07-27-2018, 06:19 PM
It was late, and Stegg was tired of kicking bums off of the empty avenues of Tier 5. He hadn’t become a Stormtrooper so he could patrol the lower tiers for vagabonds. He had joined to quell the Rebellion and honor the Emperor. He glanced up at the dark sky, devoid of stars thanks to the bright lights of the Coruscant skyline above him. Sloughing through trash and filth made him really miss the buzz and bustle of higher tiers. He fiddled with his rifle and glanced back at his partner. Sev was silent, as usual, and maintained a confident stride despite the long hours. Sometimes Stegg envied his friend’s work ethic. Sometimes he loathed it. Today, he was too tired to do either. Stegg’s voice crackled through his helmet, the tone monotonous and bored.
“Hey, Sev, scale of one to ten, how tired are you?”
Sev managed to sound even more exhausted than his partner. “Too tired for your bull right now, Steggy. Just keep walking.”
“Owch.”
Silence fell back over the pair, Stegg maintaining a bit of distance ahead of Sev. Their boots clomped across the sidewalk, providing the only sound in the neighborhood. They rounded a corner into a derelict road leading off into a familiar alley. Most nights they could find almost a dozen men and women holed up in the alleyway for the night. Surprisingly, this time the road was empty. Curiosity piqued, Stegg leaned into the dark alley. He flicked on his helmet-lamps and glanced around. It was still dirty, rank, and repulsive as usual, but something vibrant caught his eye.
“Sev, look at this…”
Stegg’s partner sighed and lugged his weight after his comrade reluctantly. They both stood at the entrance to the alley, lamps illuminating a kaleidoscope of colors on the back wall. Splattered haphazardly, the psychedelic hues blended to create a piercing eye staring back at the Stormtroopers. The words “Westside Hufflepunks” were separated above and below the eye in loose and looping scripts. The paint almost seemed to move and flow in the direction of the swatches and drips.
“Westside? Here? No way.” Stegg took a step deeper into the alley, eyes straining to determine whether the paint was actually moving or not. “I’ve never seen them in this area before.”
Sev glanced around, less enraptured and more off-put by the tag. “We should call this in. that paint looks fresh.”
“Yeah, I think it’s still wet.” Stegg clipped his E-11 to his belt and walked towards the back wall.
“What the HELL do you think you’re doing!?”
“Checking it out, this is crazy man. Weird, but cool.”
“Westside is not cool, Stegg. They’re dangerous, manic, uncontrolled variables with a penchant for anarchy, drug abuse, and hating the Empire.”
“Sev! The paint is wet!” Stegg raised his hand, his index, middle, and ring fingers daubed in the remnants of the tag.
Then there was a blinding burst of crimson light, and Stegg was dead. He smashed into the painted wall with a dull smack, something inside his armor crunching. Slumped limply against the wall decorated with the kaleidoscope eye, his body almost seemed like part of the tag.
“STEGG! Sonofa-”
Sev spun around and raised his rifle, only to feel the air around him harden and launch him backward. He lost his grip on his gun as his back smashed into a dumpster part way into the alley. He smacked into the pavement with a grunt amid raucous laughter.
“Oi, didn’t you see the sign?” A young man, blue hair spiked high into a wild mohawk, entered the alley. “This is Westside territory, love. No Imps allowed.”
He was accompanied by a girl with obscenely long pink hair, a fatter boy with close-cropped verdant curls, and a small posse of other such Westside Hufflepunks. Sev, head still spinning from the Stupefy that had sent him flying, tried weakly to reach for his rifle. The girl hopped forward, stomping her foot down on the E-11 and kicking it away from the Trooper. She grinned, the piercings on her cheeks fitting perfectly into her dimples.
“Mags, help the gentleman up, wouldja?” The blue-haired boy tossed his wand from one hand to the other and stalked towards Sev.
The Trooper was yanked to his knees, still reeling. “Y-you’re under arrest… In the name of the Emperor...”
“Ha! Hear that, lads? I’m under arrest!” The man leaned forward, his face uncomfortably close to Sev’s helmet. “You and what army, love?”
