02-18-2018, 02:23 PM
Lieutenant Michelle Andreas strode confidently into the lavish restaurant. Back up on Tier One, the two muscular, gun-toting thugs that followed her would have been met with alarm. Down here on Tier Four, none of the clientele so much as raised an eyebrow; most of them had their own security teams, after all.
The owners of this place liked to think of it as neutral ground... anyone with enough credits could come here to eat, leaving behind any rivalries at the door... though, of course, actually believing something like that would be a good way to get oneself killed. For the big shots of this tier, assassination was a constant threat, so it paid to be careful.
As always, her shoulder-length, auburn hair was kept in a side-fringe which completely obscured her right eye. Unlike usual, though, she wore a tight, shimmery, silver cocktail dress and a matching pair of shoes with six-inch heels in place of a generic Imperial Officer uniform. She was going incognito; in this particular part of Tier Four, dressing this way would make her stand out far less than any EPD outfit. Upon being ushered through to the main dining area by a waiter in a red velvet waistcoat, she quickly spotted her contact at a table near the back of the room, fidgeting nervously as he waited... completely lacking in any bodyguards of his own. As her information had suggested, he was far too frugal to 'waste' money on paying big, tough men to (hopefully) do nothing more than stand around and look scary.
She sauntered across to his table and sat without speaking a word to him, then waived over a waiter and spent a couple minutes browsing their menu before making her selection and handing it back. The contact was already about halfway through his own meal – some sort of white fish in a creamy sauce – and openly scowled at her in spite of the presence of the two looming goons with their black trench coats, shades still on indoors and assault rifles held at the ready.
“You're late.” he spat, “Do you know how long I've been waiting here? Looking like... like this.”
The man gestured up at his head as he spoke, his voice a harsh, low whisper; he wasn't too keen on having their conversation overheard, Michelle surmised. From the neck down, he was dressed much as one would expect of a successful yet bland businessman; black suit and tie, white shirt, black shoes. There were plenty of people – almost everyone, in fact – in this establishment who had chosen much flashier outfits than that... despite its high prices, good food and respectful, well-trained staff, this place had something of a reputation for degeneracy...
The owners had originally intended their policy of absolute non-disclosure (they and their employees would remain tight-lipped regardless of what occurred within these walls) to appeal to mobsters and the like, and whilst it certainly had, they had also inadvertently drawn the attention of other sorts of people... in fact, right at that moment, as Michelle's contact finished speaking, a voluptuous woman strode past their table wearing a long, loose dress that would have actually seemed perfectly respectable, had it not been so astonishingly sheer... and had its wearer not been without any sort of underwear. The lieutenant could not fail to notice her informant's eyes instantly locking onto the woman and following her hungrily as she headed over to her table...
Up above his eyes, though, was the final part of the weasely little man's outfit; a skullcap made entirely from tinfoil. Yes, the fool had actually come out in public wearing a literal tinfoil hat.
She wasn't sure if he was onto her, or if he was just an idiot with more luck than common sense, but it didn't exactly matter. She had never met a telepath other than herself who was rendered helpless by tinfoil – though she had once known a guy whose power couldn't penetrate lead – but alas, that was her weakness. As far as she could tell, this was not the norm in the Omniverse; for most people, any strange and inexplicable weaknesses they had held back home seemed to disappear... though, unfortunately this had not been the case for her. It was embarrassing, though, so it wasn't something she advertised... which meant that, to the best of her knowledge, he could not possibly have had any reason to assume that the favoured headgear of conspiracy nuts everywhere would in any way hinder her abilities... beyond the slight possibility that he was, in fact, a conspiracy theorist himself.
It didn't really matter all that much, though, she supposed. She already had all the information she needed to blackmail him, hence why she had been able to pry the location of that NSW base from him so easily.
“Well, it isn't my fault you insisted upon wearing that stupid hat; it's not like I would have actually done anything to you even if you hadn't, you know. Sure, I suppose I could have read your thoughts to verify any information you gave me, which certainly would have been helpful, but it hardly matters much... knowing what I know, I can say for sure that you wouldn't want to upset me by getting any of our brave stormtroopers hurt due to any false information you had supplied, would you?” her voice was sweet as she spoke these words, but her smile icy.
