said with an awkward grimace, "but what was my name?"

Skari looked past Esma, her eyes unfocused. "Maru'kai. We called you Kai. You were just starting to talk, but you weren't old enough for the last part of your name yet."

"Kai." Esma tried it out, but it didn't sound right in Skari's ears. That name was for a different person than the one who sat in this cantina in Nar Shaddaa with lightsabers on her belt.

Esma glanced down at her wrist unit. "Blast it! I told Scourge I'd be back by now! The man's going to start systematically tearing the place apart."

"Scourge? Odd name."

Esma chuckled. "You have no idea. I'll tell you about him sometime. Same time next week?"

"It's a deal."

"Could I...could I call you Ri?" Esma asked as she stood to go. Skari froze. "I don't know why, but it just sounds right in my head."

Skari let out a breath. "I...yeah, you can call me Ri," she finally said.

"Are you sure that's okay?"

"Yeah, it's cool," Skari said with a shrug, fighting for nonchalance.

"Okay then," Esma said slowly with a nod, "I'll see you later."

Skari nodded tersely and then took a drink as her little sister walked away.

"That's what Kai called me," Skari whispered to herself.

My original plan was for Esma's given name to be Jana. I thought it was pretty. And then I wrote it down with their family name...Maru'jana..../facepalm

The second I saw him, I knew what I was going to do.

It was strange; I'd just saw him out of the corner of my eye on the streets of the Red Light Sector. I was so lost in my thoughts that I might not have even noticed him. But I did, and the second I saw him I felt a shock run down my spine. A million hazy memories flooded my mind, of the seven months I'd lived here. He was the one who has owned me, who had forced me into prostitution and made me a drug addict. So tonight, he was going to die.

I snuck back onto my ship in the dead of night and rustled through my wardrobe. I needed something black, so I could sneak into the brothel without being seen. All I had was a black temple robe from Mirial, but I put it on and raised the hood over my head. I felt like some kind of assassin, and I liked it.

I ran through the alleys, weaving in and out of the shadows. I could still remember where he lived, where he kept all of his slaves. I remembered the thin mattresses that we'd slept on, the way he would send us out to parties with a small packet of spice to split between us. How we told new girls, "Just take it. You'll be glad you did."

He stayed in a large room on the second floor of the house, with a small balcony attached. If I could get up on the balcony, I could get into his room and shoot him. It was raining, and climbing would be difficult, but I was pretty sure I could do it. I dragged a crate under the balcony and climbed up on it. I should have stolen Corso's jetpack for this. My feet slipped, and I threw a grappling hook up onto the balcony. I heard a door open and as I pulled myself up onto the railing, I saw my former owner step out.

I stood there on the railing, my black robe rustling in the wind. A lock of soaked black hair fell over my forehead. He stared at me in confused fear, and I heard a rumble of thunder and a flash of what I hoped was lightning. I was a freaking avenging angel from hell tonight.

"Who are you?"

"You know who I am," I said, trying to make my voice sound foreboding. I wasn't sure if it worked.

There was another flash, and it must have illuminated my face, because his eyes widened. "Jae?" he whispered.

Jae was the name he called me when he owned me. He said Ayang was "too depressing" and changed it. Jae was "sexy" and "fun", appropriate for my new career path.

"That's not my name anymore," I said.

He stepped back, looking genuinely afraid of me. I'm sure I looked like I was truly insane.

"Get out of here," he said. "I've got a gun, you know."

I jumped down from the railing.

"You're gonna regret coming back here, girl!" he said, lunging at me. I kicked him in the knee, and he fell to his knees. I kneed him in the chest, knocking the wind out of him. He fell onto his back, and I pinned him down. He was as out of shape now as he was two years ago.

"I have a gun too, idiot," I hissed.

He looked up at me, his eyes hard and angry. "You came here to kill me? For what? I didn't do anything illegal."

"I don't care," I said, and I whipped my blaster across his face.

Mercifully, he kept his mouth shut. A white-hot anger spread across my body, like I'd transformed into something inhuman. I kept pummeling him, like I'd wanted to all those years ago. This was for me, and for all the girls he'd sold to Hutts and criminals, and for all the girls he'd killed, directly or indirectly. This was for ruining my life.

"You're human scum," I said. "People like you are the lowest lifeform in the galaxy. I'm doing everyone a favor by getting rid of you."

