Uncomfortably Close

ou gonna eat that, kid?" Atton asked, grabbing Mical's plate before he even heard the answer.

Mical sighed and waved his hand dismissively. "Go right ahead. You know I can't eat that Hutt slop."

Mical's eyes traveled around Jorba's, trying to look anywhere but at his partner's dripping chin and the noodles Atton was slurping in his usual disgusting way. Mical glanced back at Atton in horrified fascination as the crunching and slimy squishing noises rose in volume. Mical caught sight of the plate...wriggling...and had a sudden realization that they weren't noodles at all. He shuddered.

This assignment was definitely not going the way Mical had planned. Who in their right mind would have thought Atton would make a good stakeout partner? Sure, Atton was fantastic in a fight...he could be incredibly sneaky...and he was a much better pilot than Mical. But Atton had all the subtlety of a Zeltron in a Hutt bikini. Mical longed for the days when the Republic Intelligence Department used top agents to infiltrate criminal organizations; agents like Mical and the field officers he'd trained under. Now it seemed like RID was scraping the bottom of the plasteel container.

"So!" Atton interrupted Mical's thoughts by talking with his mouth full of half-chewed food. "Tell me 'bout this guy we're looking for."

"Shh! Not so loud. Didn't you read the dossier? Pug's a Gammorean bounty hunter who poses as a swoop racer. Director Tel'a is certain he's the head of this mysterious organization; he thought you could get us inside the swoop circuit with some of your old connections."

"Yeah, uh, I don't think any of those connections are going to be glad to see me," Atton said, noisily swallowing the last bite of the Hutt noodles. Slight bitterness entered his voice as he added, "Besides. Del Jair was the swoop racer. I only handle the bigger rigs."

"Well, she's out chasing shadows of Revan," Mical stated in a carefully neutral tone. "You're what we have to work with. We need to get back to the...hotel, if you can call it that. We can't be seen down on the docks in these clothes."

Mical missed the gleam in Atton's eyes as he shoved in his chair and left the bar.

_____________

our hours later, a couple of scruffy layabouts showed up at the swoop track off the Nar Shaddaa docks and slouched down to the filthy swoop pit. Atton wore an old pair of coveralls he'd nicked from Bao-Dur back when they'd been shipmates on the Hawk. They were covered in grease and had had a small hydrospanner in the pocket, which Atton wore now on a tattered tool belt in an effort to look more...mech. Hopefully he'd be taken for someone who knew his way around a swoop bike.

Mical was dressed as...Atton. Back at the dive they were staying in for the duration of the assignment, Mical had frantically gone through his whole satchel looking for anything that would blend in. His clean collection of Jedi robes and tunic/trouser combinations were entirely unsuitable. Atton had suggested Mical wear his ribbed jacket and fingerless gloves. Mical had complied, declining to comment on how tight the jacket fit or its questionable scent out of gratitude for his partner's unexpected magnanimity.

The swoop bike RID had loaned them for this specific use sat in the swoop pit bay they'd been assigned. Mical hired a pair of shady Rodians they found in the stands to sit with the bike and look like mechanics. Then he and Atton casually sauntered around the filthy swoop pit as though checking out the competition. Gloating and/or overt spying was common before the small matches and Mical hoped they would blend in with other rookie bikers. So far, despite a few scroungy characters pointing and hissing in their direction, Mical felt the ruse was successful.

He came up next to Atton as he was chatting with a Gamorrean pit guard. It was hard not to wear the expression of polite interest that was his usual mask in social situations; polite interest could be completely misconstrued in the swoop pit. Instead Mical tried to look like he was slightly drunk and mildly impatient.

"You look sick, kid," Atton quipped with a smirk. "Y'okay?"

"Who dis guy?" Big-n-Ugly grunted at Atton.

"Aw, just a fan." Atton grinned even wider. "Follows me around, and stuff."

Mical rolled his eyes and pulled Atton away. "So, have you found anything out? Does the guard know Pug, or where we can find him?"

"Pug's got the 'luxury' bay at this track, won't see anyone who doesn't actually race. Imagine the nerve, like he's really a swoop racer! I guess it's a good cover, though. He's got quite a following."

Mical snorted. "As large a following as yours? Snide remarks aside, I think we'd better enter you in this upcoming race. We have to get in to see Pug somehow."

"Walking in the front door isn't what I had in mind, kid. And that's assuming I'm still alive after I get off that death rig. Notice anything familiar about that bike?" Atton looked at Mical pointedly.

Mical shrugged. "One swoop's like another to me. Was I supposed to recognize it?"