“O-of course not!” he stammered, nervously adjusting his cap.
“I thought not... which means you must be hiding something else from me... just how many skeletons do you really have locked away in that closet of yours, I wonder?” her expression became sly and she raised her one visible eyebrow teasingly, grabbing a bottle of wine that he'd already gotten most of the way through and pouring herself a glass.
“None of your business.” he snapped, “Now, can we actually get on with this?”
“Easy for you to say; you've already started your meal... I think I'd prefer that you wait until after I'm done.” she smirked at him. Let the man wait there on her meal being brought to her and then for her to finish eating... okay, maybe she was just being petty, making him wait as payback for wearing that ridiculous hat... but so what? She could be petty if she wanted to. This little worm was too stingy to even hire bodyguards, so he wouldn't be dictating the terms of any meetings he held any time soon.
Strangely, though, rather than scowling down at his plate in impotent rage, as she had expected, he smirked right back at her, and tugged on his collar... revealing a small object attached to the inside... a mic? “I wasn't talking to you.”
At that moment, gunfire erupted behind her. Four shots, one after the other, calm, precise, unrushed. People screamed in fear, whilst their guards yelled orders to cease firing. Michelle had bent forwards at the first shot, leaning low over the table to avoid any stray bullets as best she could; not wanting to get caught up in whatever sort of clumsy assassination attempt this was.
When she heard the two bodies hit the floor right beside her, though, a sudden sense of dread swept over her. When her contact began laughing, a smug grin plastered to his face, that dread deepened. Ignoring him, though, she turned to face the gunmen. There were four of them that she could see, though from the way their bulky frames blocked the entrance, there could well have been many more outside, for all she knew. Dressed in the iconic grey on white colour scheme of the Northside Wolfpack, all of them were pretty badly overweight... though one in particular, standing in the middle of the group and being completely unarmed, was far fatter than the rest... though she could tell from his build that there must have been no shortage of muscle under his skin as well.
He wore a white tracksuit with grey stripes down the sides, and under his arms she could see large patches of sweat. Disgusting. His skin was pale yet ruddy, and as well as being wider than his compatriots, he also stood a fair bit taller than any of the rest of them. His eyes were narrowed as he looked over at her. On their heads, all four wore the same silly little hats as her contact.
Her bodyguards lay dead on the ground, apparently never even having realised they were in danger until it was too late. A fat lot of good they'd been. Every other armed man or woman in the room, however, was still standing, and all of their various firearms were now pointed directly at the three handgun holding hooligans and their unarmed commander, who was very slowly raising his hands. The ones armed with the pistols made no such movement, though; their sights were trained directly on her. Michelle stood, and the three adjusted their aim slightly.
She doubted anyone else in this room recognised the man; even if they were familiar enough with the northern part of the tier below to have heard of the Northside Wolfpack, he was someone who kept to himself, almost never getting involved in the more violent business endeavours of his gang, instead working out of some mysterious hideout that she had thus far been unable to determine the location of, and doing what she couldn't say... all that she had so far been able to uncover about him – at the cost of more than a few of her agents' lives – was that he was one of the gang's highest ranking members and that his name was William Darrell.
“My name is William Darrell,” said William Darrell helpfully, “and I am one of the Northside Wolfpack's highest ranking members, one of our 'Four Claws', as our gang's leader has dubbed us. I run our drug production program.”
One of the lieutenant's eyes twitched slightly as she glared at him. More information than she had gleaned on him in the entire time since she had been summoned to the Omniverse, the fat man had just spilled to a whole roomful of people, completely unsolicited, as if such knowledge was worthless. The corners of his mouth twitched upwards ever so slightly as he looked at her. There was no doubt in her head that he was intentionally taunting her.
