It had been a long while since he’d gotten any real sleep. Back on Tadath, it was all bureaucratic bullshit; there was a line of red tape that stretched on for miles. That wasn’t to say that Tanus didn’t cut through it every so often. It just meant he had to tread a little more quietly and without guns blazing the entire way. At least with Osk Company, the standard for getting things done with words rather than guns was considerably lower. He sat up in his bunk, cracking his neck from side to side before looking over at his chrono on his small nightstand. 1030. I love sleeping in. Tanus swung his legs over the side of his bed, groaning as he felt his head begin to pound. The hangover had begun. He swore as he heard hustle and bustle outside of his door. He got up, eyes bloodshot a strong desire for caffeine fueling his every step. As he was about to open his door, the door slid open, revealing a tall man in his late twenties in an old Correlian spacer suit.

“Morning, Dev. Mind telling me what the hustle and bustle’s for?”

His first mate, Dev Hotah, looked him over and smirked at the haggered form of his captain. Tanus just grimaced as he turned back into his room and started looking for clothes.

“I take it you have no idea why anybody is up and around, do you?”

“At this hour? Absolutely not. By the way, find me a pair of pants. I seem to have misplaced mine.”

As Tanus routed through the small mountain of crap that was essentially his room, he felt a wad of fabric hit him. He picked up his newly acquired pair of pants and smelled them. Still good. I should do laundry at some point, shouldn’t I? As he put his pants on, he heard Dev snicker behind him.

“What?”

“What the hell happened last night?”

Tanus grabbed some deodorant and put it on before grabbing an olive t-shirt. He pulled it over his head and shrugged his shoulders.

“That, sir, is an excellent question. I went to a party last night that Snipes or some other was throwing. Suffice it to say, it was a typical Osk party, and someone got knocked unconscious. I don’t know who exactly, but I figure someone’s in the med bay right now working off a nasty concussion.”

“And this is why I don’t go to your parties.”

“Why? All the cool kids are doing it.”

“That remains to be seen.”

“I’ll make you janitor if you don’t keep your trap shut.”

Dev laughed out loud as Tanus strapped a gun belt to his waist and put his C-10 in the holster. He popped a breath mint in his mouth as he exited the room, followed closely by Dev as they made their way to the small kitchen area. Various crew members were about doing their business as Tanus stepped in to the small room and poured himself a large cup of caf. He grabbed a bagel from the table and sat down, munching on the delicious fruit filled treat while Dev only shook his head.

“You are perhaps the most unorthodox man I have ever worked for.”

“What? Because I want some breakfast before we get to business? Please. Snipes is the crazy one, not me.”

“Fair enough. So do you know why you’re awake yet?”

“I figure the gods have something cruel planned for us. What’s the skinny?”

“An interesting piece of information crossed into our hands recently. I take it you’ve heard of Achillea?”

“Of course, who hasn’t? Some of the best furniture in the galaxy used to be made there. But I don’t need to take up basketweaving as a trade. So I take there’s something else here.”

“Of course there is. It seems that one of the old houses is trying to move of some of its old treasure to a new location. They like to keep it in the family so it seems.”

“Would this family happen to be House Cadriaan?”

Dev stopped short before looking down at Tanus with a quizzical look. Tanus just smiled over his cup of caf.

“What, did you think you had the jump on me?”

“You make my life a misery, you know that don’t you?”

“I try. Don’t worry, I’d heard about it last night. One of the few things I actually remember from last night actually…”

“So I take it you’ve already formulated a plan?”

“Of course I have. We’re going to hit the last vault they’ve got to unload, which will be in the next two days. We’re going to leave few hours or so. Let the crew know. Right now, I need to find Rykin.”

Dev nodded before walking off. Tanus finished his caf and got up, turning left down the hall and walking down a short corridor before coming up to the bridge. At the pilot’s station sat Lana, his leading lady and number drunken brawler lass. Next to her sat Kitch, co-pilot and smart alec supreme. Further along was just the man Tanus was looking for. Rykin sat at his station, plugging in coordinates to the hyperspace navigator. As he stepped up, Rykin turned his head.

“Hey, boss, I heard the news that we’re getting ready to ship out soon. Sounds like a blast.”

“You heard right, Ry. Think you’re ready to prove you’re of pirating material?”