"It doesn't matter what you do to me," he snarled. "You're still a whore. You always will be. You're ruined, Jae." His lips curled into a cruel smile, like he knew he was going to die, but he was going to take part of me with him if he could. "You're always going to be a ruined woman. No one will ever want you. Nobody wants a used-up woman like you, you dumb f--"

I shot him in the head.

For a long moment I sat there in the rain, breathing in and out. I felt strangely calm. It wasn't my first time killing someone, but usually those were fair fights, and they were about helping others. But this was...different. This was pure, simple revenge. I wasn't really hurting him for everything he did to other girls. It was for everything he did for me.

"My name's not Jae," I whispered. "My name is Ayang."

I stood up, my legs shaky at first. My robe was soaking wet, the hood hanging limply from my head. I leapt down from the balcony. As I walked away, I heard a woman scream. I didn't turn around.

When I climbed back into my bed in the hotel, I expected to fall asleep easily. But I couldn't. He was finally dead, but he'd planted a black seed inside me and I couldn't kill it. Those words he'd said before he died...I knew they weren't true. But part of me still believed him.

No one will ever want you. Nobody wants a used-up woman.

I felt used-up. When I'd seen schoolgirls on Coruscant or young women in the cantina on Taris, I felt completely different from them. They weren't broken. They were still whole, and pure. They didn't carry around hate and anger and scars from a bad life. I stared into the darkness, trying to will myself to forget it. To cover it up, like I always did. Tonight, I'd had revenge. Tonight, I'd destroyed the worst part of my past. The inklings of doubt were worth it.

I felt my partner stir a little beside me. "Ayang? Are you okay?"

"Go back to sleep." I closed my eyes; suddenly I realized I was exhausted. "I'm all right."

The Twi’lek hid in the shadows in the alley behind the diner. Watching. The diner was open—it was always open—but it was too late in the evening to be busy. Even on Nar Shaddaa. The casinos would be hopping now, but the crummy little places like this in the underbelly were quiet.

He finally worked up enough courage to try the back door. It wasn’t locked—it was never locked—and it slid open at his touch. He slipped into the storage room. Full of dry goods and non-perishables: replacement plates, silverware (same style as in prison, more’s the irony), and paper goods. Whiff of the employee ‘fresher.

He heard footsteps approaching. A heavy tread. A voice, “You hungry?” asked a male. Sal. “You know the trade,” he said. The silhouette of a portly humanoid crept into the deeper shadows of the storeroom. “Not much business right now, but I’ll find you something to do if you’re hungry.” He crossed the threshold and the lights flickered on. One of the tubes was on the fritz and stayed dim. Sal spotted the Twi’lek immediately. “Oh, it’s you. Haven’t seen you in a while, little man.”

The Twi’lek winced, “I hate that nickname, Sal.”

The portly human shrugged, “You’d prefer your real name? Thought you hated that too.”

In the light, Sal looked even more wrinkly and saggy than the Twi’lek remembered. His wispy white hair was thinner too. The patchwork of cybernetics on his scalp looked stapled on rather than properly integrated into his skin. His brown eyes had that funny grey ring around the iris that Humans got when they got old. He’d never noticed that before. “I’m in trouble, Sal, I could really use your help.”

“You were always trouble,” Sal said, “My old man always said you were trouble.”

“He here?”

Sal shook his head in the negative. Slowly. Sadly. “Gone. Two years, five months. Handful of days. Counting makes me sad so I try to quit,” he said, “Why, you need a blaster jacked, little man?”

“Coulda used it,” the Twi’lek replied, “who killed him?”

Sal sighed, “I know you will find this hard to believe, little man, but people do get old and die. Natural causes. He was feeling tired so he sat down for a nap in the nice office chair. Never woke up.”

“Huh,” the Twi’lek said. “You, uh, you miss him?”

“Every day.”

“Sorry to hear that, Sal.”

Sal sighed again, “You’re only sorry he can’t hotload modify your blaster. You look like hell, little man. What kind of trouble you in?”

It was the Twi’lek’s turn to look uncomfortable, “I need a new name, Sal. Figured you’re the slicer to set me up.”

“Names are expensive,” said Sal, “Can’t work that off in diner trade like a meal.”

“I can pay.”

“How much?”

“50K.” That was all he had left after bribing the port authority to let him land the yacht without proper papers and without checking it against known-stolens. It was light for the job and he knew it.