Sev had no response, terror closing his throat.
“Let this be a lesson to you Imps from here on out,” He sneered, pointing with his wand at the painted wall and Stegg’s broken corpse. “These streets belong to the Hufflepunks now. No more goose-stepping up and down the sidewalk in your fancy white armor and scaring folks half to death.”
“Tier 5 is ours,” The green-haired boy grunted.
Sev watched the leader wink at the girl holding him up and lift his wand. The tip leveled with Sev’s eyes, and he could feel the atmosphere press in once more. The blue-haired boy’s lips moved wordlessly, and the Trooper’s head snapped back with a sharp crack. Mags dropped him like a sack of trash, giggling.
“That’s a wrap, lads. Let's keep moving, plenty more masterpieces to paint.”
The Hufflepunks disappeared back into the night, leaving Sev and Stegg all alone in the alley with nothing but the kaleidoscope eye to watch over them.
--
Tier 5 was more than just depressing. It was a rank, repulsive hive of degenerates and low-lives bent on either meager survival or self-righteous anarchy. It left Mercier with a bad taste in her mouth, less due to the moral depravity and more due to the lack of funds which those involved could use to hire her. Tier 5 of coruscant was a fount of potential for a free radical like Elena Mercier, and it almost hurt to see it all squandered on the poor, destitute, and ignorant.
She curled her lip as she watched the dilapidated buildings and burned out tenements slide by the Quinjet’s cockpit windows. She stood just behind Jean-Paul, who flew carefully and quietly to minimize discovery. The flight had been relatively silent, not that Lady Whisper minded. Jean-Paul located the abandoned parking garage they had planned to land on and adjusted the ship’s vectors to maneuver onto the top level. The muffled engines whooshed quietly as the dropship stealthily lowered itself to the concrete amidst a storm of dirt, newspaper, and assorted rubbish. As the wind settled and Jean-Paul went about finalizing their landing, Elena decided to break their otherwise peaceful silence.
“This is a rather unpleasant place, isn’t it.” She brushed back some of her dull grey hair and rolled her shoulders to shake off the long flight.
“Oui.” Frenchie was curt, careful to express himself around the notoriously manipulative woman.
“Why anyone would want to meet here, let alone use it as an operational headquarters is beyond me. To be fair, anyone who thinks ‘Weasel’ is an impressive codename is clearly not the sharpest knife in the drawer.”
Jean-Paul elected to gather his equipment instead of answer the woman.
Mercier accepted his silence and resigned to a rather drab and boring team dynamic. Typical. It was people like Jean-Paul that had inspired Elena to work alone. For now, she was being paid to work alongside him. Here was hoping she’d get a fancy SHIELD badge out of the whole debacle. Lady Whisper blinked, her empty gaze scanning the rooftops ahead of them as her body slowly morphed to blend into their environment. The daubed clay armor that thickened her shoulders and forearms shifted and distended into thick jackets to fend off the cold she could barely feel. The woman’s height shrank and her body thinned to imitate the hungry denizens of Tier 5, although her vanity allowed a pretty face to make up for her lack of form. When she was done, Elena Mercier was a small, thin woman wrapped in a black peacoat and red scarf, hugging her shoulders and rubbing her gloved hands against the hunger and the cold. Her short black hair and pallid skin added to the persona she had created.
She turned, hunching forward to complete the facade, and spoke to Frenchie in an entirely different woman’s voice. “It’ll do us well to hide the Quinjet.”
Jean-Paul suppressed his surprise and simply nodded. “Thankfully, we won’t be here long.”
He gathered his own jacket and hat, pulling it over his holster and Jarvis’ body armor. The two agents trudged away from the Quinjet just as it shimmered and disappeared, cloaked to the naked eye. At the edge of Mercier’s vision, she caught sight of an old man curled up in the corner. He stared at them both with wide, terrified eyes, albeit glassed over with alcohol. Multiple empty bottles sat around his bent knees. Lady Whisper smiled, her empty clay eyes finally taking on a natural blue color. Her grin was accompanied by a wink and a single finger to her lips.