Rykin smirked and laid his hand at his side, revealing a rather nasty looking blaster pistol.

“I was born ready. When do we leave?”

“A few hours. That should get word out and whoever wants to join us can.”

“All right. I’ll get ready then.”

“Go to it then. Get ready for some fireworks.”

Rykin got up and walked off to prepare for the oncoming raid as Tanus stood staring out of the main viewport and into the starry sky.So much loot, so little time.

OOC:

This is Osk Company. If you're a pirate and want in, post away, me hearties.

Jegora hated the Locker. He hated the planet that it was built on and its barren plains, its ash-covered surface reminiscent of a Base Delta Zero incident. He hated the structure itself, the barren and twisting hallways, the way that it was really multiple buildings built side by side and on top of each other. He hated the ruin, the dirt, the lack of order and discipline. Most of all, however, he hated the inhabitants. The beings that called the Locker home were the verifiable scum of the galaxy, smugglers and pirates that had been attracted to an easy chance at a relatively large payday. As a military man, Jegora could barely stand to be in the same room with the occupants of the Locker. They were living, breathing defiance of everything he stood for, and their lifestyle broke all the statutes that he had given his life to upholding. But if Jegora hated the pirates he was surrounded by, he hated himself even more.

He had never intended to get caught up in Snipes’ crazy schemes. He barely knew the man. It had been a chance meeting that had brought him into the ‘employ’ of the Osk Company, and now it was circumstance that kept him bound there. His ship was destroyed, lost during one of the raids that had swept him up into the massive tumor that was the collection of life on Osk 91. He was technically on terminal leave from the Army; originally he had meant to return home, but that had never happened. Now it was too late, both to return home and to return to the Army. He had nowhere to go, as well as no way to get there. He was stuck in limbo, chained to a place that he hated with a passion, but with no means (or reason) to free himself.

And truth be told, he liked the fighting.

That was the hardest part for Jegora to accept. Ever since taking a desk job in the Tactics department of the Army he had seen very little action. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time, but his recent bout of violence with the Osk Company had revealed to him just how much he missed the thrill of combat. And that bothered him.

He wasn’t supposed to like combat. It was his job, and he was highly trained in the arts of warfare, but he wasn’t supposed to enjoy it. It was strictly business, the stress and thrill of life-and-death situations something to be examined and pushed aside, not savored. For Jegora, the feelings and emotions he had experienced were fundamentally wrong, and for the first time in a long time he had no idea how to cope with them.

So he turned to his last resort, his safety net, the one thing that allowed him to forget his problems for a short while: he ran.

And not just his usual cardio runs, either. Jegora had always practiced an extreme physical training regimen, resulting in incredible stamina and a heavily muscled 6’5” frame that was still quick and limber despite its bulk. No, these runs were marathon-length excursions, activities designed to exhaust him. At the end of each massive run he would usually lift or box, sometimes with dummy and sometimes with a live opponent. He was always moving, always doing something to keep his mind off his own predicament. And sometimes, every now and then, he would wear himself out enough to fall into bed, exhausted, and sleep an entire night without any dreams or nightmares.

Sometimes.

It was after one of those massive runs that Jegora found himself in one of the Locker’s gym-style complexes. The run had winded him, tired him out, but he wanted—and needed—more. So when the call had gone out for challengers to face the reigning ‘champion’ of this particular gym, Jegora was all too willing to oblige.

The ‘champion’, a giant of a man almost as big as Jegora, if not quite as toned, was someone that Jegora didn’t recognize. Nor did it appear that the other man recognized him. Truth be told, that wasn’t all that uncommon. Jegora had no set path when he ran, and he often ended up in locations that he had never visited before, filled with people that he didn’t recognized. Not that the location or the people mattered all that much, because the inhabitants of the Locker were the all same. They were all dirty, they were all crude, and they were all undisciplined. His new opponent was cut from that same cloth, and that was all Jegora needed to know to absolve himself of any guilt that he might have had over what he was about to do to the poor man.

There was a small crowd gathering around the make-shift ring that had been constructed by someone who really shouldn’t have been building anything. By now Jegora and his opponent were stripped to the waist, standing across from one another. Jegora was loose, at ease. He had assumed a half-slouch posture as he waited for the fight to start, every muscle loose, yet ready to move at a moments notice. To the common observer he looked arrogant; to the trained eye, he simply looked deadly.