Sal rubbed the stubble growing on his chin, “Not much for what you want.”

The Twi’lek fished a datacard out of his trousers, “I can get more. You check this and find me a fence. I got more like it and I can pay for the rest of the job once I sell them.” He finally approached Sal and handed him the card.

Sal tapped the datacard; his cybernetics linked with it and he scanned it, “Encrypted. Low level. You know what’s on here?”

“Yeah. Not hard to beat that cipher.”

“You could’ve been a decent slicer.”

“The higher-level math is beyond me,” griped the Twi’lek, “I can’t teach myself that stuff.”

“Could have got a teacher.”

“Who’d teach me? No one, that’s who.”

Sal sighed a third time and shook his head, “My old man always said you were trouble. All right, little man, I’ll get you your name. Gonna take some time, especially if you’re hot. You need someplace to crash for a bit?”

“Too strung out on stims to sleep.” The yacht practically flew itself, but he’d never piloted a ship before. He didn’t trust the autopilot, not even with the hyperspace and the spaceport tug beacons. Kept himself awake with stims the whole trip.

“I bet,” Sal said, “come on.” Sal shuffled through the diner’s prep area, past the cold storage, to the little office tucked away between the big sinks and the dishwasher, the Twi’lek padding along behind. The cook, unseen up front, whistled a tune and scr@ped rhythmically at the flattop grill, cleaning it during the lull in business.

Sal unlocked the office door and squeezed in. A battered desk dominated the room. Beside it rested a fat server cube, all out of proportion for the diner’s meager needs, disguised as a plant stand. There was even a dusty purple resurrection plant sitting on top in a dry saucer, curled up into a ball in its dormant state.

In the corner was a comfortable chair. Dark leatheris, padded, a knitted blanket in shades of reddish-purple tossed over the back. Sal didn’t look at it.

Instead he slid open a drawer in the desk and pulled out a half-empty whisky bottle and a pack of pills. “Shouldn’t do this. You’re too young to be messing with this chemistry,” he said, “but by the looks of you it won’t matter.” He tapped out tablet and split it with his nail along the score and poured a shot of whisky, “Go get a glass of water, will you, little man?”

The Twi’lek returned shortly with a tumbler. Sal handed him the half-tab, “Dipill,” he said, “The doc said they’d help me sleep. Don’t, really, so I hand ‘em out to the stim tweakers to help ‘em come down.” The Twi’lek took the pill with a sip of water, then accepted the proffered whisky. “And my old man always said Corellian whisky was the best thing for nerves.”

The Twi’lek downed half the shot before coughing, “Why Corellian whisky?” he gasped out.

Sal smiled. Finally. “Because Corellians have more nerve than anyone else in the galaxy.” He poured the rest of the water over the resurrection plant and closed the whisky back in the desk. “Still got the spot in the back room behind the linens if you want to get horizontal before that kicks in.”

“You, uh, you want to join me?”

Sal laughed, a thin weak sound, “Hell no, I’m older than your grandfather.” The Twi’lek’s expression hardened into a mask. “Oh, don’t get like that. You know what I mean. Oh, maybe, if I were younger and didn’t remember when Jenks brought the whole job-lot of you kids down to the port, not a one of you big enough for a shock collar. You’re still that kid to me. The boy with the old eyes. The little man. I know you’re only trying to hustle me because you’ve got nothing else to trade. You don’t really swing that way. So don’t. Just don’t. Go sleep it off and I’ll have your name and a fence by the time you wake up.”

The Twi’lek drank off the rest of the whisky. It sat warm in his belly, sloshing a bit, as he padded back to the storeroom. As promised, on the floor behind the stacked towels and dishcloths was a pair of delivery pallets with a fiberfoam cushion laid across them, the kind movers wrapped around fragile items during shipping. And a tarp instead of a sheet. The Twi’lek lay down on the makeshift bed and burrowed under the tarp. Sour, musty smell, same as always. Sal’s sedative combined with the alcohol slowed his brain down enough so he could sleep. Sleep was good. He drifted into darkness. No dreams.

He woke sometime later. The diner was still quiet, so it must be early in the morning. No chrono back here so he wasn’t sure. He crawled out from under the tarp, hit the ‘fresher, and slipped through the empty kitchen. He spotted an uneaten waffle on a dirty plate by the dishwasher and scarfed it. Sal would make him a fresh one if he asked, but he didnt want to ask.