She reached out with her Power, seeking to crush his mind in her grasp, to leave him nothing but a brainless, drooling lump... but of course, as had always been the case, all through her life, she found herself unable to touch anyone whose cranium was guarded beneath a protective shell of tinfoil. Of all the things to have for a weakness, this one was especially stupid. How they could ever have found out, she had no idea; she hadn't mentioned this flaw once since being summoned, after all; it shouldn't have been possible for them to uncover her secret... and there was surely no way they could have been moronic enough to all believe that tinfoil hats were actually a viable defence against normal telepathy, could they? It hardly mattered now, though; whatever the reason, they had her trapped.
The double doors leading to the kitchen swung open and a very tall man – he must have been seven foot, at least – strode out between them. He was stick thin and ancient, with grey hair, a long, drooping moustache and a sharp nose. He wore a crisp, white chef's uniform with a hat so tall that it almost scraped the ceiling. He carried a spatula in one hand and looked furious. Following timidly behind him were a frightened waitress and waiter; the waiter being the same man to whom she had given her order just minutes ago. The way they stood shoulder-to-shoulder made it appear as if the pair were attempting to somehow both hide in his skeletal shadow.
Michelle's eyes flicked across the room, drawn by other signs of movement, along with the feel of frightened thoughts tinged with relief. The few other serving staff were one and all trying to surreptitiously shuffle or sneak across to join their chef. The old man stopped several paces from the sumo-like gangster and folded his arms across his narrow chest.
“And just what do you think you're doing, young man?” he snapped, casting a withering glare down upon William. It likely wasn't often that the big thug had found anyone tall enough to literally look down on him, but the chef managed it.
“Just taking care of a little problem. No need to worry, we'll be out of your hair in no time. Just let us finish up our business here and we'll be off.” still with the guns of all those bodyguards trained on him, it didn't exactly look to Michelle like William was in any sort of position to negotiate, and yet the old man was 'hmm'ing and bowing his head thoughtfully.
“What is your 'business' exactly, then?” he finally asked.
“Her.” William Darrell nodded across the room at the Imperial Officer, “she's an Imperial Officer. I trust you can see the sense in eliminating one of those whilst you have the chance? I'd imagine your clientele wouldn't be quite so comfortable meeting here if they knew that the Empire was sending in spies to watch them?”
Panicked, murmured conversation rose briefly, before the chef glared around at the customers and they all shut up. The bodyguards were looking less sure of themselves, though. They doubtless all knew that their clients would not approve of Coruscant's government intruding upon their business, after all. The mysterious disappearance of an EPD soldier would be something that every one of them would surely be perfectly happy to keep quiet about, given the sorts of people they were.
“Have you any proof?” the old man asked upon turning to face William once more.
“Indeed we do.” he reached into a pocket and withdrew a phone, tapped the screen a few times, then tossed it to the chef, “A video of one of our bases being attacked by stormtroopers just after our... business partner over there gave up the location to her.”
He nodded across in Michelle's direction again, though slightly past her this time, towards the man still sitting at their table, who was still grinning broadly.
“Yes, I can confirm it,” he said cheerily, “she's definitely an Imperial Officer.”
“Hmph. It's hardly conclusive evidence, but it'll do, I suppose.” he turned his cold eyes upon her, “So unless anyone has any objections, let's just get this over with and everyone can go back to their meals and forget it ever happened.”
“Woah, woah, woah!” Michelle backed away, holding up her hands before her, “These people just burst in here and killed my guards! Are you really going to just let them get away with that!?”
She was met by nothing but stony gazes from all around. No one spoke a word. Then there came three sharp cracks, as three more bullets were fired, followed by three shooting pains in her chest. She stumbled backwards from the force of the impacts, her legs suddenly feeling weak and oddly disconnected. Her vision spun, and the next thing she knew, Michelle was on her back, staring up at a chandelier on the ceiling. Everything was getting darker... she tried in vain to turn her head... she coughed twice, some liquid leaving her throat and splattering on her face, though she couldn't see what...
The last words she heard came from the old chef, “Alright, you're done now. Grab the bodies and get out of my restaurant... and be grateful I'm not making you scrub the floors before you go.”