“Shhhhhhhh.”
With that, the two descended down the parking garage, leaving the old man to rub his drink-addled eyes and question his own sanity.
“Hey, Sev, scale of one to ten, how tired are you?”
Sev managed to sound even more exhausted than his partner. “Too tired for your bull right now, Steggy. Just keep walking.”
“Owch.”
Silence fell back over the pair, Stegg maintaining a bit of distance ahead of Sev. Their boots clomped across the sidewalk, providing the only sound in the neighborhood. They rounded a corner into a derelict road leading off into a familiar alley. Most nights they could find almost a dozen men and women holed up in the alleyway for the night. Surprisingly, this time the road was empty. Curiosity piqued, Stegg leaned into the dark alley. He flicked on his helmet-lamps and glanced around. It was still dirty, rank, and repulsive as usual, but something vibrant caught his eye.
“Sev, look at this…”
Stegg’s partner sighed and lugged his weight after his comrade reluctantly. They both stood at the entrance to the alley, lamps illuminating a kaleidoscope of colors on the back wall. Splattered haphazardly, the psychedelic hues blended to create a piercing eye staring back at the Stormtroopers. The words “Westside Hufflepunks” were separated above and below the eye in loose and looping scripts. The paint almost seemed to move and flow in the direction of the swatches and drips.
“Westside? Here? No way.” Stegg took a step deeper into the alley, eyes straining to determine whether the paint was actually moving or not. “I’ve never seen them in this area before.”
Sev glanced around, less enraptured and more off-put by the tag. “We should call this in. that paint looks fresh.”
“Yeah, I think it’s still wet.” Stegg clipped his E-11 to his belt and walked towards the back wall.
“What the HELL do you think you’re doing!?”
“Checking it out, this is crazy man. Weird, but cool.”
“Westside is not cool, Stegg. They’re dangerous, manic, uncontrolled variables with a penchant for anarchy, drug abuse, and hating the Empire.”
“Sev! The paint is wet!” Stegg raised his hand, his index, middle, and ring fingers daubed in the remnants of the tag.
Then there was a blinding burst of crimson light, and Stegg was dead. He smashed into the painted wall with a dull smack, something inside his armor crunching. Slumped limply against the wall decorated with the kaleidoscope eye, his body almost seemed like part of the tag.
“STEGG! Sonofa-”
Sev spun around and raised his rifle, only to feel the air around him harden and launch him backward. He lost his grip on his gun as his back smashed into a dumpster part way into the alley. He smacked into the pavement with a grunt amid raucous laughter.
“Oi, didn’t you see the sign?” A young man, blue hair spiked high into a wild mohawk, entered the alley. “This is Westside territory, love. No Imps allowed.”
He was accompanied by a girl with obscenely long pink hair, a fatter boy with close-cropped verdant curls, and a small posse of other such Westside Hufflepunks. Sev, head still spinning from the Stupefy that had sent him flying, tried weakly to reach for his rifle. The girl hopped forward, stomping her foot down on the E-11 and kicking it away from the Trooper. She grinned, the piercings on her cheeks fitting perfectly into her dimples.
“Mags, help the gentleman up, wouldja?” The blue-haired boy tossed his wand from one hand to the other and stalked towards Sev.
The Trooper was yanked to his knees, still reeling. “Y-you’re under arrest… In the name of the Emperor...”
“Ha! Hear that, lads? I’m under arrest!” The man leaned forward, his face uncomfortably close to Sev’s helmet. “You and what army, love?”
Sev had no response, terror closing his throat.
“Let this be a lesson to you Imps from here on out,” He sneered, pointing with his wand at the painted wall and Stegg’s broken corpse. “These streets belong to the Hufflepunks now. No more goose-stepping up and down the sidewalk in your fancy white armor and scaring folks half to death.”
“Tier 5 is ours,” The green-haired boy grunted.