He rapped at the office door. “’s open,” he heard Sal’s voice from inside. He pushed through it. The resurrection plant’s leaves had unfurled in a striking purple rosette. Sal sat behind the terminal. The harsh display lighting made him look like a plump gargoyle. “Gave cook the night off, we’re so slow. Hutta space authority picked up a guy joyriding in a stolen yacht registered to the vice-administrator of the Sevarcos II penal colony. You know anything about that?”

The Twi’lek had left the yacht hatch wide open and a partial bottle of booze at the end of the gangplank, hoping someone would steal both. “Nope,” he said.

“Hrumph,” Sal grunted. He looked up and slid the datacard toward the Twi’lek, “Pretty hardcore stuff here. Only a few people would be interested in it. Listed ‘em for you, with their holofrequencies.”

“You contact any of them yet?”

Sal shook his head violently in the negative, “Hell no. I don’t want any part of this sh*t. It’s not even proper p*rn, looks more like the feed off button cams in someone’s bedroom. How’d you get a hold of it?”

“You don’t want to know the answer to that, Sal,” said the Twi’lek.

“True that,” Sal sighed, “Look, you get this to a holonet journalist, they’d go nuts with it. Make some people’s lives real miserable, I bet. People who deserve it.”

“Reporters won’t pay.”

“They might.”

“Not enough.”

Sal sighed again, “Old man said you were trouble,” he muttered. “Hell of a job getting your new name. Took more than your 50k to take care of it all.”

“Hey, I just shift the freight. Not my fault we were hauling spice.”

“System judge didn’t think so,”

“He wouldn’t would he?”

“You’re trouble, little man.”

“Yeah, yeah, you said that. You got a new name for me, Sal?”

“Thought about turning you in, little man.” The Twi’lek said nothing. The diner was deserted. Even the cook was gone. Sal’s rheumy old eyes fixed him like a laser, “But then I thought, I’m erasing your past. The old you don’t exist anymore, he’s dead. I killed him. You can start over. Not many people get that chance, little man. Get to do things different.”

The Twi’lek relaxed, “So I got a new name?” he asked.

Sal swiveled the monitor so the Twi’lek could see it. “Jesp Rixik. I named you after my two favorite holodrama writers, Jesper Terek and Areti Rixiklos.”

“Never heard of ‘em.” He put his hands on the desktop and leaned over to view the display. It showed his new file. Name, age, birthplace, picture, everything. Perfect. Complete. Beautiful.

“Before your time. I made you twenty-two. Could have gone older, but that’s enough to get you past age-related restrictions. Figured that was enough.” Sal rose and came around the side of the desk to stand next to the Twi’lek. He put one hand high on his shoulder. “So, you like it?”

“A work of art, Sal.” He caught the date on the bottom of the screen. Tomorrow. No, today. He’d slept through a whole day. Cook was gone. Sal sent him home. No one else here.

“Glad you like it. One of my best, I think,” said Sal. His finger touched one of the lines of scabs on the newly-minted Rixik’s neck, parallel to his spine, where shock collar electrodes puncture the skin to deliver their jolt. Over and over again. “A brand new you.”

“Yeah,” said Rixik. He wrapped his left arm around the portly human and straightened, “this uploaded already?”

“Yep”

“So I’m really sorry about this.”

Sal sighed a third time, “No, you’re really not.” He met Rixik’s eyes, ever so much older than twenty-two.

“Yeah, I kinda am.” Rixik pulled a snub-nosed blaster and shot the old man once. Center mass. Sal slumped in his grip. It was all Rixik could do to support him.

“Old man said you was trouble,” he gasped. But there was a faint whisper of a smile on his face. Rixik prepared to shoot him again, but didn’t need to. He’d said his last words.

Rixik pulled the corpse to the leatheris chair and set it down gently. Another shot blew out the server. The resurrection plant tipped, then spilled into the ruin, the leaves sending up a funky aroma as they smoldered and burned. A quick trip to the diner front—still empty—and he siphoned the day’s receipts to a fake account he had no intention of touching. Just in case the authorities bothered to investigate.

Not likely.

They wouldn’t bother investigating a robbery in a cheap portside dive, even with a death. Not here on Nar Shaddaa.

He left through the back, same as he’d entered. He checked the names on the list Sal gave him. Time to find a fence. Time to start again.