Light chuckles came from still-nervous customers... if William Darrell made any response, Michelle never retained consciousness long enough to pick it up.
The owners of this place liked to think of it as neutral ground... anyone with enough credits could come here to eat, leaving behind any rivalries at the door... though, of course, actually believing something like that would be a good way to get oneself killed. For the big shots of this tier, assassination was a constant threat, so it paid to be careful.
As always, her shoulder-length, auburn hair was kept in a side-fringe which completely obscured her right eye. Unlike usual, though, she wore a tight, shimmery, silver cocktail dress and a matching pair of shoes with six-inch heels in place of a generic Imperial Officer uniform. She was going incognito; in this particular part of Tier Four, dressing this way would make her stand out far less than any EPD outfit. Upon being ushered through to the main dining area by a waiter in a red velvet waistcoat, she quickly spotted her contact at a table near the back of the room, fidgeting nervously as he waited... completely lacking in any bodyguards of his own. As her information had suggested, he was far too frugal to 'waste' money on paying big, tough men to (hopefully) do nothing more than stand around and look scary.
She sauntered across to his table and sat without speaking a word to him, then waived over a waiter and spent a couple minutes browsing their menu before making her selection and handing it back. The contact was already about halfway through his own meal – some sort of white fish in a creamy sauce – and openly scowled at her in spite of the presence of the two looming goons with their black trench coats, shades still on indoors and assault rifles held at the ready.
“You're late.” he spat, “Do you know how long I've been waiting here? Looking like... like this.”
The man gestured up at his head as he spoke, his voice a harsh, low whisper; he wasn't too keen on having their conversation overheard, Michelle surmised. From the neck down, he was dressed much as one would expect of a successful yet bland businessman; black suit and tie, white shirt, black shoes. There were plenty of people – almost everyone, in fact – in this establishment who had chosen much flashier outfits than that... despite its high prices, good food and respectful, well-trained staff, this place had something of a reputation for degeneracy...
The owners had originally intended their policy of absolute non-disclosure (they and their employees would remain tight-lipped regardless of what occurred within these walls) to appeal to mobsters and the like, and whilst it certainly had, they had also inadvertently drawn the attention of other sorts of people... in fact, right at that moment, as Michelle's contact finished speaking, a voluptuous woman strode past their table wearing a long, loose dress that would have actually seemed perfectly respectable, had it not been so astonishingly sheer... and had its wearer not been without any sort of underwear. The lieutenant could not fail to notice her informant's eyes instantly locking onto the woman and following her hungrily as she headed over to her table...
Up above his eyes, though, was the final part of the weasely little man's outfit; a skullcap made entirely from tinfoil. Yes, the fool had actually come out in public wearing a literal tinfoil hat.
She wasn't sure if he was onto her, or if he was just an idiot with more luck than common sense, but it didn't exactly matter. She had never met a telepath other than herself who was rendered helpless by tinfoil – though she had once known a guy whose power couldn't penetrate lead – but alas, that was her weakness. As far as she could tell, this was not the norm in the Omniverse; for most people, any strange and inexplicable weaknesses they had held back home seemed to disappear... though, unfortunately this had not been the case for her. It was embarrassing, though, so it wasn't something she advertised... which meant that, to the best of her knowledge, he could not possibly have had any reason to assume that the favoured headgear of conspiracy nuts everywhere would in any way hinder her abilities... beyond the slight possibility that he was, in fact, a conspiracy theorist himself.
It didn't really matter all that much, though, she supposed. She already had all the information she needed to blackmail him, hence why she had been able to pry the location of that NSW base from him so easily.
“Well, it isn't my fault you insisted upon wearing that stupid hat; it's not like I would have actually done anything to you even if you hadn't, you know. Sure, I suppose I could have read your thoughts to verify any information you gave me, which certainly would have been helpful, but it hardly matters much... knowing what I know, I can say for sure that you wouldn't want to upset me by getting any of our brave stormtroopers hurt due to any false information you had supplied, would you?” her voice was sweet as she spoke these words, but her smile icy.
“O-of course not!” he stammered, nervously adjusting his cap.