Sev watched the leader wink at the girl holding him up and lift his wand. The tip leveled with Sev’s eyes, and he could feel the atmosphere press in once more. The blue-haired boy’s lips moved wordlessly, and the Trooper’s head snapped back with a sharp crack. Mags dropped him like a sack of trash, giggling.
“That’s a wrap, lads. Let's keep moving, plenty more masterpieces to paint.”
The Hufflepunks disappeared back into the night, leaving Sev and Stegg all alone in the alley with nothing but the kaleidoscope eye to watch over them.
--
Tier 5 was more than just depressing. It was a rank, repulsive hive of degenerates and low-lives bent on either meager survival or self-righteous anarchy. It left Mercier with a bad taste in her mouth, less due to the moral depravity and more due to the lack of funds which those involved could use to hire her. Tier 5 of coruscant was a fount of potential for a free radical like Elena Mercier, and it almost hurt to see it all squandered on the poor, destitute, and ignorant.
She curled her lip as she watched the dilapidated buildings and burned out tenements slide by the Quinjet’s cockpit windows. She stood just behind Jean-Paul, who flew carefully and quietly to minimize discovery. The flight had been relatively silent, not that Lady Whisper minded. Jean-Paul located the abandoned parking garage they had planned to land on and adjusted the ship’s vectors to maneuver onto the top level. The muffled engines whooshed quietly as the dropship stealthily lowered itself to the concrete amidst a storm of dirt, newspaper, and assorted rubbish. As the wind settled and Jean-Paul went about finalizing their landing, Elena decided to break their otherwise peaceful silence.
“This is a rather unpleasant place, isn’t it.” She brushed back some of her dull grey hair and rolled her shoulders to shake off the long flight.
“Oui.” Frenchie was curt, careful to express himself around the notoriously manipulative woman.
“Why anyone would want to meet here, let alone use it as an operational headquarters is beyond me. To be fair, anyone who thinks ‘Weasel’ is an impressive codename is clearly not the sharpest knife in the drawer.”
Jean-Paul elected to gather his equipment instead of answer the woman.
Mercier accepted his silence and resigned to a rather drab and boring team dynamic. Typical. It was people like Jean-Paul that had inspired Elena to work alone. For now, she was being paid to work alongside him. Here was hoping she’d get a fancy SHIELD badge out of the whole debacle. Lady Whisper blinked, her empty gaze scanning the rooftops ahead of them as her body slowly morphed to blend into their environment. The daubed clay armor that thickened her shoulders and forearms shifted and distended into thick jackets to fend off the cold she could barely feel. The woman’s height shrank and her body thinned to imitate the hungry denizens of Tier 5, although her vanity allowed a pretty face to make up for her lack of form. When she was done, Elena Mercier was a small, thin woman wrapped in a black peacoat and red scarf, hugging her shoulders and rubbing her gloved hands against the hunger and the cold. Her short black hair and pallid skin added to the persona she had created.
She turned, hunching forward to complete the facade, and spoke to Frenchie in an entirely different woman’s voice. “It’ll do us well to hide the Quinjet.”
Jean-Paul suppressed his surprise and simply nodded. “Thankfully, we won’t be here long.”
He gathered his own jacket and hat, pulling it over his holster and Jarvis’ body armor. The two agents trudged away from the Quinjet just as it shimmered and disappeared, cloaked to the naked eye. At the edge of Mercier’s vision, she caught sight of an old man curled up in the corner. He stared at them both with wide, terrified eyes, albeit glassed over with alcohol. Multiple empty bottles sat around his bent knees. Lady Whisper smiled, her empty clay eyes finally taking on a natural blue color. Her grin was accompanied by a wink and a single finger to her lips.
“Shhhhhhhh.”
With that, the two descended down the parking garage, leaving the old man to rub his drink-addled eyes and question his own sanity.
From Hawaii, With Love
![[Image: W4PxwDv.jpg]](https://i.imgur.com/W4PxwDv.jpg)
"Joe: You're gonna get the most dramatic entrance, dramaticc with two c's
Dust: you know what else has two C's?
Joe: What?
Dust: chicken nuggets"