The irony here is that I used the random name generator in the game to get “Rixik”, something I almost never do. I gave him a first name later.

I love the fact that even when he's not around, Pierce can piss Quinn off to no end XD

The two soldiers looked out over the rock plateaus of Balmorra, quietly contemplating the time ahead.

"Jorgan, did I ever tell you how I got my name?" The aforementioned glanced at his commander listening as she continued. "My parents wanted a name that was different from my sister. Zethryncia was certainly a unique name, but they wanted a complete difference, so Azydria apparently fit."

"Well Captain Hawklyn*, that suits you. I find your name to be very orderly, but we have a mission to complete, so we should be about it." The Cathar offered the Mirialan an assist in rising from the ground and the two of them rearmed for the journey into the unknown.

When servers did their merge thing, I had to change legacy name from Hawklyn to something else, not sure any of the present legacy names I have really fit though. I really wish they'd add more character slots a server, but thats a different kettle of fish entirely.

"Do you have a last name?"

"Sure. Wynston."

"Then do you have a first name?"

"Sure. Wynston."

"Wynston Wynston."

"No, just the once. Single word, means it qualifies as both first and last."

"You could just say you don't want to tell me. It's not like I haven't heard that from irritating colleagues before."

"Quinn, I've been in this line of business for just about thirty years - Chiss start young - and I've had perilously close to four hundred names. 'Wynston' is enough to keep track of in my down time."

"What you're saying is 'blah blah blah I'm too cool to have a first name, just like all the other goons who are trying too hard to be special.'"

"...Pierce really got under your skin, didn't he?"

Quinn, rather than responding with irritation, suddenly perked up. "Wait. You have the most powerful intelligence apparatus in the galaxy here. Did you ever catch Pierce's name?"

"Why, yes, we did."

Quinn's eyes fairly sparked. "What is it? Where's the record?"

"The record, sir, is right next to the file that has my original full name."

"...Either you're making this up or I have reason to be extremely annoyed with you."

"Is that an either/or, or is that a both?"

Quinn glowered. "You tell me. Wynston."

"I don't believe I will, Agent Malavai Quinn." Wynston stood up, shoved his hands in his pockets, and sauntered off, whistling.

“This is outrageous,” Ipha fumed. Her eyes tracked down the data pad she held tightly in her fists. So tightly the case began to creak with the tension.

Elara Dorne gingerly reached out and pulled it from her hands. It was a pain to requisition even something as plentiful as a data pad these days. Elara wanted to keep their equipment as pristine as possible for as long as possible. War was hell on paperwork.

Once the pad was out of her hands, Ipha began to pace the tiny med bay, shaking her head and muttering colorful expletives and spouting scenarios that Elara was certain, being medically trained, was impossible for a humanoid body to participate in.

“I apologize for upsetting you, Lieutenant,” Elara interjected when the worst of the violent vocabulary had passed.

Ipha stopped pacing and had the grace to look embarrassed by her tirade. “You have no reason to apologize, really. I shouldn't have shot myself out of the airlock like that. Thank you for bringing this to my attention. I'm going to handle this right now aaaaaaaaand... what do you know? It's just early enough that while I go about getting this corrected, it's going to piss some people off.”

Elara smiled prettily. “I have to admit it is fun watching you verbally knock people around.”

“Then you are more than welcome to watch me beat this little prat into molecules. Verbally of course,” Ipha said. She drew herself to full military height and stalked to the holoterminal.

Elara stood in the doorway to medical. To her right she saw Captain Jorgan and Tanno Vik come out of the bunks, probably woken when Ipha was threatening to wrap someone's intimate parts around their necks and strangling them. Jorgan was pulling a shirt over his head but Vik just crossed his arms over his bare chest and leaned against the wall. Elara gave them both the signal to stay quiet.

Ipha leaned over the holoterminal and plugged in a connection. She waited a moment, let the connection thrum then disconnected and tried again. Four times she let the connection drag on. She watched with a passive face and on the fifth draw out, the line was answered.

The man had serious bedhead going. He was yanking on a lab coat over a tattered tank top and ratty boxer shorts. He probably hadn't been able to find a robe after being rousted. His eyes were sleepy and annoyed and fixed on Ipha with no recognition.

“Do you have any idea what time it is? What do you want?” he snarled, the threat in his voice reduced a hundred percent by the jaw cracking yawn that interrupted his second question.