“I thought not... which means you must be hiding something else from me... just how many skeletons do you really have locked away in that closet of yours, I wonder?” her expression became sly and she raised her one visible eyebrow teasingly, grabbing a bottle of wine that he'd already gotten most of the way through and pouring herself a glass.
“None of your business.” he snapped, “Now, can we actually get on with this?”
“Easy for you to say; you've already started your meal... I think I'd prefer that you wait until after I'm done.” she smirked at him. Let the man wait there on her meal being brought to her and then for her to finish eating... okay, maybe she was just being petty, making him wait as payback for wearing that ridiculous hat... but so what? She could be petty if she wanted to. This little worm was too stingy to even hire bodyguards, so he wouldn't be dictating the terms of any meetings he held any time soon.
Strangely, though, rather than scowling down at his plate in impotent rage, as she had expected, he smirked right back at her, and tugged on his collar... revealing a small object attached to the inside... a mic? “I wasn't talking to you.”
At that moment, gunfire erupted behind her. Four shots, one after the other, calm, precise, unrushed. People screamed in fear, whilst their guards yelled orders to cease firing. Michelle had bent forwards at the first shot, leaning low over the table to avoid any stray bullets as best she could; not wanting to get caught up in whatever sort of clumsy assassination attempt this was.
When she heard the two bodies hit the floor right beside her, though, a sudden sense of dread swept over her. When her contact began laughing, a smug grin plastered to his face, that dread deepened. Ignoring him, though, she turned to face the gunmen. There were four of them that she could see, though from the way their bulky frames blocked the entrance, there could well have been many more outside, for all she knew. Dressed in the iconic grey on white colour scheme of the Northside Wolfpack, all of them were pretty badly overweight... though one in particular, standing in the middle of the group and being completely unarmed, was far fatter than the rest... though she could tell from his build that there must have been no shortage of muscle under his skin as well.
He wore a white tracksuit with grey stripes down the sides, and under his arms she could see large patches of sweat. Disgusting. His skin was pale yet ruddy, and as well as being wider than his compatriots, he also stood a fair bit taller than any of the rest of them. His eyes were narrowed as he looked over at her. On their heads, all four wore the same silly little hats as her contact.
Her bodyguards lay dead on the ground, apparently never even having realised they were in danger until it was too late. A fat lot of good they'd been. Every other armed man or woman in the room, however, was still standing, and all of their various firearms were now pointed directly at the three handgun holding hooligans and their unarmed commander, who was very slowly raising his hands. The ones armed with the pistols made no such movement, though; their sights were trained directly on her. Michelle stood, and the three adjusted their aim slightly.
She doubted anyone else in this room recognised the man; even if they were familiar enough with the northern part of the tier below to have heard of the Northside Wolfpack, he was someone who kept to himself, almost never getting involved in the more violent business endeavours of his gang, instead working out of some mysterious hideout that she had thus far been unable to determine the location of, and doing what she couldn't say... all that she had so far been able to uncover about him – at the cost of more than a few of her agents' lives – was that he was one of the gang's highest ranking members and that his name was William Darrell.
“My name is William Darrell,” said William Darrell helpfully, “and I am one of the Northside Wolfpack's highest ranking members, one of our 'Four Claws', as our gang's leader has dubbed us. I run our drug production program.”
One of the lieutenant's eyes twitched slightly as she glared at him. More information than she had gleaned on him in the entire time since she had been summoned to the Omniverse, the fat man had just spilled to a whole roomful of people, completely unsolicited, as if such knowledge was worthless. The corners of his mouth twitched upwards ever so slightly as he looked at her. There was no doubt in her head that he was intentionally taunting her.
She reached out with her Power, seeking to crush his mind in her grasp, to leave him nothing but a brainless, drooling lump... but of course, as had always been the case, all through her life, she found herself unable to touch anyone whose cranium was guarded beneath a protective shell of tinfoil. Of all the things to have for a weakness, this one was especially stupid. How they could ever have found out, she had no idea; she hadn't mentioned this flaw once since being summoned, after all; it shouldn't have been possible for them to uncover her secret... and there was surely no way they could have been moronic enough to all believe that tinfoil hats were actually a viable defence against normal telepathy, could they? It hardly mattered now, though; whatever the reason, they had her trapped.