"It's Del Jair's swoop bike. You know she and Bao-Dur had that thing completely tricked out." Atton looked a little green at the thought of riding it. "Director Tel'a has a nasty sense of humor. I think he might be trying to get RID of us, pun intended."

"Do you have a better idea?" Mical asked, frustration growing. Between the tight, heavy jacket and the breeze around his ankles, Mical had already had enough of this part of the assignment.

Atton was quiet for a time. "Naw. I guess I don't. Let's see if we can scare up a helmet, at least. I don't mind wearing Bao's clothes, but I don't need his hairstyle, too."

Mical nodded, relieved. The sooner they got this over with, the better.

___________

he Rodians Mical had hired to guard the swoop bike sat and stared at Atton while Mical went after a helmet. Atton knew them as Exchange, but it wasn't really a surprise to him. He'd seen quite a few of his old friends and enemies here; it was only the loss of his trademark jacket and the fact that he was far better fed now that kept him from being recognized and accosted by some of the harder characters. The seedier element in Nar Shaddaa was an indelible part of Atton's past. A year and a half with an exiled Jedi and her ragtag crew didn't erase what he'd been before that, no matter how much he wanted to change for her. Atton missed the money, the hustle, the breathtaking risk of his old life. Maybe swoop racing was a way to get some of that back without becoming a criminal again, he mused as he looked over the controls. It wasn't too different than the controls of the Hawk; it was merely simplified. Atton smiled to himself, but it was short-lived.

"I've got your brain bucket here, Atton. I can heal minor injuries from this little adventure, but I'm afraid anything involving your head would be impossible to fix."

Atton didn't like Mical's wry tone and grabbed the helmet from him rudely. "Yeah, well, don't bother. I'm not going to need any healing. And I'm going to secure our invitation into Pug's 'inner sanctum' by beating the hell out of his time."

The look on Mical's face changed from slight amusement to slight apprehension. "I hope so. I'm glad you're one of only four racers today; I don't want to stay any longer than we have to. I feel exposed here."

Atton smirked but held back a snarky comment about Mical's exposed ankles. He put the helmet on, flipping the visor down nonchalantly though his heart was racing. He stood with his back to Mical, shoulders square and one hand casually resting on the swoop. He noted the women in the crowd and was somewhat surprised to find none of them appealed anymore. Del Jair had done a number on him, that was for sure. In that moment, his half-formed plan came into sharp focus. Win race. Get money. Get ship. Find the Exile, and save her from whatever was keeping her away so long. Simple as that.

Atton heard his pseudonym called over the loudspeaker and slid into the bike. Mical's voice hissed in the com as he pulled up to the line. "Subtle, Atton, real subtle. The Assassin? The abbreviation for that would be more appropriate."

Atton snorted into the com. "Nice, kid. Thanks for your vote of support."

There was a pause. "Good luck, Atton." Mical said finally; grudgingly. He started to say something else, but the comlink cut out.

Atton didn't worry about it; reception on their government-issue comlinks had always been spotty at best. He fired up the thrusters on the swoop and held his breath, waiting for the signal to grab his new future.

_____________________________

ical hated being called kid. He was younger than Atton, but he was bigger and more mature, and he was patently not a kid. But Atton was right. He should be supportive of his partner. He was their only hope to get an audience with the bounty hunter Pug and get information on the larger organization he surely was a link to. If Atton failed, their plan failed as well. "Good luck, Atton. May the Force--"

His words were interrupted by the two shady Rodians, still sitting in the pit bay with him. They'd each grabbed one of his arms and were hauling him somewhere. Mical struggled, sure he was going to be able to get out of their grip easily. A hot needle-sharp pain blossomed in his neck, and suddenly he went leaden from his shoulders to his toes. He could feel nothing but fear.

One of the Rodians that was dragging Mical away addressed him in Basic. "Pleep know that jacket anywhere. And Plopor say you smell same as years ago, Jaq Rand. You disguise hair all you want, we onto you minute you come in our territory."

"Please! I borrowed the jacket," Mical said desperately. "I'm not--"

The other Rodian bent low, spewing foul breath over Mical's face. He couldn't struggle, could only watch with wide eyes. "Plopor not want you talk, Jaq Rand. You make people mad when you talk. You make Mistress Shaunte mad when you talk." The Rodian stressed the name as though Mical should know it, and Mical would have sworn the Rodian waggled his eyebrows. But Rodian's didn't have eyebrows...

"Shaunte? I don't know any--"

Pleep slapped Mical hard across the face. "You no say her name! You unworthy fool."