“Lexir Brahk?” Ipha asked, her voice as sharp as a shiv.

“I'm Doctor Brahk, yes. What's this about? Who are you?” The annoyance was still there but curiosity and unease was beginning to settle into his face.

“My name is Lieutenant Ipha Kodrevas. I'm attached to Special Forces Unit 326 code named Havoc Squad.”

Elara covered her mouth with her hand as the man's face turned blank with shock. Identifying herself as a member of Havoc had certainly not been necessary and Elara wasn't sure what frightened the man more: Ipha's reveal of her name or the loaded mention of Havoc Squad.

“I... I see,” Brahk said. He clasped his hands together and his fingers fidgeted against each other. He let his hands fall back to his sides where they promptly reconnected behind him.

Ipha studied him coolly. Elara could only imagine the expression in her eyes. “You are the same Lexir Brahk that published a paper on alternate uses for Bacta in the Scientific Medical Journal this quarter?”

“I... yes. Yes, I am that Doctor Brahk. And... it was only one use. For Bacta. One alternate use for Bacta that I... re-researched and published.” He paused and cleared his throat. “You... ah... you read it then? M-my alternate use?”

“I'm sorry,” Ipha said politely when he finished sputtering at her. “I thought you said you researched this article of bantha sh*t I'm holding in my hands. Do you and I have different definitions of the word research, Brahk? Because when I look at this article, with it's adorable little byline with your name on it, and the certainly well laid out footnote accreditation, all I'm seeing is blatant plagiarism and lies. Blatant plagiarism and lies with my name attached to the.. what did you call it again? Oh right. Research.”

Ipha paused and Elara was positive the doctor was going to start hyperventilating. Sweat had broken out on his upper lip and forehead and he licked the corners of his mouth like he had a tic. “I-I-I assure you... I do assure you there was no plagiarism. None. I accredited your research. I was careful, very very careful to accredit the Bacta research to you and your team.”

“Yeah, you put my name on this ridiculous piece of wish fulfillment. Thanks for that you worthless nerf. Did you even read the research my team and I did? Or did the mush in your head pick up on one or two words that took on a life of its own in the swamp between your ears?'

“I beg your pardon...” Brahk began.

“You damn well better beg!” Ipha spat. “You latched onto one, ONE, unexpected result of my experiment and you ran with it like you had the huttball at the final whistle. AND THEN, you don't bother with your own research, but you cobble together any information you can find that remotely agrees with your assumption published in the last nine months. How, by a rancor's fraking balls, did you even get this nonsense published?”

“The hair grew,” he said desperately. “You recorded normal hair growth!”

“Bacta is not now and will never be a scientific and proven treatment for male pattern baldness!” Ipha exploded. “And while I can see that you yourself would desperately wish it to be so, let me explain to you why. And I'll use little words so your eyes don't glaze over on me.” Ipha glowered murderously at the man before her and Elara was certain if they hadn't been talking over a holo channel he would have keeled over in terror. “When Bacta was used in the regular treatment of burn victims it successfully regrew the patient's skin. Do you want to know what successful healthy skin does? It produces hair follicles and those follicles grow hair! Why did those follicles grow hair, Brahk?”

The man sputtered and Ipha cut him off with a nasty slash of her hand. “Words Brahk! I want words, not the sounds of a nerf in distress. How about I just give you the answer. The skin was brand new, the hair follicles were brand new. Do you want to rip your scalp off and apply a generous amount of Bacta to it? Hey, that sounds like research. What do you say, Brahk?”

Doctor Brahk looked off to his right and deflated. “What do you want?” he asked miserably.

“I want a public retraction of this farce of a study. I want my name, my research off this study. You want to be published so badly, you apply for a grant and you research your hypothesis, Brahk. But I can see what a hack you actually are. I'm going to guess you couldn't get a grant of wishes to save your life, forget money.”

Ipha straightened her back and took a deep breath. Doctor Brahk stared at her wretchedly. Behind her Vik was snickering and Elara was amazed at the restraint he was showing.

“Have I made myself clear, Brahk? You're going to retract this study. If this is something you really want to pursue, you will do it with your own time and your own creds. I will not have my name and my reputation smudged by your backhanded tactics. And remember, half of Havoc Squad was here to watch you fall on your sword. And I know where your offices are on Coruscant. Retract it or I'm coming after you.”

