Nar Shaddaa

Gunnie had started early so until recently she had been snoozing on the table of the mess. The follow-up bottles from whatever her evening at the Viper had involved were scattered around, and T3 was just in the process of gathering her back while Moyr pulled her drooling co-pilot to her cabin and onto the rack. The girl had many flaws but the free, irreverent spirit of Genevieve Wren was endearing Moyr enough to put up with them. In a sense, she had what the Lethan valued in Mandalorians.

She was considering actually taking off, to feel the entrapping expanse of open space. The constant reminder that freedom was probably doomed to occur as a phenomenon under pressure. She slipped into the cockpit, only to find Hala having some late night snack in the co-pilot's seat.

"Do you like the spot, Hala? Think you could take the Bitch off with the shiny new cyberarm of yours?"

"Probably, but still no fancy flying out of me. Wrong side of the Imperial Navy if you expect me to fly the bus," she said with a faint smile. She still looked like a mess and her pale skin clashed with the more healthy flesh tones of the synth-skin sleeve covering her new mechanical arm. Never the less, with a faint whirring Hala leaned forward and lifted her right arm with more ease than she had her natural one of late and keyed in the start-up for the launch sequence. She glanced over at the checklist on the kneeboard a few times to help with the right order, but she brought the engines up and then took them back down without a major fuck up.

"Very good. Space bus or not, you're not as rusty as you sometimes want me to believe." Moyr teased, flopping into her place, rolling fingers on the consoles in thought without actually pressing anything. "Satisfied, overall? That I didn't jettison your peace out of the realm of possibility?"

She smiled and shrugged.

"'Peace is a lie', no? Whether we break it or they break it first, but it won't last in the current climate. It won't last until we are one, either through destruction, conquest, or diplomatic means."

She raised her left hand and brushed bits of dried fruit off the console before crumpling up the empty wrapper and stuffing it in a pocket of her fatigues.

"As an insider you can tell me: how does it look right now, and how long can it last?" On the console Moyr turned on... some ambient music. "What's Huttese position after all this?"

"I have not focused as much on the Hutts, but given our appeals to them throughout and the fact we have managed to court enough good will to prevent them from simply abandoning their offer and cancelling the peace talks, they will likely be receptive to some reciprocity. If we can gain some favor from the Hutts and commensurate favors from them, then we pull back for now and allow peace to be the story we tell each other while diplomacy and their inner corruption eats away at them. Corso can have his crusade, potentially supported by advisors and with infusions of materiel. The Hutts can prey upon the weak within the Republic, and we can let them rot on the inside while we rebuild our fleets and train the next generation of soldiers to fill our ranks and replace what has been lost," answered the Watcher, her voice not so cold as it might be but never the less as flat in cadence and delivery.

"That's the ideal if everything goes right from now on." Moyr pouted. "But it never does. Like with the Project Evolution. In the end, our involvement was a blunder and all we earned was greater awareness of what was this all about and who was involved. On the plus side, you at least know what to not expect from the post-Kelborns."

"I didn't expect much of them, but even then I am impressed by the combination of a lack of subtlety and a lack of talent for violence. Pulling them away from Ky'ad helped, but they are weak on their own," she grumbled.

"Don't trust traitors, even the ones you create?" Moyr teased darkly. "Corso told me he was interested, just not on that abrupt notice and with so many confluent vested interests. I still wonder if he made a right or a wrong call. The research data is said to be destroyed but I find it hard to believe."

"Well, we at least know who the relevant parties were if we need to reel someone in and extract a confession should the Republic unleash such a weapon..." she said, before looking thoughtfully and shaking her head.

"I suppose, but even fully more trust them only with respect to their motives and your leverage. The ex-Kelborn were only interested in money, but apparently lack foresight to understand that their stupidity is also a cap on their future earning potential."

"Do you have an idea how we can keep tabs on what happens in the wake of that intervention? I don't think we should be only reactive."

"Intelligence can track them. If we have a window of opportunity, then we can use it for an intercession," she shrugged.

"I learned they were making improved rakghouls out of children, probably Force-sensitives. While the fate of the data and the scientists are unclear to me, the children, or whatever they could be considered after being subjected to mutations, are allegedly under Jedi care now." Moyr pursed her lips. "The thing is where did the Czerka had obtained their initial know-how from. Because it's very much ancient Sith alchemy reaching way back to one of the first Lords of the Sith, Karness Muur. So in the end it may have been a clandestine project of someone on our side, or at least someone from our side had been involved."