The other man was not quite as disciplined. He flexed his muscles constantly as he strutted around the platform, much to the amusement of the crowd. Jegora only watched silently, noting how the man slightly favored his left knee, and how he subconsciously kept his right elbow tucked to his side at all times.

Old leg injury, take that out first. He probably has a bruised rib, maybe even a busted one. That’s second, Jegora thought to himself, taking mental notes.

After a few minutes a referee of sorts blew a short whistle, and the match was on. There were no rules, and no protective gear save the lightly padded gloves that each combatant had been provided with. Jegora wasn’t too concerned. He didn’t really plan on getting hit, and if his opponent did manage to land a blow…well, he had taken worse punishment before.

Big Jegora’s opponent might have been, but he wasn’t fast. He wasn’t even moderately quick. He lumbered towards Jegora, being accustomed to using his large size to quickly overwhelm his opponents. Jegora just grinned, a look so inhuman, so entirely feral, that it caused his attacker to miss a step as he approached. That was all Jegora need, and he capitalized on the opportunity.

Even as tired as he was from his run, Jegora still managed to close the distance between himself and his opponent so quickly that the other man didn’t even have time to react. Jegora’s first blow was a short yet powerful kick aimed at the man’s left knee. It made good contact, and the man dropped to the floor with a howl. Even as the man was falling, Jegora moved again, driving all his pent up frustration and anger into a downward blow that cracked sharply into the pirate’s right side. The howl was quickly cut off as all the air was driven from the man’s lungs, and the sound of ribs cracking was clearly audible even to the hushed audience.

Jegora was still, then. His opponent was on the floor, broken and defeated. There was nothing more to be gained by remaining. Turning, Jegora descended from the platform slowly, and made his way through the crowd to where he had stashed his shirt. The crowd parted easily, both afraid and awed by the martial prowess they had just witnessed. No doubt the pirate lying on the platform was the local bully, the king of the neighborhood, and Jegora had just dethroned him in ten seconds. Truth be told, he had been hoping for more from this latest opponent. Now he would have to find something else to help exhaust him.

Pulling his shirt on, Jegora heard a feminine voice issue from somewhere behind him. That wasn’t particularly surprising. What was surprising, however, was that it was a voice that he recognized.

“Why do you do this?” the voice inquired. Jegora finished pulling his shirt on before turning around to face his questioner.

“Because I can,” he said simply.

Abalar didn’t seem to like that answer. “You know how these fights are gonna end. This is your sixth bout four days, and you’ve seriously wounded three people.”

Jegora just shrugged, and he saw a trace of anger behind the young woman’s eyes. “There’s no point!” she fairly screamed at him. “You’re no better than they are when you do this!”

Now it was Jegora’s turn to get angry. His steel blue eyes flashed gray, and they seemed alive with a cold fire. Abalar met his gaze for a moment, and then turned away.

“Sorry,” she muttered.

Jegora just shook his head. “Me too,” he said. “Why are you out here, anyways? And how did you find me?”

A sheepish grin spread across the young woman’s face. “I asked around,” she said. “You’re not exactly inconspicuous, but you are hard to catch. As for why…”

She didn’t go into further detail, simply drew a small datapad from her belt and shoved it into Jegora’s hands.

“What’s this?” Jegora asked as he began to read. He received no answer. He continued to read, and a few seconds later he looked up sharply. “How accurate is this information?” he asked pointedly.

Abalar sniffed. “Accurate enough. So, what do you say?”

Sighing to himself, Jegora handed the datapad back to Abalar. “Let’s go get our gear.”

"So how much loot exactly..." he pressed in a nasally tone.

"Enough to warrant a few extra hands." The white haired women stated nonchalantly, "Usually sort of deal, though. First come first serve. So, can I count you in?"

With a deep, thoughtful sigh he leant back in his chair, strumming chaotically on the arm rests. It had been a slow few months. A few courier jobs here, some transport there. Frankly he'd been missing the excitement of piracy. At least that was until last night. His parents had taught him never to take an insult lying down. Only cowards and vagabonds did such things. He was neither. He was a man of honour. A man of grace and poise. Most importantly he was a man with an immense ego and a bravado that could kill a bantha. And no seven foot tall privateer would get away with calling his dear, old mother such terrible things. However hindsight, being the spiteful bitch that it was, suggested that perhaps next time it would be better not to call the same seven foot tall privateer the bastard offspring of a Gundark. Or at least expect the punch.