She broke the connection and put her hands on her hips. Vik finally let out the guffaw he'd been holding in. “I'm telling you,” he said as he clapped Jorgan on the shoulder and leaned into the laugh. “I haven't had that good of a wake up in ages. That was better than flipping a dancer 50 creds for a wake up-”

“Vik!” Jorgan snarled. “That's really, really... I don't need that image.”

Ipha laughed and gave a little bow. “Oh man, did you see his face? I think he believes I really can pull Havoc off course and go hunt him down under his bed. I feel a little better now. Who wants to eat?”

Lord Scourge walked into the cavernous room, slipping silently through the shadows in the back. His silence was habitual, but not necessary. The cacophony of voices from the front would have drowned out anything quieter than an explosion. Lines of empty seating ringed the sloping floor in concentric curves, leading down to a large open space where two amorphous blob-shaped groups of senators faced off against each other, trading shouts and insults. Each group had an apparent leader who stood almost nose-to-nose while hurling barbs and accusations at each other.

"Philanderer!"

"Well, if you'd kept your wife satisfied, she wouldn't have turned to me!"

"Too bad you couldn't perform!"

"Well, you're...you're fat!" Senator Cholden spat out, poking Mornal in the gut.

Senator Mornal gasped, his double chin trembling in anger.

"You ungrateful...!" He trailed off as dark laughter grew in strength, filling the hall with its ominous sound. The collection of senators quieted quickly, casting about for where the sound was coming from. All eyes turned to the dark figure in the black hooded cloak standing at the back of the room.

"Pathetic." The scorn in the word whipped at them. "The leaders of the Republic, squabbling like children. How your government has not fallen before now I'll never comprehend." Scourge walked down the sloping aisle, senators quickly moving out of his way, avoiding his red-eyed glare as he made his way to the very center of the room.

He examined Senators Cholden and Mornal for so long the sweat dripping down Mornal's face began to stain his shirt.

"Who are you?" a sharp female voice called from the middle of the Mornal's group.

Scourge smiled slightly, turning to pin the speaker with his eyes. Senator Enara, who represented a mining colony in the Outer Rim, held his gaze for a moment but then slid her eyes away. "Who I am is not your concern," he said, his voice carrying easily through the room, "Why I am here however..." He sneered as he looked at the ringleaders. "You hate each other. Don't you?"

Mornal glared at Cholden, "We used to be friends, but he..."

"Silence." Mornal choked off what he'd been about to say.

"So now you spend weeks bickering over which of your worlds will gain a supply depot, ignoring the war raging on your borders and in your streets," Scourge said with quiet venom, "because you hate each other, but you lack the will to fight."

"I'm not afraid to fight him!" Cholden protested.

"Really. And you?"

"Bah! He's nothing!" Mornal sputtered.

"Then hit him." Scourge's measured voice carried through the room.

"What?" Cholden said, gaping at Scourge even as Mornal threw a sloppy punch that doubled Cholden's wirey frame over with a deep oomph. Mornal's eyes widened as he shook his hand. Cholden rebounded through his wheezes and punched Mornal in the nose. Mornal's battle cry had more shriek in it than roar, but the two of them were at it then in a flurry of weak punches and animic kicks and occasional hair pulling.

"Here now, that's not how we do things," Senator Enara snapped from the group.

Scourge smiled slowly at her, "The supply depot really should be on your planet, shouldn't it, Senator Enara."

"Of course it should!" she sputtered, "those two idiots aren't anywhere near a major shipping lane."

"Then fight for it. The winner gets the depot."

"Now, see here, maybe we should have it instead!"

"What about us!" Other voices began to chime in.

"You leaders of the Republic!" Scourge snarled at them, "Weak cowards, the lot of you! You are in the middle of a war! Learn to fight!"

He walked out of the room, the sound of fists hitting flesh bringing a smile to his face.

***

"Um, Scourge?"

He glanced calmly at Esma who was reading a datapad with a frown etched deep into her face.

"Do you know anything about a riot that broke out at the Senate Tower?"

He raised an eyebrow.

"Three senators were killed, it says."

"Hardly a loss," he said, returning to reading his own note from a Senator Enara who had just come into posession of a brand new supply depot.

This one comes from a diplomacy mission that states: The professional rivalry of two factions of Senators has degraded into childish bickering. Have your companion remind the Senators of their real duties.

Inciting a riot seemed an appropriate way to get their heads out of their behinds.