Mical gave up and let his thoughts race as they sped deeper into the pit. The thugs dragged him into a lift, but nerveless as he was, he couldn't feel whether they went up or down. It was an interminable trip, at the end of which they were met by a Gamorrean guard as they exited the lift.

"Mistress want Rand, now. I take," he grunted, his Basic even worse than the Rodians'. Mical was thrown roughly over his shoulder. His pointed shoulder armor would bruise Mical wickedly, and though he couldn't feel it now, it wouldn't be long. Mical's head hung low on the Gamorrean's backside and the stench was terrible. Mical could think of only a few situations in his life that had been bleaker. Del Jair had been there for each situation and had pulled him through. How he wished for her now!

All Mical had gathered from the situation so far was that the nearsighted Rodians had mistaken him for Atton, and that their "Mistress Shaunte" was eager, but not happy, to see Atton. Mical wanted to be anywhere but where he was, but his hopes were slim to none. He couldn't rely on Atton to save him-- Atton himself was in danger as soon as the mistake was revealed. And RID knew where they were, but extracting them would be difficult and costly. Director Tel'a could decide just to cut his losses while they were relatively small.

Mical was dumped unceremoniously onto a small divan in what appeared to be some kind of ornate throne room filled with comfortable furniture and exotic plants. A lovely pale green Twi'lek woman lounged on a divan directly across from Mical, and he knew instantly that this was his captor. Furthermore, instinct and the Force told him that she was the leader of the organization they were attempting to infiltrate. Well. Mission accomplished on that count, he thought. The Exchange was getting more subtle, more dangerous.

"Fools!" the Twi'lek spat as she strode up to Mical on long legs in high-heeled boots. Her low-cut dress revealed thin white whip scars on her back, and her eyes seemed to glow with rage. She was an awe-inspiring figure. She gripped Mical's chin in one powerful, slim hand and turned his face back and forth, blood-red talons slicing into his cheek. "This man is no more Jaq Rand than I am! He is still out there, somewhere. Find him!" Her last words were bellowed in a voice that seemed Force-enhanced and commanded instant obedience. In short order the henchmen scrambled out of the room, and even the huge Gamorrean was whimpering. Mical thought it may have had something to do with the whip coiled at her hip, but he couldn't be sure. He had a bad feeling about this.

_______________________

tton had a great feeling about this. After the second run on the swoop, he wished he'd been swooping his whole life. It had all the thrill of some of his previous...adventures, and sure, the risk was there. But the crowd was cheering, and there were no guns, and he had the second best time so far. Atton couldn't stop grinning, waving his hands to the crowd in the bleachers and not caring that half of them were drunk or stimmed up. The only things missing from this blissful picture were Del Jair and Atton's trademark jacket. Not one, not two, but three gorgeous women had thrown themselves at him since he got out of the bike the last time. Okay, to be fair, the last one had tripped over his boot and landed (cursing) in his arms, but she was a Twi'lek, and he'd forgotten how much he liked lekku. There was something Del Jair didn't have.

Atton put the helmet back on as the announcer called out his new moniker, and hopped easily into the swoop. His swoop. He would make sure Director Tel'a gave it to him along with the salary owed for this assignment. And yeah, hazard pay, too. When the signal flashed, Atton squeezed the throttle and was off.

The speed was incredible, and the course was full of obstacles. First Atton skidded under some of the heat vents, using his barely-realized Force senses to warn him of things coming up that he couldn't see. He jumped the bike just in time to avoid a giant droid arm swinging out of a docking bay. If he kept the whole course at this speed, he'd come out with the top time with only Pug left to race.

Atton's self-congratulations came too soon, however. He didn't know if it was four years of too little maintenance or some kind of sabotage, but the engine grew hotter and hotter, causing the bike to shudder; and some of the important gauges stopped working. Atton's attention was torn between avoiding obstacles and finding a place to pull the swoop over.

Hot disappointment filled his gut and anger enhanced Atton's Force senses. He nearly had the bike under control when someone stepped out onto the track. Atton only had enough time to realize it was a Gammorean before the swoop hit it at full speed and Atton flew off the bike.

Not taking time to imagine what a mess that must have left, Atton ducked his head and rolled, narrowly missing another couple of idiots too close to the track. He was instantly out of the roll and onto his feet through a combination of old skills and Force ability, and would have just continued to move when he felt a hot, sharp pain on the back of his neck. Atton hit the bottom of the swoop track like a drunken Hutt.

"Nice shot, Pleep!" echoed a high-pitched voice. Atton was unceremoniously flipped over and found himself looking at the two Exchange Rodians they'd been hanging out with before.