Carefully, he removed one of the wadded balls of cotton from his nose, "All depends really."

"On?" Visha queried, the screen doing little to hide the frustration brought on by the mans unrelenting procrastination.

"On whether the ship will be ready." he began, flicking the blood soaked cotton bud at an instrument panel, where it stuck and began a gradual slid towards the deck, leaving a bloodied smear in its wake "The Hubris is a delicate piece of equipment. I push her too hard, she might hurt herself..."

Again his counterpart let out a quite sigh of frustration, "Is this really what you're gonna do? Hit me up for some free parts for that flying hunk of garba-"

"Hey! Watch your mouth!" Roland blurted out, "She's sensitive."

"Whatever... for-the-love-of, Just tell me what you need and I'll see what I can do. Okay!?"

Roland smirked in triumph and got to his feet, "And for that, my fair lady, you shall have the Hubris and her strapping crew at your very beck and call..." He finished with a polite, if a bit flamboyant, bow to the screen.

"Wonderful." The word, even though marinated in sarcasm, was sincere enough for him. "I'll go and tell Solovna the good news. As for your parts, tell them the old man sent you and there shouldn't be a problem." With that the screen darkened into a haze of static.

Marvelous

"Mr. Donovan" he stated with an authoritative hand gesture "Get me engineering"

The bloated slug of a man lay back in his chair asleep, a line of spittle running down his stubbly and pale cheek. Roland strode up and kicked the man in the shins, waking him.

"Engineering, dammit. I don't pay you to sleep!"

"You don't pay me at all, last time I checked at least" his pilot muttered as he pawed around for the intercom

"Rejoice then" Roland cried jovially  "For your benevolent leader has found us purpose!"

Donovan snorted, "Just so long as its purpose with payment..."

-------

Sebastian sat contorted between a thick piece of hull plating and an array of couplings and cables, toiling away with what he could and patching what he couldn't. 

Rats. Of all the damned things to go wrong with the ship, it had to be rats. Not just any normal rodents either, they had a tasted for insulated wiring and delicate equipment , the frayed wiring and smell of cooked fur a clear enough indication that one or two hadn't met with good fortune. The lack of carcasses, however, was a little more disturbing. Nothing quite as macabre as the strong eating the weak and stupid... not a bad plan though he idly mused as he searched around for a hydro-spanner he'd swore he put down not two minutes ago.

"Attention crew!" A metallic voice bellowed over the ships intercom. Seb groaned. "We leave this dreadful hive of scum and villainy in a few hours. The kind and generous inhabitants have offered to assist us in our conquests. So I beseech you, go forth and gather the necessary equipment, for adventure waits and I will be damned if someones inherent laziness kept us from."

Again he groaned.

"Seb, you get all that?" Donovan queried rhetorically, the intercom was one way. More of an announcement system really, but then again the ship was small enough for him to shout his response, "Head out to one of the chop shops and pick up whatever you need. Tell em' Snipes is footing the bill."

"Can do." Seb muttered to himself as he crawled out from the alcove in the wall. He hated his job. He hated the ship. He hated Graves most of all. But he had nowhere else to go. It wasn't really that bad. Graves had mellowed, or at least he seemed to have since he'd first joined. Most days the man was drunk or asleep or off the ship so he never had that much interaction with him

"Seb, Hun. I know you're going through a puberty, all girls do... but right now I need you to get off your lazy, stuttering ass and get those parts before I decide to trade you in for a droid!" The intercom hollered in its usual metallic tone.

On second thoughts, this was hell.

"Remember to take the gun and don't talk to strangers!" Donovan called from the cockpit

Outside wasn't much better. This was his life. Stuck between a rock and a hard place with a raving psychotic with a personal god-complex. It could be worse he thought, I could be dead. Some days he wondered if he was wrong about that.

There was a new guy around The Locker. That wasn't particular in the slightest; new pirates, smugglers, other people with rather shady businesses. This one was no different than the others but for his upright posture. Garryll Gates removed the cigarette from his lips and checked his datapad again. The Iron Victory was supposed to be around here somewhere. A pickpocket brushed against the professional soldier and got some broken fingers as a reward. The crowds gave him a tiny bit more of a berth after that.