The double doors leading to the kitchen swung open and a very tall man – he must have been seven foot, at least – strode out between them. He was stick thin and ancient, with grey hair, a long, drooping moustache and a sharp nose. He wore a crisp, white chef's uniform with a hat so tall that it almost scraped the ceiling. He carried a spatula in one hand and looked furious. Following timidly behind him were a frightened waitress and waiter; the waiter being the same man to whom she had given her order just minutes ago. The way they stood shoulder-to-shoulder made it appear as if the pair were attempting to somehow both hide in his skeletal shadow.
Michelle's eyes flicked across the room, drawn by other signs of movement, along with the feel of frightened thoughts tinged with relief. The few other serving staff were one and all trying to surreptitiously shuffle or sneak across to join their chef. The old man stopped several paces from the sumo-like gangster and folded his arms across his narrow chest.
“And just what do you think you're doing, young man?” he snapped, casting a withering glare down upon William. It likely wasn't often that the big thug had found anyone tall enough to literally look down on him, but the chef managed it.
“Just taking care of a little problem. No need to worry, we'll be out of your hair in no time. Just let us finish up our business here and we'll be off.” still with the guns of all those bodyguards trained on him, it didn't exactly look to Michelle like William was in any sort of position to negotiate, and yet the old man was 'hmm'ing and bowing his head thoughtfully.
“What is your 'business' exactly, then?” he finally asked.
“Her.” William Darrell nodded across the room at the Imperial Officer, “she's an Imperial Officer. I trust you can see the sense in eliminating one of those whilst you have the chance? I'd imagine your clientele wouldn't be quite so comfortable meeting here if they knew that the Empire was sending in spies to watch them?”
Panicked, murmured conversation rose briefly, before the chef glared around at the customers and they all shut up. The bodyguards were looking less sure of themselves, though. They doubtless all knew that their clients would not approve of Coruscant's government intruding upon their business, after all. The mysterious disappearance of an EPD soldier would be something that every one of them would surely be perfectly happy to keep quiet about, given the sorts of people they were.
“Have you any proof?” the old man asked upon turning to face William once more.
“Indeed we do.” he reached into a pocket and withdrew a phone, tapped the screen a few times, then tossed it to the chef, “A video of one of our bases being attacked by stormtroopers just after our... business partner over there gave up the location to her.”
He nodded across in Michelle's direction again, though slightly past her this time, towards the man still sitting at their table, who was still grinning broadly.
“Yes, I can confirm it,” he said cheerily, “she's definitely an Imperial Officer.”
“Hmph. It's hardly conclusive evidence, but it'll do, I suppose.” he turned his cold eyes upon her, “So unless anyone has any objections, let's just get this over with and everyone can go back to their meals and forget it ever happened.”
“Woah, woah, woah!” Michelle backed away, holding up her hands before her, “These people just burst in here and killed my guards! Are you really going to just let them get away with that!?”
She was met by nothing but stony gazes from all around. No one spoke a word. Then there came three sharp cracks, as three more bullets were fired, followed by three shooting pains in her chest. She stumbled backwards from the force of the impacts, her legs suddenly feeling weak and oddly disconnected. Her vision spun, and the next thing she knew, Michelle was on her back, staring up at a chandelier on the ceiling. Everything was getting darker... she tried in vain to turn her head... she coughed twice, some liquid leaving her throat and splattering on her face, though she couldn't see what...
The last words she heard came from the old chef, “Alright, you're done now. Grab the bodies and get out of my restaurant... and be grateful I'm not making you scrub the floors before you go.”
Light chuckles came from still-nervous customers... if William Darrell made any response, Michelle never retained consciousness long enough to pick it up.
![[Image: Hijiri_Name_Sig.png]](https://image.ibb.co/k1H7Hd/Hijiri_Name_Sig.png)