"Not recognize without ugly jacket, Jaq Rand," Pleep stated, as though Atton were interested. The Rodian leaned down and began to sniff him. "Plopor, you idiot! Jaq Rand smell different than Yellow Hair. And smaller, too!" The Rodians began to argue about their earlier mistake.

"All right, Pleep and Plop," Atton said wearily. "To whom do I owe the pleasure of this fine capture? Do you work for Pug?"

The little Rodians were clearly offended and one huffed, "Not Pug! He just Mistress Shaunte's lieutenant. We personal aides to Mistress Shaunte herself."

"Shaunte? Shaunnie Bell?" Visions of silky green skin and the scent of Alderaanian lilies filled Atton's mind. This was going to be worse than he thought.

"Shut up, Jaq Rand!" Plopor said hotly. "She Mistress Shaunte now, take over Visquis' territory. You not speak of her so familiar anymore!"

Atton went silent as the Rodians dragged him out of the swoop track tunnel and into a lift. So. Pleep and Plop and the hapless Gamorrean were not the only henchmen Shaunte had nowadays. She'd always wanted to be an Exchange boss, and it looked like she'd gotten not only what she wanted, but Atton's partner, as well. Atton wasn't that fond of Mical, and they had some bad history between them, but he sure didn't want Mical left to the tender mercies of "Mistress Shaunte". Talk about bad history.

_______________________

lopor and Pleep pulled Atton into the throne room and dumped him next to Mical on the divan, then turned around and left. The rest of the ornate room was empty.

"Hey, kid." Atton said wearily.

"You. Set. Me. Up." Mical growled. "You knew your jacket would be recognized by the Exchange and you thought I'd just go down for you! Now we're both stuck here, the assignment unfinished and Lady Psychopath is howling for your blood!"

"I didn't set you up, Mical. I knew the coat would make some people mistake you for me; I mean, it's a one-of-a-kind bantha leather bolt-absorbing jacket, ya know? But I didn't know anyone was still actively after me. It's been more than ten years since I crossed Shaunte." He shuddered. He should have known.

It was odd to be having this conversation with zero movement below the neck from either participant, as though they were just talking heads. Near-total paralysis was a great equalizer; Mical realized that though they were very different, he and Atton wanted almost all the same things. To matter to someone, to make a difference, to get the heck outta here with all of their functions intact. Atton and Mical had been dumped so they were turned towards each other, faces uncomfortably close. They couldn't turn away but each partner averted his eyes.

"That's a story I'd like to hear, while we have time," Mical said, defeat and understanding mingling in his voice.

It sounded to Atton like he was off the hook for the clothing escapade and he settled in for the long tale. "Shaunnie was a dancer at this bar I hustled at. We flirted a lot, and I thought we had a real connection. She was owned by the same guy that owned the bar, and he was decent enough to her, I guess, but she was still a slave and was off limits to the patrons. I wanted her for myself, so I played the bartender for her in a Pazaak tournament. I figured I'd let her have her freedom and we'd be together, ya know?"

An oddly revealing note of pain entered Atton's voice. Mical wished again they weren't sitting so close; feeling was returning to his limbs but he was still too weak to move. He could tell this was hard for Atton, and it sounded like their mutual loss of Del Jair wasn't the only loss in Atton's past. He stayed quiet, nodding.

"Well, Shaunte had this dream of being an Exchange boss. We started getting contacts, setting up deals, and gathering money so we could get that going. Mostly I played Pazaak and she freelanced with her dancing, so nothing really seemed to change. Then one day this really rich guy came to the bar and the only collateral he'd take for a game was Shaunnie herself."

Mical winced. This was getting bad, fast. "You went along with it!?"

Atton nodded, glad to feel movement coming back to his neck. "I went along with it, thinking I wasn't gonna lose and she'd never know, right? Wrong. I lost big time. That's why I went to Peragus; I was trying to get money to go get her back, and you know the rest. I heard along the way that she'd freed herself by killing the guy, but I had no idea she was after me."

"No fury like a woman scorned, and all that, I suppose." Mical said, not knowing what else to say. He was at a loss for words over Atton's stupidity and callousness.

"You'd better believe it, worm," spat Mistress Shaunte as she strode into the room, whip in hand.

Both men's heads spun around like souvenir dolls and amusement lit the Twi'lek's hard, beautiful face. "You never did understand what I was about, Jaq Rand. You wanted someone to settle down with for a time, 'til you got bored and quit me like you quit everything else. You were always small-time." She looked Atton up and down as though he were the Twi'lek dancer. She barely spared a glance for Mical. "Looks like you're still small-time, Rand. And now I am the most powerful person in this sector. Shaunte Bell will be no one's slave, ever again!"