"Kriffing hell," he muttered, poking the device's screen. "This place couldn't be less organized."

He cleared the 'pad's screen and tucked it back into his pocket, and continued on. He could hear ships taking off and landing somewhere near, but the crowds and the bustle frazzled his sense of direction. Again, he swore and shoved his way to the side of the road. There, he searched for someone who looked like a local. He spotted a short and squad gun merchant with a pair of heavily-built body guards at his sides and a couple of customers looking at his wares.

"Which way to the spaceport?" asked Gates politely, cutting past two Rodians admiring shotguns. The merchant's bodyguards frowned at the intrusion. The merchant scowled at Gates and nodded to his two men. They stepped forwards, one man reaching into his jacket and the other balling his fists. Gates shook his head and turned to leave. One of the hired muscle grabbed his shoulder and received a elbow to the windpipe as his reward. The other brought out a knife, and lunged aggressively at Gates. The long-time soldier slipped past the charge and pulled at the arm until there was an audible pop as the socket dislocated. A short kick to the knee brought the second thug to his knees.

"So where is the spaceport?" Gates asked, the same calm demeanor shining through. The merchant sneered but pointed the way. Gates nodded and strode over the prone hired thugs and down the street the way the man had pointed. The roar of lifting off ships became louder and Gates grinned slightly. Harder individuals hung around the spaceport, tending to their beloved ships, weapons in prominence and crew members loitering around. The ship he was searching for wasn't in sight, and neither was its captain, the aim of his search.

Gates strode through the spaceport calmly, hands in his pockets but near his pistol if he needed it. The gesture drew the occasional glare from the smugglers and pirates. He spotted a familiar figure amongst the people milling around and made for it. A few seconds' walk and some shoving later, and he'd caught up to his quarry. Tanus Solvona, turned at the sound of heavy boots from a few feet behind him. The first look was rather funny, a look of total surprise.

"Garryll," Tanus said. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Same things as you, I'm imagine," Gates replied. "Money, thrill and just for the hell of it. And I needed something to do with my recreational time."

Tanus chuckled. "And how in the nine Correllian Hells did you find me? Pretty sure this far-off the beaten path of our day jobs."

"Half my job is spent hunting down people, Tanus," Gates said. "Finding one scumbag pirate on a planet full of them is child's play. "

Tanus scowled for a moment and then shook his head in resignation. "Welcome aboard. You'll love being a pirate, and on the Iron Victory, to boot."

"I'm sure I will," Gates replied, following Tanus to the heavily armed freighter with the block-letters "IRON VICTORY" on its underside. "When do we get paid?"

Hond exhaled plumes of smoke through his nose, sitting across from the female that was to be his accomplice for this excursion. He sized her up and down from behind his sunglasses with mild disintrest and a sneer stuck on his face.  Hond had never felt any particular trust for the old man, respect, sure; but hardly trust. By proxy he felt a general distrust for any of Snipes agents of chaos.

Hond couldn’t think of any specific reason he followed the enigmatic pirates whims, why he endured the unending vagueness of his orders; no, not orders, requests. Sniping101 had never ordered him to do anything, only asked him to do things. All Bloodhound had to do was decide not to listen, but he never did. He always followed. Snipes promised him something once, and for the time it was all Bloodhound wasn’t going to quit until he could make the old man pay up.

The staring match between the two occupants of the small and alarmingly clean antechamber continued for another impossibly long minute before the door opened. In strode a tall man, of unusual eye and hair color, Moelik Hond knew him by the weapon his back; the great hammer said it was Tanus Solvana, the man he was looking for. Hond considered the weapon on his back patently ridiculous, clearly another of Snipes agents of chaos, a weapon like that could mean little else, it wasn’t something normal people carried. Hond knew, however, that the man was as close to being in Snipes inner circle as anyone could be.

Moelik stood up, his compatriot doing so at the same time, “Tanus Solvona?” Hond said, stepping infront of him and extending a hand, not bothering to take off the frayed and dirty fingerless glove.

Tanus eyed it for a moment, “You are?”

“Hond, Moelik Hond; Snipes sent me, said you could use an extra gun or some such,”

Tanus grasped the hand wearily, “No one has seen him for awhile,”

“I’m no different, but none the less he sent the pair of us,” Hond gestured towards the woman behind him with his thumb, if Hond had been able to see her he was sure she was less than pleased at being so thoroughly ignored.

A wry grin crossed the man’s face, “Enigmatic, sounds like him. Do you have your own ship, or are you supposed to ride with us?”

“We have our own ships,” Bloodhound then grunted to himself, he really didn’t want to take his nearly new ship out, “I think we’ll have to figure that out as we go though.” Bloodhound glanced over his shoulder at the woman behind him; she didn’t seem like she’d want him along for the ride either.

“Whatever,” Solvona said dismissively, “We leave in a few hours, just be ready; leave your information with my underthing, Rykin.”

Tanus didn’t wait for a reply, pushing past the shorter half-breed and continuing on with his business. Bloodhound tossed a couple disks at the younger man and turned and left himself, with one last look at the Jaenna woman; it was an odd pairing, but then Hond wasn’t much of a people person, there was always the possibility they’d gotten off on the wrong foot.  Hond wasn’t known for compassion, patience or tact. Bloodhound now just needed to figure out how to waste a few hours, he didn’t feel like going back to his ship.

Bloodhound grimaced. She was gone, whoever she was. Gone in the night, likely run off by the sound of blaster fire and fighting that was The Locker. He was stuck by himself, forced to suffer alone under the orders of The Old Man alone. He felt like he had lost an ally, even if an unwilling one. His struggle against the yoke of that old pirate suddenly felt heavier.

He sighed, stepping into the hanger. Clad in his normal tattered and sleeveless denim jacket, fingerless gloves and orange sunglasses. The Enforcer Slugthrower not even a little concealed between his bare chest and vest.  His green sea bag was tossed over his shoulder. He didn’t want to do this, but he did, striding up to the vessel, the somewhat imposing Iron Victory, he removed his weapon and used the butt to slam on the hatch three times.

It took a few minutes of Hond standing around looking bored and smoking filterless cigarettes before the hatch finally opened, the familiar face of Rykin leaned out of it. Bloodhound exhaled a plume of smoked through his nose into Rykins face.

He coughed and waved his hand infront of his face, “What do you want.”

“Want? A beer and a good woman. What am I doing? I’m coming on board.”

Rykins hand went instinctively to his pistol, “Plan was for you to take Jeannas ship.”

“Too bad, plans change, get used to it.” Bloodhound said, shouldering his way past the underthing and into the ship.

Inside the ship showed signs of some neglect, dirt encrusted in the nooks between the panels, but for the most part it still smelled like a new ship, if one could get past the smell of too many bodies too close together. Bloodhound found it a confusing mix of new and old and it took his senses a minute to stabilize. It was foreign land to him, and he could tell he was an intruder.

He shrugged to himself and turning, knocked Rykin off balance with his bag. Moelik Hond was through the next door before the underthing could regain his balance. Bloodhound groaned to himself, he probably needed to find Tanus next. That was the way this crap worked. Sometimes, most the time, Bloodhound really hated Snipes.

Bloodhound suddenly felt a lurch, forced to steady himself on the wall for a second before the ship stabilized. It’d taken off. Looked like he was along for the ride. Fuck it all.

Bloodhound wandered towards the bridge, intent on finding the enigmatic privateer, one of the few men who could actually make the claim to being in Snipes inner circle. Hond thought to himself that this trip might actually be educational, he might, by proxy, learn something more of what kind of man his master was, that was a good thing. If Bloodhound was ever to surpass him he had to know what he was like.

Then Bloodhound met his quarry; it wasn’t on the bridge, it was in a passage, as the ship lurched again. He almost knocked over the Privateer Captain, Tanus Solvana. Bloodhound stepped back, quickly on his guard. The man might be a good thing to study, but as someone near Snipes he couldn’t be trusted. Bloodhound didn’t even trust the self proclaimed ‘King’.

Apparently, the treasure vault of House Cadriaan was on a small island in the middle of nowhere. As always, Jegora was first off the transport, hopping off the ramp before the Iron Victory even came to a halt. A common observer might have ventured that this behavior was some form of heroism manifesting itself in a desire to protect his comrades from harm. Jegora himself would have laughed at such a notion. He didn’t go first to protect the others; he went first so they wouldn’t get in his way.

Once they were actually on the ground, the small group of would-be raiders met little resistance. For the most part House Cadriaan relied on secrecy and the vault’s hard-to-reach location to protect the treasures located within. There was, however, a pair of guards, local conscripts or cheap mercenaries by their appearance. Jegora noted that they looked to be underequipped, and when they failed to open fire immediately upon sighting the group of pirates, he knew they were undertrained as well.

Striding ahead, Jegora reached the guards a few seconds before the rest of his party did. Over his expensive, finely wrought armorweave clothing, Jegora wore a large cloak to disguise his musculature, in an attempt to make himself less threatening. It seemed to be working, for as he neared he slowly raised his hands, the act of apparent surrender putting the two men at ease. Soon, the pair lowered their own weapons, and one even opened his mouth to speak. Jegora never game him the chance.

Moving faster than the eye could follow, Jegora’s hands flew to his waist, drawing twin WESTAR-34 blaster pistols from their holsters. For a moment time slowed, stood still even. Surprise registered on the guards’ faces as the pistols, which had previously been hidden underneath the voluminous cloak, appeared Jegora’s hands. A mere instant later they were both struck multiple times by blasts emanating from Jegora’s blasters. All the hits were immediately fatal, and the two unlucky security guards dropped silently to the ground, dead.

Even as the two men hit the ground, Tanus appeared beside Jegora. “Damnit,” the captain of the Iron Victory said angrily, “did it ever occur to you that they could get us into the vault.”

Jegora turned his cool gaze on Tanus. He had worked with the man before, obviously, and he knew his tendencies, but at the same time Jegora was not use to being spoken to so…casually. “Did it ever occur to you,” Jegora said coldly, “that under no circumstances would they be allowed into the vault?  They probably don’t even know what it is they were guarding.”

Tanus grumbled something under his breath about know-it-alls, but Jegora wasn’t paying any attention. He was already scanning the area for any additional threats. Finding none, he began to search for the entrance to the vault. If the treasure room of House Cadriaan was indeed on this little island, it would most very likely be underground.

The rest of the party seemed to come to much the same conclusion, and they all began to fan out and search for the entrance. After several minutes, the group’s collective patience began to wear thin.

“Where the hell is it?” the little bastard called Hond whined. “I thought you said it would be here!”

Tanus grumbled some more, and Jegora just shook his head. He wondered how reliable the man’s information was. Very likely, Tanus was wondering the same thing.

After a few more minutes of strained silence and searching, Abalar let out a whoop. “I found it!” she shouted.

As the rest of the company gathered around Abalar, Jegora couldn’t help but let out a low whistle. “That’s not going to be easy to get through,” he pointed out, oblivious to the glares that the rest of the group shot at him.

The entrance was a solid, oval-shaped durasteel door sunk into the ground. It was heavy, thick, and was obviously made to withstand a fair sized bomb. It also appeared to lack any sort of opening mechanism.

“Bah, leave it to me,” Tanus said. He keyed his comlink and spoke into it quietly for a minute. A short while later a crew member of the Iron Victory came running up, arms full of high explosive.

The charges were set and primed, and the raiders evacuated the area. There was a shout of “Clear!”, and then a huge explosion shook the small island. When Jegora returned to where the door had been, all he found was a deep, black hole.

Unhooking a grappling line from his utility belt, Jegora immediately anchored himself on one of the larger trees near the hole, looked at Tanus, and said, “See you on the bottom.” With that, he stepped off into the darkness.

The rappel down was fairly short. From the moment his boots hit the cold, hard floor of the vault, Jegora stood in awe of the amount of wealth spread out before him. The amount of riches that this particular vault contained was unfathomable to Jegora, who was so accustomed to a Spartan military existence, and the fact that there were more vaults just like it was even more incomprehensible. As awe and wonderment flooded through Jegora, he had to admit that the vault wasn’t anything like he had expected.

He found himself standing in a long, dimly lit corridor. On either side of the corridor were sealed, pressurized, climate controlled rooms. Huge windows looked into the chambers from the central hallway, and as far as Jegora could see were mounds of gold, jewels, priceless artifacts, antiques, and ancient collectibles. Vast collections of…stuff, stuff that was worth its weight in credits, stuff that would make him rich beyond measure.

Shaking his head, Jegora pushed aside such thoughts of riches and grandeur. He had learned a long time ago not to celebrate until the mission was accomplished, and this job was far from over.