"Czerka does nominally support the Empire more than it does the Republic, but that is all I know of such things. Anything to do with the Sith and alchemy is unfortunately not an area of expertise for me."

---Meanwhile, entering the Mess Hall---

He had received the invitation to a small gathering late in the evening. Sleeping early wasn't going to happen. After all, he only woke up that afternoon. May as well continue going until he just shut down. The cross-flap of his jacket was open, showing a clean white tunic beneath. An old pair of ID tags on a small chain around his neck.

You can take the soldier out of the military. Can't take the military out of the soldier.

His trench coat was folded over an arm, and a bottle of fine Pantoran Icewine was in the other hand. He had spent some of the night just tracking down a bottle.

Durasay had been surprised when the ship was opened to him, without him calling. Then again, maybe other things had changed, too. Stepping up the ramp, he slowly began to make his way to the mess. That growing feeling of dread overcoming him again, but somehow, it started to feel a bit more comfortable. Like a feminine hand wrapped tightly around his throat, threatening him with a good time.

His yellow-amber eyes looked about the mess, at the utility droid cleaning up, and squaring away. The Pantoran gunslinger set the bottle down on the table, and looked for someplace to hang his coat.

"I'd consider going public with what can be spun. A strike team of the Jedi and the SIS violently taking control of a bio-weapon is quite the story. We should be getting good on information warfare in the 'peaceful' time to come."

"We should always be good at the war for hearts and minds. Not everyone is stuck in their ways, and not everyone has chosen for themselves a side. Let's hold on to that story until the peace talks conclude. If they don't sign, then we use it as yet another affront to the peace talks. If they do sign, then we do it from the position of 'partners' wanting to make sure that the terms of the treaty are honored."

"Or make a third party to do it for us, preferably by someone from inside their public sphere. It's too easy to dismiss if it can be easily traced back to us."

Durasay Mixo wrote:---Meanwhile, entering the Mess Hall---

He had received the invitation to a small gathering late in the evening. Sleeping early wasn't going to happen. After all, he only woke up that afternoon. May as well continue going until he just shut down. The cross-flap of his jacket was open, showing a clean white tunic beneath. An old pair of ID tags on a small chain around his neck.

You can take the soldier out of the military. Can't take the military out of the soldier.

His trench coat was folded over an arm, and a bottle of fine Pantoran Icewine was in the other hand. He had spent some of the night just tracking down a bottle.

Durasay had been surprised when the ship was opened to him, without him calling. Then again, maybe other things had changed, too. Stepping up the ramp, he slowly began to make his way to the mess. That growing feeling of dread overcoming him again, but somehow, it started to feel a bit more comfortable. Like a feminine hand wrapped tightly around his throat, threatening him with a good time.

His yellow-amber eyes looked about the mess, at the utility droid cleaning up, and squaring away. The Pantoran gunslinger set the bottle down on the table, and looked for someplace to hang his coat.

Another had already been on the ship - she had moved her meager belongings earlier, and was enjoying some water while Moyr and Hala had their discussion elsewhere.

Now suddenly, Dura had arrived. He must have been invited...

"Hello" Aphr waved, rising with her glass of water and walking over to the man with a smile "Moyr invited you?"

Moyr Ahaya wrote:"Or make a third party to do it for us, preferably by someone from inside their public sphere. It's too easy to dismiss if it can be easily traced back to us."

"I'm not sure who to leverage, exactly, other than Seir'oto. The only other blue I met this week was a doctor who doesn't want anything to do with politics and seems like he might muster out to the Outer Rim instead."

Watcher-7's comm began to blink, at this of all hours.

Moyr was about to say something, but just waved her hand and put a headset on her cones.

"Come on, pick up."

Durasay smiled at the pink twi'lek. Nodding his head, he finally placed his jacket on the back of a chair. "Yes, she did. I hope I'm not interrupting a family affair."

He looked down at her. Now kmowing what he did, he could certainly see the resemblance.

"A hell of a week."

The Watcher lifted her comm link and clicked it on.

"Colonel Moraal, speaking."

The Mandalorian looked around the room and then back to Hala. "Su cuy'gar. I have something that you might want." Orar pulled out a grenade and tossed it up and down in his hand.