"Shaunnie, I'm sor--" Atton's voice was cut off by the crack of the whip and the sting around his neck as she flicked her wrist effortlessly.

"Silence!" Shaunte hissed, bringing the lash around again. It landed in the same place and Atton cried out. "This is what I endured, schutta! The life of a pleasure slave and a whipping post for the fat slug you lost to!"

Blood poured out of the wound in Atton's neck. Frantically Mical gathered enough Force power to heal the wound for Atton and keep him conscious. It was much easier for Mical if he was touching the person he was healing, but he was still mostly immobilized from the poisoned dart.

If Shaunte noticed Atton's neck was healing, she made no indication. The fire went out of her voice, turning it sweet and almost shy, and she visibly composed herself. "Well. I've waited more than ten years to settle this score, so I don't mind waiting a few more hours. I have plans for you, sweet, darling Jaq. And your boyfriend here can share your fate. Just so I don't have any loose ends, and all."

Shaunte coiled the whip and waved her hand casually, signaling to Pleep and Plopor. The Rodians relieved them of the contents of their pockets; comlinks, small change in credits, and one datapad that had been smashed when Atton flew off his bike. Mical was relieved Atton had insisted on leaving behind their government ID cards. They were dragged past Shaunte on their way out the door of the throne room, and Mical shuddered at the cold, calculating look in her emerald eyes. Whatever her plans were for them, they were not going to be good.

______________________

hen Mical and Atton regained the ability to move and feel their limbs hours later, they were extremely fatigued and weak, and cramped into a force-cage together. "This is familiar," Atton quipped. "When have I been in this situation before? Oh yeah. At least once a year."

They slumped back to back, Mical wishing he'd eaten his noodles those many hours ago and Atton wishing he'd never heard of Shaunte Bell. Other unfortunate figures in force-cages lined the walls of the room they occupied, some alone and some doubled up as they were. Atton saw the advantage of being partnered up rather than alone; surely together they could come up with a plan of escape. Atton grudgingly admitted to himself that Mical wasn't utterly useless-- he was an absolute tank in a fight...he had a formidable intellect...and he could heal almost any injury. And yes, he was loyal. It was almost a problem how loyal Mical could be.

"You look like you're thinking hard, Atton. Care to share?" Mical nudged him.

Atton shook his head. "We're going to need some kind of escape plan."

They whispered together, hatching plans and discarding them in rapid succession. They were well on their way to a viable plan, when the rare moment of camaraderie was interrupted by the click of boot heels on the plasteel floor.

"Listen up, Rand. We've had word the last few days that Republic Intelligence has been scoping us out, both with agents and freelance mercenaries." The men glanced at each other but Mistress Shaunte didn't seem to notice. "I've decided that, instead of killing you slowly, I'd rather leave you to rot like you left me. I've spent some time making my operation fully mobile, and I'll be leaving as soon as I tip off RID that you're the boss they're looking for. Between your boyfriend and my disloyal subjects, here, there should be enough bodies to convince RID you've got a small-time operation going. You lived small-time, Jaq Rand, and now you're going to moulder in some small-time Republic prison." The Twi'lek let her glance linger over Atton before leaving him for a fate she assumed was worse than death. She swept out of the room, the picture of confidence, secure in her plans. When she was gone, Atton let out a guffaw.

Plenty of groans and cries for mercy were coming from the other force-cages, but Atton and Mical had trouble keeping their laugher down. Mical gave Atton a whack on the back. "You lucky son of a Sith! I thought she was going to kill us, and now she's sending us right back to Director Tel'a!"

"Who's not going to be happy that she got away," Atton pointed out.

Mical shrugged. "We'll have these henchmen to turn in, and perhaps they'll be happy to give RID the information we need. If not, we can track her and Pug down again."

"Maybe I should retire from the espionage scene and keep swoop racing," Atton mused. "I don't think I'd feel right about Shaunte being a captive again."

"We'll have lots of time to decide our path to the future, Atton. Who knows how long it will take to get RID out here and pick us up." Mical sighed, relief flooding through him. This had turned out much differently than he'd imagined. Suddenly the bad clothes and the worn-out body and the stress of the last few days seemed to melt away.

Atton grinned. "In the meantime, did I ever tell ya 'bout the time..."

Disclaimers: Winter and Farlander are not sure how this simple story grew into an illustrated epic of insane proportions. They blame it on the gizka. Farlander didn't know Winter was going to add the last comic panel to the final version. Hopefully that will get blamed on gizka, too. :wink: