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After dropping off the supplies that she had gathered Mus shouldered her way into the lavatory.  It was a small cube barely wide enough to contain a simple sink, half-functioning sonic and a hole for everything else. A small light fixture slightly off centered switched on as the door opened. Mus had to shield her eyes from the piercing spotlight like levels of illumination; cursing she fumbled for the small dial on the side that slowly brought the light down to a low dim. Her hand shot backwards balled in a fist and hit the console once, twice, and finally on the third hit the door slammed shut behind her.

She make quick work of her outer cloak thick with the pungent smell of Nar Shaddaa and saturated with fresh blood. Above the waist she wore a simple chest binding common amongst more traditional  Zabrak and Echani warriors. The lack of outerwear revealed the tapestry underneath. Where Mus lacked the facial tattoos of her people she made up with spades along the rest of her body. Most carried the distinctive look that was common with those bouncing in and out of the Imperial prison system. Each telling a simple story of years in rotation, people killed, gang affiliations and the rest. Some were more interesting though to those familiar with the iconography. Markings concurrent with many of the Separatists guerrilla groups that operated during the Clone Wars listing things from number of clones killed, to successful convoy raids.  

She sighed as she turned the sink on. She waited with an annoyed familiarity as rust-colored water spilled from the faucet before steadily clearing up. She cupped the lukewarm water in her hands using it scrub away at the blood that was slowly caking on on to her skin. Despite her line of work and generally nature she had a particularly bad distaste for blood. The way that it stuck to her skin. She could tolerate it when needed but when the chance came to wash it off of her she would always take it. 

Taking her discarded cloak up in her hands she dried her face after the last of the blood was washed away. Without looking she pressed her hands into one of the side metal panels and slide upward revealing a simple fingerprint scanner - one of the many smuggler compartments she had hidden around the ship. The biometric scanner hummed in approval and opened to her touch. Reaching within the compartment she produced a small medical syringe filled with a strange cloudy orange liquid. An interesting cocktail of Haladreshin and the slightest hint of Rokna blue. Developed by a fellow soldier while fighting on Jabiim it was used to stay constantly on edge, fasten reaction times and depending on the dosage negate sleep all together.  The habit stuck through the war and after. 

Ease and experience guided her hands as she injected the stim. The pain came first like shards of glass jammed through the vein and then a few moments later the kick happened. The world seemed to slow down for a moment, senses heightened and heart rate kicked upwards. Any sense of fatigue or pain was immediately thrown out of the window. You 
felt like you could wrestle a rancor and win. Nodded her head to an imaginary beat and letting herself steady out she grabbed her outer cloak throwing it over her shoulder as she exited and made her way to the ‘kitchen’.

The kitchen was a small affair barely large enough to fit all of them and even doing so required some creativity on a few parts. Sitting atop of counters and boxes. The mixture of looks she got from the accumulated crowd ranged from disinterest to outright hatred which was expected given the circumstances that they were all in. They didn’t seem like the most talkative bunch keeping to themselves and generally looking like a bunch of mopes. The pilot finally spoke up.

[quote][indent]“Well, we’re not late.”[/indent][/quote]

The comment managed to produce a low chuckle from Mus. “Congratulations darling,” Mus clapped her hands together drawing eyes upward,  “now onto business.”

“Here are the basic ground rules. One: My pay gets docked for each one of you that dies so for the love of all things just don’t please. Two: Your little gifts are linked to an implant in my head: you fuck up I trigger it you die, you get out of communication range it triggers you die, and you somehow kill me it triggers you die. So just don’t try anything. Three: Follow your orders and you might just make it out of here alive. Good? Good.” Mus explained talking with slight gesticulations of her hands like a vendor trying to sell his second-hand merch.

“Now the reason we are gathered here,” Mus kicked the small circular table and a holoprojector groaned to life displaying the picture of a gruff looking Twi’lek. “Talz'iveri.”

“Mister Ziveri used to work in Republic Intelligence before the Empire took over. A pfassk good slicer he became a highly sought after commodity once he became a freelancer. Problem is he pissed off the wrong bunch of people wanted by the Imps and several others including our employer. He went dark a few weeks ago.” Mus kicked the table and the projector switched to the next image. It was a freeze-frame of grainy camera footage and amongst a large crowd of well dressed individuals one could barely see the blue Twi’lek amongst them.

“Turns out he didn’t go dark enough. This was taken on Platform 351. Some of you may know of it. An old tibanna gas platform on Bespin. Now it's a casino, auction house, slaver outpost, drug den, or whatever other it needs to be. Used primarily by the ‘high-class’ of criminal society: politicians, industrialists, crime lords, and pirate kings as a neutral ground for deals of importance.” Mus explained. “Word on the street is that a certain is Slicer is going to be selling off some high value information including sensitive information about our client in a closed auction to these types probably figuring to make enough credits to disappear forever. We need to take him out before that happens.” 

Mus smiled at her motley little group and opened her arms in a gesture to speak freely. “Any questions?”
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